Морин Макхью - Wastelands - The New Apocalypse

We in the Dome must save her.

“You want to take away my shkin?” I ask.

“Yes, to find a cure, for you, your mother, all the plagued.”

I know him well enough now to understand that he is sincere. It doesn’t matter that the shkin is as much a part of me as my ears. He believes that flaying me, mutilating me, stripping me naked would be an improvement.

“We have a duty to help you.”

He sees my happiness as misery, my thoughtfulness as depression, my wishes as delusion. It is funny how a man can see only what he wants to see. He wants to make me the same as him, because he thinks he’s better.

Quicker than he can react, I pick up a rock and smash the glass bowl around his head. As he screams, I touch his face and watch the shkin writhe over my hands to cover him.

Mother is right. He has not come to learn, but I must teach him anyway.

Jeremiah Tolbertis a writer and web developer of websites for authors and publishers. His stories have appeared in magazines such as Lightspeed, Asimov’s, Analog, Interzone, Escape Pod, Shimmer , and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction , along with numerous anthologies edited by John Joseph Adams. His story “The West Topeka Triangle” was a finalist for the Shirley Jackson Award, and “Not by Wardrobe, Tornado, or Looking Glass” was selected for inclusion in Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy . He lives in northeast Kansas with his wife and son. Learn more at jeremiahtolbert.com.

Jetting down the highway at 120, near flat out, just pedal to the metal, all cylinders firing, frame vibrating to pieces. Thoughts jumbling around in my head like the kittens in the box on the bench seat behind me.

Just rebuilt the transmission, thank Chrysler. Does the road curve now, or in another mile? Just hope they don’t start shooting. The nitrous in the trunk don’t play nice with bullets.

Table-flat, bone-dry landscape whizzing by in a blur, spring bugs banging the windshield, and I remember that old joke. What’s the last thing that goes through a bug’s mind as it hits a windshield? Its ass, abdomen, rear-end, ha ha, you know?

Behind me on the road—slick, one-a.m.-black SUVs are crawling up on my rear-end, growling like abused dogs, revving forward inch by inch to nip at my Goodyear heels. I open it up just a little more, hope the frame holds. Pulling away a little now, but— shit —they’ve been holding back too.

That switch curve comes up like a boy sneaks up on his girlfriend’s window, quick and quiet, and I’m slamming the brakes, hauling on the wheel, praying to the Four Wheeled Gods that I don’t lose it. I come out of the curve and gun it, glance back to see if I’ve lost ’em. One, two, three… lost one. Fucking lot of good that’ll do me; with less of ’em they’ll just take longer to beat me to death when they catch me.

Skill takes a back seat to engine and instinct. Plain old engine power’s all I got left, and it’s not going to be good enough. They aren’t shooting yet—

Damn me to cracked head gasket hell for even thinking that, because now out pops one of those gray-suited gorillas, leaning out the window with a matte-black 9mm in hand. Well, damn the nitrous too while we’re at it—I’d rather go out in a ball of flames than with a bullet in the brain.

Tap the brakes, and the black beasts behind me leap forward, startled, slow to react. My poor ride shudders like it’s gonna fly apart any second. Ha! Dumb bastard hanging out the window falls out, tumbles into a speck behind us in the distance.

Cheer me on, kitty cats. I’ve got to get rid of six more just like him, all knuckles, thick necks, and suits attached to guns.

They don’t try shooting again, only strain to get a lead on me, wanna force me off the road. I’m holding out for now, I know the road better, the bumps and potholes. They’re in my territory, that’s my advantage, plus my baby, a roaring hot, eight cylinder Detroit-made hellbeast, but they’ve got numbers, and by numbers, I mean the steel-jacketed ones too.

I hear mewing behind me, sharp and sweet above the wailing wind and whining engine. I’m doing this for them, like a total fuckin’ sap, but those big blue eyes cut through me like shivs.

Chrysler knows I put up with a lot working for the big man, but kittens is where I draw the fucking line.

I flinch like the devil yanked on my soul as a bullet zips past. Damn those thugs and their guns, and all I can do is keep one eye on the road, the other on my rearview mirror; one hand firmly on the wheel, and the other protecting my testicles. Times like this, even though it’s hard enough to feed one mouth in this dead world, I wish I still had a co-pilot. A partner, a pal, someone to wheel around with a big old 12-gauge and blast those bastards’ tires out. Tires . Why aren’t they shooting my tires? Must be afraid to hurt the kittens? Bullets don’t come too close to the car, I see now; they’re just tryin’ to scare me.

I flip the cover off the switch; time to risk the nitrous. I’ll blow rings and hoses all over the place, and my sweet, sweet ride’ll be scrap after, but hell, what’s the use in driving a suped-up getaway car if it doesn’t get-you-the-fuck-away? Figure I’ll bury her somewhere special, a nice scrap yard up north away from all the scavenger buzzards and gear-grinding Venom-heads. She’s earned her rest after this.

So damn it all and fuck it too for good measure. Flip the switch, fire the trigger, and zoom, man, zoom. Needle pushes around the bend, the car throws me back into my seat, the mewing in the back goes silent, and the black dogs of death fade away behind me like mist when the sun comes up.

Still, there ain’t a lot of cover out here to hide behind, and my silver bullet of a ride ain’t going to blend in with any traffic (not that we see much down here anymore anyways), so all this does is buy me time to think. Time to figure out what I can do to lose them, get the lead I need to get over the horizon. Find a back road to take me so far out of sight they’ll just give up and forget about me. The thought of leaving the kittens on the road, that might work, but hell, I’ve wasted my car already, so why not go all the way?

That gives me an idea. If I’m careful and they’re stupid—and they established that they are with the shooting stunt—so hey. If I’m careful, I’m golden.

I reach back with one arm and tip the kittens out of the cardboard box. They’re balls of fur stretched over firecrackers, only these firecrackers got wet. I mean, they’re dang tired. They blink in the light, and one even takes a swipe and a hiss at my hand as I haul their box up. He doesn’t like me any more than lead man-gorilla Saul does, but at least this little guy isn’t capable of ripping me limb from limb, even if he shares the man’s thirst for my blood.

I scramble for some empty beer cans, rags, anything on the floor that’ll give the box some weight, stuff it in and get the box good and closed with a bit of oil to seal the deal. Window cranks down, out flies the box, weighted good, rolls down the highway, and I watch in the mirror as it comes to a stop just perfect, right side up. Yeah, they’ll have to stop and check that out, and that’ll give me just the edge I need to make it to the canyon, which is opening up ahead.

The road dips down from table-top mesa to twisty, ancient water-cut maze. Smoke’s curling out of my hood, chastising me on the way by; my car’s ghost, escaping its body, fleeing for roadster heaven. She holds out until I make the main canyon chasm, and then sputters, gasps, and rolls to a slow stop.