Last Fight of the Valkyries (38 page)

He
left the church and headed to the bank, surprised when he pulled the
check out and found it was made out for one hundred and fifty
dollars. He was going to complain, but the money was already being
counted by the teller. He could always stuff the rest into the
donation basket the next time he was in town for church. It would be
awkward to do without an envelope, so he snagged one from the bank
and then walked across the street to the supermarket.

“Morning
Blake.” Sally, his mother’s best friend when his family
had been alive, greeted him as he walked into the small
air-conditioned grocery store. “Picking up supplies?”

“No
ma’am, just wanted to get a paper and maybe a bottle or two for
later on.”

“Oh,
no you don’t. I’ll swat you down if you try to buy some—”

Sally
broke into a smile as Blake got two Diet Cokes from the refrigerated
case and put them on the counter along with a newspaper. If he was in
town, he might as well check Craigslist ads and the paper before
heading back home. Trips to town cost him in terms of fuel, and
though he lived a frugal life by necessity, he had brought some cash
of his own just in case he found something.

“That’ll
be four dollars and five cents, hon.” She smiled. He paid her
and left the store.

The
heat in the truck hit him like a ton of bricks, but Blake rolled down
the windows and spread out the newspaper before cracking into his
first cola. The advertisement page held almost nothing of interest.
At least, nothing that wasn’t way too expensive. He was about
to give up and check Craigslist on his phone when he saw an
advertisement that caught his eye.
Storage
Unit Auctions, Friday July 9
^th
,
2 p.m
.
Smiling, he started the truck and headed back towards the house, the
thirty minute drive soothing despite the deep ruts of the two-track
lane.

Blake
didn’t get any more calls that week for folks needing a
handyman, so he used some of the camping furniture in the house. He
had fun testing out the gray water system he had set up on his sink
and shower. Just having a pressurized shower felt luxurious. He’d
easily made his water heater using one-inch pex tubing and coiling it
inside an insulated box covered in glass. The whole thing was mounted
on the roof. With only one side dedicated to solar, the other was
still available. The pipes ran down to the basement and fed
throughout the house wherever hot water was needed.

Friday
came after a long week of gardening, and he spent a little more time
on how he looked. He trimmed his hair the best he could and had the
best shave ever, now that he had a big mirror to stand in front of in
his otherwise empty house. If he planned things out right, he could
get the parts, go fix the truck, go to the auction, and then go on a
date. It’d been years since he’d last gone on one, and
Blake stressed over what to wear. In the end, he put on his best
shirt and the best jeans he had with a clean pair of work boots. He
hitched up an enclosed trailer he’d had forever to his truck so
he had extra room to haul his findings

After
leaving the auto parts store, he thumbed in Sandra’s number and
waited for her to pick up.

“Hello?”
Her voice was music to him.

“Hi,
this is Blake. I’m in town today doing some stuff and—”

“Great!
I already talked to Pete, and he said we can use the bay with the
lift.”

“You
know Pete?”

“Of
course. I went to school with his daughter. I’ve been working
off and on for a day or two there to have some rolling around money.”

He
laughed. “That’s good news. When do you want to—”

“I’m
ready now if you are. Meet you there.”

“Okay,
I’ll see you soon.” He hung up.

He
pulled into Pete’s parking lot and dropped the trailer in one
of the back parking spots. He noticed Sandra immediately. He pulled
in as she directed him and stopped. For an hour they worked on the
truck, and Blake learned a ton of new tricks on diesel maintenance.
With a new fuel pump and water filter, some tweaks and vacuum tubes
replaced, the truck was purring like a kitten.

“What’s
the Trailer for?” Sandra asked him as they were washing their
hands with some goop.

“Well,
I just finished building my house, but I’ve been sleeping on
the floor…So…I thought I’d go to an auction today
and see if they had any beds, chairs. That sort of thing.”

“Sleeping
on the floor? Why would you do that?”

“It’s
better than the camper, trust me.” He smiled at the bemused
look she gave him.

“You
can’t live in a camper in town. Where are you?”

“Out
on Holloway Trail.”

“That
isn’t a trail, that’s an old logging track.”

“I
have ten acres up there I got from my grandparents. Nice and quiet.”

“I
bet. Well, let’s go to the auction then.”

“Uh,
I didn’t ask you because, I mean, you’re welcome to come
of course but,” he stammered.

“You
didn’t think I’d want to go to something so boring? No, I
won’t consider that part a date…and you have to quit
thinking you’ll stick your foot in your mouth around me. I’m
just a normal girl.”

--End of Sample --

If you liked this sample, you can find the rest of the story for free
via kindle unlimited or .99 on Amazon here:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UE1QH1G
.

Boyd's mailing list signup for new releases:
http://eepurl.com/bghQb1

Introduction to E.E. Isherwood's
Revolutions Per Mile
series.

Being a writer gives me all the advantages of being a picky reader. If I can't find a book that is exactly what I want to read, I can write it. My first series of books dealt with zombies and the survival of a 15-year-old boy and his 104-year-old great-grandmother. That allowed me to explore the world of the young man as he was faced with the challenges of an unfolding emergency. They aren't traditional heroes nor are my zombies traditional zombies. But they are the types of stories I love to read. As of April, 2016, I'll have four volumes in
Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse
.

The
Revolutions Per Mile
series takes place after America's collapse. Instead of zombies, the culprit of the world's demise is thought to be nuclear war. My heroine, Perth Hopkins, is a young girl who grew up wrenching with her father as he worked on his sports cars. That knowledge gave her the leg up she needed to escape the mushroom clouds and find refuge on the high plains of Kansas.

But as a reader I wanted to focus less on the cause and more on the result. I imagined Hays, Kansas as a focal point for people fleeing the big cities at opposite ends of Interstate 70 (Denver and Kansas City). Those with the fastest cars would arrive there first, be in the best position to make the rules, and so on. Speedy modern muscle cars would find a place in the ecosystem of the post apocalyptic high plains. The cars are well-maintained, drawing spare parts from the multitude of vehicles abandoned on the highways, and fuel is plentiful because of the relationship with the oil fields of North Dakota. Drivers like Perth would do well in such an environment, though the challenges would only grow as survivors became more desperate and the cars themselves began to break down.

America's lifeblood is its highways. I believe Kansas is where that blood will flow the longest. See if you agree. I hope you'll find this introductory story exciting as we take a look at this New World through Perth's eyes.

Welcome to
Post Apocalyptic Ponies
.

E.E. Isherwood

Revolutions Per Mile Series

Post Apocalyptic Ponies

Post Apocalyptic Mustangs [May, 2016]

Post Apocalyptic Chargers [June, 2016]

The long ribbon of pavement brought me to this place when I was
fifteen. It chewed on my leg like a feral dog for two years until I
was old enough and talented enough to get behind the wheel and tame
it. Once I tasted the road, I bled gasoline.

I now live in high plains Kansas. It's an island of safety between
the glowing nuclear pyres. Girls my age must work to survive, same as
everyone else. My unfortunate sisters have to toil in the fields or
wrench in garages. They go
slow
.

I'm one of the lucky few: I spend my life going
fast
as a
courier. I feel the wind through my hair. I get to see what's over
the horizon. I do everything in the top gear. Without us drivers,
this place would be nothing more than tumbleweeds and hawks.

I never look back, except for my dad. He perished with the rest of
the world. Truth be told, I wanted to die with him. But some days,
when I drive
very fast
, he returns to me. Tells me I'm pushing
too hard.

He always forgets. Out here, there's no slowing down.

My foot beat down the clutch as my hand rattled the shifter in
between gears. There weren't a lot of choices when you're moving
close to a hundred miles per hour, but I always sought out my car's
limits.

“Take it easy K-bear.”

That's my dad. Koala Bear: my nickname since birth. It went with
my given name, Perth, though I'd grown to hate both as childish
nonsense. Everything was “Australia” with my parents.
Blech! He knew I
hated being told what to do, though I never understood why he waited
until I was going dangerously fast to start up with me.

In response, I downshifted and crushed the gas pedal to the floor
as I rounded the sweeping turn on the desolate two-lane blacktop
road. I leaned against my bucket seat and hung on to the steering
wheel as the powerful car shot me around the bend and up the gentle
hill beyond. If I'd kept on the gas I could have probably caught some
air going over the next rise, but I finally listened to
my
caution and
let the speedometer return to safe pastures.

Wilmore was a hundred miles south of Hays, my home. The windswept
plains between the two was the area of safety where the youngest
girls drove as couriers. They kept us there because it was safe.
Thus, we were called ponies. Get it? I know: totally lame.

The town was one of the most distant settlements in the south. More
of a village, if you ask me. They needed me to run some parts up to Hays
and have the machine crews fix them. I arrived with the repaired
parts in my trunk, and all I had to do was dump them off so I could
get back out on the road.

It's what the other girls called a milk run.

I saw Captain Ross in front of the feed store when I pulled up.

“Ahoy, madam Perth!” Ross wasn't the captain of a
vessel; by some agreement early on, town leaders were called captains. Some took the title more seriously than others.
Even though he came in the with refugees, locals tolerated him as
captain because he managed the town's supplies like a “big city
accountant.” Those were his words, anyway.

When I looked at him I saw a tired old man with a left eye that
always seemed half-shut.

“Ahoy captain.” No reason not to humor the man with
the nautical nonsense.

“Did you bring them to me?”

I handed him the box of parts, but he grimaced. I read the
disappointment as he set the box on a nearby table. So much about
dealing with people revolved around things left unsaid. I'd just
delivered the parts he needed to run his farm equipment, or
machinery, or whatever, but he was worried about something much less
important—at least on the grand scale.

“No, silly girl. I'm talking about the
other
things.”

I looked around to make sure no one else was watching us. There
were people out and about in the one-block row of storefronts, but
everyone appeared consumed by their own problems. I kneeled over to
fiddle with the laces of my driving boots and I threw the badly
creased brown paper bag near his feet. He pretended not to see it.

“You're a lifesaver, Perth.”

“You just like me because I'm fast.” I laughed,
thinking I had made an innocent joke, but my own words soon left me
feeling cold despite the July heat. Though my shrug's long sleeves
were already tight, I cinched up each arm in turn, as if to make it
clear the skin underneath was not for sale. If the Captain read
anything into what I'd said, he made no show of it. He was all
smiles.

Note to self: never tell a strange man, no matter how amiable, you
are fast.

Before the awkwardness engulfed me, he grabbed the bag, bid me
goodbye, and went inside his shop.

As I walked back to my open door I wondered if it was all in my
imagination. I tried to believe the best in people, and the Captain
was one of the few men on my routes that seemed normal by apocalyptic
standards, but everyone had needs—thus the bag. Maybe he was
already planning what he'd say on our next meeting. Of course, I
realized I was already planning what
I'd
say at that meeting.

That's why I liked driving. I always knew what to do. I could
always get away from trouble.

I hopped in my Old World IROC-Z and made my way out of town.

My dad, always patiently waiting to point out the obvious, said,
“You need to watch what you say out here.”

I looked over, shocked that he'd lecture me in anything less than
fifth gear. I was also angry because the man was right. Just because
I was a pony didn't mean I had to act like one.

I didn't get far out of town before I saw two young men walking
along the roadway's shoulder. They were holding hands, but something
was wrong in the way the taller one walked. I recognized the shorter
one as I closed the distance, so I slowed to talk to them with my
windows down.