“Trailers for sale or rent…”Mads sang and was rewarded with a groan from Willow. “Heyyy, King of the Road, yeah? Was it by Johnny Cash?”
“Hell, no. Someone else.”
“Who then?”
An argument began that only ended when Rutger said, “Roger Miller.”
She was still thinking about the silver cat because it meant absolutely nothing to her and yet she knew it should mean something. Suddenly, it did.
“This is a Jag?” A British car of heritage and poshness, and she’d not recognized it when she should have, with or without a roof. The silver cat was the Jaguar brand’s hood ornament and had been for a hundred years or more.
Rutger laughed at her question. “Yes. It is.”
“Okay.”
Forgetting her past was one thing, but this was a chunk of steeped-in knowledge gone bye-byes for a while, until it had clicked back into place. Shit. She hoped it wasn’t another sign of change, especially not one that said her memory was goingbackward. Yesterday she’d not been able to remember the word schedule, in spite it being in front of her on a piece of paper.
Willow had written the word. Then there’d been not remembering how to button her shirt the day before that. Super early Alzheimer’s? Nanomachines eating her brain? After a while of going around and around with those thoughts, she snuggled into Rutger and watched the apocalyptic scenery pass by. Walls, walls, dead cars, skeletons, graffiti on a wall about Armageddon, and a few sparrows that zipped by, chirping madly.
If humans went extinct, if the Ghoul Lords left the earth, everything else might flourish again. There was a plus to every bad situation, if you thought really hard.
“We need a name for this motley crew,” Cyn mused. “I vote for the Road-trip Band.”
With a nod, Rutger agreed and rocked her head where she’d rested it on him. “As you wish, princess.” She grinned up at him.
“That’ll do me also,” Mads said loudly, over the engine sounds.
Willow raised her thumb.
“Road-trip Band it is.” Armageddon Crushers was her alt title, but they needed some levity. “Good.”
They reached the bridge by the end of the night and paused there. Daylight hours were coming, so the wisest choice was to wait for night. The roadway entered a dark hole where the last scraper of this quarter ended and the bridge began. Toother had kept pace with the cars, bounding along, his long hair flying. They were all here, disembarking, staring at where they must go next.
The bridge entry bore the marks of some awful disaster—and that scenario was as common as muck in these times.Oh my, a hundred skeletons on my path to adventure? Pffft.That hobbithad it easy with his big spider. Now if this were a functioning Starbucks she’d be a-fucking-mazed.
A massive number of cars were strewn and packed onto the road. Three high in some places. Maybe some giants had playedJenga? It was an effective barrier and looked as ominous as a packet of corn flakes with weevils pouring out the top. Make that roaches pouring out. Several of those were running along the wall next to Cyn.
She eyed them dubiously, wondering when her stomach and taste buds, and brain, had decided bugs looked edible, even scrumptious.
“Are we eating?” She placed her hand over her middle.
“Sure. Let’s make camp and get some hot food a hundred yards back!” Willow declared. “We’ll have a rotation of guards so we can all get some sleep. Tomorrow, early dusk, we go in there, cross over, and find ourselves in a brand-new quarter.”
The grumbling from many reminded Cyn of what she’d observed before. These beasters had set down roots and hated traveling past their boundaries. Though Vargr had adapted, she had caught him looking wistfully back toward Mercantor Quarter.
Little Mo toddled up on his dinky metal limbs, stopping near the ankles of her new leather boots. She really should see if he wanted that rust polished out or painted over.Blue or purple, hmmm.“Detect anything like stinkers, Mo?”
“No, Miss Cyn. Nothing of that type. Some noises in there match the frequency and rhythm of snoring. I believe you will encounter more beasters inside the bridge.”
“Oh. Okay.” Not so bad then. “Would you like a paint job? The rust is going to spread.”
Little Mo looked taken aback, somehow, limbs rising then halting, dead still.
“I could rustle up some sandpaper and nail polish, Cyn.” Mads winked at her.
“You could?”
“Not mine, of course.” He grinned. Then he showed her his nails, and these were actually retractable claws, which was news to her—she’d not realized. He had skulls and flowers and all sorts of patterns on the claws. “Willow’s doing. Blue, red, black? I have white too.”
