Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1 Read Free

but alas, that isn't what happened.
    I got about ten miles. I had the wind in my hair, my music was
blaring, and I had found something approaching love of life. Then
they did the unthinkable: they nudged my rear bumper.
    Do you know what happens to a car when it's nudged at such insane
speeds? Nine times out of ten it means the car loses traction and
bounces off the narrow road in a twisted steel rollover. It's ugly to
watch and horrible to feel—I can only imagine, but I'm sure
it's a horrible last feeling. More rarely, the car will lose control
and spin in circles until it comes to stop on the pavement. Only the
driver's nerves and panties are ruined.
    I did neither. I experienced a miracle of high speed aerodynamics.
My rear end nudged to the side, and I steadied the wheel almost at
the same time. I felt the back get all squirrely on me, and it did
slip and slide, but I held it together. I wasn't twisted metal or
pissing myself.
    But I was mad.
    The police cruiser seemed to drop back, perhaps surprised their
move failed, but whatever the reason it was lucky for both our cars
because I slammed on the brakes. My crew wouldn't be happy I used up
so much rubber on a milk run, but I wasn't thinking past my trembling
hands.
    When I rolled to a stop, I was out and yelling at the police
before they'd even stopped their car.
    “Are you jackboots insane? What the F-Francine do you call
that, numbnuts?” Yeah, I was thinking worse, but my dad was
listening. He could cuss, but not his precious K-Bear.
    Yelling at the police has always been a bad idea. It's even worse
when the badge they're wearing isn't real. I was halfway to their
car, and running out of my version of expletives, when I felt the
wind and sensed the empty spaces from my feet to each horizon on the
prairie as far as I could see. I was at the mercy of the armed men in the car—they were all men—and I was doing
everything I could to get them to come down hard on me.
    In another life I might have argued I was having a blonde moment,
but I knew that would never pass muster with those guys. In fact, it
might have had the opposite effect.
    I stopped talking as the two men got out. For some reason they
reveled in dressing all in black, probably to make themselves as
scary as their cars. Each of them donned their black cowboy hats as
they strode forward. Without the engine noise of their car, their
boots clacked loudly on the hot asphalt.
    Both of them were built like bricks. I briefly considered if I
could outrun them, but another look around told me I could run ten
miles and they'd just drive up to whatever road I finally made it to.
There was nowhere to hide out here. That was another bad idea. Murphy
finally found me, tripped me, and tossed me against this situation to
see how I'd handle it. The letter “F” was hovering over
my test paper.
    I changed gears, hard. “Oh sorry about that! What seems to
be the problem, officers?”
    I could switch from bitch mode to charm mode on a dime, but I
could tell it wasn't going to matter.
    I took some steps backward as they silently approached. “I
didn't see you guys back there, sorry.” I used my ditzy blonde
voice—something I remembered from the TV shows I used to watch
before the Great Power Down of the world—but the expressions of
the two men didn't change at all.
    “Step over to your car, miss. Spread your arms and legs.”
The corner of the driver's mouth turned up, like he was in on a joke.
His mustache twitched as if to get in on it, too.
    My stomach swirled, and not in a good way. I was in more than
trouble out here.
    “I uh, why?” My charm gone, I began to stammer. It
didn't stop until they grabbed me by my arms and dragged me bodily
over to my car. They pushed me up against the white paint, and I
looked in the rear window. Nothing back there could help me.
    “You made us put you in danger, miss . You shouldn't
have done that.” The other man spoke as the driver adjusted my
hands where he wanted