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

Mustang
drifted by on the shoulder of the road. The crackle of tires on
gravel was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. The driver was behind
his dark sunglasses but I could feel the eyes burning into me. My
earlier brashness was a ghost, willing itself to stay invisible.
    I could think of a lot of ways to die that didn't bother me in the
least, but the torture they'd telegraphed to me was a new horror I
didn't want to tempt again.
    When the police cruiser returned to the pavement it accelerated
away with a powerful roar of its top-of-the-line motor. The driver
didn't peel out like you see in the movies—rubber is too
precious for that—but they pushed the limit. Soon the sound of
the beast faded even as they became a dot on the horizon.
    I was left with my savior. With a big sniffle I tried to pull
myself together, ready to give her a big hug and become fast friends;
two things I otherwise would have driven far out of my way to avoid.
    Instead, the girl got out of her car, walked up to me, and planted
a big painful slap across my face.

They nicknamed you 'legs'
    She stood close, though she was almost a head shorter. She studied
me like I was a lab rat.
    The girl wore most of the typical driver's getup: cowboy boots,
black leather pants, and something lightweight on top. Most girls
wear tank tops or t-shirts, but she had on only a bikini top. It was
red, white, and blue, like the old American flag. She had a black
shirt wrapped around her waist. Her stringy dark hair was in a bob
which framed her narrow face. She wore too much makeup, and while she
was pretty, her brown eyes were hazy as if she too had been crying.
    I waited for another slap. I deserved it, and I wanted the
punishment as a reminder of how stupid I'd been.
    “Perth, you are either the bravest, most crazy-stupid girl
I've ever met, or you have a deathwish.” She laughed, and the
relief in me wouldn't be contained. I leaned up against my car and
began to cry.
    “OK, not a deathwish. That's easy enough to come by out
here...” She let it hang, though we both knew it was true.
    “Don't they teach you about the cops down here in pony land?
They did when I was here.”
    I had so many questions, but I couldn't form the words over my
violent sobs. I tried to keep them down—no one wants to cry in
front of the older kids—but, well, I had no choice. I felt five
years younger just then.
    “You cry it out, I'm going to move my car or we might both
end up in a fiery wreck if another hauler comes through while reading
a book. I'll be right back.”
    I watched her go back to her car. She wasn't much older than me,
hell she could have been the same age for all I knew, but she had an
air of sophistication about her. A confidence. That swagger came from
driving on the dangerous roads up north, and living to brag about it.
    Me? I fell to the pavement and sat with my back against my rear
bumper. I was nearly cried out by the time she parked behind
me—facing the other way—and walked up with a cigarette
hanging from her mouth.
    My eyes must have betrayed me. My dad's views were hard to erase.
    She pulled it out and held it off to the side. “What? I'm
eighteen. I can smoke, right?” She laughed as she re-affirmed
the obvious fact there was no law out here.
    I shrugged my shoulders. The more I thought about it, I really
didn't care.
    She put it back in her mouth and took a seat next to me. We both
wore long pants—required to drive a car—so sitting on the
hot pavement wasn't an issue. “My name's Jocelyn, but you can
call me Jo.”
    “Hi Jo.” I reached to shake the hand she offered, then
she sat back and took a deep drag. “How do you know my name?”
    “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but a lot of the
garages keep lists of drivers they want to recruit after you've done
the time on the milk routes. A few have pictures, too.” She
chuckled as she let out a cough of smoke. “They nicknamed you
'legs,' which makes you popular with the boys .”