11. Christopher #2
I give up. I’m not winning this argument. “We have renegades—um, bad nightcrawlers—chasing us. I’m going to get us home to your mom, but you have to be silent, kiddo, understand? No talking. Not a peep.”
“Me and the bunnies will be very quiet.”
In that moment, I’m grateful I left the noisy rooster behind.
I’ve been driving without exterior lights, but the digital dashboard is lit.
I tap a button on the steering wheel and dim it so the bright orange dials don’t reflect off my face, except I know the renegades can still see us.
Vampire night vision is acute. But I have one more trick up my sleeve—a device that’ll make the truck invisible.
The Lux discovered a way to bend daylight around an object. They’ve outfitted my truck with the tech. Not only do the crystals protect me from the sun and allow me to scavenge during the daytime when an early moonrise wakes me, but as a defense, they’re pretty awesome.
Because to bend daylight away, they make the object within the protective bubble invisible to anyone outside its range.
I don’t use them all the time because on a vehicle the size of my truck, they’re a major drain on the batteries.
Plus, when traveling at high speeds, a shimmer appears at the edges.
I don’t know if the renegades have figured out how to spot me from the shimmer when I’m using invisibility mode, and I refuse to clue them in now, so I don’t turn on the crystals yet.
I spot a bridge ahead and an idea forms. Easing off the accelerator, I zoom down an embankment. In two quick turns, I reverse course and back under the bridge, facing out. Another button tap to kill the motors, and I flip on the crystals.
If we’re lucky, the renegades will go right past us, seeing nothing. We’ll wait fifteen minutes, then veer off onto the alternative route I programmed into the GPS.
Two renegades roar down the dirt off-ramp and turn away from us. Their motorcycles zoom down the riverbed, chasing a nonexistent ghost.
Easy-peasy, right?
“Aaa-choo!”
My insides turn to liquid, and I jerk my gaze in the direction the sound came from. Zinnia is pinching her nose shut using the lens cloth.
With all the dust being stirred by the high winds, I know it’s not her fault. But like my dad used to say, kids just make life more difficult.
I glance down at my t-shirt to see the silk-screened cover of Dark Wine Night’s sixth album.
I don’t have a lot of these in storage. They’re one of the rarer graphics, but sometimes sacrifices are necessary.
I strip off the shirt and pantomime sneezing into the soft cotton cloth, then hand it to her with a silent shush.
She presses the shirt to her nose, mirroring my motions.
Smart munchkin.
The next two renegades who come down the slope must’ve heard her. They skid to a stop, sliding their back wheels to the side and bouncing on the dry riverbed.
From the puzzled looks on their faces and the shrugs they give each other, they can’t see us yet. Not only are the daylight crystals doing their job, but sand is blowing everywhere, screening us from view.
The renegades lower their kickstands and dismount. Walking in a circle, they cock their heads as if they’re trying to hear us, even sniff at the air, and probably get a snootful of sand for their troubles.
Then they look at each other and point under the bridge. That isn’t a good sign. In this sandstorm, I doubt they can smell Zinnia. Or me. The wind direction blows across the underpass’s opening, taking any scent away from—not toward—the renegades.
I almost go nuts trying to watch what’s happening—both the front and rear views.
More renegades slip down the slope from behind.
They circle and, not seeing us, enter the underpass and ram our truck’s rear impact guard with a rattling thunk.
Zinnia’s seatbelt keeps her safe, but the momentum sends the renegades onto their back wheels, tossing the bikes into the air to land on top of each driver, pinning them down.
Shit.
“Hang on.” I punch the ignition button, throw the vehicle into drive, and floor the accelerator, plowing into one renegade who’s walking toward us, sending him flying.
With any luck, the two who hit us from behind will be in no shape to follow.
On my rearview screen, I spot the remaining renegade who managed to dodge us. He leaps onto his bike and gives chase. The daylight crystals still function to make us invisible, so I could stop to let him pass.
Except the biker is too close, and with my bad luck, he’ll ram into us. We were fortunate with the first impact. But I don’t want to risk another one damaging the rear axle if he lays the bike down and slides underneath the truck.
What bothers me most is he’s still following us closely. How is he tracking us? I’m not going fast enough to create a shimmer.
I slap the steering wheel. Duh! The tire marks in the sand. That has to be it. Although the wind doesn’t leave them unmolested for long, it’s still long enough for the biker to track the tread imprints.
If I pull over and try to lose him by stopping, it won’t work.
No choice.
I don’t want to use the machine gun again and get more grit in its intricate parts. I didn’t have time to clean it after yesterday—too much other stuff on my plate. And wasting a Sidewinder on a single renegade is, well, a waste. But I have another option.
I reach into the door compartment and pull out a small, baseball-shaped weapon—a grenade designed by the Lux.
I show Zinnia the device. “There’s going to be a loud bang. Stay in your seat.”
She nods, her eyes serious, the concert t-shirt still clutched to her nose.
My gut grabs. Poor kid. A child raised in a dystopian hellscape learns early to follow orders without question.
I open the moonroof. Sand blows in and momentarily blinds me. Yuck. Using the back of my hand, I swipe at my eyes until I can see again and pull on goggles. I should have done that before opening the roof, but I’m on overload and my brain is a quart low.
This will happen so fast that I don’t ask Zinnia to hold the steering wheel.
When the Lux design something, they design it well. I press my thumb into the divot at the top, and my thumbprint unlocks and arms the grenade.
Whooshing to my feet, I take aim, allow for the wind, and give it a toss. I played enough baseball in high school as the team’s pitcher that, with enhanced vampire senses, my throw hits its mark.
Boom.
Before the red splatter hits the desert floor, I drop back to my seat and grab the wheel.
The truck slows until I hammer the accelerator again.
The Collapse has forced me to do things I’ve never done before—like kill other vampires.
I hate doing it. This kind of shit will give me flashbacks and PTSD.
The renegades can’t help it that they’re starving and desperately want our resources.
But what am I supposed to do? I’m just one guy—a guy stuck in the middle of a postapocalyptic mess.
Zinnia taps my arm. “Are we okay now?”
She still holds my shirt tightly to her nose, which muffles her voice. My snot-smeared t-shirt will need a good wash. It might even be wearable again.
I check the rearview mirror. “Yup.”
“Then close that.” She points her small index finger at the moonroof.
“Oops. Sorry.”
Fine sand is everywhere. I press the button to close the moonroof before more gets in, then reach over and try to brush some of it from her scalp between her braids. Yeah, we’ll each need showers when we get home.
And if Maria is anything like my mother was, she’s gonna skin me alive for putting her daughter through the battlefield and bringing her back this filthy. Although I can guess which one will piss her off the most.