(of course, no one would have seen them, unless someone approached unrealistically fast from behind, but even then, the kid would probably catch it. Their driver preferred to have meetings with people be on his terms)--
But the simple fact was that they contrasted quite a bit in appearance. Riley was wearing, more less, what he always wore-- dark clothing, roughed up and stitched fixed, and a practical leather jacket-- he easily fit into the archetype of post apocalyptic survivor, with a bit of youthful flair. Maya, meanwhile, wore an asymmetric ivory and silver sequins top and purposefully distressed jeans that would have been better suited for getting brunch than looking for gas supplies in the desert. Her black sandals were at least silent-- but not suited for running in the slightest (though, she could still run fairly quickly in them), and the platinum and silver jewelry she wore, the pendants, rings, and earrings, only had some functionality in being used for bartering and mostly in making Maya an even bigger target than women already were.
Of course, Maya wasn't particularly worried about all that. Her boys might not have always looked it-- but they were pretty tough! Together, the three of them made an effective team-- they could get in and get out, get the things they needed pretty quickly. The boy had even been in a few scraps before-- not as many as Doc Lacey-- but they somehow got out a bit strong each time, even if they lost things, they were all still alive... Maya frowned. This was a common line of thinking for her nowadays. Yeah, they were alive, but they sure as shit weren't living. Never going after what they wanted, always what they needed! And never even getting enough of that!
As Maya huffed, Riley split his attention from the road and the album to include Maya. He completely knew what was coming-- the pair had had a variation on this conversation nearly every day for the past few weeks. He didn't blame her, all this driving could be boring, and they'd been doing a lot of it. She was open book about some aspects of her past, too, and Riley had learned enough to know that sleeping in a passenger seat for most days was not exactly Maya's idea of comfort-- even if he'd managed to adjust the seats to go much further back so that they were almost cot-like. Talking helped break up the monotony of... whatever they were doing.
Maya leaned back into the car, "Fucking bullshit." Reaching between her legs, she unclasped her satchel and downed one of her mini bottles of vodka in one swift movement. It went down like water.
Riley didn't take his eyes off the road, but sheepishly smirked as she downed her booze with practiced ease, "What's bullshit, Maya?" He knew the answer would be something like--
"You know! This! All of this!" She gestured with her arms, throwing the bottle out to the desert sands as she did, "It's all bullshit. I hate it-- Don't fucking give me that look! You know exactly what I mean, little man."
"I guess so." He shrugged. His smile became a full grin as he glanced over at her, "I think littering is bullshit, personally."
Maya's face flashed red as her eyes went wide with faux-anger, "SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"
"... Mm..." A grumble came from the back seat, interrupting the rhythmic light snoring that had been coming from the sleeping Doctor Lacey moments prior. The pair waited in silence for his snoring to resume before they continued their exchange.
Maya whispered, "... Bruh, I'm going to hang you by your shitty fucking dreadlocks. Giving me shit for a fucking bottle..."
Riley just laughed, though after a moment he added, "Don't call them that, dude."
"Oh, fuck right. I'm sorry." Maya rolled up her window, slightly regretful that it was getting too cold for her to leave the thing open-- the car was no dutch oven... but... Well, the group's patchwork hygiene was starting to catch up to them, was all. She continued. "Black is beautiful. Your locs aren't dreadful, they're beautiful. Fuck the Afro-oppressive patriarchy. Don't touch my hair."
"Thanks, comrade."
Maya looked ahead, "You know, I once worked with Solange?"
"I know, Maya."
Her eyes glazed a bit as she reminisced, "Craziest parties. I think you two would have gotten along." She smiled, "Could never hook up with Bey, but--"
"Sure, sure. Almeda was a really good song, Maya. Not usually my style, but you did a good job."
There was a silence for a moment. Compliments like that were rare nowadays, even traveling with her former therapist. Maya was going to cherish the moment for a bit. Riley, meanwhile, had returned his eyes to the road-- though his head was leaned against the "window." His side of the car didn't have a window-- neither did the back seat-- the only functioning window in the car was on Maya's side. The rest of the "windows" were pieces of plywood, with thick glass quick cemented as makeshift portholes in the middle. From the outside, these looked like normal windows to most passerby's-- as the wood had been spray painted black, and the glass had been tinted as dark as possible-- like the other windows and windshields in the car had been after the fall. Riley figured it helped if you couldn't actually see inside the car.
"Soooooooo...." She stretched the word out for a minute, basking in the praise a second longer. A part of her worried that she may never get such praise again. She buried that part of her deep down, focusing instead on the moment, the task at hand. "So, speaking of music..."
"Ugh."
"Look, man!" She made a pleading gesture with her hands, "I'm not saying it's bad! I'm just saying variety is the spice of life, you know? Artistic variety is one of the keys to a good life! Philosophers and shit said this stuff. I'm not an animal! I want to do drugs and listen to some fucking Mariah, is all!"
"And get laid, right?"
"YES! Someone finally gets me! AND get laid." She ran a hand through her hair, "But it's like your dad would never go for it, and I'm not sooo depraved as to be jailbait's first--"
"--You actually wouldn't be my first."
"Sure thing, mop head." She continued. "Anyway, it's like that fucking pyramid of needs or whatever your dad always goes on about. I need drugs and weed and booze and music before I can move on to getting laid and showering."
"Those are really good priorities, man."
"I know!"
They were quiet for a moment, before Riley asked; "Anyway, isn't it repetitive to say you need drugs AND weed?"
"Nah," She held up a finger, as if to say she was making a Very Important Point, "Weed isn't a drug, dear Watson. God, the things I would do for a bong right now..." Riley gave a nod that was clearly playing into the bit as she continued. "Anyway-- a person can't live like this! Just because things are a little shitty right now--"
" 'A little.' "
"Shut up." She continued, undeterred, "We need more music! Or I'm going to die! Of boredom! And possibly also for real if I end up thinking whatever that red shit is sounds better than this shit!" Her chain hit against her chest as she banged on the radio.
"Alright, first of all," Riley held up a single hand, as if to say 'stop,' "Poison Girls are fucking dope." The hand shifted to hold up one finger, "That's one-- two-- It's not like I had a whole hell of a lot of time to look through my fucking collection. Downtown was going to shit and we had maybe 5 minutes to get enough shit to last us for... fucking... until we could see shit wasn't getting any better. You know how many mixtapes from my friends and local bands I'm never going to hear again because all the broadcasts were like 'Oh, this will be over in a week...'? So you're right about that, I guess it is bullshit." He huffed at the tragedy of his lost record collection.
"Hey..." Maya said with a calming voice and a sympathetic touch, "I'm not blaming you for any of this, okay? I can't thank you enough-- you're one half of the reason I'm even alive right now." She heaved a sigh, looking upward, "I just think a lot of this is hard, okay? All this driving, all this running and hiding... it takes a toll. I think you could use a break? I know I could."
"Looking for more food and gas might be nice..." Riley muttered under his breath. He sighed, louder... he hated to admit it, but she was right. Since his father served as their dedicated lookout, this made Riley the defacto leader of sorts as they drove during the night. Making decisions was EXHAUSTING and he absolutely hated every part of it. When he was with his friends, the group always came to a consensus, but now-- major decisions fell to him, because Maya assumed he had his dad's vote. "Alright. Fuck it. You're right. Did you have anything in mind?" For a moment, he considered waking his father to see what he thought-- but he quickly discarded the though-- if he had his father's vote, he may as well use it.
Her smile widened as she fumbled with the dash, opening up a map, "Well, according to the map we got at the one outside of Lovelock, there's not anymore rest stops until we're east of Vegas. But, still being north, as far away as we are... there should be some assorted towns... and just, random places people used to live, far away from other people, maybe?"
"Rich people, who wanted to be secluded from the hungry masses, you mean."
"Always forget to add that part..." She blushed weakly, rubbing the back of their head.
"Still..." He put one hand to his chin, the other on the wheel, "Might have gas and car parts."
"Could have weed and booze."
"Probably have food, somewhere..."
"Actual beds..."
The pair looked at each other, practically speaking in unison; "Dude-- CDs?" "NEW MUSIC!?"
Riley slowed the car, looking for the next exit. His grin was smug as he spoke, "Let's go."
It was rare for Tom Lacey to curse. Being stirred by the car alarm wasn't enough to cause such a phenomenon-- but being woken up-- jolted awake-- by the sound of gunfire might be enough do it for anyone. He was about to ask what going on again, as he leaned over the front seats, where Maya and Riley were still sitting. Their expressions were mixtures of excitement, joy, and horror. The ridge they had parked on gave them all a full vantage of what had them making such expressions. Tom was sure Riley could make things out the best, but from what he could see-- there was a complete Mexican stand-off happening a ways off. At least, as he adjusted his glasses in the dimming evening light, he assumed that's where the gunfire was coming from. Everything was blurring, and getting harder to see. He could just barely make out more figures approaching the commotion. Like moths to a flame.
"Sweet Jesus, you two..." |