December 4, 2011

The first light of morning arrived agonizingly slow. Sleep was kept at bay for the bulk of the long night, as I worked out in my mind, over and over again, how we would escape this increasingly perilous place.

We snuggled for hours through the morning, not wanting to rise. I even bagged a few hours of sleep, from exhaustion. We didn’t want to alter what had been our ‘normal’ schedule of rising later in the morning.

After we dressed and went downstairs to the breakfast lounge, we ate and lingered over coffee and tea.

The normal routine was unfolding – with men coming and going, changing shifts at given posts and taking their turn at doing daily chores. Considering the fact we were surrounded by cutthroats, thieves and the spiritually derelict, the discipline shown was almost hockey team-like – military-like. It seemed that some of these men were trying to evolve since they found their way out of prison back on Nov. 11, or for some, a harrowing, near-death week later.

Once the buzz in the hotel lobby subsided, I nudged Carrie and nodded toward the front door. “I feel like stretching my legs a bit. Want to go for a walk?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It’s snowing to beat the band,” Carrie said. “But I suppose so.”

We slipper our jackets on and moved toward the front door. Two men were seated at a small table near the door and one of them squinted at us as we stepped outside. I could feel his eyes carving into my shoulder blades.

Swirling, fat flakes of snow greeted us as we stepped outside. Two men were stationed at a machine gun post half way down the parking lot. I wondered where they came upon the skookum weapons. They were engaged in a spirited conversation and paid us no mind.

We took the corner toward the north edge of the hill the hotel sat on and stopped at the entrance to a trail that led down the hillside toward north Division. I had my shotgun over my shoulder, the .357 in a holster that Oscar had given to me, and a Glock in my pocket. Carrie had a Glock in her coat pocket and the .308 Winchester was over her right shoulder. The weirdness of the image of her brandishing a lethal weapon, all the while dressed like she was about to go shopping on a Saturday afternoon, did not escape me.

Snow was drifting down and we were dressed for the cold. I made sure Carrie had several more layers of clothing, just in case.

Larry was nowhere to be seen but we passed Mike in the hotel lobby as we emerged from our restless night. He merely nodded a hello to us as we walked out into the snowy morn.

I looked back casually, as if just scanning for bad guys, and no one was trailing us. I told Carrie to start down the path and she carefully, slowly, started downhill.

I lifted the binoculars that I had around my neck and surveyed south, over the bridge, the snow-covered chaos of cars and the grey shrouded downtown buildings. There was no sign of movement. I turned the binoculars east over the Red Lion and toward the industrial area beyond. And then I turned north, scanning up Division. Fifty feet below me, Carrie continued to descend.

I expected to hear a shout or see someone appear downhill, blocking her path — but the way was clear. I had been watching this trail the past couple of days and it seemed to be little used, and also generally out of the sight lines of gun posts, which pointed south toward the river and downtown.

Once Carrie disappeared from sight down near the bottom of the hill, I stepped off the edge of the parking lot and onto the makeshift path, Carrie’s footprints already barely visible now from the snowfall.

As I descended, I kept saying to myself to move at a pace that I hoped didn’t declare ‘I am fleeing.’

In a minute I was at the bottom of the hill with Carrie and we looked back up, expecting to see Mike or Larry, or someone else looking down on us. But we were alone.

Division Street separates near the Holiday Inn, with four lanes rolling north and four lanes running south.

“Where to?” Carrie asked, her voice barely audible.

“Straight ahead,” I whispered. “Just go easy, like we’re just out for a walk, looking for something to eat or see.”

We cleared a block and stopped to look around. The street and building were quiet and empty. I casually looked back and didn’t see anyone. So we pushed on, stunned that flight could be so easy.

Our trail would be easy enough to follow, though. The snow had stopped falling and our footprints left a dark trail. After two blocks we stepped into a dark gas station to think our next steps through.

“This is too easy,” I said.

“I know,” Carrie whispered. “I don’t like it. I am scared Rob.”

I said that I was, too, but we had to take this opportunity and make a run for it.

“We need a vehicle,” I said. “It shouldn’t be too hard. They’re everywhere. Trick will be to find one that has gas.”

We stepped outside to find that the snow was coming down again, harder – a good thing.

“Let’s cut along the buildings to a side street and find a vehicle that way,” I said. “We have to make sure we are out of sight before we roll off in a car. This is too easy. Something’s gotta give.”

After we scuffed through the snow for another city block, I spied a white Dodge Ram 2500 pickup that was nose first into a fence alongside a small warehouse — a sign that it was being driven when ‘the disappearance’ happened.

“Let’s pray it’s a standard,” I said.

“Why? I hate standards,” Carrie shot back.

“Because it will have gas. It will have stalled after buddy driving ‘er went poof,” I replied, whistling relief when the driver’s side door snapped open.

“Won’t the battery be dead?” Carrie asked. “The keys would have been left on, right?”

I told her she was being a buzz kill. But she was right. I turned the ignition and the truck let out a series of clicks — and nothing else.

“Fuck sakes. We have to find an auto dealership. There are a bunch of ’em up Division,” I said, recalling an annoying ad on cable television.  “Let’s go.”

Then we heard a vehicle approaching.

Part of Larry’s defense plan was to have guys drive a set perimeter route.

“Piss,” I hissed, looking about for a place to hide. The warehouse near the truck was the closest place to go so we made a beeline for the front door. Luckily, it was open and we ducked inside.

Our tracks in the snow would give us away but because the snow was coming down so heavily now, it was possible that whomever was driving would miss them due to poor visibility.

We’d been gone about 12 or 15 minutes at this point and Mike would have to be suspicious by now, I feared.

Carrie found a vantage point where we could look down the side street and see Division. There was no activity. We breathed easier and then all the air in our lungs evaporated with one startled gulp. A black SUV stopped beside the Dodge Ram and one of Larry’s men — a short, thin, devious looking black guy wearing a bright red toque — emerged from the passenger’s side. He was pointing a handgun at the truck and we heard his voice — probably asking the person in the Dodge to come out.

“Fuck,” I whispered. “These guys have radios and they’ll have called this in. We’re screwed.”

Carrie asked me what we should do. I didn’t have a clue. My tongue felt like fuzzy lead in my desert-dry mouth.

Red toque suddenly looked straight toward us. He saw our footprints and motioned to the driver, who slid out of the SUV and pointed a severe looking rifle toward us.

Carrie shouted, “It’s only us! It’s only us!”

I joined her. “It’s Rob and Carrie. Stand down!”

The two men looked at one another and red toque cracked a big grin.

“C’mon outta there,” he yelled.

We stepped outside — with our hands and weapons held in the air.

“We were just taking a walk,” Carrie said.

“And thinking about going for a drive?” the driver added.

“Yeah. I need new wheels,” I said. “Mine got all shot to shit the other day when you guys saved our bacon.”

The two men said something to each other and looked back at us.

“C’mon,” Red toque said. “We’ll take you back.”

Carrie’s mind always worked faster than mine.

“Do you mind taking us to a car dealership so we can get a new vehicle?” She pushed.

“Can’t,” the driver responded. “We can’t leave our route. Does Larry know you two are down here?”

“No, don’t think so,” I said. “We kinda just fell on the idea of getting new wheels while we were having breakfast.”

Red toque smiled and jabbed an elbow into the driver’s side.

“They kinda fell on the idea,” he said.

“I’m fallin’ on an idea,” the driver said.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “What’s that?”

“I am thinkin’ you ought to share that lil lady with us. You want a ride. So do we!” Their laughs punctuated the muffled snowy eddies swirling around us.

Then they stopped laughing. For a brief, fleeting moment, my ego believed they saw my Irish-Viking anger flare up and they lost their courage. Their eyes bulged in their head as they stared past me.

“Drop your guns or I will fucking kill you,” Carrie hissed through clenched teeth, a pace behind me.

The two louts were so lost in their over-inflated senses of self worth and warped by their sick designs that they dropped their guard. Carrie seized the moment and leveled the Winchester at them. Red toque immediately dropped his gun in the snow but the driver hesitated.

His assault rifle was pointing to the ground and away from us.

“Don’t move asshole,” Carrie told him as I chambered a fat magnum load into my shotgun.

“Do as she says pal,” I warned, boggling at Carrie.

The driver’s rifle clattered to the white fluffy pavement and he raised his hands, exasperation smeared across his face. He stared an accusatory hole into the back of red toque’s head.

“Now what?” Carrie whispered to me. “We’ve really done it now.”

“Okay, get behind the wheel,” I told her. “You,” I said to the driver, “get in the passenger side and you, you get in the back.” I pulled the .357 out and pointed it at red toque.

We clambered into the SUV — a Jeep model of some kind — and Carrie waited for me to continue.

“Where to?” She asked. “Which way?”

I instructed her to turn around and head toward a northbound street — away from Division.

Our captors sat still and sullen as she wheeled the vehicle around.

In a few seconds she came to a street and turned north.

“Nice tracks,” said the driver, looking in the side mirror. “Where do you think you are gonna go? He’ll be able to track you – piece of cake.”

“Why would he care?” Carrie asked. “What are we to him?”

Red toque sniggered beside me and leaned forward. “You’re supper,” he giggled.

“Shut up,” the driver snapped. “Shut… your… mouth.”

“What do you mean?” Carrie pushed.

Red toque paused and made a funny face at the driver who was glaring at him from the front. “Guess he wouldn’t tell ya. Why would he? Guess you don’t know who he is. Hell, I heard about him before… all the way over at Sea Tac. He’s Larry the fuckin’ Cannibal, man. Dig? Heard of him now?”

I admitted I hadn’t. Carrie did the same.

“He’s a cannibal? As in he eats people?” Carrie quacked, looking in the rearview mirror.

“That’s enough,” the driver shouted at red toque.

“Ah what for?” Red toque demanded. “So fuckin’ what.  Yeah, he ate parts of his victims, or so the story goes.”

I leaned forward and asked Carrie to head back east toward Division. “Let’s start laying down lots of tracks. Loop around a block or two and double back and shit.”

She turned the SUV east.

“Larry said he killed a bank guard and shit,” I said. “He said he snapped after his wife took their little girl and left him.”

Red toque giggled again. “He ate his wife, man! They didn’t leave him or nothing, ‘ceptin’ out his butt!” Another high-pitched giggle.

Carrie turned south.

“Are you for real?” She asked. “He’s really a… cannibal? Seems like quite a nice guy, actually… considering.”

The driver gave up. “Oh yeah, he’s nice all right. As long as he has plans to roast you like a pig, he’s nice as pie. I am bettin’ he has designs on you, lady.”

A sharp chill rattled through me.

Of all the things we had endured the past three weeks, this had to rate as the most bizarre out of an extremely hallucinogenic lot.

“Well, clearly we can’t go back,” I said, keeping my .357 pointed at red toque’s ribs.

Carrie turned west. We sat in silence as she headed up the block and then veered north again. In a moment she intersected our eastbound tracks and stopped.

“When are they going to notice that you have gone?” I demanded, looking at the walkie-talkie sitting on the dashboard.

Red toque fired back. “Already have, man. Already have. We should have been at our next checkpoint five minutes ago. They’re already gonna be lookin’ for us.”

The driver yelled at him to shut up, again.

“No keep talking,” I said. “And you, you jam up or you’re outta here. And you know what that’ll mean. You’re breakfast buddy boy.

“Go on,” I ordered red toque.

“Why don’t we just make a serious break for it?” Carrie asked, turning the SUV east.

This time she carried through to Division and stopped. “Let’s just get out of here, Rob.”

She was starting to make sense. Why would Larry chase after us, unless he was so damned determined to eat Carrie?

“Sweet, sweet cheeks,” red toque cackled. “He’ll come for you. Yer the only bitch we seen and he likes eatin’ bitches.”

I jammed the muzzle of the revolver into his gut so hard he yelped and doubled over. Without realizing what I was doing, I pulled the gun back and smashed its butt against the side of his head, knocking the red toque off. He bellowed his angry objections… ending with a threat to kill us and I applied revolver butt to his head again, belting him senseless.

“Thanks,” the driver said. “Hope you killed him.”

Carrie was starting to look panicky. “Where should I go, Rob?” She shouted.

I told her to head north and don’t stop.

“Why don’t you just let me out?” The driver begged. “I ain’t nothin’ to you. I ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

I admitted he hadn’t done anything to us and told him I wouldn’t hurt him as long as he kept his cool and kept quiet. Red toque gurgled next to me. A thin trickle of blood coursed down the side of his face.

After a few minutes of picking our way around vehicles on the formerly busy city strip, we came to a junction that would either take us northwest back toward Idaho and Sandpoint along Highway 2 or north on Highway 395 toward Colville.

“Okay, stop,” I asked Carrie.

The SUV skidded to a halt in the middle of the junction.

Red toque moaned and sat upright, gently rubbing his head.

“Man,” he groaned.

The walkie-talkie crackled and Carrie almost leapt from her skin.

“Answer it,” I said to the driver. “Tell whoever it is that you’re looking for this idiot. He took off on you somewhere around where you found us.”

The driver did as he was told.

The voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie changed. It was Larry.

“Fuck him. Get your ass back here now. Seems our guests have gone on a walkabout,” he shouted.

“I’ll be right back,” the driver said. He then looked back at me and smiled. “Yer fucked now.”

He didn’t see it coming. Carrie hit him so hard against the side of his head with the butt of her Glock that she split him wide open and knocked him unconscious. Red toque let out a shrill shriek. “Fuck bitch!”

It was my turn. I hit him with all my might against the side of his head, which slammed into the SUV window and he bounced back toward me. I hit him again for good measure and he slumped forward against the passenger seat.

We pushed them from the vehicle and dragged them to a nearby car and shoved them inside to get them out of the elements.

“We should just kill them,” I said, slipping toque back on buddy’s bloody head.

Carrie’s severe look said all she needed to say. It said ‘no.’

“All right. Remove their shoes,” I said, “and I’ll find something to tie them up with.”

I found cord in the back of the SUV, which also had a wealth of weaponry in it, including a small box filled with hand grenades, an M-16 with a large metal box full of ammo and two shotguns, as well as red toque’s pistol and the driver’s sleek .30-06.

“We’re a couple of miles north of the Holiday Inn. That isn’t much,” I said, hurriedly tying the two men up, while Carrie wrapped the sleeve of a sweater she found in the car around the driver’s head. “We have to get moving, fast.”

We left our would-be captors leaning against one another, shoeless and likely doomed, in a slightly crumpled Ford Taurus and barreled northeast up Highway 2.

“Larry knows where we are from. He’ll think we’ve headed back toward home,” I said, more to convince myself that we were doing the right thing than anything else.

“Do you really think he is a cannibal?” Carrie asked.

“Why not? Do you really think we’ve been left on an abandoned Earth with nothing but evil people?”

Carrie said it was a good point and asked me where we were going.

I was familiar with Spokane thanks to a past life that included deliveries of tourism magazines to the place.

“This road heads back toward Newport and over into Idaho and toward Sandpoint,” I explained. “Highway 395 angles northwest into the Selkirks. Remember last summer when we went to Winthrop? Remember that winding road we took?”

Carrie said she remembered. “So?”

“So we can head up this way for a bit and then zip back toward 395 and skirt Spokane. If Larry thinks we’re heading northeast, he’ll have guys looking that way and we can sneak away… I hope.”

And that’s what we did. Snow was starting to fall again, thankfully, as we rolled north. We came to a small hamlet called Milan and turned west toward Deer Park and Highway 395.

The walkie-talkie crackled a few times in that time span but we didn’t hear any voices.

At Deer Park we turned north for a dozen or so miles then veered west again on Highway 292 at Loon Lake and a couple of miles later we stopped at Highway 231. Carrie turned south and after about 100 yards, I told her to turn west onto a county road. A few miles later, another road traced north and I told her to follow that one. I wasn’t going to make it easy on anyone who might follow us. A few minutes later we were back at Highway 292 and, turning west again we continued toward Fruitland and Highway 25.

The back roads were mostly clear of vehicles and carnage, though we left clear tracks in snow.  We were making good time.

It was 2:22 p.m. when we reached Highway 25. We both felt a relief that grew like a mushroom cloud. We laughed and joked and held one another, ranting wildly about the things we’d experienced in the past few days.

Around the time we were doing that, Mike and a few other men came upon red toque and the driver. They had just scrambled from the Taurus and were hopping about in socking feet, trying to untie each other.

Mike, whose true evil stemmed from his inability to forgive or close off his desire to kill, didn’t give them a chance to explain themselves.  Shots rang out and two bodies fell to the snow-covered pavement.  Splatters of crimson fanned out in the snow from where they hit the ground, punctuating the unceremonious ends of two lives ruined by poor choices and upbringings.

“Larry is not going to be pleased,” Mike said to the men with him. “He thought he was softening her up nicely. It’s like cattle. Kill ‘em easy so the meat doesn’t get poisoned.”

The two men with Mike wished they could slip away as we had done. Their particular evil didn’t give them the courage that Mike’s did. Larry just flat out scared the shit out of them, but the guys across the river seemed to be worse. And besides, Larry only ate females, so… they figured they were safe.

Mike radioed Larry and he informed him of the latest development.

“Yeah, I killed ‘em,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

Larry’s voice rattled that he wanted us found.

“All righty then. Over and out.”

One of the men, his eyes following our tracks, declared, “They’ve gone north up number 2.”

Mike said we were heading back to Canada. He radioed Larry again and told him that.

“Then make sure your fucking passport is valid and go after them!” was the reply.

The three men climbed back into the Hummer and they began following our tracks. Snow continued to fall, slowly obscuring our tracks — but not enough.

We pushed south to Fort Spokane, at the junction of the Spokane and Columbia Rivers and then looped down to Creston, on Highway 2, where we managed to get some gasoline.

Mike and his boys were able to follow our tracks easily to Deer Park and were able to radio back their position just before they lost range.

“He’s doubled back,” Mike told Larry. “He’s headed north up 395.”

Silence.

Mike shook the walkie-talkie and scratched his head, wondering what his best course of action would be. It was now 3 p.m. and daylight was going to start running out soon. He decided they should push on and they rolled north on 395 toward Loon Lake.

As we pulled out of the gas station at Creston and rolled west toward Wilbur, they were stopping at Loon Lake and surveying what to do next.  Snow continued to fall but our tracks still stuck out and, with tires spinning, our stalkers roared west on 292. Moments later, they slid to a stop at Highway 231, saw our tracks jogging south and sped off in pursuit.

We were veering north onto Highway 174, at Wilbur, when Mike and his boys blew past where we turned off Highway 231. My ruse worked; at the same time we were attempting another one. We continued for about five miles up No. 174 and then took a country road south back toward Highway 2 and arrived at it when Mike discovered they weren’t following tracks any more.

“You fucking dickhead!” He shouted at the driver. “Where’d their tracks go?”

The driver whined that the snow was starting to make it hard to see the tracks.

“Horseshit,” Mike bellowed. “Turn around!”

As we neared Coulee City, half an hour southwest of the Grand Coulee Dam, Mike and his chums were closing in on Highway 25 and Mother Nature was doing her best to aid our flight. Our tracks were becoming almost completely obscured.

But they pushed south as dusk settled over the wide Columbia Valley.

We stopped in Coulee City and broke into a visitor information centre to get a Washington map. We’d been lucky in our zigging and zagging up to this point but I didn’t want to get us lost.

As we stared at the map trying to determine where to go, Carrie let out an excited yip. “Oh! Leavenworth. Let’s go there!”

“That’s a couple of hours away,” I warned.

“So what? Let’s keep going,” she said, looking back at the way we had come. “Do you think they’re following us?”

I said I did and, now behind the wheel, looped through residential streets. I did complete loops around blocks, where lives once proceeded, far from the madding crowds, with people making the drive up to the dam for work, or south to Ephrata or Moses Lake, if they couldn’t find jobs in the sleepy, quaint town at the south end of Banks Lake. After leaving a veritable maze of tracks in Coulee City, we crept back onto Highway 2 and made a beeline west toward Douglas and Waterville.

At the same time, about 4 p.m., Mike and his boys were rolling out of Creston. Our tracks were still visible, despite the continuing snowfall and they pressed on. Darkness, waiting to be our friend and their enemy, loomed ahead.

Mike took over driving after they stopped at the gas station in Creston and he squinted hard as they came to the junction of Highway 174. “Where the goddamned hell are they going?” he wailed, turning his vehicle northwest.

He almost missed our tracks turning onto the country road and, laughing smugly, turned to follow them.

“He’s a sneaky mother, I gotta give him that,” he said. They rolled on and re-emerged onto Highway 2 and sped west.

The man sitting in the back warned Mike to slow down. “This thing ain’t got snow tires, man.”

Mike waved him off like a mosquito.

It was 4:44 p.m. when we passed through Douglas and Mike and his boys were stopped at a four-way stop sign in Coulee City, wondering which way to go next.

“I think this asshole is having fucking fun!” Mike screamed at his boys. “Which… where… any ideas?”

They shook their heads and slowly crept about the still streets, searching for a sign. Then one of them wised up.

“He always seems to end up going back west,” he said. “We should just get back out on the highway.”

Mike said he agreed and they sped out of Coulee City, tires spinning, as we reached Highway 2/97 at Orondo. I once again attempted diversion by turning north, looping around and around in a residential area and meandered south until we nipped onto the highway about a mile south of town.

The snow was falling heavily now, along the eastern edge of the Cascade Range, and in the usually arid expanse of the Columbia Valley. I said I had never been so happy to see so much snow in my life. It was a snowfall that, in different times, would have conjured up Christmassy feelings. We were fully swallowed by darkness when we reached the Highway 2 junction to Leavenworth and I stopped to inspect my map again. I noticed that there was a side road leading from the south end of Wenatchee that meandered southwest then curved north back to Highway 2 at Cashmere, only 15 or so miles east of Leavenworth.

We turned east into Wenatchee and, winding around that town’s particular disappearance carnage stamp, we pulled into several motels and hotels, drove around in circles and continued moving about the town, leaving one hell of a tricky trail for our would-be captors to follow.

I didn’t say anything, probably because I knew she had already considered it, but I knew that if they caught up to us, they’d kill me outright and take Carrie back. The thought made me nauseous and even more determined to leave a trail that would tear their heads apart.

“Do you think we’ve lost them?“ Carrie asked after about 10 minutes of weaving about Wenatchee.

“I don’t know but I am not assuming that we have. For all we know they didn’t even give chase. But we can’t take anything for granted any longer. Let’s just keep doing what we’re doing.”

I was then seized by a jolting realization. I had no beer. Luckily, it wasn’t much bother finding cold beer and wine in Wenatchee.

We were looping back toward Cashmere, clinking a cheers, as Mike and his lads followed our barely visible tracks up to the junction at Highway 2.  They stopped and stared, through the large flakes of snow piling down, at the snow-filled tracks leading toward Wenatchee.

“Could be someone else,” Mike said. “We ran across a few when we came through last time.”

“Could be,” one of his men agreed. “Probably not, though. I know Wenatchee. If they’ve gone in there, it could be a son of a bitch to find them, if this snow keeps up.”

Mike growled: “They keep heading west.” He looked at Highway 2, running up into the Cascades. Fresh snow sat atop of older snow. No tracks.

He turned his Hummer west and snarled, “Fuck this. Let’s try this” and, tires once again spinning, they traced new tracks westward toward Monitor and, shortly thereafter, Cashmere. “Larry’s gonna be pissed,” he groused, his hands making squeaking noises as they squeezed the steering wheel.

The going was slow. There were several elevation gains and we whistled our thanks for having four-wheel-drive on the upslopes, as we slowly pushed onward.

I admit to believing that we had done a thorough job of losing our possible pursuers and told Carrie so. She said she hoped so.

“Aw, who’s the negative Nancy now?” I quipped.

She said she still had “a feeling – something… nagging at me.”

I squinted into the delta of light pushing forward in the snowy night and turned the windshield wipers on. Carrie asked me why I turned them on. “There’s nothing on the window.”

I hammered on the brakes and Carrie let out a small ‘whoop.’

The Jeep skidded to a halt and I stared ahead into the headlights reach.

“What?” Carrie whispered.

I turned to her and looked at her with a small panic growing in the centre of my mind.

“What? What? What?” She insisted, her voice rising with each query.

“Did you feel that?” I asked, lifting my foot off the brake and letting the Jeep roll forward.

“What?” Carrie continued.

“That!” I shouted, stopping the Jeep and jamming it into park.

I swung the door open and stepped out. My foot fell across an old tire track buried under the fresh snow.

“Tire tracks!” I ducked my head back in the Jeep and repeated my finding.

Carrie said they could be old tracks, from before the disappearance, and I agreed, they could be.

But my gut told me they weren’t old tracks. We’d stumbled over another place where people may be hiding or around.

If the last encounter was anything to go by, I said we had to be careful and we continued on our way, our guns at the ready and drinks in the dashboard holders.

We could both feel the shuddering of the old tire tracks beneath our tires as we scrunched forward.

Part two next week…

Ian Cobb/e-KNOW

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