By the time we get to the end of the property and pass the fully illuminated tennis court, I’m convinced that Governor Beauregard Steele’s house is more than anybody actually needs.
“Turn left onto Northside Drive,” the GPS lady says.
“How much longer?” Lamar whines from the backseat.
I glance at the glowing screen in the dashboard. “That’s weird.”
“What?”
“It says we’re only nine miles away, but …”
“Ten hours?” Lamar yells, his face between Quint and me as he reads the dash for himself.
I assume it’s a mistake until I come around a curve and have to jerk the wheel to avoid hitting a stopped car. The truck bounces as I careen over the curb and onto the grass, slamming on the brakes and coming to a stop inches away from a telephone pole.
Lamar flies into the dashboard and lands in Quint’s lap. “What the hell, Rain?”
“Look!” I point through my broken window at the sea of parked cars stretching all the way down Northside Drive. At first, I assume there’s just a bad wreck up ahead that never got cleared, but then I hear the sound of bass in the distance.
And screaming.
And gunshots.
The streetlights are still working, but that’s more than I can say for the businesses lining the road. Smashed windows, busted neon signs … the bank has an actual car sticking out the side of it.
“We still have nine miles to go?” Quint asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“There is heavier than expected traffic up ahead,” the GPS lady announces.
“Yeah, no shit,” Lamar grunts as he peels himself off the dash.
“I have an idea.” I flip on the high beams and decide to try to drive down the side of the road. There are a few cars and mangled, twisted bumpers blocking the sidewalk, but I think I have just enough space to maneuver around them in the truck.
“Rain, are you sure we should go this way?” Quint asks.
The br-r-r-r-r-ap of a machine gun in the distance answers him with a resounding no.
“This is how the GPS said to go,” I snap. “You got any better ideas?”
Quint shuts his mouth, and we creep alongside the road in silence, the sound of thumping hip-hop and excitement and fear and desperation growing louder with every passing second.
“Where is everybody?” Lamar asks, securely buckled in the backseat this time.
“I think we’re about to find out.”
We creep over the top of a hill, and the scene laid out before us looks like an anthill after it’s been stepped on. There are people everywhere—fighting in the street, having sex in the street, standing on cars while watching other people fight and have sex in the street, shooting up in doorways, firing guns into the air, and walking around with homemade signs advertising whatever weapons, drugs, sex acts, or snacks they’re selling.
I see two guys holding leashes and fistfuls of dollar bills while their pit bulls maul each other.
I see a guy pushing a grocery cart full of colorful bongs.
I see a man holding a machine gun, guarding a naked woman dancing on the corner in clear six-inch heels.
Then, I see a body lying facedown on the sidewalk in my headlights, and I have to slam on the brakes.
“Dude, are you crazy? You can’t stop here,” Lamar whines.
“I can’t run her over either!”
“That bitch is already dead!”
“What if she isn’t?”
“Maybe somebody should go check,” Quint offers.
“One, two, three—”
“Not it!” We all shout in unison.
“Ahh! That was you, big bro! Go do it!”
“Whatever! We all said it at the same time!”
“Nuh-uh. You said it late.”
“Ugh!” I groan. “I’ll do it, okay?” I go to pull the gun out of my waistband when the sound of motorcycle engines perks my ears.
I lift my head and stare through the windshield as a group of neon-orange skeletons on motorcycles rushes down the street toward us like an approaching tidal wave. They crisscross between the parked cars, bashing them with baseball bats and shooting out their windshields with wolf-like howls.
Br-r-r-r-r-r-ap!
One of them mows down a group of semiconscious junkies leaning against a dumpster with a machine gun that’s been mounted to the front of his motorcycle. Their bodies jerk and fall to the ground as screams fill the air. The folks on the street scatter like rats, diving for the alleys and huddling in vacant doorways.
“What the hell are y’all waitin’ for? Let’s go!” Lamar yells, pushing on the back of his brother’s seat.
I reach out to grab my door handle when I notice the neon-orange bones painted on my sleeve.
“No,” I mumble, letting go of the door.
“Rain!”
“Just … just shut up, okay?” I wave Quint off while keeping my eyes locked on the leader of the pack. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
“Fuck this!” Quint goes to open his door, but my hand shoots out and grabs a fistful of his T-shirt.
“The Bony kid said to tell ’em we’re from Pritchard Park, remember? Maybe they can help us!”
Quint stares at me like I just sprouted a third eye. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
“You’re crazy if you think they aren’t gonna shoot you the second you jump outta this truck!” I yell over the sound of approaching motorcycles and gunfire and howling.
It’s so loud now I know they’re on top of us … even before Quint’s terrified eyes look past me and out the broken window.
“License and registration, ma’am,” a sinister voice bellows in my ear.
With a deep breath, I turn and smile, which I realize a moment too late is the exact opposite of the hardened gangster vibe I was supposed to be going for. It’s also the exact opposite of what I want to do when I take in the blood-spattered King Burger mask staring back at me. The eyes and nose have been painted black, and his grinning mouth has extra-white teeth painted on either side of it to resemble the lip-less smile of a skull. But instead of Día de Muertos designs painted on the cheeks and forehead, it’s pot leaves and dollar signs. Not that I can see much of the forehead. The top half of the Bony’s mask is shaded by the brim of an old velvet top hat, and his neon-orange bones have been spray-painted directly onto a fur coat that looks like it was made from the hides of a thousand calico cats. I can’t really see his eyes, but I can feel them looking us over.
“Um …” I swallow. “We represent Pritchard Park?”
“Oh, do you now?”
The Bony’s pack begins to surround the truck. I wince as the one on the dirt bike drives right over the woman on the sidewalk to position himself next to Quint’s door.
“Mmhmm.” My voice trembles as I force myself to stare into the black voids where his eyes should be.
“A’ight.” He nods. His voice is calm—loud due to the engine noise but calm. Then, just as I begin to relax, he throws me a curveball.
“You say you a Bony bitch? Then, tell me … who’s ya prez?”
My prez? Like, my president?
I assume he doesn’t mean the president of the United States. It must be a biker-gang thing. Like who’s my leader.