Young Writers Society

Sitting on the hood of the car, my feet dangling off the side, I listen to the gas funnel from the pump to the van's tank. It was a relaxing sound made horrific with a chorus of cicadas and a cluster of whistling hillbillies admiring my tanned legs. Ignoring all of the above, I lick my finger, glancing at the compass I'd sat next to me on the hood. Sticking my wet finger into the air, I form a rough idea of the speed of the wind and scribble down the general direction. Khrys wouldn't be pleased, but it wasn't my problem. If she wanted exact measurements then she'd deal with the sideways looks you got when you pulled out the wind measurement devices. Last time she made me deal with that hunk of shit, a cop had come over and suspiciously asked me what I was up to. Thank God for Kansas weather; a storm had been brewing, making my 'storm chaser' lies believable.

Sighing with tired boredom, I close the notebook and throw journal, pen, and compass through the passenger window of the van. They land with angry thuds in the seat, settling against the grey and black felt with a certain air of distaste. Who knew inanimate objects could manage to allude to disdain?

With an impatient clink, the pump finishes its never-ending duty to vehicles everywhere. Groaning, I shove my short blond hair out of my eyes, wincing before I even put my hand on the handle of the pump. It was the last pump on the line, it's handle sitting directly in the sun despite the roof they'd put over the small area. Touching that little shit was like catching fire with your bare hands. 

I make it quick, yanking out the pump and shoving it back into its holster in one swift movement. Grudgingly, I slip my credit card into the payment slot, type in my code, and wait for the payment to process. I'd realized a little too late why Khrys had been so insistent on buying snacks while I got gas. She didn't want to swallow the $70 bill. Christ, gas was expensive nowadays. I'd always hated Khrys's pathetic, gas-guzzling excuse for transportation, but paying for its fuel was plucking at the last strings of tolerance. 

"I got you a muffin," Khrys calls--almost apologetically--as she observes my crossed arms and grumpy demeanor. I glare back at her, tugging off my shades and snatching the plastic bag she'd extended towards me. 

"If it's healthy anything, I will literally pour this overly-expensive gas onto you and burn you in your sleep." I threaten as I dig through the contents, inwardly pleased at the sight of cheese-filled pretzel crackers, mini doughnuts, and pork rinds. Khrys only laughs, her eyes twinkling in that way that made my heart flutter. As she pulls her long platinum-blond hair back into a bun at the top of her head, I pull out the packaged muffin and hold it up to the light.

Shit. "Oh," I say instead, my throat tightening.

"What, you don't like that kind anymore?" She asks absently, using the passenger-side rear-view mirror to reapply her lipstick. I catch her wiggling her ass for the hillbillies, smirking coyly at her reflection. She knew how good she looked in that short black pencil skirt. Looking at her eyes through her sunglasses, you could almost hear her thinking 'Go ahead; a look is all you're ever going to get. I'm gayer than a picnic basket.' Sometimes, I swore she got off on guy's looks of disappointment when she informed them that her 'type' included scary movie lovers and breasts. 

Grinning, I realized I was the same damn way. "Nah. It's still my favorite; I didn't think you'd remembered is all,"

"I still hate the smell," she sniffs, cheeks reddening as she capped her lip gloss. Ha. I wasn't the only uncomfortable one. It was amazing how awkward things could get when you forced two single, isolated lesbians into a mini van and told them to make the 14-ish hour drive from West Virginia to Texas. Even worse, we'd known each other since we were budding adolescents. That was a dangerous combination; apparently Yen had decided our cocktail of skill-sets was worth the risk and inevitable tension. "Don't the seeds bug you?"

Shaking my head--a movement that proved to be more instinctual than governed--I continue to stare absentmindedly at the pastry. I consider the dark chocolate bits and chopped preserved raspberries that made their home within the rich chocolate cake. It was an expensive specialty muffin that was extremely difficult to find. I was pretty shocked she'd managed to snag one, and even more surprised she'd been willing to fork over the seven bucks. 

For what seemed like the hundredth time, I lamented on the memory that came with the pastry. A lot of people believed that a person could link a sight, smell, or sound to a specific time, place, or person. I was living proof that this was true; there hadn't been a single time in six years that I'd bitten into a muffin like this one and not been taken back in time. This was the sort of memory that maintained its clarity, shining through the fog of the mind in all of its familiar glory. Everything from her long, curly blond hair to her cold, stormy-grey eyes remained vivid. Even the recollected scratch of her form-fitting turtleneck sweater against my forearm still irritated my present-day skin.

"Em?"

"Yeah?" I look up, my vision feeling glazed and off-focus. Khrys had opened the passenger door, nudging aside my discarded belongings as she sat down. "Oh, right."

Tossing the pastry back into the plastic bag, I rush to the driver's side, double-checking that the gas cap had been securely shut before I slip into the seat. I have to give the door a few solid tugs before it finally comes swinging back and closes. That door had stopped shutting correctly ever since Khrys wrecked the poor metal mongrel last spring. 

Extending my forefinger, I wait for the metallic jingle of keys exchanging hands. She tosses them to me grudgingly, muttering threats against 'wrecking her baby'. Glancing once more at my door with knowing humor, I grin. "I'll try,"

As I twist the key, the minivan roars to life, a very distinct high-pitched whine rising and fading into the normal engine noise. Frowning at the vehicle's warning cry, I take it out of park and mash the gas pedal. We'd probably have to consider stopping by a mechanic when we finally got to our destination. 

 Khrys has already bent over in her seat, the ruffles of her red blouse brushing against the snack bags with an annoying amount of plastic crinkling. She tugs at her nylon bag, unzipping the far corner in one swift motion. My foot involuntarily presses down on the accelerator, heart thumping wildly in my chest. We weren't even fifteen seconds past the gas station, and she was already prepping?! Jesus, we were still an hour away.

"Be careful with that shit, Khrys," I snap, swatting her blond head with my right hand. The light from the sunroof catches my nails; grimacing at the newly-chewed tips, I wonder how the Hell I'd managed to nibble that habit back into existence without even noticing. "It's not like he's right there. That, and we've still got a few stoplights to pass."

"Blow them." She hisses, shifting in her seat so that she's on her knees, arms reaching and fingers clawing at the contents of her bag. Metal grinds against metal with horrifically hair-raising clinks, causing me to wince. Then the gravity of her words set in.

"W-What?" I choke, realizing she hasn't put on her seat-belt. My stomach takes a nose-dive; Khrys didn't usually give me a passing chance to start the car if she wasn't fully secured. As I try to take steady breaths, logic answers the silent question long before she can.

"He's on the move," her hands grips the butt of a sniper rifle, fingers naturally finding the trigger and stock. She unclips the stand, letting the spring supports bounce it into position. "Roll down my window; I don't want to bump my scope."

Hyperventilating, I do as she says, struggling to keep the van steady and inconspicuous. My eyes snap to the dotted white lines that separate the three lanes. I felt the tension in my chest and the seizing of my breath as panic sets in. A white SUV passes on our left, but the busy mother is too distracted by her toddlers fighting in the backseat to glance our way. Even so, my foot slams downwards, the minivan's engine roaring in protest. I try to count the fast-food joints we pass to relieve stress, naming them one by one as they disappear into our review mirrors. McDonald's, Burger King, Taco Bell, KFC, Culiver's, Panda Express...

As we pass under the last light--where had the other three gone? Had we made it through the town that quickly?--and hit the open highway, I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. When I turn to grin at Khrys, I change my mind and drag another breath right back in. She's used the clamps on her rifle stand to secure it around in inside and outside of the van door. Angling it so that she could aim straight ahead of us, she licks her glossy lips, tilting her head towards the gun. Her sunglasses reflect the road ahead with unnatural speed, making me dizzy. I notice she doesn't bother buckling her seat belt; she's got to kneel in the seat--leaning halfway out of the damned window--to even get a workable angle on oncoming traffic. 

"Get ready to slam it." She grunts over the rush of wind that slices into the vehicle through the open window. Pushing my glasses up my nose, I wince at the pain from my pimple. Clenching the steering wheel, I notice the cheap motel up ahead. Then I see the black Mercedes peeling out of the parking lot and hear Khrys slamming a long, brass bullet into the gun's chamber. It dawns on me what she's going to do too late.

"Khrys, you don't have the--"

Bang.