Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 102

“These guys are definitely armed and dangerous and on some kind of mission of total anarchy!” Daniel growls.

“They broke our smoothie machine!” Ruth interjects.

“They came in here with the full intention of disrupting our way of life, and of sowing the seeds of dissent and dissatisfaction in our community.”

The camera goes to a wide shot of the parking lot, where a mob of kids pumps their fists. They hold signs saying, NO MORE VANILLA! SHAKESPEARE, NOT SMOOTHIES! and IDEAS DON’T HURT PEOPLE, PEOPLE WITHOUT IDEAS DO!

The newscaster nods grimly and tries to do his wrap-up, but Daniel grabs the mike. His pissed-off face fills the screen. “Lock them up, man. Throw away the key.”

There’s a quick sound bite from the mall security guard standing in front of the scorched hole that was the Konstant Kettle. “They pretended they was wrestlers—that’s how they distracted us while they set the bombs. …” His wife squeezes his arm. “Them people are terrorists. They got absolutely no regard for human life and property and rules. No regard.”

Next, the camera swings back to the TV news studio and a logo for the United Snow Globe Wholesalers along with their 1-800 number. The anchorman reads a statement: “Terrorism will not be tolerated. That’s why your friends at United Snow Globe Wholesalers are offering a bounty of ten thousand dollars for the capture of these threats to our security and happiness.”

“That it? Just the gas?” the guy behind the register asks, making me jump.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, grabbing my change and running for the Caddy.

“What’s the matter?” Gonzo asks when I throw the car into gear and peel out.

“Just the entire f**king world is looking for us, that’s all,” I say, glancing at the rearview mirror. “That little ass**le Daniel is over his peace, love, and smoothie crap. He wants a piece of our butts and he’s taking it to the media.”

“Didn’t I tell you he was a craptard?” Gonzo says, vindicated at last.

“We’ve got other stuff to worry about. There’s a reward for our capture as wanted terrorists. Our pictures are all over the news with a hotline number to call.”

“Shit,” Gonzo says.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

There is silence from the backseat and then I hear the smile in Balder’s deep voice. “Cool.”

We decide to stay off the highways and stick to the back roads. There’s no such thing as a GPS in the Rocinante, so we’ve pretty much been navigating by a ten-year-old map in the glove compartment, which is sort of like trying to make your way by a What’s My Future™ fortune-telling ball: Should we take this road? I’ve got such a headache. Ask me later.

The road bumps along past tall marsh grass, rusted signs, ancient churches with the windows broken out and the kudzu taking over, railroad tracks, old barns, and a couple of empty fields where a horse or two stand around looking bored. It just keeps going until I don’t have any idea where we are anymore. Under my breath, I call Dulcie’s name like a prayer. Come on, Dulcie, I say. Throw us a bone. A few seconds later, the Caddy jerks and twitches to a stop.

“What just happened?” Gonzo asks.

“I don’t know.” I turn every switch and knob. The gas gauge is stuck at half a tank. I give it a thump with my finger and it falls to E.

“Dammit!”

“What?” Gonzo sounds panicked.

“We’re out of gas.”

“You’re Shithenging me.”

“I Shithenge you not.”

“Enough riding. Time for the hunt.” Balder’s changed back into his Viking gear and is out of the car and making his way down the road before I can stop him.

“What the hell?” Gonzo asks.

I head after Balder. Gonzo yells from the passenger side, “Shouldn’t we call Friendly Tow or something, dude? Get some roadside assistance?”

“Sure,” I shout back. “Just tell them the wanted terrorists with the ten-thousand-dollar bounty on their heads need gas and maybe a lift to town.”

“We’ve been walking for a good half hour and seen a big fat nothing to help us out,” Gonzo gasps. “Plus, I’ve got a mammoth blister on my heel. Blisters can get infected, you know. You can die from that shit.”

“Just keep looking for a gas station,” I say.

“I’m just saying, I don’t want to die from an infected blister. That would be such a lame way to go.”

About half a mile down, the road forks. I wipe the sweat from my brow, cup a hand over my eyes to block the glare.