'56

The broken road stretched laser-straight to the west and wound into the jagged hills to the east, not a soul in sight nor would there be for a long, long time. I looked back to '56 Bel Air parked on the side of the road, her white-walled tires resting on the edge of the faded, dust-covered asphalt.

Shiny.

Almost new.

Cherry-red paint and gleaming chrome, waxed and polished like it was going to a car show. Inside, the supple leather, a light calf-skin tan, waited in perfect condition and every inch of the dash, upholstery and floor sparkled. I walked around her. Not a dent, not a ding, not a spot of rust, not even dust. As perfect and pristine as the first Bel Air I'd seen in a poster on the wall of my Dad's garage back when the world was happy and full of people.

She was beautiful.

She.

She?

I guiltily stole a glance at Betsy, my 1137cc liquid-cooled road monster. I swear I heard the ever-faithful bike growl in disapproval--and why not? She'd gotten me out of more scrapes than my friends, guns and money ever had. Was I seriously considering this? Leaving faithful, reliable, 0-100 in two seconds Betsy out here by herself in the desert while I ran this '56 back to...where?

What was I thinking? The Zone lay east, less than 300 miles, but I couldn't get a car past the chewed-up mountain roads no matter how well she drove. The blasted wreckage of Las Vegas, Barstow and LA waited to the west. If could find a good road and some gas, maybe I could get her to Port Hueneme and bribe the Feds to ferry her North to a clean zone, but there was no way north from here, not on land. Not with the hot zones, the upgraded animals and the war still on in the minds of the nepthcharged crazies who stalked the wastes. And south...I wasn't that eager to die.

No dust?

I looked again, walking around the '56. Clean. No road-grime. No dust. Even if someone had put her out here with a trailer, there would be dust. Just a day. Just an hour and there'd be dust.

In a blink, my .45 was in my hand and I loosened the shoulder-strap holding the rifle across my back.

This had to be a trap. Too clean. Too pretty. Someone was here, watching me, fucking with me, trying to get me.

I backed up to Betsy and unslung the rifle, swapping it for the .45. Safety off. Magazine pouch unbuttoned. Bring it on, fuckers. Bring it on.

A simple run from the Zone to the port with data, mail and a few kilos of meds. Hard money, but good money. Now this shit.

I waited there, crouched. Watching. Listening. Scanning the horizon, the rocks, and the road.

Nothing.

No tumbleweeds. No jackrabbits. Not a mouse. Not a breeze, not a godamned fart.

Who had left this fucking car out here?

The heat was getting to me. Sweat made my back and sides slick beneath my leathers. Beneath my helmet it rolled of my brow and down my cheeks, salty when it touched my lips. The heat wasn't as bad when I tore along the broken road at eighty miles an hour, but standing here in the blazing sun I was about to pass out.

I sucked warm water from the two liter camelback strapped between my shoulders. Nearly empty. I had another liter or two on the bike--that was all. Not another drop of drinkable water in two hundred miles. Anything closer would be full of rads, viruses, nanos and God knows what other kinds of death.

Even if this wasn't a trap, was there enough gas and water to get the '56 out of here? Gas I could find. Gas didn't have to be clean to make an engine go. Water...that might be a problem.

I patted Betsy's sleek, black flank and crossed the road, watching for danger.

The '56 gleamed in the afternoon sun, a vision of a happier time when cities didn't burn and children weren't hunted for food.

Gleaming chrome. Red paint. Clear windows. Someone had lovingly detailed this car in the last 24 hours. Probably first thing this morning.

I knelt down beside her perfectly clean tires. This car hadn't been moved since its last wash and it couldn't have more than fifty miles on what looked like brand new tires. How could that be? I got down on my belly, setting the rifle in easy reach. Nothing looked amiss with the undercarriage.

Snaking underneath, I looked in every nook and cranny for bombs and booby traps. Nothing. Nor was there mud, dirt or dust. Just some clean, clear grease on the joints and a little oil beaded under the shaft.

I squirmed back out and brushed red dust off my leathers. The Geiger clicked a little...this dust was warm, I'd want to hose off when I got out of the wastes, but it wasn't carrying enough rad to scare me.

I leaned close and peered in the driver's side window...still careful not to touch the apparition.

Keys waited in the ignition, silver and sparkling. A fluffy red rabbit's foot hung from the keying.

I squinted at the dash, shifting from side to side until I found an angle where I could see the gas gauge. Empty of course.

If I wanted her, I'd have to drain Betsy. Leave my faithful companion waiting beside the road, dry, stuck, alone.

I reached for the door, thinking of my next steps. I could siphon Betsy's gas, scavenge a full tank of gas at the next town, race West until I found water, then cut north to the port. Call in a few favors, run back with another courier and few gas cans to recover Betsy. Expensive. Wasteful. Risky...and I realized I wouldn't make it that far anyway.

The '56 was too clean. It didn't just look like the car on that poster...it was that car. When had that been? 7th grade? Before all this. Back when I'd helped Dad work on his classics...rebuilding, repainting, reupholstering. Always wanting that '56 Bel Air. Never having one. Till now.

I backed away, realizing what this was.

I climbed on Betsy, revved her up and let her roar, then, without a backward glance I rocketed west to finish my run, racing away from the '56 before the man in the white suit showed up, contract in hand, ready to make me a deal I couldn't refuse.

Mark lives in with his wife, two boys and a menagerie of animals great and small. His work been featured in the The Drabblecast podcast (episode 78) and has appeared in Ideomancer (Vol 5, issue 1). He is currently working on an epic zombie novel, which he blogs about at Zombie Proof Fence . He hopes to complete this novel without help from the man in the white suit.