compartment, trying not to break her teeth. It was a very old bar.
“It didn’t go at all; I was interrupted,” he said pointedly. Mallory made a sour face at him, but he didn’t turn his head to see it. “I’ll go back sometime when there are fewer distractions.”
“I’m not a distraction,” Mallory insisted. “I’m a delight.” She gazed out at the forest, which seemed to stretch eternally in all directions. “How big is Anomaly Flats?” she asked.
“Oh, it depends,” Lewis said as he struggled with the Winnebago’s steering wheel. “Usually about 20 miles across, end-to-end. Bigger on Wednesdays.”
Mallory raised an eyebrow. “How much bigger?”
Lewis shrugged. “I don’t really know. No one’s ever made it to the city limits on a Wednesday. They’re too far away.”
“What day is it today?”
Lewis reached down and turned on the radio. Their ears were assaulted by a storm of static. He fiddled with the buttons, and the radio cycled through a handful of stations; banjo music turned to a classical orchestra turned to a wailing sitar turned to a rasping voice spitting out evil-sounding epithets in Latin. One more turn of the dial, and a woman’s voice crackled to life, the same voice that had been sounding over the town’s speakers. “…inconsequential. This is the day, weather, and time broadcast. The day is: Friday. The weather is: As it should be. The time is: Inconsequential. This is the day, weather, and time—” Lewis shut off the radio.
“Compelling stuff,” Mallory snorted. She took some comfort in the fact that the day of the week, if nothing else, was the same here. “You need a radio station to tell you what day it is?”
Lewis nodded. “The radio station makes all the important decisions,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Mallory dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbed. “This is the most lucid fever dream anyone’s ever had,” she decided.
“A fever dream?” Lewis asked with a shrewd little grin. He was clearly proud of himself for something, though Mallory had no idea what it might be.
As they rounded a corner, Mallory saw a gathering of Anomalians milling about in a gravel parking lot.
“Would a fever dream have food trucks?” he asked.
Half a dozen food trucks lined the far end of the gravel lot. Lewis pulled the RV off the road and turned into the gravel lot, narrowly avoiding three pedestrians. “Sorry!” he hollered through the closed window.
“My fever dream would have food trucks,” Mallory said. “All of my dreams have food trucks, actually…fever or otherwise.”
She tossed the petrified granola bar over her shoulder and got out of the cab. She stretched like a cat in the warm sun. Here, at last, was a part of Anomaly Flats she could get behind. Food trucks, she thought with a smile. Mankind’s finest invention.
Of course, there was something a little off about these particular trucks. They were white, for one thing—pure, gleaming white, as if they’d each been freshly painted that morning, with no colorful logos, no oversized photos of food, no caricatures of short Mexicans in huge sombreros sinking their square teeth into overstuffed tacos. Just pure, sterile whiteness, except for their names, which were painted on in dull, black letters. And they weren’t even fun names; there was no Neat-o Burrito or Thrilled Cheese or Moo-Moo Barbecue. Instead, all the trucks were marked with stenciled words that were more descriptors than names, and clinical ones at that. They read: PEELED SHRIMP, ENCASED MEATS, HARD-SHELL PORK PRODUCT TACOS, CHOCOLATE PUDDING FROM POWDER, RICE BOWLS WITH VARIOUS CANNED VEGETABLES, and SPECIAL.
“They need new marketing directors,” Mallory decided.
Lewis shrugged. “They’re government-sponsored trucks,” he said, joining her on the gravel. “What do you expect?”
The Encased Meats and the Chocolate Pudding trucks seemed to be most popular among the assembled crowd, though
“It didn’t go at all; I was interrupted,” he said pointedly. Mallory made a sour face at him, but he didn’t turn his head to see it. “I’ll go back sometime when there are fewer distractions.”
“I’m not a distraction,” Mallory insisted. “I’m a delight.” She gazed out at the forest, which seemed to stretch eternally in all directions. “How big is Anomaly Flats?” she asked.
“Oh, it depends,” Lewis said as he struggled with the Winnebago’s steering wheel. “Usually about 20 miles across, end-to-end. Bigger on Wednesdays.”
Mallory raised an eyebrow. “How much bigger?”
Lewis shrugged. “I don’t really know. No one’s ever made it to the city limits on a Wednesday. They’re too far away.”
“What day is it today?”
Lewis reached down and turned on the radio. Their ears were assaulted by a storm of static. He fiddled with the buttons, and the radio cycled through a handful of stations; banjo music turned to a classical orchestra turned to a wailing sitar turned to a rasping voice spitting out evil-sounding epithets in Latin. One more turn of the dial, and a woman’s voice crackled to life, the same voice that had been sounding over the town’s speakers. “…inconsequential. This is the day, weather, and time broadcast. The day is: Friday. The weather is: As it should be. The time is: Inconsequential. This is the day, weather, and time—” Lewis shut off the radio.
“Compelling stuff,” Mallory snorted. She took some comfort in the fact that the day of the week, if nothing else, was the same here. “You need a radio station to tell you what day it is?”
Lewis nodded. “The radio station makes all the important decisions,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Mallory dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbed. “This is the most lucid fever dream anyone’s ever had,” she decided.
“A fever dream?” Lewis asked with a shrewd little grin. He was clearly proud of himself for something, though Mallory had no idea what it might be.
As they rounded a corner, Mallory saw a gathering of Anomalians milling about in a gravel parking lot.
“Would a fever dream have food trucks?” he asked.
Half a dozen food trucks lined the far end of the gravel lot. Lewis pulled the RV off the road and turned into the gravel lot, narrowly avoiding three pedestrians. “Sorry!” he hollered through the closed window.
“My fever dream would have food trucks,” Mallory said. “All of my dreams have food trucks, actually…fever or otherwise.”
She tossed the petrified granola bar over her shoulder and got out of the cab. She stretched like a cat in the warm sun. Here, at last, was a part of Anomaly Flats she could get behind. Food trucks, she thought with a smile. Mankind’s finest invention.
Of course, there was something a little off about these particular trucks. They were white, for one thing—pure, gleaming white, as if they’d each been freshly painted that morning, with no colorful logos, no oversized photos of food, no caricatures of short Mexicans in huge sombreros sinking their square teeth into overstuffed tacos. Just pure, sterile whiteness, except for their names, which were painted on in dull, black letters. And they weren’t even fun names; there was no Neat-o Burrito or Thrilled Cheese or Moo-Moo Barbecue. Instead, all the trucks were marked with stenciled words that were more descriptors than names, and clinical ones at that. They read: PEELED SHRIMP, ENCASED MEATS, HARD-SHELL PORK PRODUCT TACOS, CHOCOLATE PUDDING FROM POWDER, RICE BOWLS WITH VARIOUS CANNED VEGETABLES, and SPECIAL.
“They need new marketing directors,” Mallory decided.
Lewis shrugged. “They’re government-sponsored trucks,” he said, joining her on the gravel. “What do you expect?”
The Encased Meats and the Chocolate Pudding trucks seemed to be most popular among the assembled crowd, though
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