sounded like; they used to
fill the roads, back when I was only eleven. Some of the older models still worked—the ones built without no chips.
A steady purr, like a big, fat cat—and there, I saw a glint moving far out on the bridge: sun on a hood or windshield. I raised my binoculars and confirmed it: a pickup truck, headed our
way, east, coming toward us out of Seattle.
“What, Lo?” Aim asked.
If I could see them, maybe they could see us. “Come on. Bring the rolly. I’ll help.” We lifted our rolling suitcase together and I led us into the bushes crowding over the
road’s edge. Leaves and thorns slashed at our trouser legs and sleeves and faces—I beat them away and found a kind of clear area in their middle. Maybe there used to be something, a
concrete pad for trash cans or something there. Moss, black and dry from the summer, crunched as we walked over it. We lowered the suitcase, heavy with Aim’s tools, and I was about to explain
to her why we were hiding but by now that truck was loud and I could tell she heard it, too. All she said was, “What are they gonna think if they see our tracks disappear?”
I had a knife, and I kept it sharp. I pulled it out of the leather sheath I’d made. That was answer enough for Aim. She smiled—a nasty smile, but I loved it the way I loved
everything about her: her smell; her long braids; her grimy, stubby nails.
I thought we’d lucked out when the truck barreled by fast-must have been going thirty miles an hour—but then it screeched to a stop. Two doors creaked open. Boot heels clopped on the
asphalt. Getting louder. Pausing about even with where I’d ducked us off into the brush.
“Hey!” A dude. “You can come out—we ain’t gonna do ya no harm.”
Neither one of us moved a hair. Swearing, then thrashing noises, more swearing, louder as Truckdude crashed through the blackberries. He’ll never find us, I thought, and I was right. It
was his partner who snuck up on our other side, silent as a tick.
“Got ’em, Claude,” he yelled, standing up from the weeds with a gun in his hand. He waved it at me and Aim and spoke in a normal tone. “You two can get up if you want.
But do it slow.”
He raised his voice again. “Chicas. One of ’em’s kinda pretty but the other’s fat,” he told Claude. “You wanna arm wrestle?”
Claude stopped swearing but kept breaking branches and tearing his clothes on the brambles as he whacked his way over to us. I stayed hunkered down so they’d underestimate me, and so my
knife wouldn’t fall out from where I had it clamped between my thighs. I felt Aim’s arm tremble against mine as Claude emerged from the shadows. She’d be fine, though. Exactly
like on a salvage run. I leaned against her a second to let her know that.
The dude with the gun looked a little older than us. Not much older, of course, or he’d have already gone Otherwise, found his own pocket universe, like nearly everyone else whose brain
had reached “maturity”—at least that’s how the rumors went.
Claude looked my age, or a year or two younger: fourteen, fifteen. He and his partner had the same brown hair and squinty eyes; brothers, then. Probably.
I leered up at Guntoter. “You wanna watch me and her do it first?”
He spat on my upturned face. “Freak! You keep quiet till I tell you talk.” The spit tickled as it ran down my cheek.
I didn’t hate him. Didn’t have the time; I was too busy planning my next move.
“Hey, Dwight, what you think they got in here?” Claude had found our suitcase and given me a name for Guntoter.
“Open ’er up and find out, dickhead.”
I couldn’t turn around to see the rolly without looking away from Dwight, which didn’t seem like a good idea. I heard its zipper and the clink of steel on steel: chisels, hammers,
wrenches, clamps, banging against each other as they spilled out on the ground.
“Whoa! Looky at these, Claude. You think that ugly one knows how to use this
fill the roads, back when I was only eleven. Some of the older models still worked—the ones built without no chips.
A steady purr, like a big, fat cat—and there, I saw a glint moving far out on the bridge: sun on a hood or windshield. I raised my binoculars and confirmed it: a pickup truck, headed our
way, east, coming toward us out of Seattle.
“What, Lo?” Aim asked.
If I could see them, maybe they could see us. “Come on. Bring the rolly. I’ll help.” We lifted our rolling suitcase together and I led us into the bushes crowding over the
road’s edge. Leaves and thorns slashed at our trouser legs and sleeves and faces—I beat them away and found a kind of clear area in their middle. Maybe there used to be something, a
concrete pad for trash cans or something there. Moss, black and dry from the summer, crunched as we walked over it. We lowered the suitcase, heavy with Aim’s tools, and I was about to explain
to her why we were hiding but by now that truck was loud and I could tell she heard it, too. All she said was, “What are they gonna think if they see our tracks disappear?”
I had a knife, and I kept it sharp. I pulled it out of the leather sheath I’d made. That was answer enough for Aim. She smiled—a nasty smile, but I loved it the way I loved
everything about her: her smell; her long braids; her grimy, stubby nails.
I thought we’d lucked out when the truck barreled by fast-must have been going thirty miles an hour—but then it screeched to a stop. Two doors creaked open. Boot heels clopped on the
asphalt. Getting louder. Pausing about even with where I’d ducked us off into the brush.
“Hey!” A dude. “You can come out—we ain’t gonna do ya no harm.”
Neither one of us moved a hair. Swearing, then thrashing noises, more swearing, louder as Truckdude crashed through the blackberries. He’ll never find us, I thought, and I was right. It
was his partner who snuck up on our other side, silent as a tick.
“Got ’em, Claude,” he yelled, standing up from the weeds with a gun in his hand. He waved it at me and Aim and spoke in a normal tone. “You two can get up if you want.
But do it slow.”
He raised his voice again. “Chicas. One of ’em’s kinda pretty but the other’s fat,” he told Claude. “You wanna arm wrestle?”
Claude stopped swearing but kept breaking branches and tearing his clothes on the brambles as he whacked his way over to us. I stayed hunkered down so they’d underestimate me, and so my
knife wouldn’t fall out from where I had it clamped between my thighs. I felt Aim’s arm tremble against mine as Claude emerged from the shadows. She’d be fine, though. Exactly
like on a salvage run. I leaned against her a second to let her know that.
The dude with the gun looked a little older than us. Not much older, of course, or he’d have already gone Otherwise, found his own pocket universe, like nearly everyone else whose brain
had reached “maturity”—at least that’s how the rumors went.
Claude looked my age, or a year or two younger: fourteen, fifteen. He and his partner had the same brown hair and squinty eyes; brothers, then. Probably.
I leered up at Guntoter. “You wanna watch me and her do it first?”
He spat on my upturned face. “Freak! You keep quiet till I tell you talk.” The spit tickled as it ran down my cheek.
I didn’t hate him. Didn’t have the time; I was too busy planning my next move.
“Hey, Dwight, what you think they got in here?” Claude had found our suitcase and given me a name for Guntoter.
“Open ’er up and find out, dickhead.”
I couldn’t turn around to see the rolly without looking away from Dwight, which didn’t seem like a good idea. I heard its zipper and the clink of steel on steel: chisels, hammers,
wrenches, clamps, banging against each other as they spilled out on the ground.
“Whoa! Looky at these, Claude. You think that ugly one knows how to use this
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