He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down.
“Hey, Drake. I’m talking to you.”
The only sound from Drake was the scraping of his tennis shoes on hard-packed soil as he stepped around a creosote bush.
Niobe raised her voice. “You could have the courtesy to pretend to listen. I’m trying to help you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Drake was becoming increasingly sullen. He’d withdrawn into himself again. They hadn’t spoken about it, but clearly the Black Queen clutch had demolished his hopes.
Hers, too. She’d keep Drake alive as long as she could, though without help that wouldn’t be long at all. In the meantime a little cooperation would have been nice. Maybe even a “thanks” now and then.
The bitterness receded as quickly as it had washed over her, leaving in its wake a profound shame. She hoped it was exhaustion making her feel this way. Resentful. Irritable. Or maybe she wasn’t as maternal as she liked to think.
She picked up her pace, drew even with Drake after a few strides. “Drink this,” she said, holding the bottle under his nose.
“Yeah. Okay.” She studied him while he unscrewed the cap and drained the bottle. His sunburn didn’t appear to be getting any worse. They’d swiped a tube of aloe vera lotion and some SPF 45 sunscreen from the farmhouse.
Something twinkled on the horizon. Then it disappeared. Then a flash and another twinkle. It came from where the highway receded into the distance.
“Car coming,” she said.
Drake shrugged. He tossed the empty bottle aside. He knew better than that—they might be able to refill their bottles, if they got lucky. He was giving up; the decision manifested in countless little gestures, actions, evasions.
She examined the glint on the horizon. For all she knew, it was a cop or state trooper. But this death march was killing them just as surely as SCARE would. Sleeping in ditches all day, walking all night . . . It had to stop.
The car was closer now, a rapidly growing blob of red and silver visible through the haze. It was still the only car in either direction.
“Stay here,” she said. “Keep yourself hidden.”
Niobe took a deep breath, then half jogged across the field to the middle of the two-lane highway. Her ankle screamed in pain, but she ignored it as best she could. She stopped, facing the oncoming car.
Drake hunched down behind a bush. He called, “What are you doing?”
“We need a ride.” The white-noise hiss of tires on asphalt reached her ears. Niobe swallowed, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “Stay hidden, Drake.”
She could see it more clearly now. A rounded, burgundy-colored thing bearing down on her. No lights on top, though with Niobe’s luck it would probably turn out to be an unmarked cop car. Or SCARE.
Niobe raised her arms, palms out, toward the approaching vehicle. The car’s shape became apparent in the rapidly closing distance. She recognized it from television commercials she’d seen back at BICC. A gas/electric hybrid. That makes sense, I guess. The question was whether or not the driver could see her.
The car didn’t slow down. She waved her arms.
Closer. Louder. Niobe clenched her eyes shut when she could hear the whine of the engine.
The road noise lessened, the engine relaxed. Niobe cracked one eye open. The car was rolling to a halt.
Sunlight glare on the wide windshield prevented Niobe from seeing inside the car. She waved, tossing out thanks as she trotted over to the driver’s side.
The window slid down with the whirr of an electric motor. Niobe got a strong whiff of clove cigarettes.
“Thank you so much for stopping,” said Niobe.
“By Crom’s beard! You scared the daylights out of me.”
Niobe had no idea who “Crom” was supposed to be. But that wasn’t the odd thing about the woman behind the wheel. Not compared to the fur-lined chain-mail bikini, the crimson-colored cape, and the axe sitting on the passenger seat. The bikini did not complement the woman’s figure.
“I . . . uh . . .” Was that a sword on the backseat? Niobe wondered if heat stroke had scrambled her brain.
“What brings you out here, noble wanderer?”
“Huh?”
“Nah, never mind. Need a ride?”
“Yes. Badly. Please.”
“It’s traditional to just stick out your thumb when you’re hitching.”
“We’ve been out here for hours. There aren’t any cars to hitch rides from.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “We?”
Damn. “Yes. Me and my friend.” Niobe waved at Drake, motioning him to join her. “We ran out of gas money back in Wick,” she improvised.
“You’ve been on foot since Wick?”
Niobe nodded. That much was mostly true, anyway.
The driver stuck her head out the window. She gave Niobe the once-over, then the same for Drake.
“You guys have been on foot too long,” she said.
“Tell me about it,” said Niobe. “Please, may we ride with you? Just for a while?”
Niobe had never imagined that the clunk of electric door locks could sound so sweet. She felt like crying. “Thank you. Thank you,” she repeated.
Drake hurried over. Niobe opened the back door for him. He wrinkled his nose at the cigarette odor, but it didn’t stop him from scrambling inside.
“Next stop, Barbarian Days,” said the driver as Drake buckled his seat belt.
Niobe and Drake exchanged a silent look. Barbarian Days? He shrugged.
It sounded like some kind of festival. Well, that explained the outfit. Niobe held the axe in her lap when she buckled in. It was plastic.
The driver raised her window. She clicked the air-conditioning up a notch. The car was surprisingly silent when they pulled away, causing Niobe a moment’s disorientation when the landscape outside the car started to slide past them. She had never ridden in a hybrid.
“You getting enough air back there, kiddo?” Niobe turned, looked over the seat. Drake’s eyes were closed.
She slumped down in her seat, tempted to drift off under the caress of chilled air. It felt like heaven. The upholstery stank like a cheap bar, but at least her feet could rest.
“I’m Mandy,” said the driver.
Niobe blurted out the first name that sprang to mind. “Yvette,” she said. She motioned toward the backseat with a nod of her head. “That’s Xander, in back.”
“So,” she continued. “Barbarian Days.”
The driver smirked. “Never been, I take it.”
“No.”
“Lots of people there. Maybe not so many nowadays, with the oil crisis.” She paused to light a cigarette.
“It hasn’t stopped you,” said Niobe.
“Most of the time I work behind a desk, processing medical billing for an insurance company. Three days out of the year I can strap on a cape and become Red Sonya.”
Niobe nodded, unsure of what to say next. The driver dragged on her cigarette, then tapped ashes into a tray affixed to the center console. It hung over a charging cradle holding a cell phone.
Mandy saw her gazing at the phone. “You can use it, if you’re wondering.”
“I . . . Thanks. Again. It would be a huge help.”
Niobe pulled the phone from the cradle, careful not to knock down the ashtray. She thumbed through the menus, thinking. Who could help her? Did she even know any telephone numbers?
No. But she did know a few e-mail addresses.
“Mandy? Where exactly is Barbarian Days?”
“Cross Plains. Birthplace of the late great Robert E. Howard.”
Michelle—Help, please. I’m in danger. Please come. I’m in Cross Plains, TX.—Niobe.
Niobe wasn’t accustomed to using such a tiny keypad. Thumbing out the e-mail to Bubbles took a long time. But after she finished, she thanked Mandy again, closed her eyes, and slept.