Hillbilly Convoy
The joke used to be that they live in a trailer and have satellite TV.
These people live in a trailer, have satellite TV, and drive Hummers.
How do they get the money for Hummers? Not even used Hummers.
"Billy's uncle works at a dealership. Worked out a special arrangement. He's wound up with at least one a year since they came out."
Some sit half out the window, guns ready for anything, looking for an excuse.
There isn't much to see. Not much moving, anyway. The convoy passes through razed towns. Sometimes the fires still burn. Sometimes they're out. Sometimes it just looks like a wrecking ball hit everything. But there are no people. No bodies. It is as if the towns were empty when they were destroyed.
Travel is not very fast. Most major roads are an obstacle course of wrecked, melted, or parked cars, scattered and rolled over, like a child's been playing with them. Medians are thick with vehicles who's drivers decided it was faster to drive against traffic. The convoy must snake its way through all of this.
"What if we run out of gas?" I ask one of the Militia during a rest stop. He shrugs, unworried.
"Jim brough a few good lengths of hose with him. You gotta figure most of these cars have pretty full tanks. We can syphon out what we need as we go. In fact..." He trails off, pointing to someone already on his stomach, sucking a green garden hose run into a green Ford Mustang. His face turns dark red, then he instantly wants to vomit. Instead he spits out a mouthful of gasoline and shoves an active hose into a gas can.
"You got any kisses?" Asks the Militia man.
"What?"
"Kisses? You got any Hershey Kisses? In case we run into some big critters?"
These people live in a trailer, have satellite TV, and drive Hummers.
How do they get the money for Hummers? Not even used Hummers.
"Billy's uncle works at a dealership. Worked out a special arrangement. He's wound up with at least one a year since they came out."
Some sit half out the window, guns ready for anything, looking for an excuse.
There isn't much to see. Not much moving, anyway. The convoy passes through razed towns. Sometimes the fires still burn. Sometimes they're out. Sometimes it just looks like a wrecking ball hit everything. But there are no people. No bodies. It is as if the towns were empty when they were destroyed.
Travel is not very fast. Most major roads are an obstacle course of wrecked, melted, or parked cars, scattered and rolled over, like a child's been playing with them. Medians are thick with vehicles who's drivers decided it was faster to drive against traffic. The convoy must snake its way through all of this.
"What if we run out of gas?" I ask one of the Militia during a rest stop. He shrugs, unworried.
"Jim brough a few good lengths of hose with him. You gotta figure most of these cars have pretty full tanks. We can syphon out what we need as we go. In fact..." He trails off, pointing to someone already on his stomach, sucking a green garden hose run into a green Ford Mustang. His face turns dark red, then he instantly wants to vomit. Instead he spits out a mouthful of gasoline and shoves an active hose into a gas can.
"You got any kisses?" Asks the Militia man.
"What?"
"Kisses? You got any Hershey Kisses? In case we run into some big critters?"
posted by Max Orkin at 1:02 AM
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