The used-car dealership was one of those small, urban lots, where the cars were backed up against each other rather than sprawled over acreage so large that people would buy something just to drive it back to the showroom. The obligatory tinsel-and-flag regalia hung limply from poles. No breeze. No fresh air. Just the rising stench of decaying flesh. He should be used to this by now, right? Just pretend the fog was a putrescine stinkbomb. And watch your back. Shit. He wasn't equipped for this. At least the yard was quiet. Quiet enough that he should hear the things with enough time to run for it.
Somewhere in the race to the future, the cars had all come to look alike. Even the ones that were some unholy mating of station wagon and Jeep. How the fucking hell did they get those past the CAFE standards, even with the cookie-cutter aerodynamics? And aerodynamics they had -- all those sterile curves, cancerous growths on the fuel economy of a nation. The results of endless nights of Cambridge postdocs masturbating in wind tunnels and then selling the results to the highest bidder. Or a row of metallic-sheened turds, washed up on an asphalt shore.
"Find something cool, man. I'm going to do something really fucking stupid."
S.T. scowled at them all and found the ugliest of the Jeeps -- since when did Japanese companies make gas-guzzlers? He popped the hood. At least some things didn't change. He yanked out a rubber hose and dropped the hood shut again. This was going to be disgusting. He poured one soda bottle out on the ground while he popped the gas cap. The tube made a passable dipstick -- there was a fair bit of gasoline in here. Then he put his lips to the tube and sucked.
The best thing he could say about an accidental mouthful of gasoline was that for a split second, he couldn't smell death. Then he was spitting and hacking, one thumb still over the end of the tube. He'd successfully made a siphon. One bottle was filled, then another, then a third, before the level dipped too low and a pocket of air snuck into the tube. He capped the bottles, took a sip of the remaining all-artificial crap (jury still out on whether it improved the gasoline aftertaste).
He didn't notice that they'd been followed into the lot. Two zombies had snuck up behind him. A pair of moaning sighs, like the worst Playboy Bunny centerfold ever, echoed in both ears. He made a noise that was by no means a shriek and jumped up onto the running board, hands scrabbling at the roof rack for purchase. "Spider. Help? Now?"
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The used-car dealership was one of those small, urban lots, where the cars were backed up against each other rather than sprawled over acreage so large that people would buy something just to drive it back to the showroom. The obligatory tinsel-and-flag regalia hung limply from poles. No breeze. No fresh air. Just the rising stench of decaying flesh. He should be used to this by now, right? Just pretend the fog was a putrescine stinkbomb. And watch your back. Shit. He wasn't equipped for this. At least the yard was quiet. Quiet enough that he should hear the things with enough time to run for it.
Somewhere in the race to the future, the cars had all come to look alike. Even the ones that were some unholy mating of station wagon and Jeep. How the fucking hell did they get those past the CAFE standards, even with the cookie-cutter aerodynamics? And aerodynamics they had -- all those sterile curves, cancerous growths on the fuel economy of a nation. The results of endless nights of Cambridge postdocs masturbating in wind tunnels and then selling the results to the highest bidder. Or a row of metallic-sheened turds, washed up on an asphalt shore.
"Find something cool, man. I'm going to do something really fucking stupid."
S.T. scowled at them all and found the ugliest of the Jeeps -- since when did Japanese companies make gas-guzzlers? He popped the hood. At least some things didn't change. He yanked out a rubber hose and dropped the hood shut again. This was going to be disgusting. He poured one soda bottle out on the ground while he popped the gas cap. The tube made a passable dipstick -- there was a fair bit of gasoline in here. Then he put his lips to the tube and sucked.
The best thing he could say about an accidental mouthful of gasoline was that for a split second, he couldn't smell death. Then he was spitting and hacking, one thumb still over the end of the tube. He'd successfully made a siphon. One bottle was filled, then another, then a third, before the level dipped too low and a pocket of air snuck into the tube. He capped the bottles, took a sip of the remaining all-artificial crap (jury still out on whether it improved the gasoline aftertaste).
He didn't notice that they'd been followed into the lot. Two zombies had snuck up behind him. A pair of moaning sighs, like the worst Playboy Bunny centerfold ever, echoed in both ears. He made a noise that was by no means a shriek and jumped up onto the running board, hands scrabbling at the roof rack for purchase. "Spider. Help? Now?"