All Good Children - Catherine Austen [90]
Mom holds out her hand. “I’ll drive.”
He drops the key in her palm. “You’re the lucky one.”
She steps behind the car and opens up the back.
“Now I understand why people live in cars,” I say, peering inside. It’s not a proper trunk, more of a gaping maw that could sleep two. Mom shoves two jugs of gasoline to one side and says, “Put your bags in here, kids. Hang on to what you want to keep for the ride.”
“There’s ten gallons of gas there,” Churchill says. “Funnel’s in the can.”
“Thank you,” Mom says. When we’ve stuffed in our bags, she unrolls a vinyl sheet that stretches from the backseat over the contents of the cargo space.
“That’s the flimsiest storage system I’ve ever seen,” I say.
Mom is entirely unconcerned that our luggage will fly into our skulls when she taps the brake. She smiles and pats my arm. “It’s a station wagon, Max. They’re perfectly safe.”
It’s roomy, I’ll give it that much. Even with the tent on top of our bags, the view out the rear window is clear.
“You don’t have much stuff,” Churchill says. “You’re sure you’re not coming back soon?”
Mom opens the back door for Ally. “Get in, honey. You too, guys.” She stops Dallas from climbing in beside me. “You should sit in the front, dear.”
He looks confused, then he laughs. He pulls in his chin and lowers his voice. “Are you kids sure you’ll be all right back there on your own?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Ally says.
Dallas raises his brow to me.
“We’ll be fine, Dad.”
He lowers himself into the seat in front of me. He fiddles with a lever by his feet, then slides his chair into my knees. “Lovely night for a drive,” he says.
Mom turns to Churchill and says something I can’t hear through the glass. She pulls her house key out of her bag, smiles and pats his arm.
He folds up his lawn chair while Mom starts the car. It ignites right away, doesn’t catch fire, sounds all right.
Churchill bangs on Dallas’s window. Dallas presses a button and the glass slides down. “Take it easy,” Churchill says, like that’s sage advice. He points to the glove box and adds, “I put my number in there, and the numbers of some other mechanics in the region if you need them.”
“Will we need them?” Mom asks.
He shakes his head. “It rides like a dream. But just in case.”
Dallas closes the window so fast that Churchill has to cock his head to pull it free.
“That’s not nice, Daddy,” Ally says.
Dallas laughs. I laugh with him. Mom shakes her head.
Churchill just stands there looking confused as we leave him behind.
It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive north to the border, but time passes slowly when you’re terrified and disconnected.
We encounter toll booths every twenty minutes, and I’m thrilled to see them. Not Dallas-he breathes out a sigh after we pass each one. I know we might be caught for kidnapping, but if the police catch us, the worst they’ll do is turn me into a zombie. I’m more afraid of being eaten or sold by the locals. Cameras and guards have always been there to protect me, or so I thought. In their absence, I fidget and groan in the backseat until Mom has to shush me.
Most of the houses we pass are dark, but the odd one is lit like a billboard. I figure those homeowners are waiting to ambush any cars that break down. A few cars pass us on the highway, headlights blazing like demon eyeballs. I expect each one to slam its brakes, skid to a stop and tear up the highway after us, scythes and pitchforks hanging out the windows.
That doesn’t happen. No one notices us at all.
“Will you stop with the groaning?” Dallas mutters.
“You’re keeping your sister awake,” Mom adds.
I am never going to make it in a town without walls.
“Why can’t we cross the border at Buffalo?” Dallas asks when we start heading east.
“Too risky,” Mom says. “Rebecca says Freaktown is the