Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1 Read Online Free PDF

A string of them run down the middle
of the pony pastures, sort of like lifeboats for the surrounding
homesteads and farming villages. Greensburg is typical for the towns
out here—flat, grid street system, and surly residents.
    By the time she asked the question we passed the “Welcome to
Greensburg” road sign, though the population figure had been
painted over in an angry black streak.
    “If you want to drop me off, I can make my way back to Hays
on my own.”
    “No,” she said quickly, and to my relief. It was
exciting riding with a professional. “I, uh, need a co-pilot.
You can learn on the job.”
    “Excellent! Where do we pick up the goods?” I'm sure I
sounded like a giddy schoolgirl, but I admit I was feeling pretty
happy. I didn't relish begging a ride home from someone else. That
would involve talking to them. Going to get my first piece of
important cargo was a much more exciting path.
    Still, Jo looked at me sideways. “Hold your horses. We've
got to report this to the Sheriff. Since we're right here we can go
into the fort.”
    I wanted to ask her why. Why not just radio it in? But I didn't
want to look like a total rookie, even though I was.
    Inside Greensburg, things looked pretty much like the other towns
in these parts. Cars of all types were parked three deep in every
yard, open lot, and in front of every building. Every refugee between
Kansas City and Denver fled to points between to escape the
conflagrations. They brought everything in their cars and drove them
until they ran out of gas. In the early days it was a cottage
industry to go out and recover them. Now, they provided miles and
miles of spare parts for the survivors.
    We drove through block after block of vehicles, until we came to
the squat brick building housing the sheriff and his deputies. Unlike
the highway patrol and their penchant for dramatic and menacing
interceptors, the local sheriffs usually stuck with the cars they had
before the bombs. The gold 4-door sedan cruisers were a few years
old, but still ran better than most civilian cars. And they were
perfectly clean.
    Jo ran her Mustang right up the service garage door of the
department—a bay that was probably always hopping, no matter
the hour. Again, pretty typical out here. She pulled her leather
jacket from the mess in the back, put it on, then buttoned a few of
the lower buttons to cover herself up.
    “Come on, rook. We'll report your car while we're here,
too.”
    We walked by the big hand-lettered sign at the door. The three
rules for drivers everywhere. Losing a car in a wreck was usually the
first and last step in being reassigned to push a shovel at a farm
somewhere. Maybe it was true for the sheriff's office too.
    Rule 1. Save the car.
    Rule 2. Save the parts.
    Rule 3. Save the driver.
    I'd never noticed the driver was last, until just now. Of course,
I'd never lost a car before nor had I ever been so close to getting
myself offed in an explosion. If the car and the driver failed
to return...
    “I guess I wouldn't have a worry,” I mused to myself.
    We crossed the grungy floor of the work bay, and approached a
gaggle of farmers and a couple deputies. I could tell they were
already aware of what we were there to report.
    “Smoke to the south and east, Marv. You've got to do something.”
    The young deputies seemed overwhelmed. The other men had them
surrounded, though there was no hostility in the room. They just
wanted the attention of the law.
    “Please. Listen. We know of the fires. We see them, too. But
we don't have the manpower to track down each one. There are too
many.”
    Jo yelled over the backs of the men. “The Evans' place blew
up. We were just there. She lost her daily driver in the blast.”
The farmers turned to Jo, then to me. They sized us up, as men often
did, but resumed talking to the two uniformed deputies in their
scrum.
    “You see? This is getting out of hand!”
    “You have to go out there.”
    “Who will protect my farm?”
    I