MUSTANG JOE

My name’s Joe, and I’m the last holdout in the War against Carbon. I didn’t expect to get so much recognition for my ‘accomplishments’, living in such a remote area, but go figure…

I peer intently through my yellowed curtains. The posse is already halfway up the hill, their progress most certainly slowed by their pathetically incapable hydrogen-electric hybrid vehicles’ inability to scale the steep grade. The sirens are just a low drone, rising slowly in volume. I’ve got plenty of time.

Grabbing my trusty (and outlawed) 12-gauge and my dufflebag, I bolt out the door toward the garage. The side door makes a hearty creaking sound as I open it and enter, flipping on the light. (Fluorescent? Not a chance. It’s all out rebellion)

There she is, gleaming bright blue in the pale yellow incandescence, beckoning to me. She’s a1967 Mustang two door fastback, 390 cubic-inch, 315 horsepower V-8 engine. Not a speck of rust or grime on her, maintained every single day with reverent attention, she’s about to show her stuff.

In the far corner sits a large red plastic canister full of the last remaining reserve of gasoline I have. I’d been saving for this very day. I pop open the gas cap on the rear and begin to feed my pride and joy. I give her every last drop, and replace the cap.

I grab the ring of keys from a small hook on the wall, open the door, and jump inside. I put the key in the ignition and slowly turn it. My dream girl purrs to life, a deep, throaty, familiar rumble. I close my eyes and wait for the right moment.

Sirens, approaching. Barely discernible whirs and murmurs of engines with none of the husky goodness of my sweet lady, gradually rising in volume. They’re coming around the final bend of my drive, the last leg approaching my homestead. A few more seconds….

Now.

I jam my foot on the gas pedal, and she springs to life, hurtling forward through the deliberately weakened wood panels of the shed door, splintering them into flying shards, rocketing over the slight incline I had built and going airborne for several moments. I look down at the feeble hydrogen-powered cruisers and wave. She kisses the ground with a loud thud, kicking up dust. I reach with my left hand for the shotgun at my side, maneuvering my Mustang into a controlled skid, wheeling counterclockwise so that I’m facing the handful of cruisers in front of my house.

I lift the shotgun and fire a decisive round. I’d been planning this for some time now, and I had been hoping it was as satisfying as I had imagined.

It certainly is; thank you, hydrogen. The hit cruiser goes up “WHOOMP” and the others follow, like dominoes.

I jam it to the floor. Squealing almost with joy, she races me down the hill, leaving behind chaos and destruction and my former home.

I peer down at the map sticking out of my dufflebag. I’m not sure where I’m headed next, but I’m hopeful there are other holdouts like me, those who cling to the good old days where there were no threats, no regrets, and most of all no worries. Looking at the gas gauge, I figure I’ve got two days, maybe three. But I know my sweet lovely Lady will take me wherever I need to go.

She’s the one thing I have left.