Going Shogun by Lindsey Ernie

Author:Lindsey, Ernie [Lindsey, Ernie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-04-21T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 11

The parking lot is empty, so we don’t have to climb into Machine through the soda-can opening of a sun roof. I practically melt into the passenger’s seat, and I can’t ever remember being this tired before. Bingo crumples into my lap like a set of clothes that fell off a hanger. I can feel her arms and hands shaking, whether out of PTSD or from an hour of grinding blood off the floor with wet rags and dirty mops. She leans back into me, rests her head on my shoulder. What could be a tender moment is tainted by the fact that her cotton candy scent is replaced with one of bloody, metallic crudeness that only Lestat would find enticing.

The ever-present agitation of Forklift’s being is no longer there. I can tell he’s flat-out done for. His neckline is tinted with deep reds and hints of blue that bubble up from underneath the skin. I wonder where his mind is now. If he even thinks it’s worth it anymore.

I ask one simple question. “Dude?”

“Zoomified,” he says. “The ducks are quackin’ and we are jackin’.”

Machine growls to life as Forklift gets it ready for takeoff. No jammity-jam rockin’ tunes hurtle out of the speakers this time, and even if they did, I doubt they’d be able to take the place of the ringing in my left ear.

As Forklift plies his way out of the parking lot, he doesn’t even squeal the tires. It’s as if even Machine is weary from the night’s events. For the first time ever, Forklift obeys the speed limits and we sail along through the neighborhoods, weaving from street to street, avenue to avenue. A dainty rain begins to dapple the windshield, adding a washed-out, glowing effect to every light we see, every reflective surface. It feels appropriate, like it’s gently showering away the bloody effects of the last few hours.

We’re cruising quietly through tree-lined roads, passing R10 brick-built townhomes, some with completely darkened windows, some with a lone lamp illuminating a living room, or a porch light on that shows off white-wicker rocking chairs and pricey Adirondacks that would take me weeks to save for and I can only dream of having. It must be Recycle Day for this section of the city because big blue containers guard the ends of driveways like stoic sentinels, waiting to regurgitate their contents that go on to make things like new Pow-Pow Juice bottles and Ascension Flakes cereal boxes.

As we detour through this pricier up-level neighborhood, I think back to growing up Sustained R11. Nothing was ever wrong with it. We had food on the table and a light green house with white doors, the same one my parents live in to this day. We were R11-1, Average Joes, for the longest time, then my dad got a promotion to Lead Foreman at the furniture factory where he worked, and even though he never really thought he deserved the Nomination from his superiors, he got Approved and we became R11-2s, Everyday People.

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