Marked by S. Andrew Swann

Author:S. Andrew Swann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DAW
Published: 2019-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

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AS onerous and exhausting as my explosive drive through the universes between the 1975 where we lost Whedon, and wherever here was, I actually found driving at a normal pace, without recourse to the Mark, relaxing. My body had finally run out of adrenaline, and now that there seemed no immediate threat to life, limb, or sanity, I felt as if every muscle in my body was slowly unconstricting.

The Charger’s Hemi purred even though I had almost literally driven it through hell. The tires crunched across the archaic country road at a more sedate thirty-five. I slowed, because now that the world was static around me, the road wove around, went up and down hills, and I didn’t want to drive any faster than I could see. I couldn’t imagine the levels of pissed I would reach if I’d driven my car into another universe only to hit a deer.

Beyond that, it was pretty country to drive through. I rolled down the windows to let in the fresh air and fished out my iPhone and put it on the cradle and hit shuffle. The first band to come on was Slipknot.

Ivan gave me a horrified look and said, “What is that?”

“Just some traveling music,” I told him. I think I was smiling for the first time today.

He muttered something in Russian, but I left the music on. The tortured vocals were a perfect match for my day. And it was my car, damn it.

We rolled by farms, and I saw pastures with horses or cows. In the distance I saw bearded men with broad hats, black pants, and light blue shirts tending the land. We’d passed the third farm, when I realized that I hadn’t seen any modern farm machinery at all.

I wondered if we were driving around some version of the nineteenth century. As we continued southeast, I passed three or four horse-drawn buggies that would have been familiar to anyone who’d passed through Amish country, though these were lacking the orange reflective triangles on the back. And, almost disastrously, they were driven by horses that seemed unfamiliar with automotive traffic. The first buggy we came to, despite my pulling over as far as I could, caused the horse to spook, roll eyes, and rear, and almost manage to spin around in its harness. Fortunately, the driver was able to gain control, whipping the animal and shouting German harsher than the Korn lyrics growling through my speaker system.

With the next two, I pulled over and stopped. And both times, my Charger received evil stares. I don’t know if they reacted to my vehicle, my clothing, the music leaking from the car, or just the fact that I was a woman driving two men around.

I couldn’t have been more out of place if I tried.

It was another hour before I saw any signs. I drove through miles of more farmland until I came to a T-intersection with two signs, one pointing right to East Palestine, the other pointing left toward Beaver Falls.

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