Pulphouse Fiction Magazine Issue Fourteen by Dean Wesley Smith

Author:Dean Wesley Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WMG Publishing

By the flickering lights of a passing train, Cactus could see Coyote getting drool all over the knobs as he laboriously tuned the radio with his teeth. Through the static, a radio preacher could dimly be heard droning on about the “heavenly host.”

The Cactus complained, “Can’t you get any rock-and-roll on that thing?”

The Coyote growled softly. “Next time, before you make fun of my disguise, think about picking one for yourself that has fingers.”

It was two a.m. Buddy Holly was on the radio as they rolled up the interstate past Edwards Air Force Base.

They’d been delayed for hours in Barstow because Coyote had insisted in stopping at the drive-through of the In-N-Out Burger for a dozen Double-Doubles. (“Do you serve cactus?” he’d asked the speaker in the glowing menu. “No, just french fries,” it had answered.)

Coyote insisted on sleeping off his feast before continuing, and Cactus hadn’t argued much, as there’s nothing worse than a carsick Coyote. Later, Coyote whined and howled when Cactus wouldn’t go back to the drive-through again and buy him a souvenir In-N-Out T-shirt.

It was pitch dark as they passed the Highway 395 interchange. There was no moon, and the stars stood shoulder to shoulder across the sky, reminding the pair of home. They looked out across the desert towards the dry lake where space shuttles sometimes landed and the most secret planes in the world were tested. Cactus patted the dashboard, his needles scratching against the painted metal. “This baby is a cream puff, but I wouldn’t mind having one of those F-117 stealth fighters on a Saturday night.”

Coyote sniffed. “No way, dude. Only one seat. I need me a love-mobile!”

A mile or so later they passed the Boron exit, and six California Highway Patrol cruisers squealed onto the freeway behind them, sirens screaming, lights dancing across the desert scrub brush in a red, yellow, and blue light show.

Cactus groaned and put his root to the floor. “This is bad, Coyote. No way we’re going to lose those guys out here in the middle of nowhere, and we sure can’t outrun them in this thing.” He sighed. “We could call for an emergency pickup.”

Coyote jumped up to see, his paws draped over the seat back. Flashes of red and blue highlighted his fur. “I guess that guy at the agricultural station finally got somebody to believe him.”

“So, do I call for the pickup?”

“No way,” said the Coyote, “and give up the car? I’d rather be a teen angel than quit now. You know my motto: ‘Live fast, die young, and have parents rich enough to have you reincarnated before season break is over.’”

The cruisers were closing in fast. “Oh, what the hell,” said the Cactus. “It’s not like you only die once.”

He swerved the Caddie, forcing the closest cruiser onto the median strip. It skidded and disappeared behind them, its lights swallowed up in a cloud of its own dust.

The other cars dropped back to a safe distance, but only hung back for a mile or two.

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