ATTENTION!
ALL REFUGEES
CAMP HOLY CROSS
NOW ACCEPTING INTAKE
EXTRACTION OCCURS
EVERY OTHER DAY AT
DAWN, ON THE BRIDGE
NO GUNS • NO ALCOHOL
NO TOBACCO • NO DRUGS
“Might explain the helicopter we’ve seen flying around,” he added.
I stared at the sign and its crude block lettering. “Yeah. Maybe.”
A chattering sound caused me to look at the car: “Hey!” —at which compies scattered explosively—like scurrying field mice—their pale, upheld tails bobbing.
Clinton laughed. “I told you—it’s that beef jerky. They can smell it from a mile away.”
“‘Carnivore Candy,’” I said, repeating the brand, and chuckled. We went to the car and got in—and I buckled my seatbelt. “Take it easy this time, yeah?”
“You got something to live for?” He put in the clutch and gave it a rev, which sputtered and crackled. “Unless, of course, you want to join the monastery.”
I just laughed. “You saw the sign.”
He chuckled and put the car in gear. “I saw it.”
And we went—glass packs rumbling, bass thumping, guns and ammo rattling—like we were going to war. Like we were riding into battle and never coming back; which, in a sense, we were.
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