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We would have been quite the sight had there been anyone left alive to see us, rumbling up N. La Brea Avenue in Gargantua One—we’d disengaged the electric motor and were running the 16.1-liter diesel only, but that’s another story—the expedition vehicle’s stainless steel hull glinting back at us from the shop windows and its parabolic antenna whirling; its great pistons rattling.
Sam started singing along with the stereo—“I Love L.A.,” by Randy Newman.
“Jesus, not again,” moaned Lazaro. He reached past her toward the deck but she batted his hand away.
Nigel, meanwhile, had to shout over the music: “You want to follow La Brea all the way to Hollywood Boulevard—then hang a right. We’re looking for Gower Street.”
“Looks like it’s going to be smooth sailing,” said Sam.
I glance
