As it rumbles across cracked, sun-bleached concrete, the dilapidated truck is a hulking metal beast shambling amidst towering pine trees. What was once red paint has long been replaced by a creeping overgrowth of rust. The engine and one of the front tires wheeze in an alternating rhythm, and with one last sigh, the truck skids to an unremarkable, slow halt. Overhead, cicadas scream—another symptom of the eternal summer plaguing this earth for the past decade. Overhead, the sky’s gaping maw yawns and groans as it stretches itself across the horizon.
With a groan of exasperation, the driver wipes beads of sweat from her forehead with a swipe of the back of her wrist and ties her shaggy black hair back into a low ponytail. She glances down at the slumped figure beside her in the passenger’s seat. She nudges her, then snaps her fingers in front of her face when she doesn’t wake up. The passenger blearily opens her eyes. “Hm… what happened?” she mumbles. She yawns, and the tears that instinctively form at the corners of her eyes converge with the sweat upon her skin.
“The truck broke down. There’s no fixing it this time, so we’re on foot for the rest of the way.” The driver is already stepping onto the searing pavement below with only her thick leather boots as protection from the heat. Still, the lack of any breeze makes the languid air oppressively heavy, and within seconds she sways. It’s almost unbearable. “But we should probably ditch the road. It’s way too hot with the concrete and all.” She reaches into the truck bed for her scant belongings, all contained within a worn pink duffel bag, before slinking into the shade of the trees. The passenger sighs and stretches before reluctantly following suit, leaving the old truck to withstand the elements on its own.
She tilts her head up to the sky, where atmospheric debris tumbles in spiral motions like shooting stars before the Angel swallows them up.
“How far d’you reckon we are?” the passenger says, her voice still muffled with sleep. She keeps her few changes of clothes and other basic necessities in a black backpack that belonged to her older brother, adorned with a few buttons—there were more from when he was younger, a student, but most of them have since fallen off.
The driver exhales. “Well, if we were driving, it would have only been another few hours, but we’re looking at another day or two now if we keep up a good pace.”
The passenger frowns. She tilts her head up to the sky, where atmospheric debris tumbles in spiral motions like shooting stars before the Angel swallows them up. That unblinking beast, that insatiable mouth.
...
The driver steps out from the pines’ shadows, now clad in sweatpants and a ragged t-shirt—comfier and softer clothes than what she wore before, though she still longs for the swaddling embrace of real pajamas. She sits by the base of the tree and taps her foot relentlessly on one of the roots protruding from the ground. The passenger glances up from where she lies in a hammock haphazardly tied between crooked branches, one of the few amenities she has managed to keep with her thus far. “Ya nervous?”
The driver rests her head on one knee while her other foot continues bouncing on the heel. “How can you tell?”
“You keep your distance when you’re worked up about something.” The passenger tilts her head backwards to meet the driver’s eyes, but the latter averts her gaze.
“How could you not be scared?”
At that, the driver meets the passenger's eyes. "What's the point in thinking otherwise?"
There is a moment of silence. The cicadas’ clamoring has ceased, and in the night’s quiet the girls can hear each other breathe. Both were born into this cursed world; they do not remember a time when the underbrush around them would have teemed with life. They are not unnerved by stillness. “Do you think we’ll be able to do it?”
At that, the driver meets the passenger’s eyes. “What’s the point in thinking otherwise?”
