Witch Hunt

Val pumped the gas pedal as if that might somehow slurp up the last dregs from the tank. The vehicle shuddered like a walrus about to vomit. A shotgun blast emptied a cloud of soot from the tailpipe and a miasma vapor akin to burnt canola oil assaulted Val's nose.

The jalopy pickup rolled a few hundred strides down the pitted asphalt highway and stopped in the shade of a roadside shotgun target that depicted an anthropomorphic bear proclaiming, "Only you can prevent forest fires." Val turned the key. The engine whined, sputtered, backfired and died again.

Great. Val let her forehead fall against the steering wheel. Shitty corn. Ethanol is crap fuel.

She looked up and absently rubbed the sweat mark off the begrimed steering wheel. The next town was blurry smudge through the desert's shimmer haze. Her skin blistered just thinking about the trek under the sun. Her tresses were already plastered to her neck. Shit, she was already hotter than a v-eight with a radiator leak.

So it's hot, screw you, Val. She tugged her sun-blasted, dust soaked, barely recognizable K-State baseball cap low. This was as much to shield her eyes as to hide the witch's brand upon her forehead.

Vale climbed from the cab. The door groaned like Casper's haunted mansion when she opened it. She had to slam the damn thing to make it shut. She fished a couple of old milk jugs from the truck's bed and began to hike.

Reaching Crane took longer than she would've liked. Her feet hurt and the soles of her boots were a bit more broken before she arrived. Thank goodness the dilapidated gas station was on the close side of town. She prayed to God that it had gas, or some reasonable, water free substitute. Some of the small no-body towns this far west hadn't had gas even before the Great War. Now that everything was a desert, even fewer did.

She poked her head through the station door. After the sun, it was blinding black and marginally cooler inside.

"Hello?"

Heartbeats kept time with the silent seconds that followed.

"Hello?" she said, again.

"What do you want, girlie?"

Val spun. The man before her leaned so close against the door that her nose was practically in his chest. She shuffled a step backwards and caught her heel on the threshold. She caught the door frame to keep from falling.

He was even more sun-battered than her hat. He wore a John Deer cap that had lost its green. His coveralls, right down to the grimy Shell station emblem, looked little better. Even the grease stains looked to be permeated with dust.

"Can you help me? My truck's dead. I need gas, ethanol spirits or something."

"I know. Heard the blasted thing from here. Watched you walk in."

"Well?"

"Strangers aren't welcome here. 'Specially girlies without them's man." He squinted, trying to see her face better.

Fire burnt Val's breast. She ducked her head and tried to douse it. It would do her little good. "My Pa was killed in Utah. I wasn't planning on staying.

"All I need is gas, water and a little food."

"That's all, huh? What have you for gas?"

"You take Union dollars? Vegas coin?"

The mechanic harrumphed. "What's this look like, girlie? DC? Vegas?

"Gold. Gold, food and clean water's all that's got meaning out here."

Shit. She wormed her free hand into her jean pockets and pulled out a handful of coins. A few of them wore the tarnish of silver.

"Silver?" she asked, hopefully.