R.A.S.P.

Chapter Two.

Cars, I had learned, were one of the oddest things I’d experienced. My dad had told me about cars before, though I knew much better than to trust in anything he’d said about them. He made them seem as if they were immense, robotic rooms that could take you anywhere. As I looked around at the one I was in, I found myself quietly laughing. The place was small and dark and moved about as quickly as the sick horses at the farm across the street from my old house. It smelled a lot like them too. I had a hard time figuring out why anyone would choose to sit in one of those things as apposed to walking.

The driver, a wrinkly old man with scruffy white hair and a pair of glasses placed crookedly at the bridge of his nose, didn’t say a word. I was surprised to see such an unkempt man directly involved with the Regime. He kept his mouth shut and his limp hands rested unconfidently on the top of the steering wheel. I concluded he was too preoccupied to make conversation. Frankly, I was relieved.

I spent the first portion of the voyage looking out the window. I’d never left Hawns, and though there was just farmland to look at, the vibe I got from adventuring outside of my native soil interested me.

In Hawns, most of the farmers worked with pomegranate trees. It’d always been a wonder to me why—pomegranates had as much nutrients in them as the dirt on the ground—but I’d been reassured enough times that pomegranates had many purposes besides nutrients that it was an easy issue for me to let go of.  

As I drove, it was strange to see such a range of crops beside the road. Each passing minute provided me with a new scene and a new field of harvest. The abundance made me feel a bit guilty. The people of Hawns, much like I’d been just hours before, knew nothing of the never-ending farmland and were stuck there, picking out pomegranate seeds.

It wasn’t until we reached the concrete roads that I realized how long I’d been in the car. It joggled suddenly, and the speed of the car accelerated. I looked behind me to see the dirt road we’d left behind and replaced with a smoother, cement road. This too, was a first for me. Back home, cement roads were practically a myth.

Though there was no clock in the car, I could tell I’d been in there for hours. I started using the sun as a clock, noticing that it had repositioned itself from just above the faint horizon to directly over me throughout the ride, a sign of how long we’d been driving. I found myself drawing pictures by lightly scratching my forearm. Once that got boring, I started picking at my fingernails. I was usually really good at keeping them short, but in the recent weeks they’d dropped drastically on my list of priorities.

Suddenly, I heard a thunderous roar from behind me. From behind the car. Instinctively, I turned around to see what it was. Moving at about twice the speed of the car I was in was another town car, not bothering to slow down as it neared mine.

I looked at the white haired man operating the vehicle. He hadn’t noticed the approaching car.

I heard the same roar, this time to my right. The town car, traveling as quickly and chaotically as it’d been before, had one half of its arrangement on the road, the other half shredding apart the strawberry vines alongside the road. It sped up, moved itself back onto the road, and continued off.

The driver gave me a quick glance back, showing off a grin with more than a few missing teeth. “How ya doin’ back thur?” He acted as though he hadn’t noticed a thing.

I smirked, trying to contain a nervous laugh. That driver reminded me of a lot of the people from Hawns. “Great. Was that a RASP car that just went by us?”

Without warning, the man let out a boisterous chuckle.  I could hear the spit swarming in his mouth.  “Great. Great!” He said, ignoring the question. More chuckling. “We’ll be there pretty soon, I’d guess, darlin’. Don’tcha worry, now.”