The Sole Survivors' Club

Chapter 9

Monica saw the access road and started crying. During her walk, she’d tried to make turns to lead her away from the highway. But somewhere she’d made a turn that directed her back where she belonged.

The idea stuck with her. She belonged near the highway to watch other people die. It was her place in the world, her role as a constant witness to the misery of others.

Just as Bernice had suggested, Monica knew a crash was coming. Her certainly over the size of the coming disaster began long before she neared the access road. It had been on her thoughts when she ran out of the backyard, and she’d tried in vain to use the thought as a motivation to be anywhere but the highway.

The freezing ache in her shoulder told her it would be big, the kind of disaster to catch the attention of the whole world, if only for a day.

Her collarbone throbbed, and her scar itched. She wouldn’t reach up, and now at least she knew what the cold was. It was one of the jinn perched on her shoulder.

Crossing the access road, Monica looked north at the traffic moving past her. Turning her head to look south, she saw the line of traffic jammed on the bridge above the highway.

Her skin prickled when the voice in her head instructed, Walk toward the bridge.

Clenching her hands into fists, she began to walk south. Her gaze moved from one vehicle to the next while she looked for the cause of the accident.

But there was no screeching from any tires. Nothing on the bridge moved.

Monica was struck by the idea that the accident couldn’t happen until she was in the right place to see everything. All the accidents before were practice runs to prepare her for the inferno that was coming.

No, that she was coming to.

As if to confirm her thoughts, the cars on the bridge started to creep forward when she was two blocks away. There was still no vehicle traveling fast enough to cause a fatal collision, but by the time she was within a block of the bridge, Monica couldn’t tear her gaze away from it.

She wandered onto the grassy incline leading down to the highway, stopping in the middle less than a hundreds yards from the bridge. Nervous about getting too close, she scanned the vehicles on her side of the bridge again.

A yellow cab led the lineup, followed by a white BMW dirty enough to pass for grey. Behind it was a bright red Mazda Miata, and behind the little sports car, Monica’s gaze froze on the Chevy truck.

Painted white with a healthy coat of dirt on the outside, the half ton truck was a work vehicle suited to life in a motor yard. Monica’s eyes wandered to the tail bed, where a pair of dark blue metal barrels pinned back the crumpled remains of a car hood. When the truck moved, the hood wobbled.

Monica was so focused on the hood, she never saw the black Pontiac Fiero behind the truck until the car produced a loud roar, as if the driver revved the engine.

The growl rose to a high-pitched wail, and the car shot forward. The driver turned the steering wheel to avoid the truck, but the distance was too short. The wedge-shaped car lifted the bed on the passenger side, and the truck rocked precariously on two wheels, threatening to tip over.

But it didn’t. The barrels were revealed to have nylon webbing straps that held them in place.

With the truck leaned at an angle, Monica could see several hoods stacked together. Another pair of barrels on the other side had been used to keep the entire stack vertical.

Monica stared at the straps wound around the barrels, following them to each anchor point in the bed of the truck. But everything remained secure.

The driver of the Fiero crawled out through the passenger side window, and a few seconds later, the driver of the truck broke out his windshield to slip out onto the pavement. For the most part, the accident seemed to be over.