Loretta, My Darling

[MurderWeasel]

((Steven Salazar continued from Memory))

Steven had to move quite a ways from where he had encountered Kat and Theo in order to find what he was looking for. It would be worth it, though, he was sure of that. The idea had come out of nowhere during the standoff, and the more he turned it over in his head, the more obvious it seemed. And yet, it was something he'd never heard of being done in Survival of the Fittest before, which gave him a little pause. Was there some reason? Did the terrorists take preventative measures, perhaps?

It was worth a shot, though. As such, he'd made his way towards the more gentrified part of the living site, where doors were still on their hinges and it looked like people might have once enjoyed living.

The first three apartments Steven searched seemed to reinforce the idea that he was going to strike out, turning up nothing of interest. By the time he left the third, slamming the door on his way out, he was almost ready to just throw in the towel and go chasing after Theo without everything he'd wanted. Oh, sure, he had the basics for his secondary objective—three empty glass bottles, liberated from a wine rack and drained down the sink; a flexible, four-foot-long, clear plastic tube, found beside an empty fish tank; a bucket, taken from a bathroom closet; and a handful of washcloths from the same—but that was a small comfort without his main goal.

And then, in the fourth place he searched, a slightly nicer condo with a little garage attachhed to it, Steven was finally successful.

Over in the corner of the garage, propped against the wall next to an old silver car, were two mountain bikes, revealed by the flickering glow of his flashlight. He'd had a pretty good idea that the island had been full of bicycles at some point, what with the trails labeled on the map and the simple fact that everything was within pretty easy biking distance from any given point on the island. It seemed that the evacuation of this place had come pretty suddenly, but mountain bikes were expensive, so Steven imagined most of the people had stowed their investments somewhere safe. Anything outside was likely to be corroded beyond use and/or locked to a lamp post or something, but everything here had been shielded from the elements.

The larger bike was a beautiful dark blue with silver highlights, sleek and professional and adjusted for someone about a foot taller than Steven. The smaller one, more his height, was hot pink, with a basket bolted to the back. It was slightly mud-splattered, and looked like it had seen a lot more use, and in any other circumstances Steven would've taken the time to find tools and adjust the nicer bike as close to his level as he could, maybe even search other buildings for a better option.

His height had never bothered Steven too much, but right about now he really wished he was half a foot taller. These bikes were clearly a pair, and he'd dealt with enough ribbing in his life without riding some guy's wife's bicycle.

But Theo was out there somewhere, along with so many other killers, and they weren't going to wait on Steven's fashion decisions. He was taking a lot of time already, and was going to have to invest more of it, as he saw the tires on both bikes had gone completely flat.

A few minutes later, Steven had located a bike pump and had managed to get the pressure in the tires back up. He wiped his brow, massaged his forearms, which were sore from the pumping. He'd never been too much of a biker. Sure, he'd done it as a kid—up through middle school, really—but the biggest advantage of bicycles had never mattered back in Seattle. Now, though, Steven realized just how convenient it was to have a vehicle with absolutely no reliance on fuel or electricity.

Of course, he was also coming to understand why nobody else in his shoes had ever spent the time to get one working; it was a total pain in the ass, and likely to not be too useful outside of someone with a similar set of goals as he had.

But now he was nearly ready to go. He picked his flashlight up from where he had awkwardly propped it to illuminate his work, turned, walked the bike towards the door, and the stopped.

There was, after all, a car here as well, and one of those was another important part of Steven's plan. He couldn't begin to guess how to hotwire a car, couldn't even say if they would still run. Their batteries would almost certainly have run down in the time since the island had been abandoned, or possibly removed by the terrorists, since they seemed so concerned that the students not have access to any power. Steven didn't plan to drive anywhere, though.

Setting the flashlight on a shelf again, he set the bucket down next to the car and removed the bottles and washcloths and tube he'd been storing in it. He popped open the hatch on the side, unscrewed the gas cap, retrieved his tube.

He'd read about siphoning gas before. It came with the literature he favored, and if Hunter S. Thompson had never mentioned doing it himself, well, plenty of the other subversives of the era had provided tips. Abbie Hoffman would've been proud.

Steven stuck the tube as far into the tank as it would go, then got the bucket on his lap and brought the tube to his mouth. The flashlight cast flickering shadows over absolutely everything, and its light reflected dully off the car, making it hard for Steven to see. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath, then started to suck on the tube.

Things moved faster than he'd been expecting. Steven's first clue that something was wrong was when he got a mouthful of gasoline. He gagged, turned his head, and spat it on the floor, managing to drip some over his shirt and pants in the process. Still, he'd gotten the flow going. It wasn't too quick, but it was enough. The gas spattered into the bucket, the sound almost like that of rain against his window back home.

Once the bucket had been filled about halfway, Steven figured it would be enough and pulled the tube out of the car's tank. He then ripped one of the washcloths into three strips, straining to tear through the fabric, succeeding only because the cloth had been a little threadbare to begin with. He searched the garage again, flashlight in hand, and found a small plastic funnel amidst other assorted tools. Returning to the bottles, Steven held one between his knees, inserted the funnel, and then lifted the bucket. Pouring the gasoline into the funnel was once again not as simple as he'd expected, since the bucket was quite heavy with its load. Some gasoline slopped over the side, further soaking into Steven's pants.

He was able to fill the three bottles, though, with enough gas left to soak the three strips of rag before stuffing them into the bottles' necks and still leave a half inch at the bottom of the bucket. The entire garage reeked with the fumes, and the aftertaste lingered as a coating on Steven's tongue, but it would be worth it.

He didn't know if the gas would even ignite, if he was being honest. He was pretty sure it could go bad if left too long, and this had been left a long time indeed, but he wasn't sure if that would affect its ability to burn or just to power cars safely. It didn't really matter. He had three Molotov cocktails now, and he was the only one who knew there was a solid chance they were duds.

And now, Steven had just one more thing to do. In a corner, he dug around in his pack, removing everything except his provided food and equipment, his cologne, his coat (which he had mercifully not been wearing when he'd spilled gas on himself), and two sets of clothes. He stowed everything else on a table, figuring he could come back for it later if he ever needed it again, then changed into one of the remaining sets of clothing and sprayed himself liberally with the cologne. He was probably fighting a losing battle with Eau de Petrol, but damned if he wasn't going to go down swinging.

He stuck the bike pump in his bag with the spare set of clothes, and squeezed it into the basket. Then he wedged the three Molotovs in next to it, along with the chair leg. The pillowcase he transferred to the left hip pocket of his fresh pants, bulging them out awkwardly. The lighter from the first aid kit went in his right pocket.

Then he wrestled the bike out of the garage, a slightly challenging process because it involved getting it up a couple stairs that he'd barely even noticed on his way in. Steven blinked as he emerged into the light once more. He'd been in the garage and the nearby houses for somewhere around an hour, he estimated, time during which Theo had probably been doing his best to increase the distance between them. It might be tough to find him again, but when he did...

Steven was ready, now. He'd had his baptism of fire, and had come out with a much better idea of what it would take to get the killers to listen. He wouldn't be laughed off again.

He pulled himself onto the bike, and after a half second or so, tugged the rock-filled pillowcase from his pocket and dropped it on the ground. Anything messing up his leg mobility would be a huge liability. He was about to get rolling, but something felt wrong. He paused for a few seconds, considered, then leaned the bike against the wall of the house and ducked back inside.

Three minutes later, Steven was back, a dark blue bike helmet strapped to his head. Much better, especially since it fit well enough that he'd been able to give the matching pink helmet a pass.

Then he pushed off. It was wobbly at first, with the load in the bike's basket shaking his balance at first, but it was true what everyone said: there were some things you really never did forget.

A few minutes later, Steven was making fast progress, skimming along as he searched for troublemakers.

((Steven Salazar continued in Memories of the City))