The Cadillac with its huge engine easily kept pace with the sluggish bus. I didn’t even want to imagine how much precious gas that pink behemoth was burning. These guys obviously didn’t take their survivalism very seriously.
A couple of them were standing on the car’s hood, firing wildly at my bus, while Mr. Monster Truck was crammed behind the steering wheel, still shouting his manifesto above the roar of our engines.
I dropped my pack on the gas pedal and tossed a handful of potato chips across the dashboard. With a grunt (from both of us) I picked up Junior and propped him against the steering wheel. Immediately he began to hoover up the chips while providing us with some nice, random, evasive manoevers.
I ran to the back of the bus, unslinging Bessy as I went – her magazine had four shots left.
I kicked open the emergency door at the bus’ rear and squatted, bracing myself against a seat as the pig ‘drove’ wildly. The big man dropped his megaphone and joined in the shooting. I levelled Bessy and took aim.