Elliot R. Dallow The Last Petrol Head

The Last Petrol Head

When I was born, the doctor took me out the sunroof. The same scalpel what set me on the road stopped me ma’s engine runnin for good.

Twards the end of her term, when I was nearly grown nuff for comin out, she got sick. Real sick. They says the doctor did everythin what he could, even givin her more than her ration’s worth of water, but it didn’t help. In the end all he could do was pray to the Gods what ride on the roads bove. But that didn’t help neither.

Never knew nothin bout me pa. Some stranger me ma met at a engine market, least that’s the story most people says is true.

And trust me, people says a lot. I reckon I’s heard that story from jus bout everybody in town. They all says they was there, says they knew me ma. I guess that’s jus what it’s like growin up in a small town. And Route Seventeen is jus bout as small as they come; only thirty-seven vehicles all counted.

And so there I was, born without a ma or pa. Already further down the peckin order than anyone else. And that woulda been true even if I weren’t Born in October of all months. I know right? I reckon you’s thinkin, October, jeez, can’t a kid catch a break? Let me tell ya, I been thinkin the same thing me whole life.

We’s been on the road for twenty days straight, and tomorrow’ll be more of the same. The water tanks is all but empty see, so we’s chasin down the next geyser. I dunno if we’s anywhere close mind. It ain’t me place to know. Murph drives the big-rig and she’s the one with the map. The rest of us jus follow her and hope she ain’t wrong.

Tonight, the fire’s burnin bright and I’s sittin close to keep me hands warm. People always talk bout how hot the desert is. Well I’ll tell

ya it gets damn cold when the sun goes down. There’s a plate of two-week-old Gecko next to me but I can’t stomach no more of that, so I jus sit there.

Most night’s I’s alone. Not every night mind. Some nights Burt sits with me. He ain’t nothin to me or anythin, not by blood like. But he don’t mind hanging out with me, least not as much as the others do.

Now, I dunno if everyone in the whole desert is superstitious like, but everyone what lives on Route Seventeen is. Sometimes we stop at tradin spots, not often, but every now and then like. We stop to trade car parts and stories of what we’s seen on the road. Them is the only times I ever seen other people. So I don’t know much bout other folks, but I know Route Seventeen’s folks. And to them I’s jus a liability, nother accident waitin to appen. I was born under a bad sign see, and they ain’t never gonna let me off for that.

‘Fire’s gettin low. Bring us some of that Candlewood will ya?’

Tonight’s a Burt night and I don’t mind tellin ya I’s glad. What with the water so low, I need the distraction of a good convosation. Not that Burt talks much mind.

‘On it,’ I says.

I move to the car’s boot, pop the lid and grab a armful of the thin, woody sticks. Candlewood is what folks afore The Burn used to call Ocotillo. Not much still grows see, but Candlewood does. This stuff’ll grow anywhere. When it’s fresh it tastes worse than suckin sweat outta a old boot, but least it’s safe to eat. When it’s old and dry like this stuff is, it burns for hours.

‘Got anythin better to eat?’ I asks.

Burt shakes his head.

I wanna ask for a bit more water too, but I already know what his answer’ll be.

‘Maybe,’ I says. ‘Maybe tomorrow, afore we set off.’ I pause and clear me throat. ‘You could let me drive?’

‘No.’

He always says that.

‘But I gotta learn.’

He clenches his fists up and glares at me.

‘When was you born?’

‘You know when I was born.’

‘When was you born, boy, cause you don’t seem to member.’

I hate bein called boy.

‘October,’ I says.

‘That’s right.’ He sits up tall jus so he can look down on me. ‘You was born under the sign of the Wanderer. You’s a passenger at best and that’s jus the way it is. Be glad you ain’t hoofin it.’

‘Yeah, but I weren’t sposed to be born then was I? That’s not when I was due.’

‘You was born when you was born. Sposed don’t come inta it.’

He crosses his arms like that’s the end of it.

I lean back and look around. The convosation is done and I know the next words out of his mouth is gonna be tellin me to go to sleep, but I ain’t tired yet. Over me shoulder, Blaike is drawin a crowd. He’s talkin and makin all these big gestures with his hands, really gettin inta his story. All the other kids is listenin to him. Laughin and noddin. They’s jus as inta it as he is. I bet he’s talkin bout drivin today. It ain’t no big deal, not really, everyone our age has driven once or twice, well, everyone cept me. Blaike’s the first one to get his own car though. First one to become a man.

I take one last look at Burt and when I’s sure he ain’t keepin a eye on me no more, I slip off. I jog cross the sand til I get close, then start walkin cause I don’t wanna stand out or look like some over eager loser, ya know?

‘Yeah,’ Blaike says. ‘Yeah, I’s serious, I did it, I’s tellin ya I did.’ He stops when he sees me. That ever appen to you? Folks stop talkin when you get close? Yeah, well it don’t make you feel very welcome do it.

‘Alright?’ I says.

He snorts. Prick. Kelya, Tanner and Sawyr jus stare at me. Lyle’s already sniggerin.

I know what you’s thinkin, and yeah, I know. It ain’t like I’s a idiot, I know they don’t like me. That’s clear as a cactus on a mesa ain’t it. But thing is, it ain’t like I can go somewhere else and find new friends. Route Seventeen people is the only people I got, so like em or not, I’s got no choice cept keep tryin to change they minds bout me.

‘Whada you want?’ Blaike says.

‘Were you talkin bout yous car?’ I says, tryin to ignore the nasty ways they’s lookin at me.

‘Why?’ he says with a smile. ‘Know a lot bout cars, do ya?’

Told you he was a prick.

‘Well, uhh.’ Course I dunno what to says.

‘Yeah, so,’ he says, like he can’t wait to hear his own voice gain. ‘I was jus askin these guys what they reckoned bout the third pedal, ya know?’

I look round wonderin if anyone’s gonna speak, but they don’t. They’s jus waitin for me, grins on all they faces. And so I gotta speak ain’t I? But I dunno what to say. I ain’t never seen three pedals in a car, and it feels like a obvious stitch up. But I ain’t never seen many cars, nobody lets me get close on count of me bein bad luck. I seen Burt’s and he’s only got two pedals for sure, the ccelerator and the brake, but all cars is different and grease-monkeys is always comin up with summat new.

‘Ohh,’ I says when I feel like I can’t stall no more. ‘Well, uh, I’s for it,’ I says. ‘Ya know?’ I stumble for summat smart soundin to say. ‘Gives ya extra control, don’t it.’

Blaike slaps me on the shoulder and breaks down laughin.

‘Oh yeah,’ he says. ‘You really know yous cars don’t ya?’ He shakes his head. ‘Lectric cars only got two pedals. Everyone knows that.’

So, I said the wrong thing then, like usual. I’s blushin now and lookin at the ground cause they’s all crackin up and laughin at me.

‘Oh yeah,’ I says. ‘Good one.’

‘Yeah,’ Blaike says. ‘It was, weren’t it?’ He stops laughin and his face turns hard. ‘Now piss off, pedestrian, the grownups is talkin.’

Me stomach goes tight when he says it. I hate bein called that.

He wants me to leave, and I probly should, but I don’t. And why not? What am I gonna do? Smack him one? Yeah right, he’s twice the size of me, and he’s got his cronies to boot.

He steps right up close.

‘Why’s you still here?’

I stare at him, and I know I shouldn’t. I should be turnin and walkin away, but it’s like me body ain’t sure it wants to do what me head is tellin it to. Obviously me body don’t realise I never been in a fight afore.

‘Well?’ he says, lurchin twards me.

I flinch back and he and all of his gang starts laughin gain.

‘OK,’ I says. ‘I’s goin.’

I try not to hear em laughin and teasin while I’s walkin away, but I hear it all the same.

‘Why ain’t they dumped him already.’

‘Yeah, they should leave him in the desert. He ain’t doin us no good stickin round.’

‘Or leave him with nother town next time we meet one.’

‘Yeah, and then hope the slavers take that town afore he can ruin they lives.’

‘Yeah, I hear the slaver king likes little weaklins, likes to torture em afore he kills em.’

They is mean and nasty and I don’t like it. But I also know it ain’t they fault, not really. I don’t drive, can’t drive, I’m a freak. Why would they wanna talk to me?

When I get back, Burt’s still facin the fire.

‘Burt,’ I says, tryin me luck. ‘How many pedals does—’

‘Get some rest.’

He says it like it’s a suggestion, but I know it’s a order.

I wanna scream at him. Tell him that birthsigns don’t mean nothin. Tell him that I’s jus as capable at drivin as anyone else on the Route. Tell him that I deserve a chance and it ain’t fair, but I don’t. Cause this is me life, and it ain’t never gonna change.

It’s mornin, and the town’s on the move gain. I’s ridin shotgun in Burt’s low-rider sedan. The windows is up and the air-vents is closed to keep the dust out while we’s rumblin along. Hot rubber on hotter sand. Inside it’s like a dutch-oven on a campfire. The lizard-leather seats are thick with stinkin, stale, sweat. Least It’s only mine and Burt’s.

I’s starin out the window jus watchin the endless desert rollin past, one dune at a time. Me mouth is dry, so even though we ain’t got none, all I can think bout is water.

‘Cheer up kid.’

Burt keeps one hand on the wheel and thumps me in the shoulder with the other.

‘Eh,’ he says. ‘Might never appen.’

I jus keep starin. I ain’t in no mood for convosation.

‘Ahh, you’s duff company today ain’t ya.’

‘How much further?’ I says.

Me arse has gone so numb from all this sittin still that I’s startin to shimmy round like some sorta belly dancer.

‘No more than a day.’

He hocks up a big gob of phlegm, winds his window down, and spits it out. I should probly think it’s digustin, but I jus think it’s a waste of water.

‘What’s that?’ he says.

‘What?’

I spin round in me seat and look where he’s pointin. A plume of dust is billowin up over the crest of a nearby dune.

‘Looks like trouble,’ he says.

Xander de Vine

Xander de Vine is a procrastinating lesbian who plays far too many video games and does not read enough books. They’re trying on that last part though, really. They have been seen going down internet rabbit holes, wondering if they can fit down real rabbit holes and staring off into the middle distance completely still, being mistaken for a mannequin on no less than five separate occasions.

They are a student of the Bath Spa MA Writing for Young People, an enjoyer of gender and a ponderer of things. Currently living in Bath and working as a barista for Caffe Nero, Xander has come to realise that people who write about quaint little coffee shops have never actually worked in one. If you ask them to make your drink extra hot, they may serve it with ice cubes as an expression of rage about how many times they’ve been asked that question. They use They/Them, She/Her and He/Him pronouns.

devinexander@gmail.com / @cosmicaltiger

About Tempest

Striga, a member of the slave caste indentured to the Nyctos family of Deimos finds herself at the centre of a riot in the town she grew up in. She and her adoptive brother Kostas are taken in by Mare, a Nyctos who Striga has a derisive relationship with.

Striga and Kostas are chosen to join the noble caste after Striga shows powers that she should not have. They accept a contract with Mare that will pay them for the three years Mare has at the Academy.

The three make close allies in fellow students Aquila, Ulysses, Sejanus and Calix, and with their help are able to complete many of the Academy’s trials. After a conflict with Erebus, granddaughter of the Emperor and Thaddeus, Mare’s cousin, Striga uses the full extent of her storm powers and exposes herself as a former member of the slave caste.

Striga, helped by Kostas and Mare helps some escaped slaves leave the planet but does not join them. Mare reveals the parts of Striga’s past that she knows and they find that their last trial has been assigned to them. It takes them to an abandoned laboratory containing a desiccated corpse.

The corpse reanimates and the group defeat it and the army it had begun to resurrect. In recognition of their efforts the seven are awarded the highest honour the Academy can bestow and are taken to Elysium. Jupiter, the leader of the Olympiad, greets Striga by name and notes they have a lot of work to do.