STORY & ART BY JOEL TAGERT A hundred miles from the poisoned ghost of Salt Lake the rearview screen on the dash caught a flash of sun on a vehicle topping a ridge miles back. The horizontality of it caught Maya’s eye: a brilliant hyphen winking in the late afternoon sun. Can we rewind the video on this screen? Walter looked over at her. Sure. Here. Swiping it over to the main dash display. She found the image she wanted and zoomed in. Along with the LED light bar on the rack, something about the truck’s silhouette looked familiar, the contour of roof-mounted equipment like an uprooted cairn. She bit her lip. I think we’re being followed. Seriously? Followed by who? I’ve seen this truck before. It’s the same guys that tried to take me in Washington. Are you sure? Not a hundred percent. But I also don’t want to wait for them to No. 128 catch up with us. I hear you. Walter pressed the accelerator and the Sunrunner’s hum rose higher. The RV was designed for efficiency, not speed, but even so it was electric and soon was doing ninety-five. You want me to call the highway patrol? What? Don’t be stupid. They’d put me in a detention center again. And probably arrest you for kidnapping or aiding a fugitive or something. Good points all. They were both watching the rearview screen intently, and both saw the truck when it appeared again. Clearly it had sped up to match them and was now gaining. Can we outrun them? Do you know what kind of truck it is? It’s old school, like with a gas engine. I think a Ford F-250 maybe? Then we might outrun them for a while. Our top speed might beat theirs. Problem is — he tapped the charge readout — we’ve been
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