When We Shed Civilization

Chapter 27

The music faded away with the singer repeating no way to slow down, leaving a ring in Beth's ears.

"Hey, you've got electricity," Burt said and gestured his empty glass towards the brightly lit window of the shed.

Jethro nodded, and the firelight highlighted the silver strands in his hair. "Sure do. And we're the only ones in the whole cesspit of a town."

A new song started from the shed, much softer this time. The voice of a flute fought its way through the ancient speakers.

"We've got electricity, too," Burt said, grinning.

"Oh." Jethro raised an eyebrow. "And who's you? Where do you come from?"

"Seaside." The pride in Burt's voice was unmistakable.

Beth wondered if divulging that kind of information among these people was a wise idea.

"Ah, the gated village!" Jethro nodded. "So, what are you doing in the city, then?"

"We..." Burt hesitated. "We traveled on the highway when some idiots with bows ambushed us. Captured us... But we got away." He smiled.

"Most people around here are idiots. Do you know who they were?"

"Who cares?" Burt said. "We kicked their asses and ran. They dwell in some kind of stadium. Their boss calls himself Hammer."

"Ah, the Baseballers! No wonder you could escape." Jethro's raw laughter was echoed by the chortles of the others. "Them are brutes. No culture." He pointed his thumb at the shed at its back where the music came from. "No electricity. No gasoline."

The gasoline was something that Beth had been wondering about. She turned to Whitesnake. "How come you've got gasoline? I thought all of what's left of it is stale, useless."

Before Whitesnake could answer, Ozzy cleared his throat. He gestured at the two cylindric tanks next to the square. Each one was at least ten yards across and maybe half as high. "That's the depot. It's still got lots of gasoline."

Beth had guessed so. "This makes sense. But why does the gasoline still work? Isn't it too old?"

"It doesn't work just like that. But we... possess it." Ozzy crossed his arms before his chest and nodded importantly.

"We process it," Whitesnake clarified. "We run it through a distiller." She pointed at the metal contraption of tubes and vessels between the two tanks. "It's a machine like what we use for making this drink here." She held up her glass and looked at it, a small smile on her face. "You heat the old gasoline, kind of cook it. Make the spirits in it rise. And then you catch them... the spirits. Them are still alive and powerful. Them are the soul of the gasoline."

"We even blend it with the drink," Jethro added.

When Beth lowered her glass, he laughed. "No, there's no gasoline spirit in this drink, don't worry. But we add some of our drink to the gasoline for the bikes. It gives'em more strength."

Beth nodded but said nothing. The tale fascinated her, but was it safe to carry the burden of this gang's secrets? She didn't believe in spirits, but the knowledge of how they process the gasoline must be worth a fortune in this world depleted of power. So why would they share?

"You have my word," Jethro said and raised his glass, "there's no gasoline in the drink. So don't offend us and have another one."

Her mind already afloat in the wild magic of the alcohol, Beth knew she'd better refrain. But she didn't want to anger the man. So she raised the glass to her lips and pretended to take another sip. "I shall drink wine and be above vulgar economy," she said as she stared into her glass, more to herself than to anyone else.