Make Some Noise
Something To Live For
The water is lukewarm and a little musty, spluttering and rust-coloured when I first open the tap. Well, Party Poison was right about one thing, I think as I unceremoniously jam my head under the stream and scrub the best I can. This certainly isn’t glamorous. I wring out my hair and let it fall damp and dripping down my back. When I look into the cracked, dirty mirror, I smile. The restless feeling that’s plagued my bones for the past month at Static is gone.
We’re in a small tumbleweed town somewhere along the edge of Zone 4 after driving for pretty much three days straight. When we passed by the wind-battered houses, we got a few wary, hostile glances, a few children were ushered inside. It’s a sober reminder that not everyone who lives out in the Zones is a Killjoy.
I step out of the tiny bathroom. We stopped here because Kobra Kid spotted the miniature Killjoy spider sticker on the window, a small sign of an ally. Here is an overflowing convenience store run by an older man and his gangly sixteen-year-old son. They both look a little awe-struck by our arrival, like they can’t believe their crappy little store in the middle of nowhere is being graced by the presence of the Fabulous Killjoys.
The heat starts drying my hair almost instantly when I step outside. I walk over to the car I’ve spent the past 72 hours crammed in with four boys. (Thank god Party Poison likes to drive with all the windows down.) Jet Star’s got a worn map open on the hood, the rest of the guys crowding around.
“Finally got it all out?” Fun Ghoul asks, smirking.
“Yes,” I say, making a face at him. The second time we stopped for food on the first day, he dumped a bottle of soda on my head, yelling, “Welcome to the best road trip of your life!” Party Poison intervened before a full-out soda-spraying battle began, making the valid point that we needed our supplies. And then proceeded to shake the rest of his soda on both of us. My hair was soaked, and it dried sticky.
We might all be a little insane.
“So we’re here right now,” Jet Star says, pointing to a spot on the map straddling the eastern border between Zone 3 and Zone 4. “And we’ve got to get here.” He slides his finger across the creased page to the southwest area of Zone 6. Jeez, it looks far.
“We should take Route Guano into Zone 1 and then go straight to Zone 6 from there,” Kobra Kid says. He’s so quiet, I’m still getting used to the sound of his voice. I think he’s still getting used to me. Everyone seems to be cool with his plan. Except me.
“Route Guano? Are you serious? Isn’t it–”
“Dangerous?” Fun Ghoul says with that fucking smirk again. I was going to say crawling with Dracs and outlaws much worse than us Killjoys, outlaws without a cause. “What’s there to be afraid of when we’re the most badass group on the road? We’re at the top of the food chain, Angel.” I roll my eyes at him but Party Poison interrupts before I can make a retort.
“It’s the fastest way and we’re tight on time, so we’ll take the risk. Nothing we haven’t done before,” he says. I shrug my acceptance and I can’t deny the thrill that passes through me.
***
We stock up on supplies from the convenience store, the man eager to help us out and getting his son to pack the trunk of the Trans-Am until it nothing else could possibly fit. “Where are we gonna keep the dead bodies now?” I joke. The look on their faces is priceless. The guys just laugh, Jet Star being the responsible one and informing them that no, we do not actually carry dead bodies around in our trunk.
That night, somewhere just inside Zone 3, I get my first taste of what setting up camp is like. We find some flat ground and the car gets parked just off the road. It’s obvious they’ve got this routine down by now. Soon a fire’s roaring and food's cooking, all packaged stolen BLi goods. Actually, most of our supplies are pilfered BLi products.
When Party Poison pulls out a portable broadcaster, I am thoroughly impressed and insatiably curious. It’s been forever since I last worked with one up close. He smiles when I scoot over beside him and watch as he contacts Girl’s radio. It makes me think of Electric Flux, when I asked him to find her some headphones and a mike and help her with it, because I wasn’t going to be around to do it myself. The way he looked like I’d kicked him in the stomach, the defensive shouting match that ensued, him nowhere to be found as I tightly hugged Sweet Sarcasm and a sniffling Ghost Candy goodbye.
Party Poison adjusts the signal and speaks quietly into the phone attachment, only a few words, but I get that vibe of deeper communication again, faintly. Then he straightens up and says in a louder voice, “Alright, I’m putting you on speakerphone.” The other guys perk up, glancing over, and Party Poison gestures them closer. “It’s Lithium,” he says, disengaging the phone and flicking a switch so Lithium’s voice crackles through the speakers.
“I’ve got an informant who has more information about the attack,” he says, clipped, straight to the point. “B.L.DiE is hosting a party at The Worst Place In The World two nights from now. Ask for the Headlock Jerkovs.”
“Roger that,” Party Poison says.
“Over and out.” Just like that, the signal disconnects, leaving us in the near-silence of the desert.
“Think we’ll make it?” Fun Ghoul asks aloud.
Party Poison nods thoughtfully. “Probably. It’s on the way.” Then he manages a half-grin, almost a smirk. “If I drive, we will.”
Kobra Kid snorts, “Yeah, ‘cause your driving is fuckin’ nuts.” Party Poison doesn’t bother to deny it and no one really presses the subject, because they’ve all sorta got a need for speed. It’s growing on me too, ironically fast.
I don’t know details, but according to what I’ve heard of B.L.DiE, they’re basically just a group of Killjoys that host wild Killjoy parties. I think Dr. D kept in contact with them, but I shut it down there, because the thought buries a spike of aching in my stomach. I’ve heard of The Worst Place In The World too, though I’ve never been. Supposedly it’s the spot for wild Killjoy parties and raves. You hear things when you work in a place like Static, with people constantly coming and going and talking.
The embers burn low by the time we settle down. It’s nice to stretch out in a sleeping bag, even with the rocky sand underneath me, after sleeping squished and all over each other in the back seat of the Trans-Am, the concept of personal space flung out the window. It’s a bolt of warmth in my chest when I think about how they’ve welcomed me into the group. Being on the road with them makes me feel like I have a purpose, like there’s something more to strive for again, something beyond just survival. Something called living.
It’s a raw, hopeful feeling, the feeling of being alive. And I never want to let it go.
We’re in a small tumbleweed town somewhere along the edge of Zone 4 after driving for pretty much three days straight. When we passed by the wind-battered houses, we got a few wary, hostile glances, a few children were ushered inside. It’s a sober reminder that not everyone who lives out in the Zones is a Killjoy.
I step out of the tiny bathroom. We stopped here because Kobra Kid spotted the miniature Killjoy spider sticker on the window, a small sign of an ally. Here is an overflowing convenience store run by an older man and his gangly sixteen-year-old son. They both look a little awe-struck by our arrival, like they can’t believe their crappy little store in the middle of nowhere is being graced by the presence of the Fabulous Killjoys.
The heat starts drying my hair almost instantly when I step outside. I walk over to the car I’ve spent the past 72 hours crammed in with four boys. (Thank god Party Poison likes to drive with all the windows down.) Jet Star’s got a worn map open on the hood, the rest of the guys crowding around.
“Finally got it all out?” Fun Ghoul asks, smirking.
“Yes,” I say, making a face at him. The second time we stopped for food on the first day, he dumped a bottle of soda on my head, yelling, “Welcome to the best road trip of your life!” Party Poison intervened before a full-out soda-spraying battle began, making the valid point that we needed our supplies. And then proceeded to shake the rest of his soda on both of us. My hair was soaked, and it dried sticky.
We might all be a little insane.
“So we’re here right now,” Jet Star says, pointing to a spot on the map straddling the eastern border between Zone 3 and Zone 4. “And we’ve got to get here.” He slides his finger across the creased page to the southwest area of Zone 6. Jeez, it looks far.
“We should take Route Guano into Zone 1 and then go straight to Zone 6 from there,” Kobra Kid says. He’s so quiet, I’m still getting used to the sound of his voice. I think he’s still getting used to me. Everyone seems to be cool with his plan. Except me.
“Route Guano? Are you serious? Isn’t it–”
“Dangerous?” Fun Ghoul says with that fucking smirk again. I was going to say crawling with Dracs and outlaws much worse than us Killjoys, outlaws without a cause. “What’s there to be afraid of when we’re the most badass group on the road? We’re at the top of the food chain, Angel.” I roll my eyes at him but Party Poison interrupts before I can make a retort.
“It’s the fastest way and we’re tight on time, so we’ll take the risk. Nothing we haven’t done before,” he says. I shrug my acceptance and I can’t deny the thrill that passes through me.
***
We stock up on supplies from the convenience store, the man eager to help us out and getting his son to pack the trunk of the Trans-Am until it nothing else could possibly fit. “Where are we gonna keep the dead bodies now?” I joke. The look on their faces is priceless. The guys just laugh, Jet Star being the responsible one and informing them that no, we do not actually carry dead bodies around in our trunk.
That night, somewhere just inside Zone 3, I get my first taste of what setting up camp is like. We find some flat ground and the car gets parked just off the road. It’s obvious they’ve got this routine down by now. Soon a fire’s roaring and food's cooking, all packaged stolen BLi goods. Actually, most of our supplies are pilfered BLi products.
When Party Poison pulls out a portable broadcaster, I am thoroughly impressed and insatiably curious. It’s been forever since I last worked with one up close. He smiles when I scoot over beside him and watch as he contacts Girl’s radio. It makes me think of Electric Flux, when I asked him to find her some headphones and a mike and help her with it, because I wasn’t going to be around to do it myself. The way he looked like I’d kicked him in the stomach, the defensive shouting match that ensued, him nowhere to be found as I tightly hugged Sweet Sarcasm and a sniffling Ghost Candy goodbye.
Party Poison adjusts the signal and speaks quietly into the phone attachment, only a few words, but I get that vibe of deeper communication again, faintly. Then he straightens up and says in a louder voice, “Alright, I’m putting you on speakerphone.” The other guys perk up, glancing over, and Party Poison gestures them closer. “It’s Lithium,” he says, disengaging the phone and flicking a switch so Lithium’s voice crackles through the speakers.
“I’ve got an informant who has more information about the attack,” he says, clipped, straight to the point. “B.L.DiE is hosting a party at The Worst Place In The World two nights from now. Ask for the Headlock Jerkovs.”
“Roger that,” Party Poison says.
“Over and out.” Just like that, the signal disconnects, leaving us in the near-silence of the desert.
“Think we’ll make it?” Fun Ghoul asks aloud.
Party Poison nods thoughtfully. “Probably. It’s on the way.” Then he manages a half-grin, almost a smirk. “If I drive, we will.”
Kobra Kid snorts, “Yeah, ‘cause your driving is fuckin’ nuts.” Party Poison doesn’t bother to deny it and no one really presses the subject, because they’ve all sorta got a need for speed. It’s growing on me too, ironically fast.
I don’t know details, but according to what I’ve heard of B.L.DiE, they’re basically just a group of Killjoys that host wild Killjoy parties. I think Dr. D kept in contact with them, but I shut it down there, because the thought buries a spike of aching in my stomach. I’ve heard of The Worst Place In The World too, though I’ve never been. Supposedly it’s the spot for wild Killjoy parties and raves. You hear things when you work in a place like Static, with people constantly coming and going and talking.
The embers burn low by the time we settle down. It’s nice to stretch out in a sleeping bag, even with the rocky sand underneath me, after sleeping squished and all over each other in the back seat of the Trans-Am, the concept of personal space flung out the window. It’s a bolt of warmth in my chest when I think about how they’ve welcomed me into the group. Being on the road with them makes me feel like I have a purpose, like there’s something more to strive for again, something beyond just survival. Something called living.
It’s a raw, hopeful feeling, the feeling of being alive. And I never want to let it go.
5/9/13