Light presses in on my eyelids, dawn-light, soft and watery. Whatever time it is, it’s way too early to be awake. Why am I awake? I’m warm and relaxed, a comforting weight draped across my hip. I shift and open my eyes, staring blearily, tracing the pale curve of a throat, cheekbones, eyelashes, a tangle of candy-apple red.

I slam into consciousness.

“Fucking hell,” I gasp, shooting upright so fast sparkles dance dizzily across my vision. My heart bangs against my ribcage like it’s trying to escape. His arm slides off me and he moves, blinking sleepily up at me and smiling a little.

“Morning, Angel,” he says. His voice. Fucking hell.

“Morning,” I manage weakly. I’m surprised my face doesn’t burst into flames.

He sits up and rubs his eyes, asking, “Did you sleep well?” like I wasn’t just curled up against him, possibly drooling on his chest. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and then drag it through the snarls in my hair, averting my eyes and nodding, thoroughly mortified. Not that the lot of us haven’t slept all over each other before, but that was crammed in the car. This is out in the expanse of the desert, and, and, it’s Party Poison, and somehow that makes a difference.

The rest of the guys are still asleep, thank god. No witnesses. We went to bed in a line – Kobra Kid, Party Poison, me, Fun Ghoul, Jet Star – close together because the desert gets fucking cold at night. I’ve always moved in my sleep a lot; I must have wiggled towards the extra warmth. He gets to his feet and shuffles to the Trans-Am, a moment later tossing me a water bottle and a toothbrush tablet. I suck on it until the fizzy mint fades and my mouth feels clean, taking a gulp of water and splashing some on my face, wiping it dry with my tank top.

Party Poison does the same and then gets this mischievous look on his face, meeting my gaze and then nodding to the still-sleeping bodies. Kobra Kid is dead to the world, breathing deeply with his mouth a little open, but he jerks awake comically fast when Party Poison stomps on the ground beside his head. Kobra scowls and curses and Party Poison’s got a still-slightly-drowsy shit-eating grin. I laugh, standing on my sleeping bag in my sock feet and deciding to wreak some havoc of my own.

“Fun Ghoul,” I say, nudging him with my foot.

“Mmmghf,” he grunts.

“Fun Ghoul,” I say louder, pushing a little harder, prodding his side with my toes.

“Fuggoff,” he mutters, swatting my leg away and yanking the corner of his sleeping bag over his head.

“Fun Ghoul, time to wake up!” I sing-song. And suddenly his hand shoots out and yanks on my ankle. I shout and go tumbling, laughing as he worms his way on top of me, still in his bag, and slumps there, whining, “Let me sleeeeep.”

“Fuck, Fun Ghoul,” I gasp, still laughing. “I can’t–can’t breathe, you fatass–”

“FATASS!?” he yells, outraged.

“Will you guys shut up?” Jet Star’s voice complains from the far side. But Fun Ghoul is tickling me and I think I’m officially shrieking, hysterical, hitting notes I didn’t know I could.

“Party Poison–SAVE ME–AHHH–!” Party Poison just laughs, shaking his head and going back to the Trans-Am. “PARTY POISON, KOBRA KID, ANYONE! PLEASE–!” And then the déjà-vu hits me so hard it sends me reeling and I choke on air, I can’t drag it in anymore, my throat swelling. I’m not here anymore, I’m in a different part of the desert, desperately calling for help, help that never came, and there are lasergunshots shattering glass a gravelly voice swearing at Draculoids the smell of gasoline–

I’m screaming, I realize, Fun Ghoul no longer tickling me but still on top, holding down my wild thrashing and shouting my name. The sound cuts off and I can’t believe I triggered myself like that, in front of them. Party Poison is kneeling next to us and Fun Ghoul is asking if I’m okay, both of them with these huge concerned eyes. My heart isn’t hammering in my chest anymore but my hands shake and I clench them into fists.

God, I am so fucked up.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, shoving a little so Fun Ghoul rolls off and I can get up. “Sorry, I, um, don’t handle tickling too well.” And it’s such a lame, inadequate explanation, but what the hell am I supposed to say? Yeah guys, careful, I’m having crippling flashbacks? No.

“Alright,” Fun Ghoul says slowly, “No more tickling.”

I nod, muttering, “Sorry.” I hate how I can feel Party Poison’s gaze, how it feels like he understands, something, somehow, and I meet it defiantly. But I waver, and end up studying my dirty knees, my scuffed boots sitting beside my wrinkled sleeping bag, wishing I could dissolve into desert dust and blow away and absolutely hating it; I hate feeling weak.

“Coffee,” Kobra Kid says, tossing packets at Party Poison and Fun Ghoul, effectively breaking up the uncomfortable moment. “We gotta get going, you’re gonna have to drink it cold.” Party Poison makes a face as he rips open the packet and pours the caffeinated powder in his water. I shoot Kobra Kid a grateful glance and I’m pretty sure the slight tilt of his head is a nod.

***

It’s late in the day when Party Poison announces from the driver’s seat, “Route Guano up ahead.” It’s my turn riding shotgun and I peer forward, squinting through the heat-mirage. It takes a moment and then I see it, the four wide lanes of baked asphalt, stretching parallel to the horizon, into the distance. The radio is pounding out a beat and Party Poison has a dangerous grin ghosting around his mouth, slamming on the gas.

The car jumps and accelerates with a growl. Route Guano is coming up fast, too fast. There’s no way we’re going to make the turn like this. What the hell is he–?

“Hold on!” Party Poison shouts before I can say anything, jerking the wheel hard to the right. I brace myself against the dash as the car skids sideways and drifts, throwing up a cloud of dust behind us, wheels screaming, rubber burning. Fun Ghoul whoops in the back and I yell, “Holy fuck!” but I can’t stop my grin as the car evens out again, catching my breath. That was fucking awesome and I say as much.

“Welcome to Route Guano,” Party Poison replies with a grin of his own.

“Where the shit goes down!” Fun Ghoul adds from the back seat and I laugh.

The sun beats down from the sky. There are rocky hills in the distance, stunted trees and scraggly plants around us, proof that this desert isn’t entirely flat or completely dead. But I don’t really get a chance to settle down for the ride and take it all in because a minute later Party Poison is looking in the rear-view mirror and saying, “Shit’s about to go down right now.”

I glance in my side-mirror and freeze, a heart-stopping moment of full-body paralysis. Draculoids, eight or nine of them, bearing down on us on their motorcycles. My chest squeezes. “Shit,” I gasp, but no one seems particularly concerned; Party Poison keeps the car cruising smoothly as they get closer. I jump when a shot is fired.

“Now?” Fun Ghoul asks impatiently from the back, and I can hear the excitement in his voice. Actually, the whole car is buzzing with it. Party Poison pauses, scrolling the back windows down, glancing in the mirror again. A second shot is fired.

“Now,” he says. In one fluid motion, Fun Ghoul and Jet Star rise through the open windows, turning to face the Draculoids, guns in hand. I keep my eyes trained on my side-mirror, listening to the shots, to Fun Ghoul’s animated shouting, grinning vindictively when one goes down. They really know what they’re doing, I think, and it’s a strange, jolting reminder that duh, they’re the Fabulous Four. They’ve probably handled much worse than just a few Dracs on the road.

But suddenly, just as I think it, there are more than just a few Dracs. They gather on the road behind us like a swarm of wasps, spill out from behind a tumble of rocks and stunted bushes up ahead.

Is this an ambush?

“Fuckin’ looks like it,” Party Poison says tightly, not so relaxed anymore, his brows drawing together. “Fun Ghoul, how we lookin’?” he calls over his shoulder.

“We’re fuckin’ good!” Fun Ghoul shouts back, not sounding the least bit bothered.

Party Poison rolls his eyes. “Jet Star?” Jet Star just sort of grunts in a non-committal way, like he doesn’t want to say how bad it is. I can hear the laserbeams hitting the body of the car. “Fuck,” Party Poison swears, hitting the gas. Kobra Kid is sitting in the middle of the back seat and starts getting up, reaching for his gun. Party Poison meets his eyes, narrowing his own. He mouths an unfamiliar word warningly and Kobra stays down, scowling.

Then it hits me – why the fuck am I just sitting here? There’s a flare of hate in my stomach, the need to lash out. This is the first time I’ve come face-to-face with Draculoids again in the past four months. I roll down my window and reach for Pink Lightning, holstered in my boot. I’m almost surprised to find my hands are steady. The radio is still on, and I catch a memorable riff.

Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na!

I lean out the window, take aim, and get trigger-happy. The adrenaline rush is insane; I feel alive down to the tips of my fingers and toes, wind yanking at my hair and clothes. I take down one, two Draculoids. “Fuck yeah, Angel’s on fire!” Fun Ghoul shouts. I shout back intelligibly, laughing, leaning farther out, and I hear Party Poison swear loudly somewhere behind me. The car swerves suddenly and I scream a little, but it’s a thrill-scream, not a scared-scream.

And then there’s a hand fisting in the back of my jacket, hauling me back inside the car. “Death Angel,” Party Poison spits. “Do you have a death wish?”

“We’re kicking ass!” I tell him, reaching over without warning. He startles when my hand lands on his leg, yanking his gun out of the holster at his thigh. “Kicking ass!” I say again with a wild grin, lunging for the open window. He swears again, viciously, and I feel him grab a hold of my belt, holding me steady. Now that I’ve got two guns, shit’s about to get real.

“EAT LASER, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

We shoot until my fingers cramp, my arms and shoulders aching, until finally the horde of Draculoids retreats. We haven’t managed to gun them all down, but they fade into the distance. Party Poison slips his fingers out of my belt loop as I slump back in my seat. Fun Ghoul and Jet Star do the same in the back.

“What’s the damage?” Party Poison asks tersely.

“The car’s pretty beat up,” Jet Star reports. “I got grazed. Just my arm, nothing major,” he adds quickly.

Party Poison nods. “We’ll deal with it properly when we stop for the night then,” he says. “Fun Ghoul?”

“I’m good,” Fun Ghoul replies. “Nice job, guys.” He leans forward and reaches around the seat, ruffling my hair. “Fuckin’ awesome shooting, Angel. Knew you had it in you.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile, still a little breathless. “That was crazy. Does this happen a lot?”

“More often than you’d think,” Party Poison replies. “They’re always trying to wear us down, we always pull through.” The tension doesn’t really leave him, just sort of retreats farther below the surface. He glances at me. “You okay?”

​Echoing Fun Ghoul, I say, “I’m good.”