The escape from Bastille Point went with relative ease as July and Tom raced to the garage while the conflict at the bar distracted most of the authorities. Slate’s vehicle was a military-style Jeep similar to their old one but slightly heavier. July opened the door and let Biscuit jump onto the back seat. Tom put the keys in the ignition.
“Don’t nearly kill us this time,” said July. He gripped his bag tightly as they sped off.
The town gates, which stayed open during the day, flashed past them as they waved Bastille Point goodbye, eager to put a long trail of dust between them and that unpleasant town. The events of the morning replayed in July’s head; first playing a peculiar game of chess with Oliver, and then smashing a bottle of whiskey of a man’s head. He recalled Oliver standing quietly in the doorway as the brawl took place and wondered if the Royalist stranger had anything to do with it, not that it really mattered. He went through his pack and fished out a Rolling Stones cassette-tape; it was a long drive to Red-Rock Pass, with nothing to look at but dirt and ruins.
When the imminent threat of death wore off they found a dark sense of humour in the silence between them, broken only by the humming of the car and the up-beat melody of ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. Tom grinned wearily. “That’s twice we’ve screwed the Christians. No way in hell we’re going back there.”
Tired but amused, July leaned back in his seat and stared at the hazy ruins of an abandoned gas station. “I miss it already.”
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