I lit a cigarette and leaned against a brick wall at the rear of the airport's carpark as taxis hissed past. Carl was still inside, sorting out our ride. It would a five-hour drive from Redding International to Fort Jones, and after the flight I'd just suffered, I made it clear to Carl I that I'd need something with a little legroom.

The kid who'd been sitting behind me on the flight had woken up thirty minutes or so after I'd knocked him out and had thought better of kicking my seat again. In fact, he didn't say another word. The brandy had soothed my headache a little, but I'd still felt tense and found myself wondering if maybe if the kid wasn't to blame completely for my foul mood.

Truth was, I hadn't liked the thought of Susie being anywhere near where four Storms had gone missing. Died. And I hadn't really liked the thought of seeing her again period, neither. But unlike me, the plane didn't have doubts, it just kept shooting inexorably forwards towards California.

A car honks. A red Ford Mustang, a thick black stripe running up its center. The vehicle suits Carl, who's sitting behind the wheel. Matches his slicked black hair and thick-rimmed sunglasses.

"Can I give you a ride?" He gives me his best white-toothed grin."It's a convertible, too, if you want the roof down. You can stick your legs out of that, am I right? Can't get more room than a convertible."

"It'll do," I reply, stepping into the road and walking around to the rear of the car.

Carl leans out the open window. "Hey, where you going?"

"Just behind you. Carl, listen, I need you to rev the engine," I say. "Couple of times. When I say go, got it?" I crouch down and put my mouth by the exhaust. "Okay, go!"

"...What?"

Sigh. "I said go! Rev the fucking engine, Carl."

He pauses. There's honking from the car behind him, the car that's bonnet is almost up my ass. "Carl, there are people waiting. So rev the car."

Finally, he gives its some gas and a stream of black smoke blasts out. I cover the exhaust the best I can with my mouth and inhale deeply, swallowing it down. "One more time, Carl!"

This time, less hesitation. The burning black soot flows down my lungs.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" says the driver of the car behind. He's out of his vehicle, watching me cup my mouth around the metal, his white vest struggling to cover his beer-belly. "This a queer thing?"

I get to my feet, my stomach letting me know it's had enough. A burp escapes me, mostly black still -- it's not had the time to be digested and changed into its essence. I flip the guy the bird and get into the passenger seat.

"Ready."

Carl nods, slowly, and pulls away. He doesn't say anything until we're on the highway, the evening sun blazing an orange trail on the hills in front of us. "So uh, does it taste good or something?"

"What do you think?"

Scratches his chin. "I don't think it tastes good at all. But you know, my momma is Italian, and she's always talking about the quality of ingredients, so you know, maybe I'm just snobby when it comes to that kind of thing."

I almost laugh. Carl would bend so far back to please me, or at least to not offend me, that he'd willingly snap his own spine in the process.

"It doesn't taste good, Carl. Tastes like shit, in fact. But you get used to it."

The road is quiet. Few cars heading the opposite way to us. No cars our side. No one heading up north. From what I'd read on the plane, the radius of the no-go zone had been stable for a few days, ever since the Storms had arrived. Before that though, it had expanded erratically and massively. Hundreds dead in the first day. If it was an act of God, then it was just luck the plague, or whatever it was, had broken out in a pretty desolate area, population-wise.

"Then why'd you do it?"

It had taken Carl a minute to ask his question as if it had been sitting on his tongue but afraid to dive off into the water. Didn't want to offend.

"You know how diabetics have to inject themselves with some shit every day? Sugar or something."

"Insulin."

"Sure, insulin. Well, that exhaust smog is like my home-made insulin injection. And it's a little more than that, besides. But think of it that way. Insulin."

He nods, but he's likely thinking how unlucky he got to have befriended the biggest freak of all the Storm Borns.

"There's a job waiting at the bar, if you ever need one," he says.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Cleaning the shitters. They stink, let me tell you. A man with your talents is worth his weight in gold to a man like me -- I got a feeling it might take you longer than a single Friday night to quit on me."

And I'm laughing. Carl actually surprised me. He's grinning too. And for the first time since that news report at the bar, my nerves lessen. Puts me in a good enough mood to ask Carl a question. "Your mom teach you to cook?"

"Yeah, a little. I do a mean spaghetti bol. She wanted me to open a restaurant, you know? Not a bar."

"Why didn't you?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Just always wanted to own my own bar. To work as the barman and be there for people to unload their lives to. Like a shrink, except, you know, I give people vodka instead of advice."

"That's better than advice."

"Right? Cheaper, too." A long pause. "Too cheap."

I catch him frowning. "Too cheap?"

"Ehh, rough times at the moment. But uh"--he looks at me and smiles--"when people hear a hero like you drinks in my little waterhole, they'll come flooding in. Prices can go up some, too."

"I'm not a hero."

"Not yet."

"Not planning on being."

"Sure, well, just a Storm Born. People will just assume you're a hero. That's all that matters."

"Right."

"Radio?" he asks.

"Sure."

He flicks through a few stations until the thrumming dual guitars of "Hotel Califonia" ring out.

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair.

I click my fingers. "This. Pump it up."

He twists the volume knob until the Eagles are almost deafening us, as we ride into the evening, towards a poisoned cloud. But in this light, on this road that cuts through redwoods and farmland, danger seems so distant. So vague and abstract that it seems almost absurd.

'Relax' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive.

You can check out any time you like, But you can never leave!'