In this bit, Duncan, a reporter for a British newspaper, is off to rescue Ellie. He's driving across the White Mountain Apache Reservation. Again, the usual caveat, it's rough as industrial strength sandpaper.
Back in the car, he put the necklace in the glove compartment and bit into the chocolate. He’d forgotten how little Hershey’s tasted like real chocolate and washed away the sour taste with a mouthful of water. Spots of rain flecked the windshield as he pulled back onto the quiet road. A soft rumble of thunder heralded the approach of a storm. Lightning flickered across the inky underbelly of the storm. The land was washed in silence, the dark trees still. Duncan turned on the windscreen wipers when the rain began to fall in earnest and slowed down. Thunder rolled across the high meadows and the landscape was obscured by the grey, shifting veil of low cloud. Two men with long black hair walked along the cinder verge, huddled and bent against the wind. Duncan put the gun in the door pocket and slowed right down.
“You two need a ride somewhere?” He wanted company. Show Low wasn’t far, but he’d had weeks of driving in silence. He didn’t think two soaking wet walkers would cause much trouble, he had the gun.
“For reals?” They were both young, long black hair pulled back into drenched ponytails.
“Yup.” He unlocked the doors and they piled in, one in the front, the other in the back seat.
“Where do you need to go?”
“Then it’s your lucky day. I’m headed there.” He pulled back onto the road again
“Someone has to, I guess.” The one in the front seat said. “There isn’t much there these days.”
“You’re going there.”
“There’s even less on the Rez.”
Duncan looked out of the window and saw nothing but rain-washed meadows and forest. “Yea, I imagine so.”
They introduced themselves. Front seat passenger was Joe, back seat passenger, George. They were heading to Show Low for a party.
“Are you Australian?” Joe asked. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“Everyone always thinks that.” Duncan had been mistaken for an Australian more often than not on his journey. “I’m English.”
“What the fuck is an English guy wanting to go to Show Low for?” George leaned forward.
“Some people stole a friend of mine and I’m going to get her back.”
“Heard of the Brothers of Enos?”
“Those crazies? Shit, yes. You don’t plan on walking in there and taking her out, do you? Those nuts are armed.”
“Cool.” Joe grinned. “I always heard the English were crazy.”
“Why did they take your friend anyway?”
“It’s a long story and I don’t suppose I should even be telling you. All I know is that I need to get her out of there.”
“She must be pretty special.”
Duncan shrugged. “I hardly know her. I just don’t like people taking my friends without my permission.”
“Shit, man. You sound like James Bond.” There was laughter in George’s voice. “What do you plan to do?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Duncan wasn’t about to give anything away.”I’ll figure something out.” The trees began to yield to houses and traffic lights. The rain slowed as they drove into Show Low. “Where do you need to go?”
“Just drop us off up here, at the MacDonalds. We’ll be fine from there.”
He turned into the MacDonalds parking lot and pulled into a space. The lights from the restaurant spilled into the gloom left by the storm. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, man. Good luck getting your friend.” Joe fumbled in his pocket and took out a scrap of paper and a pen. “If you need any help, here’s my number. I’m not sure what we can do, but let me know. I hate those crazy fuckers.”
“And they hate us.” George muttered as he opened the door. “We’ll be in town for a few days, so just give us a holler.”
“Thanks.” Duncan wasn’t sure what two young Apaches, hell bent on partying could do to help, but he was grateful nonetheless. “I might just take you up on that.”
Joe laughed. “Just don’t ask us to storm the compound with you. We don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”
‘Bloody shame you don’t, mate.’ Duncan thought as he drove away.