Василиса Чмелева – The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City (страница 7)
"If you inflate it yourselves, you’re welcome to sleep here tonight," she said, pulling a portable pump from a small corner cabinet.
Handing it to me, she kicked off her boots and stretched blissfully onto her tiptoes.
"Take off your shoes," she advised. "The earth is cool and soothing to tired feet in the evening."
"I'm good, thanks," Oscar shook his head, tapping his rubber boots against the floor.
"Is there a repair shop around here?" I asked, not expecting a positive answer.
"Here, every resident has their own 'repair shop'—usually a garage," Selena crossed her arms, but upon seeing my grim expression, added: "There’s a little private workshop further down past the cliffs. Run by an old mechanic and his son. They can fix your bike. I always stop by when my trailer needs patching up."
"That’d be perfect—otherwise, I’ll have to pay Kurt a visit for some… explanations," I replied irritably. "And maybe patch up his jealous face while I’m at it."
Spending the night in a trailer in the middle of nowhere was its own special kind of ordeal. The van had baked under the sun all day, with not a single tree or body of water in sight. The silence, devoid of any city rhythms, was occasionally broken by the chirping of insects that sounded almost like cicadas.
Oscar, true to form, had fallen asleep instantly, only occasionally mumbling something incoherent in the depths of his slumber.
Selena, like me, wasn’t sleeping. We sat under the trailer’s awning on foldable camping chairs, a bronze kerosene lamp from what looked like the 12th century resting on the ground between us.
"Why are you alone?" I asked, watching as she fiddled with the beaded bracelet on her wrist.
"Who says I’m alone?" Selena sounded surprised. "You saw how many letters I have."
"You know what I mean. Why isn’t anyone traveling with you?"
"I never really thought about it."
She stood up, restless, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.
"Then why are you with Oscar?"
"Avoiding the question, Selena," I smirked.
"Fine, you win," she conceded. "I’m not… great with people. If I play hide-and-seek with myself, how can I ever really open up to others? Trust them?"
"You should try. You did let us stay the night, and you were the one who spoke to me first," I reminded her.
"You know what? You're right!"
Selena said it so loudly that a grumble came from inside the trailer—Oscar, stirring awake.
We laughed and headed inside. It was time to at least try to sleep.
After barely four hours of sleep, running on adrenaline from the upcoming tasks and sleep deprivation, I stepped out of the trailer to the mouthwatering aroma of frying sausages and coffee.
Oscar was already polishing off his breakfast with relish while Selena expertly flipped the remaining sausages on a small cast-iron grill, poking at them with a fork.
"Hungry?" she asked me, flashing a smile—this time genuine, without a trace of yesterday's unease.
"Starving," I nodded, dropping onto the beanbag chair next to Oscar that she'd dragged outside.
"We should do these outings more often," the kid said, licking his fingers. "Just gotta remember to pack rations next time."
"Easy there, cowboy," I snorted. "Your grandad's probably turning the place upside down looking for you."
"Doubt it. He usually takes off for two or three weeks at a time. Travel's in his blood."
"Funny," Selena said, handing me a plate of sausages that still sizzled and popped with heat. "Your grandfather once told me he hates traveling and only does it out of necessity."
"How long's it been this time?" I asked carefully.
"Not long," the kid shrugged, grabbing a glass of water from the folding table. "Five days, maybe."
I tried to calculate how long I'd been stuck with Oscar. By my internal clock, it had to be at least a week—but I had no proof.
After a cholesterol-and-caffeine-fueled breakfast, we hitched the motorcycle to the trailer and set off for the private repair shop Selena had mentioned earlier.
Chapter 4
As we pulled up to a small building with a neon sign reading "END OF THE LINE," two figures emerged to greet us.
An older man with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail tilted his head to the side, studying the bike with a critical eye. Meanwhile, a younger guy—presumably the mechanic's son—planted his hands on his hips and waited for us to climb out of the trailer, its door screeching shut behind us.
He too had long hair (though jet-black), tied up in a bun that gleamed with an oily sheen in the sunlight. It reminded me instantly of Indians and their lustrous braids, worn by both men and women.
The guy slid his sunglasses down his nose and gave me a nod.
"Another hotshot found our little 'End of the Line,' huh?" he drawled. "Lemme guess—you were just riding along when, outta nowhere, it decided to stop hauling your lazy asses through the backcountry?"
"We bought it from a local," I said, deciding to throw shade at the locals. "His name's Kurt. Heard of him?"
"Who hasn't heard of him?" The old man laughed, adjusting a wrench in his stretched-out jeans pocket that kept shifting and threatening to fall out. "That swindler buys up all the junk that shines and looks appealing, then sells it off as brand new."
"I'll beat the stupid out of him," I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress my anger.
"Oh come on, cool your jets!"
The young man approached the motorcycle (which Selena had already unhitched from the trailer) and gave it a quick once-over.
"This 'warrior' has plenty of life left. After repairs, it'll be good as new. Hell, I'd bet a pint of ale this bike sat in Kurt's place for ages."
"Why's that?" I grumbled, still riding my aggressive emotions.
"Kurt can't ride for shit," the old man chuckled, "but apparently his act as a hardcore biker works, since you fell for it."
The men burst into even louder laughter, and even Selena and Oscar turned away to avoid provoking me with their snickering.
"How long will it take you to find and fix the problem?" I asked, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the nagging urge to wipe those smirks off their faces.
"These things can't be rushed," the old man scratched the back of his head. "We're looking at three days of work."
"Three?" I was stunned. "You got some kind of waiting list or something?"
"We're always swamped with work," the old man said, offended. "We're the only mechanics around here all the way to the city."
I peered into the building—which looked more like a shipping container for valuable cargo than a proper repair shop.
"It's empty in there," I pointed out. "You don't have a single car."
"Why don’t you step inside first, smartass?" the younger guy egged me on, pushing his sunglasses up with his middle finger.
I didn’t resist and strode confidently into the container, pretending not to notice his crude gesture.
"Hanging up a sign and grabbing a wrench doesn’t make you a mechanic. Amateurs…" I muttered under my breath as I stepped inside.
The moment I entered, I was hit by a wave of cool dampness and the smell of motor oil mixed with cleaning products. I turned to the right—and couldn’t believe my eyes.
The space was big. No, it was enormous. Inside, everything was divided into sections by concrete partitions. I stepped carefully across the perfectly clean floor, staring at the assortment of vehicles like I was in a museum—ranging from the latest models to long-forgotten relics.
"Well?"
The young man fell into step beside me, popping a toothpick into his mouth with evident satisfaction.
"You fix all these yourselves?" I managed. "Where’d so many vehicles come from in the middle of nowhere? There’s not a soul for kilometers."
"More tourists than you’d think," he shrugged. "Name’s Ned, by the way. That’s my dad—Franklin. But he hates the full name, thinks it’s too pompous, so just call him Frank."