[identity profile] alls-fair-in.livejournal.com
A black Ford F-350 pickup truck moves along a narrow unpaved road towards the Cooper Farm. The exterior is a mess of cracked glass, dents, bullet holes, scratched paintwork and mud spatter, but it seems to be running smoothly. In the back, a more pristine-looking motorbike is held in place by bungee cords and a large pile of duffel bags, gas cans and other outdoor survival gear. There's also a tool box behind the cab, containing a sizable arsenal of guns, explosives and ammunition, and one very hi-tech bow. It's clear that this vehicle has been on the road for quite some time.

Jamie's at the wheel, keeping a sedate speed and tapping along lazily to a Steve Miller Band song. Eleanor is dozing in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard.

Since their arrival and subsequent alien encounter in Nebraska eight months ago, the two of them have conducted a fairly thorough tour of the United States: northerly parts in the fall and warmer climes during the winter. In that time, Jamie has learnt how to drive automatics and stick shifts, and Eleanor has figured out what his 'episodes' are, and how best to control them. They've roughed it at times, at others they've taken advantage of civilian abandonment, and there've been plenty of monsters, fights and adventures along the way. It was only a few days ago that Jamie accidentally tuned in to Barbara's automated radio transmission and discovered the existence of the Kansas safe-zone. They decided to check it out.

The truck hits a deep pothole as it enters the main yard of the farm. Eleanor's head thumps against the side window, jarring her awake.

"...Ow," she mumbles, eyes still closed. "Nice road. Are we there yet?"


[OOC: Two pups, two muns. Tag either or both.]
[identity profile] hippos-purros.livejournal.com
A few days ago. . .

There was the usual flash, but. . . instead of a bang, a pathetic jingling noise. And out of nowhere stepped a young woman with waist-length copper hair and orange eyes. She raised an eyebrow, and looked around. Either this is wherever a Horseman of the Apocalypse goes when she's finally defeated, or. . . somewhere else. She was betting on somewhere else.

Somewhere else that is as much in the middle of nowhere as it's possible to be. She guessed Eastern Europe, but she could be wrong. The middle of nowhere called for a vehicle more rugged than her usual sports car, so her piercing whistle summoned up a cherry red Landrover.

She climbed in, slid in a Wagner CD, and cranked the volume way up.

Roadtrip. If she's got this world to herself, she's going to damned well make the most of it.

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