Page 55 of Road Queens
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
T-CLOCS (Check Every Time Before Ride)
“The number of fatalities per vehicle mile traveled was 37 times higher for motorcycles than for cars,” per the USDOT site Amanda checked regularly.
Fortunately, steps could be taken to reduce the chance of winding up a mangled statistic.
T—Tires and wheels. Visually inspect to make sure they’re properly inflated; check your brakes. Brakes that do not slow the vehicle in question are bad brakes.
C—Controls. Check all levers and switches, check all cables, and test your throttle. Check and double-check to make sure everything’s right and tight.
L—Lights. Super-duper important for obvious reasons. Check headlamps, brake lights, turn signals. It’s hard enough for drivers to notice motorcycle riders; don’t give them an easy her-lights-were-out-and-she-came-outta-nowhere! excuse.
O—Oil and other fluids (brake, coolant, etc.). Check levels; be alert for leaks. Leaks = bad.
C—Chassis. How’s the frame? Loose? Anything rattling? Cracks? Breaks?
S—Stands. Make sure both (sideandcenter) work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Detective Beane strolled out from wherever he’d been lurking—as an ex-cop, he seemed to have a penchant for getting in / popping up everywhere—and had the gall to pretend to be happy to see her.
“Hi!”
“Mmmmm.”
That checked him, she was glad to see. “Ms.Derecho. Ms.Rivers. And ... Amanda.”
Amanda ignored Sidney’s arched eyebrows. “We’re here, just like you wanted.”
Just like he wanted? Suuuure, babe. Whatever you need to tell yourself.
“I’m glad,” he replied simply, because he was a manipulative schmuck whokilled itin those chinos, dammit. And the pale-blue dress shirt made his eyes look still bluer. And he’d found time to shave in the last twenty-four hours. If she had hoped she wouldn’t find a clean-shaven Beane attractive, that hope was now dashed. Dashed and smooshed and ground into the dust.
“Dashed!” she cried aloud, then restrained the urge to clap a hand over her own mouth.
Sidney took her hand, patted it absently. “Keep it together, Amanda. I’ve gotta admit,” she added, looking around the small, almost-cozy room, “a field trip to the morgue is not like in the movies.”
Sidney had a point. The place was devoid of drama. There wasn’t a grizzled detective pacing back and forth, barking questions at the ME. (Beane wasn’t currently grizzled and definitely wasn’t pacing. Or barking.) There were no dramatic reveals and, best of all, no sinister mounds hidden under long white sheets. Sheets were not a thing in modern-day morgues (maybe not even in morgues of the past; who knew how many lies TV had told her?), and thank fuck for that.
When she was little, her dad, an avidStar Trek: The Next Generationfan who had Counselor Troi’s face tattooed between his shoulder blades, let her watch several episodes. All good clean fun until season four, episode seventeen (those numbers would be carved into her shrieking soul until she died): “Night Terrors.”
A not-so-long long story: the intrepidTNGcrew finds a stalled ship, tries to fix it, ends up getting stuck themselves. No biggie; is it even aStar Trekepisode if they don’t get stuck or stranded or amnesia or blown up?
Except something in that part of space was interfering with their REM sleep. Which everyone needs. So after a few days, the crew starts hallucinating.
There was a happy ending, but first Amanda had to sit through the worst, most terrifying, and awful,awfulpart: Dr.Crusher was in the morgue, fiddling with her tablet (another example of tech that Team Roddenberry predicted would come to pass), when she turned and sawevery single sheet-swaddled corpse sitting up and looking at her.
Ye fuckinggods.
She felt someone take her other hand and was surprised to see it was Cass. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You’re getting your REM sleep. Nothing to see here.”
It hit her like a slap. How could she have forgotten? Cass was strictlyno touchyuntil she let you in. Then it was hugs and hand-holding and dozing off on a shoulder and using each other’s laps for pillows while sprawled in front of a TV, watching great scary movies likeUnfriended. And terrible scary movies like the sequel toUnfriended. Cassandra Rivers would drop every wall she’d spent her childhood building ... for a friend.
Amanda squeezed back, then let go and reclaimed her other hand from Sidney. “You’re right,” Amanda said to both. “Nothing like the movies.”
Although Beane was somehow finagling to get them into the morgue, most visitors had to stay in the small waiting room just off the morgue proper. The walls were painted pale, peaceful blue. The chairs were dark brown, stain resistant (smart!), plush, and immaculate. The carpet was deeper brown (smarter!) and had been recently vacuumed. The place smelled like bleach and air freshener (smartest!).
