The old, rusted Jeep hummed loudly, creating vibrations in the seat that crept up into my crotch as we tackled the rough road ahead. Some of its reddish dust stuck to my sweat-soaked skin which hadn't seen a shower in days and an air conditioner in years. I was part of a small, five-person army: I was the Scientist, riding shotgun; then in back: Stoker the weapons guy, Mick the communications expert, and Ming the psychotic sniper chick. Daisy, the virtually emotionless readhead, was in the driver's seat, clenching a cigarette between her full, pink lips. I liked the way her little round breasts bounced in her dirty grey tank top on that bumpy road. She smoked like a pro, not phased by the bumps as she grabbed a new cig, stuck it in her mouth, lit it, and snapped the lighter shut with that TING! sound.
Suddenly, They appeared across the road ahead. "Shit," I muttered as I realized that there were too many to plow through, not even with Daisy's steadfast determination and driving skills.
I quickly glanced in the back seat. Stoker's yellow and brown teeth were clenched. Mick was nervously checking something on his laptop. And Ming was smiling, her facial expression almost scarier than what we were about to cross paths with.
Before we intercepted Them, Daisy slowed us to a stop and then stared at them. The engine was still humming as the vehicle idled, the cigarette still clenched tightly between her lips. I could tell that she was sizing Them up.
Finally Daisy plucked the cigarette out of her mouth, letting the smoke just flow out into the hot afternoon air. And for the first time all day, using her cigarette-seared vocal chords, she spoke:
"Stoker, grab the shotguns."