Part 34 (1/2)

It did. I didn't have the heart to tell her we probably would too before we got out of this mess. And, no. I don't do p.o.o.p puns.

”Where's Manny's flashlight? Did it make the trip?” I asked.

”It's down here.” Keelie grabbed it and handed it to me.

”Okay. We can do this one of two ways,” I said. ”Crawl out the bottom. Or kick the top off with our feet and exit that way.”

”You already know my feelings,” Keelie said.

I did. And I shared them.

”We...just...have...to...get turned around,” I said, trying to maneuver around the capsule-like confines. It took us another five minutes to get in position.

”Oh, G.o.d. It stinks like s.h.i.+t at this end,” Keelie said.

I had the good sense not to point out the obvious.

”On the count of three, start kicking,” I instructed.

”Oh, G.o.d. The stench! It absolutely reeks! I'm gonna be sick!”

”You are not puking in this Porta-Potty. Hold your breath and, on three, kick as hard as you can. One. Two. Three!”

”Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

On the tenth kick, the top of the kybo flew off. Sheets of rain drenched me. I didn't care. I sucked in the fresh air like a drowning man pulled from a river.

”Oh, thank G.o.d. Thank G.o.d!” Keelie said. ”It's lovely! Just lovely!”

A puddle of water began to seep into the kybo. It quickly became a river.

”We'd better get out of here,” I said, grabbing hold of the top of the toilet and pulling myself out. ”Be careful!” I said, s.h.i.+ning a light on the top. ”There are screws sticking out!”

I helped Keelie out of the kybo.

”Oh, my lord! Look at that!” Keelie pointed at the line of Porta-Potties. They looked like a drunk had tried to stack dominoes. Some were upright. Some tipped part way. Some toppled over. ”Wow! Look at all that water!”

Where moments before it had been dry, a river of water now crashed its way down the hill. Dislocated tents, swept away by the rus.h.i.+ng water, rested against the row of toilets.

I gasped. ”If we'd been in the tent when that water came through-”

I stopped.

Oh, no!

”Dixie!”

No sooner had the name pa.s.sed my lips, than an unG.o.dly howl, the likes of which I'd only heard in werewolf movies and from the occasional drunken cowboy, ripped through the soggy rain-filled air.

”Owwoo!”

I trained my flashlight on the rus.h.i.+ng water, certain a swamped coyote or displaced badger had been flushed out of their beds.

Oh. My. G.o.d!

My beam hit the approaching object head on. I gasped, and watched in horror as Dixie rode the waves on my bargain bas.e.m.e.nt tent like a chubby kid on a water ride at the amus.e.m.e.nt park.

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane?

Nope.

It's the full-speed-ahead USS Dixie Doodle Dandy aiming for an open berth at the Port o' Potties.

I closed my eyes and braced for impact.

How do you say, ”braking bad”?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

”I think it's a good likeness? Do you think it's a good likeness, Tressa?”

I squinted at the drawing my gammy stuck in front of my face.

”It's Joe and me. It was one of them character sketches.”

I nodded. ”Those are definitely characters,” I said, taking my sungla.s.ses off to get a better look.

”Tressa Jayne! Your eyes! You look like one of them vampires with the bloodshot peepers. And look at the dark circles! Joe, come look at Tressa. She looks like a zombie.”

My gammy needed to make up her mind. Was I Vampirella or Tressa, Zombie Queen? After all, we're talking two very different cla.s.sifications of the undead here.

Joe walked up and took his own sungla.s.ses off. He gave me the once-over like my gammy does in the mirror before she leaves the house.

”She looks the same to me,” Joe said.

Ho, ho, ho.

I knew I wasn't looking my best. I looked like I'd either spent the night battling the walking dead, or had been recruited by them. And ”Gampy” Joe knew it good and well, too.

”Nice of you to say, Joe,” I said, in no shape to defend myself in a battle of wits with the clever and cunning senior Townsend. After the previous night's ”Toilets and Tents Soiree,” and a miserably, rain-soaked ride that morning, the second I'd put the kickstand down on the tandem that afternoon, I hightailed it home, took a long, hot shower, and flopped into bed.

If my gammy and her new hubby hadn't come knock-knock-knocking on my door, I'd still be there, sleeping the sleep of the dead...ish. As it was, I planned on an early night-hopefully in the company of a certain ranger I knew and l.u.s.ted over.

I hadn't seen Rick since I'd pedaled into town. By design. Come on. Tell me you'd want the guy who set your spurs to jingle-jangle-jingling to see you looking like something that crawled up out of a grave. Even worse, I'd most likely smelled the part.