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flashnthunder · 9 months

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luztoye end of the world au

(snippet under the cut)

The truck rattles along the empty road like an ant marching along a cracked sidewalk, meandering its way with quiet purpose down an endless path. Joe has the windows rolled down, and the midsummer heat of Georgia buffets them with heavy air. It feels better than trying to drive anywhere with the windows up and wasting even a few ounces of gas on something so trivial as the AC had long since become a thing of the past.

Music plays loud enough to let him lapse into silent thought as he drives. The double standard of the air conditioning lies with the radio. The radio and its attached cassette player neatly tucked under the half-cracked display is always on when George is riding. No amount of scolding and dirty looks ever prevented the inevitably of it getting turned on, and only George had the patience to coax the busted volume knob into working. Right now, Joe is subject to a second playthrough of a well-worn Billy Joel album and a private performance by George in the passenger seat. If he had known the world was going to end when it did, he would have made sure to have had a better selection shoved in his glove box.

Green trees flash by outside the window, and the grass that had turned into a jungle on the roadside almost falls over onto the faded asphalt. The summer peace is only interrupted by George leaning towards him across the bench seat and crooning the chorus with a surprisingly accurate imitation. He’s had more than enough time over the years to really nail it down and never was one to miss a chance to practice. Joe does his best not to smile, but the corner of his mouth must twitch because George dissolves into miming a saxophone with the determination of a man who knows how to crack his audience. Joe shakes his head and lets his fingers drum on the warm paint of the truck door from where his hand hangs out the window. They have another twenty minutes at least before they’ll be back, sparing any stops. As long as they get there before George can rummage through the glove box again, it'll be fine.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts again by a tapping sound on the window behind his head. He glances back, catching sight of Bill with his hand still up to the window to get his attention.

“Open the window for them would’ya?” he shoves at George from where he had halfway squirmed out of his side of the front seat to crowd into Joe. He had only stopped his invasion to avoid having to sit on the busted leather of the middle seat. George cuts off his performance with only mild complaint, reaching to turn the radio down first. The volume knob, predictably, takes some fussing before the sounds of the music finally quiet. He turns to tug the sliding window open, grinning at Bill when he leans forward to yell into the cab.

“Are you trying to break my back here, Joe? Jesus why do I always end up in the bed, one more pothole and you’re gonna get me laid up. How much further we got?” Bill’s scowl grows deeper when they take a curve in the road a little too fast. He grabs the edge of the window to keep from sliding around in the back of the truck.

“Aw wouldn’t want to hurt princesses’ butt back there with no padded seat. We're almost there, maybe fifteen minutes if you stop asking,” Joe eyes him in the crooked rearview mirror. Bill rolls his eyes and swats at George’s head when he laughs.

“Oh I don’t wanna hear nothing about princesses when you got your certified passenger princess up here hogging the front,” Bill says, and George manages to duck away from the second pass at cuffing his ear. He’s forced to retreat in full to his respective side of the truck, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning into the door.

“I’m in charge of the radio and the map, don’t be mad I’m useful,” George half sing-songs. If Joe wasn’t so bitterly fond of the stupid face he was making, he would have joined Bill in his attempts to smack him. The road curves back into a straightaway, and he urges the truck along. For the sake of not rousting Bill anymore, he avoids the larger potholes that pocket the sides.

“Bullshit you are,” Bill says, leaning further in the back window, but still not getting close enough to George to grab him.

“No, Bullshit is in the back with you, I’m up here,” George snarks, feeling relatively safe from his current position. Malarkey’s head pops up from where he’d been slouched down in the back. He looks distinctly less disgruntled than Bill, but still sporting windswept hair from the journey. Both he and George had lingering pink on their noses and cheeks from being in the sun all day. Joe knows that means George will be looking to go take a nap as soon as they get back. Hopefully, that comes after they get the truck unloaded.

“For the love of it, just get us there in one piece, Joe. I ain’t dying three years after the last real traffic jam because we end falling into a crater on this road here,” Bill says, abandoning George so Malarkey could lean in to hear what they were saying. They’re close enough to town now that the gripping dies down and the music goes back up. He leaves the window open, slowing enough that the buffeting of wind out of the cab isn’t quite as annoying. If he has to sit through more singing, Bill can too for all his bitching.

The rest of the drive is uneventful, and the green melts back into a pleasant background whizzing by. The outer fence of town comes into view first, old rusted barbed wire and an even shittier padlock and chain holding the gate closed. He throws the truck into park as they roll up to it and stop. The keyring with the padlock key lays on the dash, having only slid a little since he’d tossed it up there as they left this morning. He’s not sure why he ever expects George to jump up and get it. When he does look over, he’s met with an overly innocent expression and no hint of any intention about grabbing the keys. Joe huffs but swipes the keys off the plastic of the dash without comment and slides out of the truck.

“Not even pretending that he doesn’t got you whipped,” Bill yells from the truck. Joe flips him off without looking behind him. He can hear Malarkey laughing because apparently, all his friends are in on a collective conspiracy to make his life hell. Pulling the chain free, he jerks the gate wide enough to get the truck in before making the three-step journey back to the driver’s side.

“My knight in shining armor, I didn’t want to get my silk dress in the mud,” George says, batting his eyes in exaggerated motions once he’s back in and shifting the truck back into drive. If he had been prone to blushing, his life would be a whole lot worse. He gets by with a dismissive grunt and resolutely ignores the extra heckling from his traveling peanut gallery. He pulls through the gate and turns to jam his hand with the keys still in it out the back window, waving it between Bill and Malarkey.

“Like hell, I’m getting out before we’re back,” Bill says, and any further argument is spared by Malarkey grabbing the keys and jumping over the side of the truck bed to go lock the gate. Joe scans down the fence line and ignores the bickering.

“See Bill, chivalry is alive and well,” George lounges out a little further if at all possible, legs spread and back sliding down against the worn leather seat. In letting down his guard, Bill finally manages to poke him in the ear and George shoots Joe a withering look when he doesn’t fall over himself to defend him.

Malarkey swings back over the tailgate of the truck, his boots landing in the small space between the crates of supplies, “Alright, we’re all good to get going.” He settles back down in his spot near the window next to Bill, and they start moving again. There’s a relatively short distance between the outer fence and the inner one that encamps the buildings in town in some amount of security, and Joe takes the distance slowly. He's in no rush to come careening up to the second gate. Singing and complaining or not, he enjoys getting away from this pocket of their world sometimes. Supply runs were a necessary evil in the eyes of people too scared to poke their heads outside, but to Joe, it teased some level of freedom he missed. George making it his god-given mission to follow along didn't hurt either.

Babe must have been on the watch patrol today because as soon as he hears the truck’s engine, he comes jogging toward the inner gate. He’s got a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, and as the truck rolls in he saves the argument of who is getting out again as he pulls the gate open for them. He gives a lazy mock salute, his free hand still curled around the rifle strap. Joe’s mistake is slowing to a near stop, which gives Bill time to vault over the side and land on his feet near Babe. No doubt to gossip about whatever it was they managed to talk about. George groans, head flopping back to give Joe a mournful look about having to unload supplies with three guys instead of four.

#this is disaster movie/apocalypse movie logic a bit alright #gas is magical and renewable and cars are reliable suspend your disbelief rn #luztoye #band of brothers #izzy writes #moodboard #mood board #george luz #joe toye #also an ode to my old shitty radio #no vehicle is complete without its one thing that makes you have to stop and fuck with it

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