The Road To Chicken

“See?” Derek said. “She’s warming up.”

He turned the key again.

The engine coughed twice, rattled like a bucket of bolts, and died.

The turn signal continued clicking.

For a moment, no one spoke. Somewhere across the lot, a lawn mower buzzed in slow circles. A raven dropped onto the roof of a nearby sedan and watched them with the calm judgment of a landlord.

Jason leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the windshield.

“We have traveled,” he said, “approximately twelve feet.”

“Fourteen,” Derek said.

“We haven’t left the parking space.”

“That’s still progress.”

Kara unfolded the map. It spread over her knees, across the gearshift, and into Derek’s lap. A blue line crawled north and east from Fairbanks toward the Taylor Highway, then climbed toward Chicken, Alaska, a place whose name still sounded like a dare.

Derek stared at the line. He wanted the wheels turning. He wanted the university to disappear behind them, along with the stack of overdue library books in his backpack and the uneasy knowledge that Kara had agreed to this trip mostly because he had asked. He wanted to reach the highway before the van found another way to embarrass him.

“Try it again,” Kara said.

Derek did.

The starter whined. The engine caught, sputtered, and shook so hard the rearview mirror turned toward the ceiling. A wet cough came from beneath the van. Then the motor died again.

This time, smoke drifted up past the hood.

Jason opened his door.

“Don’t,” Derek said.

“I’m getting out.”

“Why?”

“To see what’s smoking.”

“That could be anything.”

“That is not comforting.”

Jason stepped onto the shoulder. Kara followed, holding the map against her chest as the breeze tried to fold it around her head. Derek climbed out last. The gravel crunched under his boots, and heat pressed against his shins from the engine compartment.

A dark line of fluid ran beneath the van and disappeared into the dusty shoulder.

Jason crouched beside it. “Is this supposed to be here?”

Derek crouched beside him. “Probably not.”

“Good. I was worried I’d missed a class.”

Kara leaned over the open engine hatch. The smell of hot metal and old oil rose around them. A belt hung loose near the pulley, its rubber surface split into pale, curling strips.

Derek touched it. The belt sagged like a tired shoelace.

Kara looked at him. “You said the van was roadworthy.”

“It was road-adjacent.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It has wheels.”

“So does a shopping cart.”

Jason stood and wiped black grease across his jeans. “How far is the nearest mechanic?”

Derek glanced toward the road. A pickup passed, spraying dust over the shoulder. Its driver lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in a friendly wave and continued toward town.

“Fairbanks isn’t far,” Derek said.

“Neither is the moon if we’re measuring by hope.”

Derek shut the engine hatch. The latch did not catch. He slammed it twice. On the second attempt, the whole van rocked.

Kara folded the map with sharp, irritated movements. “We can’t call this off.”

“No one said we were calling it off,” Derek said.

“The road closes in winter.”

“I know.”

“And Chicken is still hundreds of miles away.”

“I know.”

“And the van is leaking something.”

“I have eyes.”

“Then use them.”

The words landed harder than she intended. Derek looked at her, and for a second the traffic noise seemed to thin around them. Kara’s hair had come loose from its tie, and a strand clung to her cheek. He wanted to brush it away. Instead, he wiped his hand on his shirt, which left a black smear across his stomach.

Jason pointed at the van. “Before this becomes a romantic argument about municipal infrastructure, we need a plan.”

“It’s not a romantic argument,” Kara said.

“Excellent. Then we’re ahead of schedule.”

Derek walked around to the rear doors and opened them. Their supplies had been packed with the logic of three students who believed space was a moral weakness. A five-stringed guitar lay beneath a sleeping bag. Cooking pans, canned beans, textbooks, a box of crackers, and one suspiciously dented can of peaches shifted toward the opening.

“We need a belt,” Derek said.

Jason peered into the van. “We need a miracle.”

“Belts are easier to find.”

“Not for this van.”

Kara set the map on the roof. “What do we have that could work temporarily?”

Derek stared at the heap. There was a clothesline, two lengths of rope, a pair of nylon stockings Kara had packed for reasons she had declined to explain, and an old leather strap wrapped around the guitar case.

Jason picked up the strap. “This?”

“That holds the guitar.”

“The guitar has five strings. It can survive with four.”

“It already has four,” Kara said.

Jason lowered the strap.

Kara crouched beside the open rear doors and began digging. She pulled out a blanket, a coffee tin, and a rusted hubcap that none of them remembered packing. Then she reached beneath the spare tire and dragged out a cracked fan belt.

Derek took it from her. The rubber was stiff but whole enough to suggest ambition.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“It was in the garage.”

“Which garage?”

“The garage with the junk.”

“That narrows it down.”

“It came off an old snow machine.”

Jason examined the belt. “Perfect.”

Derek looked at him. “It is not perfect.”

“It has the right shape.”

“So does a pretzel.”

Kara held out her hand. “Give it here.”

Derek handed it over. Their fingers touched. She looked at the grease on his palm, then at the grease on hers.

“Try not to destroy the engine,” she said.

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s what worries me.”

They worked on the shoulder while cars hissed past on the highway. Derek loosened the pulley with a wrench that kept slipping. Jason held a flashlight even though the sun was bright. Kara threaded the salvaged belt around the pulleys, her tongue pressed against the corner of her mouth in concentration.

The belt did not fit.

Derek pulled it tighter. “It’s close.”

“It’s not close,” Kara said. “It’s insulting the engine.”

Jason braced one boot against the bumper. “Pull harder.”

“If I pull harder, it snaps.”

“If you don’t pull harder, we remain here until the mosquitoes claim the van.”

A mosquito landed on Derek’s neck. He slapped it and missed.

Kara twisted the belt, shifted it over the pulley, and jammed a screwdriver beneath the edge. The belt squealed. Derek held the pulley steady while Jason leaned into the bumper with both hands.

“Now,” Kara said.

Derek pulled.

The belt snapped into place.

For one glorious second, none of them moved. Then Jason raised both fists.

“We have invented transportation.”

Derek climbed behind the wheel. Kara slid into the passenger seat, and Jason squeezed back between the cooler and the guitar. The van’s interior had grown hot, and the vinyl seat stuck to Derek’s arms.

He turned the key.

The engine caught immediately.

It rattled, clattered, and settled into a rough idle that sounded like a washing machine full of silverware. Smoke curled from beneath the hood, but the belt spun.

Derek grinned despite himself. “There.”

Kara watched the temperature gauge. “That needle was not there before.”

“What needle?”

“The one pointing at hot.”

Jason leaned forward. “How hot?”

The gauge crept upward.

“Warmer than ideal,” Derek said.

“It’s in the red,” Kara said.

“It’s enthusiastic.”

A sharp metallic click came from the engine.

Then another.

Derek’s grin vanished.

“Drive,” Jason said.

Derek shifted into first. The van lurched forward, and something in the back fell over with a hollow crash. They rolled onto the shoulder, tires crunching gravel, the university buildings shrinking behind them.

For perhaps twenty seconds, they were moving.

The Taylor Highway waited somewhere ahead, beyond Fairbanks, beyond the last convenient place to surrender. Derek kept both hands on the wheel and watched the road open before them.

Kara pointed at the gauge. “Derek.”

“I see it.”

The needle climbed higher.

Steam puffed from beneath the hood.

Jason sniffed. “That smells expensive.”

The engine gave a violent clank. Derek pulled the van to the side and killed the ignition. They coasted another ten feet before stopping beside a ditch crowded with fireweed.

For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of hot metal.

Derek looked at the road ahead. It stretched east beneath the pale summer sky, empty and bright, the first mile of their pilgrimage already behind them.

Kara rested her hand on the dashboard. “We made it out of Fairbanks.”

Jason looked through the windshield at the smoking hood.

“Yes,” he said. “But Fairbanks may have followed us.”

Derek opened his door. A ribbon of steam curled past the windshield and vanished into the sunlight. He stepped onto the shoulder, listening to the engine tick itself cooler.

Behind him, Kara unfolded the map again.

“Tell me,” she said, “that this is fixable.”

Derek stared at the belt, already fraying at one edge.

“It’s fixable,” he said.

The van clicked beneath him.

“And if it isn’t?”

Derek looked east, toward Chicken and the long road that had not yet had a chance to become worse.

“Then we fix something else.”

End of chapter one. 29 more chapters in the full book.