Wrote this a couple months ago:
Devon’s calf strained as held his foot down on the go-pedal and snatched another glimpse in his rear-view mirror. The gaggle of pursuing vehicles was still inching ever-closer to the ancient Chevy he’d salvaged from the abandoned garage.
The engine still coughed and shook, the continuous volley of vibrations hammering up Devon’s spine as he tried to keep on the gleaming modern grid-road that arrowed away from the deserted town behind him in the distance.
Guess the dregs of fuel in those cans were pretty old, he thought. Hoped that additive stuff I found would bring some life back into it. Guess not enough.
The pursuers had no such concerns as old gas. They streaked along on electric motors, continuously recharging themselves from the grid-road in the afternoon sunshine.
The silvery Excela sports-car was leading the pack, followed by a blue-and-yellow traffic interceptor unit. The oddball assortment of porta-taxis, delivery vans, and even a huge long-hauler truck trailed farther back.
Devon stared off at the low mountains ahead of him. If I can just get to the foothills, I can lose ’em. The grid-roads were never extended that far before Doomsday happened.