Transgender Smokey & The Bandit Part VII (Patreon)

Hope everyone is still liking Tran Girlismo! Now that I'm back from my trip I'm trying to get back into posting these again (because I am finally running out of backlog to post and I need to actually start writing something again, for my own mental health's sake). This story keeps feeling like the 2037 setting was a little optimistic but alas, lol.

Today's installment has a TW for a depiction of sexual harassment, language, and violence, as a heads up. The violence is somewhat more intense in this installment than the last one.

If you missed the previous installments and would like to catch up on Clara's story, find them here:
Part VI
Part V
Part IV
Part III
Part II
Part I

01.19.37 1249

If Clara had to guess, the Nazi in the back of the truck was in his late forties. He wore a white tank top and flecktarn camo pants tucked into his tall black boots. He had a greasy, graying mop of tousled hair that failed to hide his widow’s peak. He paired it with three-day-old stubble. A wood-stock Mauser was slung over his shoulder. He looked like a slouch and not much of a fighter, to be frank. If Clara could get out of these cuffs, she could take him, for sure, but the handcuffs were a problem.

Clara, on her knees, glared up at him as he approached her with malice in his eyes. “I genuinely can’t believe my luck today. First that pretty little thing,” he gestured toward the gagged woman in the corner “and now you. I’m a lucky guy. I’ll tell her the same thing I told you—if you just listen to us, you have nothing at all to worry about, okay sweetie?” He leered at her as he reached for his belt. “Now first, I’m gonna—”

WHAM. The truck violently and suddenly spun around; Clara skidded across the wood floor and slammed shoulder-first against the side of the truck. The Nazi was thrown completely off his feet and faceplanted into the wall, knocking him out cold. The suspension rocked a few times sickeningly, as though it were a ship in a storm that might keel over, and then slowly came to a stop. Clara gasped, the wind knocked out of her. She crawled over to her unconscious captor and blindly groped through his pockets for the keys; once she was free, she pulled his Mauser off and walked over to the woman in the corner, placing the gun gently down next to her as she fumbled with unlocking the woman’s cuffs.

“This might hurt a little bit, but I want to ungag you, okay,” whispered Clara. The woman frantically nodded. Clara yanked off the duct tape, grimacing as it ripped a clump of hair from the back of the victim’s head, but the woman stayed silent and expressionless. The tape removed, the woman took a deep breath. “Are you okay?” whispered Clara. “Uh…” the woman shook her head and rubbed her wrists. “Let’s get out of here. Thank you, thank you, let’s go,” she whispered. 

“Of course, of course. I’m Clara, you’re safe with me, we’re gonna get out of here,” she said, gently grabbing her hand. “You are?” 

“I’m Mia… it’s nice to meet you Clara, let’s get the hell out of here.” Clara swore she could see the woman’s resolve and determination swelling in her eyes as her new chance at freedom dawned on her. 

And then Mia’s face went white and she pulled her hand away violently from Clara’s. Clara spun around—the Nazi was getting to his feet. “Unnhh.. What the fuck happened?” he said, then reached for his gun over his shoulder. He grabbed at air with a look of surprise. Mia picked up the Mauser from the floor. “Looking for this, you bastard?” she yelled. He lifted his arm and began to charge at the women. BANG. 

Mia shot him point-blank in the middle of the chest; he staggered backward and dropped like a sack of cement. The gunshot reverberated off the inside of the truck, deafeningly loud. Clara crouched and reflexively covered her ears, but they were already ringing. “Sorry… that was not my smartest move,” said Mia, though Clara could barely hear her over the din in her ears. “It’s okay, it’s okay, we just gotta be careful,” said Clara, half to herself, half to Mia. One down, four to go, she thought, as she heard the men outside muffledly yelling. 

01.19.37 1250

By the late 2030s, the United States had a very tenuous relationship with the right-aligned militias that frequently acted as de facto local security forces in its most rural areas. Formally, right-wing militias were encouraged to form to help quell the numerous internal uprisings shortly after the Rebellion, and given wide berth within the law to function as a secondary police force. In practice, local cops often butted heads with militias, especially since both groups grew bored after hunting rebels to extinction. With peacekeeping largely a settled task, the armed groups sometimes turned to less savory activities, like drug running and extorting locals, to stay entertained. When the cops had issues—whether it was with the illegality of militias’ income or just a disagreement over whose turf was whose—it often ended violently. 

So when Leigha finally glanced down the road, past the armed men creeping toward the box truck, and finally saw it sitting there, it all made sense. The parked car she’d swerved to avoid earlier—it was a beat-up black Toyota Celica missing a driver’s side mirror and with three bullet holes in the windshield—bullet holes she’d personally put in it a day ago. She wasn’t losing ground on her prey while she was distracted with these guys—her prey was right here, directly in front of her the whole time.  “HEY!” she screamed, half in anger, half in shock.

The men stopped; the short one jumped a little in fright. “What the fuck, you trying to give us a heart attack?” asked the tall one. “We’re a little busy here!” 

“Whose fucking car is that black Toyota,” yelled Leigha through gritted teeth. The tall one stopped advancing on the truck and turned back to lock eyes with her. “It’s mine, so don’t get any ideas about seizing it. Now either fuck off or help us out here,” he said, waving to the back doors of the box truck.

“You’re under arrest. Drop the fucking gun,” she yelled back.

“Fuck off back to the kitchen, you dumb cunt,” he said, waving his shotgun in her direction. “You’re not arresting anyone.” 

“Drop the fucking gun. I’m not warning you again,” Leigha said, voice beginning to shake as she kept her Sig’s sights squarely on the militiaman’s chest. The other two men were now glancing back at the standoff even as they continued to advance on the box truck. 

“Alright I’m fucking tired of this shit. I warned you,” he barked, and he raised his shotgun directly at Leigha and—

BANG BANG BANG. Leigha put three rounds square in the man’s chest, and he staggered backwards and collapsed. The short one and the driver swung around to return fire, as Leigha dove down behind the hood of her Chevy. BANG whump BANG thud BANG thud BANG thud. The pair of militiamen peppered the Tahoe with buckshot and bullets as they ran for the front of the box truck to take cover. Could that fucking back-country hick she just dropped really have pulled off that incredible escape last night, wondered Leigha, laughing out loud, as she partially ejected her magazine, hands shaking, to make sure she still had ammo—she did. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” screamed the short man as he ducked behind the box truck.

She slammed her magazine back into the pistol grip, poked out from cover, and squeezed off a few more shots, peppering the front of the box truck. BANG thud BANG shatter BANG aaaagh. She caught the short one above his knee where his leg peeked out from behind the bumper of the truck; he stumbled forward into the middle of the road as he clutched at it, rifle clattering on the pavement as he screamed. His buddy ran out from the back of the truck, to try and help his friend writhing in the street. “Jesus Christ, don’t shoot, don’t shoot, he’s bleeding out,” screamed the man as he fumbled through his utility belt pockets, searching for a tourniquet.

Leigha moved toward the men slowly, keeping her pistol trained on them. The man wasn’t lying—the short Nazi writhing on the pavement was indeed bleeding to death; she must have hit him in the femoral artery. He was sputtering and gasping in shock as he turned increasingly white, while his friend scrambled pointlessly to tie the tourniquet on his thigh to stem the bleeding. There was no way he could survive that much blood loss, thought Leigha, as she watched him complete his metamorphosis from a living, breathing man to her first-ever kill. Well—second-ever, she realized, glancing back at the first man she shot, who was definitely dead now. 

She looked down at the man on his knees desperately trying to render aid. “Alright, you’ve done your best to help your friend, but he’s not gonna make it. You’re under arrest.” said Leigha in a very distant, monotone voice to the man now drenched in his comrade’s blood. 

The blood-soaked man looked up at Leigha with incredulity and anger. “You just killed my friends for no fucking reason. No, I’m going to make you regret this to your dying breath, which is going to be very fucking soon,” he said, as he grabbed a radio off his dying friends’ belt. “Control, Elijah here—this bitch just killed Tyler, I need backup imme—” Leigha lunged for the radio, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Stop interfering with police business, you bastard!” she yelled, and she thought he was starting to reach for his waistband—BANG. 

She fired off another round. He collapsed instantly, like a puppet severed from its strings, as the Parabellum round sliced through his neck. The air was thick with the scent of copper as the two men's blood intermingled, seeping into the cracks of the asphalt, soaking into the Earth beneath. In Leigha’s ears the swollen roadside river suddenly burbled deafeningly loud, and the man on the hand-held radio sounded so distant. “kkhhh Come in, Elijah. Elijah. Come in. You there, man?” The tinny speaker continued to yap, but the voice grew faint. Leigha took a few steps back from the men and heaved out the contents of her stomach onto the road.

Drowning out the radio, suddenly, was a rising crescendo of an engine. Leigha looked up from her vomit on the blacktop just in time to see the Celica peel out toward her. In the daylight she could see both occupants. She locked eyes with the driver—a dark-haired woman with intense features—as the Celica bore down on her. She didn’t flinch as the Celica swerved at the last moment onto the shoulder, passing inches from her body. It maneuvered around Leigha’s smashed-up Tahoe and headed East, down US-12, once more. She half-heartedly raised her gun as it departed, but didn’t fire a single shot. Instead, she spit at it, to get the taste of the vomit out of her mouth. Then she walked over to the pair of corpses. 

She grabbed the radio from the dead man’s hand. “Uh, hello, this is Officer Leigha Orman, of the Latah County Sheriff’s Department. I just arrived on-scene. Your fellow soldiers are down. A woman—possibly a pair of women—have murdered at least two, possibly four men here. The suspects just took off eastbound on US-12 in a black early 1990s Toyota Celica, license plate one-alpha-seven-mike-golf-tango, over.” 

“kkhhh—uh, copy that Officer Orman, thank you for the information. Please render aid if you find survivors. We would be happy to help your pursuit.”