Black Mountains

Gonga rolled the window down. “One McChicken,” he grunted, “and one chocolate sundae.”

The electronic voice crackled back at him, muttering something unintelligible and his order flashed up on the screen in front of him. He assumed they were asking if it was right, so he said, “Yes, that’s all,” and pulled forward.

It was a hot muggy day. Typical for Missouri weather. Even after driving north half the day, Gonga had not quite made it out of the state, and the temperature had only continued to climb.

Black mountains. The phrase echoed around his mind.

They sounded so mysterious, so ominous. Which was precisely why Gonga had decided to drive out to see them.

He rolled his window up after receiving the food from the drive-through window and proceeded to work the wrapping off his McChicken sandwich. Oh how he loved the peppery tang of those chicken sandwiches.

With the icecream melting rapidly in the cupholder beside him, Gonga pulled out onto the highway once more. He needed to make better time. No more stopping to tour each rest area which presented itself, no more darting down side roads just to see where they went, and definitely no more stopping for food every hour. It was time to get serious. The Black Mounatins were waiting.