The cars on the highway were an interesting mix. I saw late-model Cadillacs and even a couple of Lexuses, along with too many Fords and Chevys to count. Cars, trucks, SUVs. Some old, some new. Way too many were beat up or rusted around the wheels.
Motor City or not, Detroit was hard on cars. All of Michigan was. In the winter, rock salt fell in torrents from giant trucks that rumbled through snowstorms, dropping their payloads onto the slick pavement.
All winter long, the battle went on – the salt trucks on one side, snow and ice on the other. Caught in the crossfire were all those cars, screwed no matter who won. Either they'd slide, or they'd rust. Most did both.
It was early November. We'd see snow before the month's end. I was sure of it. My tires were bald, and my battery was iffy at best. If winter never came, I'd be a happy girl.
We spent a few minutes on Woodward, and then turned off on some side street, and then another, heading deeper into the guts of the city. I saw boarded up shops and burned-out buildings, and houses that looked like no one had lived there for decades.
"Welcome to Zombieland," Lawton said.
He had a point. I saw stately brick buildings with overgrown shrubbery and broken windows, burnt-out shells of others, and charred roofs falling over the brick-and-mortar remains of once-majestic structures.
The streets were nearly empty, with random, beat-up cars parked haphazardly along the curbs and almost no traffic at all. For such a large city, it was eerily quiet.
"Zombieland," I said. "Or a war zone."
"Yeah, and we lost."
I looked around. "Where is everyone?"
"Moved, holed up inside, still asleep. Hard to say."
The further we drove, the worse it got. I saw boarded up-buildings covered in graffiti interspersed with bare fields of tall, scraggly grass and scattered tires. Telephone poles leaned at odd angles, and vines crept into the missing windows of vacant buildings.
Then, it got worse. The large, majestic structures gave way to tiny homes, some burnt, some boarded up, and others missing patches of siding and their front doorknobs.
"Is this where you grew up?" I asked.
"Almost," he said. "It's a few blocks up." He gave me a sideways glance. "We're gonna stop. But don't roll down the window, and don’t open the door."
"Trust me," I said. "I wasn’t planning to."
When we rolled to a stop a few minutes later, we were in front of a narrow, two-story brick house with a covered front porch.
Lawton flicked his head toward it. "My Grandma's house."
Chapter 33
He made a noise that probably was supposed to be a laugh, but didn't quite make it. "Nicest one in the neighborhood."
I glanced around. Actually, he was right. The home wasn't any larger than the neighboring houses, but it was definitely nicer, like someone not too long ago had actually cared. It had white shutters and a matching porch, peeling in places, but noticeably fresher than its surroundings.
"She loved that house," Lawton said, his voice quiet.
"Is she, uh –"
"Still alive?" Lawton shook his head. "No. She died a few years ago. I grew up here though."
"Just you and your Grandma?"
"Sometimes my Mom lived here too. But most of the time –" He shrugged. "She was off doing other things."
"Like what?" I asked.
He gave another bitter laugh. "Drugs, mostly. My Grandma, she was a school teacher at St. Mary's. She always said she should've done better, especially with Mom being her only kid."
He looked off into the distance. "But I dunno. Mom was just wild, I guess."
