Arizona

There was a roadblock ahead. Pickles stopped the truck, got out and opened the hood. A voice boomed from the darkness, too distorted by amplification for me to distinguish what he was saying. Pickles ignored it; she  produced a frying pan and started cooking tomatoes, onions, peppers and mushrooms on the engine. There was a burst of gunfire from halfway up the hill to our right. Frans dragged a pair of assault rifles from behind the seat, and handed one to one of the little girls, Lulu. She pointed it out the driver's window, while Frans, grinning, aimed his at the hillside where the shots had come from. The other little girl, Lila, stayed in the floorboard, fiddling with her doll and singing to herself. Frans and Lulu suddenly started firing, and muzzle flashes lit up half a dozen spots across the hillsides as the ambushers returned fire. I concentrated on being small as bullets sparked off the hood, cab, and truck bed. I saw a guy in a black jumpsuit, hood, and goggles rush up to try to seize Pickles. She didn't bother to look around, just flipped the frying pan, backhanded the attacker with it, and caught  the food in the pan again. The firing died down. Pickles hoisted herself back into the truck, put it into Drive, and picked a way around the barricade. Once on the other side, she hit the gas and we accelerated down the open road and into the clean night.