Blacktop Wasteland

by S. A. Cosby

  “Look, my wife already gonna bite my head off because she thinks I’m cheating on her. Let’s help each other out, man,” Kelvin said.

  “Are you?” one of the Hoodie Brothers asked.

  “Am I what?” Kelvin asked.

  “Cheating on her?”

  Dreadlocks motioned with the AR-15.

  “Get the fire extinguisher,” he growled. Kelvin nodded and jogged back to the pickup.

  He grabbed a slim red fire extinguisher from behind the bench seat. He went back to the car, pulled the pin and sprayed down the Lincoln. A whitish cloud of CO2 enveloped the car, dampening the flames. Kelvin had to hit the car three more times before the fire went out completely.

  “Let me see if I can put it in gear. Then we can push it. Be careful though, it’s still fucking hot,” Kelvin said. He gingerly reached his hand through the window, taking care to not let his arm touch the still smoking car door. Beauregard had left it in neutral but this was all a part of the act.

  “Hey, it’s already in neutral,” he said. He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. He walked to the back of the car. By wrapping his shirt around his hands he made it into an ersatz oven mitt.

  “We all gonna have to push it. It’s a Lincoln. An old one. It’s heavy as shit,” Kelvin said. The Hoodie Brothers put their hands inside the pockets of their hood jackets and took a position on either side of Kelvin. Beauregard saw the door of the van open and watched as an amber-colored dome light came to life. A big beefy brother wearing a baseball cap with a broken bill started to get out.

  “Get your ass back in that van,” Dreadlocks said.

  The van driver got back in but didn’t shut the door all the way. Eventually the dome light blinked out.

  “Hey man, it’s gonna take all of us,” Kelvin said.

  “Y’all got it. I got faith in you,” Dreadlocks said. He was still pointing the rifle at Kelvin. He stood between the van and the Lincoln.

  “Tyree, this car heavy as fuck. Come on, man, let’s just move it and get on,” one of the Hoodie Brothers said to Dreadlocks. Beauregard inched closer to the road.

  Tyree set the rifle down on the road. He took a position next to the Hoodie Brother on Kelvin’s left.

  “I ain’t messing up my jersey,” Tyree said as he placed his Air Jordan on the trunk.

  “Hey, I feel ya. Alright, on three,” Kelvin said.

  “One.”

  Beauregard put the binoculars back in his pack and crept over the dry ditch bank. He crouched down until he was crab walking again. He inched his way up to the driver’s-side door of the van. His rubber-soled shoes slipped over the gravel and asphalt like a sigh.

  “Two.”

  Beauregard pressed his back against the side of the van.

  “THREE,” Kelvin exclaimed. The four men pushed and kicked the Lincoln. The screech of metal against metal filled the night as the brakes ground against the rotors.

  Beauregard stood up and aimed his .45 at the driver. The man had a wide face with a light, almost tan complexion. He stared at Beauregard’s gun like a bird staring at a snake. The driver’s hand hovered above the horn but Beauregard shook his head. He pulled a piece of white paper out of his pocket with his free hand. He pressed the paper against the glass.

  “TURN OFF THE DOME LIGHT. DO NOT MAKE ANY NOISE. GET IN THEBACK AND LIE FACE DOWN. IF YOU DON’T I WILL KILL YOU” was written on the paper.

  The driver hadn’t shut the door completely so Beauregard grabbed the handle and opened it slowly. He motioned for the driver to get in the back. The man slid his considerable bulk over the center console and lay down in the back of the van. Beauregard balled up the paper, put it in his pocket and climbed in the van. He saw that the man had followed instructions as carefully as a dutiful child. He shut the door softly then slipped out of his pack while still holding his gun. Using his free hand he retrieved two sets of handcuffs from the knapsack. He handed both pairs of cuffs to the driver.

  “Handcuff one end of one set of handcuffs to one of the straps holding down the pallet. Hook the other end to the chain in the middle of the other pair. Then put that pair on. Do it quickly,” Beauregard whispered.

  “Are you gonna shoot me?” the driver asked. His voice was a tremulous whistle.

  “Not if you put on the handcuffs,” Beauregard said. He checked his watch. Taking control of the van had taken a minute and a half. They were right on schedule.

  “That should do it, fellas,” Kelvin said. The smoldering Lincoln was at a lackadaisical diagonal angle in Pine Tar Road’s northbound lane. They’d moved it just enough so they could all slip by.

  “Yeah,” Tyree said. He retrieved the AR-15 and aimed it at Kelvin again. Kelvin held his hands out in front of him. He dropped his work shirt and took a step back.

  Beauregard watched the scene through the windshield. All the saliva in his mouth instantly evaporated. His breath came in ragged bursts.

  “Don’t you do it,” he murmured.

  “Hey man, come on,” Kelvin said. Tyree walked up to him and placed the barrel against his cheek. He pushed forward until the barrel was making a dent in Kelvin’s face.

  Beauregard planted himself in the driver’s seat. He had the .45 in his waist but shooting through the windshield would throw off his shot. The van was a 6,000-pound deadly weapon if it came to that. Beauregard watched as Tyree pressed the barrel of his gun even harder into Kelvin’s cheek. His whole body flinched.

  “No, no, no, you gotta talk this motherfucker down,” Beauregard said, not caring if the driver heard him or not. He saw Kelvin’s face in the bright bluish headlights. It was terribly animated. His eyes were big as dinner plates. Snippets of the conversation reached him in muffled chunks. The words were indistinct but the AR-15 made the nature of Dreadlock’s threat perfectly clear.

  Beauregard shifted the van into drive. He could close the distance between the van and Tyree in less than three seconds. Which wouldn’t matter because if Tyree pulled the trigger Kelvin would be dead before he hit the ground.

  Beauregard clutched the steering wheel in a death grip.

  “If I was you I would forget all about tonight. I see you again, anywhere, your wife a widow. Ya feel me?” Tyree said.

  “Forget about what?” Kelvin said.

  “Come on, Tyree, we gotta go,” one of the Hoodie Brothers said.

  “Be gone, homes,” Tyree said. Kelvin put his hands down and picked up his shirt. He grabbed the spent fire extinguisher and walked around the three men. He glanced at the van as he walked back to the truck. He climbed in and shut the door. Beauregard’s bandana rustled as he exhaled deep from within his chest.

  “Get in the car,” Tyree said. The other two men hustled back to the SUV. As he made his way back to the vehicle he slapped the hood of the van. The windows and the windshield had a dark, smoke gray tint. In the faded gloom of the North Carolina night, with the blinding LED headlights blasting his retinas, Tyree failed to notice Beauregard sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “Let’s get on, Ross,” Tyree said after slapping the hood. He climbed into the SUV. Beauregard put the van into gear and hit the gas. The caravan was once again on its way. Kelvin counted to fifty before taking off as well. By the time he’d crested the next hill the tail lights of the SUV were just red pinpricks.

  Beauregard kept the van near 60 as they navigated the serpentine road that twisted through the North Carolina hills. The SUV stayed about a car length behind him with its low beams bouncing off his side mirrors. He put the gun in the knapsack with his right hand while steering with his left. Switching hands, he grabbed the steering wheel with his right and slid his left hand under the dashboard near the door. His deft fingers found the van’s fuse box. He visualized the fuse box’s specs. He’d memorized them from the Chilton repair manual. He could see the square black box in his mind with the different colored two-bladed fuses in three short rows that ran the length of the box. Beauregard counted to himself as his fingers slipped across t
he hard plastic rectangles.

  One, two, three, four down. One, two, three to the right, he thought. He pulled the fuse for the van’s brake lights out of its socket. He let it fall from his fingers and buried the gas pedal in the floor. The van lurched forward as the engine screamed. A sharp curve was coming up but Beauregard didn’t let up on the gas. He took the curve at 70. He felt the back wheels trying to slither to the right as he turned into the curve. He wrenched the steering wheel to the left and gave the brake a love tap. Glancing in the side mirror he saw the SUV was now about six car lengths behind them. He grimaced but his bandana hid his own visage from him as he flicked his eyes up toward the rearview mirror. Once again he stomped on the gas. The van’s engine squealed in protest but Beauregard spared it no quarter. The speedometer topped out at 125 and he intended to get within shouting distance of that in the next two minutes. The road ahead careened into another hairpin turn that forced him to slam on the brake with his left foot while keeping his right foot firmly on the gas pedal. The van drifted through the turn like a big man who was surprisingly nimble on the dance floor. He checked the side mirror. The SUV’s headlights appeared after a few seconds.

  Beauregard heard the staccato rhythm of gunfire explode behind him. He took his foot off the brake and committed all his strength to pressing the gas pedal to the floor. He checked the side mirror again. Another burst of gunfire exploded even as the headlights of the SUV receded. Soon they disappeared entirely. The crew in the SUV probably assumed the van driver had decided to double-cross them and make off with their boss’s loot.

  That was exactly what Beauregard wanted them to think.

  A long stretch of straight road unfurled in front of him like a black ribbon. He checked the speedometer. 90 mph.

  Beauregard fished his phone out of his pocket. Steering with his left hand he scrolled through his contacts with a quick downward glance. When he got to one that said R1 he pushed the green “call” button. Returning his eyes to the road he saw a chestnut-colored doe step daintily out into the middle of the road.

  “Goddamn it!” he grunted. Beauregard whipped the steering wheel to the right while letting up off the gas but not braking. He heard the pallet in the back groan as gravity pulled at it with insistent invisible hands. Beauregard drove the van onto the narrow shoulder of the road and around the seemingly oblivious deer. The front right tire tried to slip into the ditch but Beauregard refused to allow it to escape. He’d come too far and had too far to go for that bullshit. He hit the gas and slammed the wheel to the left. The van fishtailed, shuddered, then the front right tire found the road again and dug into the asphalt. Beauregard did all this with his left hand while still holding the phone to his right ear.

  “What is it?” Ronnie yelled.

  “Nothing. Be ready. Two minutes,” Beauregard said. He ended the call and tossed the phone in the cup holder. Another series of hills were coming up in one hundred feet. He had driven this road twice since they had come down yesterday morning. He took notice of every divot, pothole and twist and turn. The details were burned into his mind like a cattle brand. He checked his side mirror. The headlights of the SUV were nowhere to be seen. They had the faster vehicle but he had the better skills.

  At the top of the second hill Beauregard saw a white box truck had pulled out in front of him from its resting place on the widest part of the shoulder. He eased up on the gas and grabbed the phone. He called Ronnie again.

  “You have to keep it at 60. I’m coming in hot,” Beauregard said. His words came out in short clipped bursts.

  “I got it. You want the door down now?”

  “Yes.” He tossed the phone aside again.

  Boonie had gotten them the pickup truck and two other vehicles for Beauregard’s plan. The box truck he had to steal. He and Kelvin had slipped down to Newport News and copped it from a plumbing supply store on Jefferson Avenue. The van they were going to steal was fifteen feet long, six feet wide and six feet seven inches tall. The Akers and Son box truck was just wide enough, deep enough and had barely enough headspace for the job. Originally it had a roll door that slid up and rolled onto two metal slats attached to the roof. Beauregard had gotten rid of the roll door in addition to making a few more adjustments.

  Ronnie had wanted to go in guns blazing but Bug knew that was a fool’s run. He’d figured, correctly, that the crew protecting the van would be strapped with some heavy artillery. They didn’t have the time or the money to get into an arms race.

  Beauregard inched closer to the box truck.

  Instead of rolling upward the door of the box truck began to open outward like the lid of a coffin. Slowly, torturously it continued opening until it was nearly parallel with the road. After a breath-stopping pause it continued opening until the lip made contact with the road. The rubber weather stripping he’d installed at the top of the door began to smoke as friction began to devour it. He only had a few minutes before the rubber wore away and sparks began to dot the night. The door itself was made up of threaded rod welded together in a cross-hatch pattern like a sheet of rabbit wire. He’d sandwiched that between quarter-inch-thick steel plates. Two-inch-wide support struts ran from the bottom of the door to the top. They stopped just three inches before the weather stripping along the edge of the ramp began. Kelvin had helped him hook up the hydraulic system that opened and closed the door. A toggle switch dangling from the steering wheel of the truck controlled the entire apparatus.

  Closed, it looked like any other door to any other box truck.

  Opened, it became a ramp.

  Beauregard focused on the ramp. They’d hit another flat stretch. This one went on for just under three miles. Ronnie was doing 60. He’d have to get the van up to at least 65 to get inside the truck and then stand up on the brakes to keep the van from crashing into the cab. This was their best shot. In about three minutes the road became a roller coaster and stayed that way for the next five miles until it passed a desolate gas station.

  He pushed the van up to 65 and aimed it at the ramp. He felt it then. Felt it for the first time tonight. The high, the juice, the symbiotic relationship between man and machine. The thrumming vibrations that worked their way up from the blacktop through the wheels and suspension system like blood moving through veins until it reached his hands. The engine spoke to him in the language of horsepower and RPMs. It told him it yearned to run.

  The thrill had finally arrived.

  “Let’s fly,” Beauregard whispered.

  He hit the ramp doing 70 mph. The van rocked like a skiff on the open sea. Beauregard heard the driver moan from the back. Grunting, he eased up on the gas infinitesimally. He’d adjusted the ramp so that the dip between it and the edge of the bed was minimal but if he came in too fast he’d pop the front tires. Without warning the truck shot forward, accelerating violently. Beauregard could feel the ramp slipping from beneath his wheels.

  “Fuck!” Beauregard growled. He let up on the gas as the ramp disappeared completely from beneath the van. The front tires slammed onto the asphalt like Fat Man and Little Boy. The van careened from left to right as Beauregard struggled with the wheel. Once he had it under control he fumbled for the cell. He hit the “call” button with his right thumb as he steered with his left hand.

  “What was that?” Beauregard said when Ronnie answered.

  “I’m sorry, my foot slipped. Fuck it, Bug, I’m sorry I—”

  Beauregard cut him off.

  “Keep it at sixty. I’m coming in again,” he said. They’d missed their best chance in the long straightaway. Now more steep hills loomed ahead of them. Beauregard gritted his teeth as the van struggled to drag itself up and over while carrying him, the driver and the pallet of platinum.

  Ronnie was trying to keep the truck steady but it was jerking, faster on the downhills, slower as it struggled up. Impossible to time it right in these short valleys.

  No headlights in the mirror. Not yet. He breathed deeply. They had one more shot. It wasn’t ideal
but they didn’t really have a choice. After this last hill the road flattened out again. Only this time it was a matter of feet, not miles.

  As Beauregard descended the hill he saw bright orange sparks erupt from the ramp. The rubber weather stripping had burned away and the metal was making contact with the asphalt. The sparks looked like fireflies from Hell. Two hundred feet. He only had two hundred feet left before the road ended and they were back on a main highway. Two hundred feet to make this work. The main highway was forty miles of flat blacktop four lanes wide. Once they hit it the SUV would catch up with them. He couldn’t outrun them on that stretch. Beauregard focused on the ramp. The van’s powerful headlights lit up the inside of the truck. The interior of the truck reflected the light back at him. Through a hail of sparks, he saw the four sandbags he had attached to the wall to act as a backstop. A desolate gas station illuminated by flickering sodium arc lights zipped by his window. The yellow lights left jaundiced streaks behind his eyes.

  One hundred and sixty feet now.

  Beauregard flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror. He saw the ambient glow of headlights rising above the last hill they had gone over. The SUV hadn’t crested that hill yet but it would in a matter of seconds. It was either going to be now or it was getting shot in the fucking face.

  One hundred feet.

  Beauregard grunted and hit the gas. The needle on the speedometer shot past 70 mph and leaned on 80. He passed a green rectangular sign that told him Pine Tar Road was coming to an end.

  Drive it like you stole it, right? Beauregard thought.

  He slammed the gas pedal to the floor. As the speedometer hit 90 mph, sparks washed over the van like a wave of falling stars.

  * * *

  “There! There it is, goddamn it!” Tyree yelled.

  He whipped the SUV to the right and pulled into a desolate, dimly lit gas station. The gas station was about a mile from the end of Pine Tree Road. Tyree slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the vehicle with his AR-15 in one hand. The Hoodie Brothers followed him. They kept their weapons tucked under their shirts and kept their distance from Tyree.