Flipping Fates

by A. C. Williams

  We’re up on the highway now.

  Being followed by three police cars.

  Nice. I can dig it.

  I lean out the window and wave. Maybe I ought not to throw any more boxes out. With the police chasing us now, I don’t want to cause any damage to their cars.

  The RV swerves, and I scramble for a handhold.

  Too late. Nothing to hold on to. I crash into the opposite wall, knocking a large pile of boxes over on top of me. These are heavy too, and for a moment I’m buried beneath their weight as the RV speeds ahead.

  Groaning, I shove them off.

  These boxes are heavier than the dolls.

  I push one over, and it breaks open, spilling handguns and bullet magazines all over the floor.

  I gawk at the guns, now obvious inside the box. I’m not a firearms expert, but I know that many guns shouldn’t be inside that kind of box, especially not in the back of an abandoned RV.

  What else do Grant and his team sell? Landmines?

  The boxes had tumbled away from the wall to reveal a second window, its curtains flapping in the wind blowing in through the plastic sheeting.

  Outside the window, just above the line of the sill, something long and purple hovers.

  It looks like the roof of a car outside the window. But who would be driving a purple car on the highway chasing after an RV being driven by a fake-ghost-hunter drug dealer with bad fashion sense?

  My heart twists.

  Oh no.

  I scramble to the window and tear the curtains open.

  Sure enough.

  My purple Buick is keeping pace next to the RV. And who’s at the wheel?

  Aaron freakin’ Guinness.

  As I race to get the window open, the RV swerves again. The back wheel is going to hit Aaron!

  Aaron slams on the brakes just in time to avoid the fishtailing rear end of the RV, and as soon as it stabilizes, he accelerates bringing the side of the Buick up alongside.

  Lord, I didn’t know my Buick could go that fast.

  The window is rusted shut, so I kick at it with my feet until it loosens.

  The song of the police sirens are all around us now. It’s only a matter of time before Grant runs out of road, surely.

  I tear the window open.

  It’s far too small to climb through. The air rushes past, whipping my hair around my face and drying the blood that stains my skin. It’s in that moment Aaron sees me. I can tell because the Buick wobbles, and I can see the shock and terror on his face behind the windshield.

  It’s like time stops.

  Our eyes lock.

  Aaron Guinness.

  I’ve loved him since I was a child, catching fireflies with him in the backyard of our lake cabin in Oklahoma. I love his laugh. His furry caterpillar eyebrows. His bright, charming grin. His kindness and his heart and his compassion.

  I love the way he looks at me. Like I matter. Like I’m someone.

  I love the way he loves my nephew with Down Syndrome and my crazy niece with her cowgirl daydreams. How he helps my mom and supports my dad and makes my sisters laugh.

  He makes me happy. Happier than I ever thought I could be.

  And in that split second, I can see it in his terrified eyes: He loves me too.

  Good Lord, Trisha Leigh.

  Of course he loves you.

  Of course he does.

  He’s driving my Buick at break-neck pace to chase me down in a runaway RV. If that’s not love, nothing is. And it doesn’t matter if he hasn’t asked me to marry him yet. He will when he’s ready.

  I’m okay with that.

  I actually am.

  Aaron must have just hit a rumble strip because in the backseat, Herb the Skeleton tips over and waggles his jaw at me from under his floppy hat.

  Hey, buddy. Glad you could make it too.

  A loud squealing jerks me out of my reverie, and the whole RV shakes. The back end whips back and forth with violent rattling as the wheels lock up, and my body slides away from the window and Aaron’s face as the tires shriek. Cars wheel and squeal around us. A bone-jarring crash shakes the world outside. The RV bounces and jumps and slides.

  And it straightens out again, surging forward.

  The sirens are still screaming. I’m buried in the boxes of guns and cocaine-stuffed dolls again.

  That was a car crash.

  I crawl to the window, terrified to look out.

  My purple Buick is gone.

  Three of the cop cars behind us are gone.

  Something is on fire on the highway behind us.

  A sob chokes out of me. What has Grant done? Did he run the RV into Aaron? Did Aaron crash? My old Buick is too old for airbags. What if he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt? What if the crash killed him?

  What if Aaron Guinness is dead?

  I roll away from the window and struggle to catch my breath. I can’t think like that. I can’t. If I allow myself to think that way, I’ll give up, and I can’t give up.

  “I won’t give up.”

  I take a deep breath. So deep it hurts my ribs.

  I’ve got to stop this RV. The longer this chase goes on, the more danger everyone is in. It’s a matter of time before Grant either loses control of the vehicle or uses it to hurt innocent people. There’s only so much I can do by pitching boxes out the window.

  But there’s nothing I can do in this locked room either.

  The RV shakes again, and one of the boxes full of guns tips over, spilling black handguns across the floor.

  My heart stutters.

  Well, that’s a thought.

  Oh, but it’s not a good thought.

  I stare at the pile of guns rattling on the floor of the RV’s bedroom. What do I know about handling a gun? I’ve never even touched one! With my luck, I’ll shoot myself in the foot.

  But what choice do I have?

  Slowly, with trembling bloody fingers, I reach for the closest handgun. I wrap my fingers around it and lift it. It’s heavier than I expected. Much heavier.

  What do I even do with this?

  In the movies people shoot door locks. Would that work here? Could I shoot the door open?

  Again, with my luck, I’d shoot the door and Grant at the same time, and then he’d crash the RV and we’d both die. Definitely would defeat the purpose.

  I stare at the locked door, the knob shining in the sunlight from the window.

  It looks metallic. But what if it isn’t?

  I reach for the knob and wrap my hand around it, feeling it and twisting it.

  Well, what do you know? The door might be solid wood, but the door knob is plastic. And that’s something I can work with.

  With shaking hands, I brace myself against the wall and grip the handgun around the barrel, aiming the grip at the cheap doorknob.

  “Oh, God, let this work.”

  I take another shaking breath. Lift the gun. And bring it down with as much strength as I can muster.

  The doorknob shudders under the blow and bends slightly.

  Good. More.

  I hit it again.

  One of the screws breaks loose.

  More better.

  I pound the grip of the handgun against the doorknob with a cry of exertion, and the knob snaps apart. Its screws release, and the knob hits the floor on my side with an undignified thump. I can barely hear it, but on the other side of the door, the knob on that side does the same.

  I set the handgun on the floor and poke around the inside of the mechanism until my fingers find the lock. I slide it back, and the door swings open.

  I choke on a laugh.

  James Bond, eat your heart out. I’m Lee. Trisha Lee.

  With a heavy exhale, I catch the door before it swings all the way open.

  Great.

  Now what?

  I peer up to the front of the RV. It’s a good thing I ripped the rearview mirror off earlier, so at least I’ll have the element of surprise on my side. Grant won’t see me coming. But then
what am I going to do? Run up to Grant and pretend like I have the guts to shoot him? He’ll see right through that. But what else can I do? How else am I going to stop him?

  I already know I can’t shoot him. But maybe I can get him to believe that I will. Maybe if he thinks he killed Aaron, I can get him to believe that I have nothing left to lose.

  My stomach tightens. It’s not far from the truth, if I’m being honest.

  But that’s not going to happen. Because Aaron is alive. He has to be.

  Aaron is alive. He’s still smiling. He’s waiting for me to climb out of this RV and come back to him so he can ask me to marry him.

  I don’t know what I’ll do if he isn’t.

  I take the handgun again, my hands still shaking but my breath coming in much slower, calmer draws. Everything hurts. All the bruises from the first fight. All the scrapes and the scratches. All the cuts and the gashes.

  But holding the gun makes it all fade in the face of sheer, absolute terror. I don’t know if it’s loaded. I hope it’s not. But what if it is? What if I accidentally shoot Grant? I don’t want to shoot him. But I don’t want to die either.

  The RV skids sideways, and I brace myself against the door jamb.

  Enough.

  Enough of this.

  I clutch the grip of the gun and stand up.

  For the first time in my life, I’m the one with the gun. I’m the one who can scare somebody else. I’m not going to waste it by being too afraid to move.

  Grant Layton is going to stop this RV.

  I’m going to make sure of it.

  Duct Tape for the Win

  The RV swerves and rumbles, the entire vehicle rattling like every screw holding it together is loose. I slink out of the back bedroom and crouch behind the spot where the refrigerator should have been. There’s no refrigerator, of course. Instead, it’s crammed full of boxes packed with odds and ends and unwashed clothing and all sorts of other things Old Man Barry had apparently thought he couldn’t live without.

  There was a lot of junk Old Man Barry thought essential to his life that really wasn’t.

  If I survive this, I’m feeling a definite urge to go home and clean out my closets.

  The gun is heavy in my hand.

  I peer around the corner and watch Grant in the driver’s seat at the front of the RV. Am I really going to do this? Am I really going to threaten to shoot him if he doesn’t pull over? What if he calls my bluff? Is it a bluff? Could I actually shoot him?

  My heart flutters in my throat.

  We’ll just have to hope he doesn’t call my bluff. Even if he were the worst person on earth, I’m not sure I could shoot him. Not even in the kneecap.

  Golly, I’m not even sure I can effectively threaten to shoot him.

  I shake myself.

  First things first. I have to get close enough where he can even see that I have a gun. At this point, he could swerve violently and send me flying into one of the kitchenette cabinets and knock me out again.

  A flare of pain stabs in my brain, and my stomach rolls unhappily.

  He might not need to take me out. I’m concussed as it is. My ribs ache. I’m just a big wad of pain. Fortunately I’m stubborn. And, right now, I’m actually feeling really angry. Stupid Grant lied to me. Pretended to be someone he wasn’t. Hit me over the head. Locked me in a closet. Oh, and it looks like his reckless driving may have killed Aaron.

  No. He didn’t kill Aaron. Aaron is fine.

  I redouble my grip on the handgun.

  If nothing else, I’m angry enough that I can pretend that I’m capable of shooting him.

  I lean forward and crawl through the dirt and grime on the floor tiles. My knees throb with every inch, the sharp pinch of overstressed joints forced to press against an unyielding surface. My trousers will never be the same after this. I’m surprised they haven’t ripped and torn with all the abuse.

  As I inch forward, I keep eying the gun in my hand.

  Why do I have to have a gun? Can’t I charm Grant with my charismatic personality? Can’t I ask him nicely to pull the RV over? Why can’t I just skip the part where I threaten to shoot him?

  He swerves again, and a box full of dishes and pots and pans tips off the counter and lands unceremoniously in the middle of my shoulder blades.

  In the front, Grant curses. I drop flat to the floor and squeeze my eyes closed, praying he doesn’t look back and see me. The RV is rattling worse now. Almost like something in its construction has snapped.

  Maybe I won’t have to threaten him. Maybe he’ll have to pull over regardless.

  Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

  He’s still driving. He hasn’t started screaming. Or shooting.

  Whew.

  He must not have noticed me. I open my eyes and peer through the blanket of dishes and skillets that are currently camouflaging me as I lay on the filthy floor.

  Slowly, carefully, I dislodge the pots and pans that have undoubtedly left bruises scattered down my back and set them aside so that I won’t bump them as I crawl through them.

  One step at a time, one knee at a time, I make it off the tile and onto the carpeted area where the motorhome’s table and bench seat separate me from the cockpit. Now I’m crawling through random piles of dog food. I never really figured out where it came from. Knowing Old Man Barry, there’s probably a bag of it somewhere just in case.

  The upholstery might have been high quality in the 70s, but at present it’s so dirty and gross that I can’t even tell what color it’s supposed to be. I crawl past it.

  Almost there.

  I’m so close.

  God, don’t let him turn around.

  I’ve got to get to my feet so I can at least seem a bit more threatening than a half-beaten-to-death church secretary with a gun. I mean, that’s what I am, but if I can alter Grant’s perception of me it will help. I can’t be tough from the floor.

  I take a long, deep breath and ignore the foulness of the stale air.

  The windows are cracked open, I’m just noticing. No wonder Grant hasn’t heard my approach.

  I blow out my breath and use the couch to stand up while I take a big step and aim the gun at Grant’s head.

  “Grant!”

  In his reflection on the windshield, his eyes widen, and his hands clench the steering wheel in shock.

  “You—” His mouth hangs open. “How did you—What are you doing?”

  I have never been so proud of myself. I’m holding the gun steady. My hands aren’t even shaking. Surely he’s got to take me seriously.

  “Pull over!” I shout.

  Oh, my voice is trembling. That’s not very tough.

  Something drips down my face.

  Tears?

  Great. The gun is steady, but I’m crying.

  Yes, Trisha, very tough.

  In the mirror, Grant’s expression turns into a cruel sneer. Bozo. Doesn’t he realize how dangerous it is to be threatened by a church secretary when she has a gun she found in an RV?

  “I’ve got to admit it.” Grant turns his gaze back to the road. “You keep surprising me.”

  I shake the gun at him. “Pull. Over.”

  “Where did you find that?”

  “I have a gun, Grant! I will—sh—sh—shoot you if I have to!”

  There you go. ‘Atta girl. Got the words out.

  “I’m impressed you know which end to hold.” He laughs.

  He’s laughing at me.

  Oh well. So much for being intimidating.

  “If you found it in the boxes back there, it’s unloaded.” Grant’s reflection in the mirror eyes me.

  “Every gun is loaded. Always.” I take the grip in both hands, still pointing it at him.

  “This isn’t a stupid gun safety course, Trisha.” His mouth curls into a smirk. “That gun isn’t loaded. And even if it were and you had the guts to shoot me, what then?”

  My lower lip is trembling.

  “You shoot me? We’ll go out of
control.” He gestures to the highway in front of us.

  I’m not sure where we are. Going this fast, the road signs are blurs. I don’t recognize the landmarks. But then, I’m not really looking. All I can see is my hands holding the gun at Grant’s head.

  How did it come to this?

  How do I even know how to hold a gun? Why is this something I have to do? I wasn’t built for this.

  Could I actually shoot him? Could I actually kill someone?

  My hands are shaking now.

  Stupid Grant. Stupid me.

  “How about you put that thing down and have a seat?” Grant nods at the upholstered inset chair on the wall next to the entry stairwell. “We won’t be driving much longer anyway. So you’ve saved me some trouble of coming back to fetch you.”

  The wind whipping through the RV tosses my hair around, matted with blood and dirt as it is. The sky in the distance is black and boiling with dark clouds, all of them with the distinctive greenish hue of oncoming hail.

  “You’re driving into the storm?” I shout.

  Grant doesn’t answer. He checks his mirrors and the clock on the dashboard. Then, inexplicably, he guides the RV into the neighboring lane. Then, he pulls into a ramp that leads to a rest stop.

  We’re stopping?

  Why are we stopping?

  Oh. I have a gun.

  I point it at him again.

  “Oh, stop.” He laughs at me. “We both you know you’re not going to shoot me. Even if you had a loaded weapon, you couldn’t do it.”

  “Then why—”

  The RV squeals as it comes to a halt, rumbling and shaking and rattling. Grant throws it in park, and in a flash he’s on his feet and his fist cracks against my face again. I topple backward, smashing the back of my head against the wall as I sink into the chair he’d indicated previously. He snatches the gun out of my hand and turns it on me.

  Great, Trisha.

  Bold.

  Capable.

  MI6 will be calling you asking for your resume within the week.

  I wipe the blood from beneath my nose and try to stem the tears.

  “God, you’re useless.” Grant checks the weapon and aims it at me. “Maybe I should just put you out of your misery?”

  I start to speak.

  Grant pulls the trigger.

  Click.

  My breath bursts out of me in a half-choked sob, as if losing the gun wasn’t humiliating enough.