by Morgan Rice
I’m not sure how to respond.
“Yes I did,” I say finally, annoyed. I don’t need him reminding me of it. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “I’ve just never seen a man killed before.”
“I did what I had to do,” I snap back, defensive. “He was reaching for a gun.”
I give it more gas, hitting 135, and as we turn the bend, I am relieved to spot the other car on the horizon. I am catching up, speeding faster than they dare to. At this rate, in a few minutes I might just catch them. I am encouraged.
I am sure they spot us-I just hope they don’t realize it’s us. Maybe they think the other slaverunners got their car back on the road. I don’t think they saw our encounter.
I give it even more gas, hitting 140, and the distance starts to close.
“What are you going to do when you catch them?” Ben suddenly screams, and I can hear the panic in his voice.
That is exactly what I have been wondering. I don’t know yet. I just know I need to catch up to them.
“We can’t shoot at their car, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “The bullet might kill my brother-or your sister.”
“I know,” I reply. “We’re not going to shoot. We’re going to run them off the road,” I say, suddenly deciding.
“That’s crazy!” he yells, gripping the dashboard tighter as we close the gap even more. Snow is bouncing off our windshield like crazy, and I feel like I’m in one of those videogames going out of control. The Taconic twists, narrowing as we go.
“That could kill them!” he yells. “What good will that do? My brother will die in there!”
“My sister is in there, too!” I shout back. “You think I want her dead?”
“So then what are you thinking!?” he screams.
“You have any other ideas!?” I shout back. “You expect me to just pull up and ask them to pull over?”
He is silent.
“We have to stop them,” I continue. “If they reach the city, we’ll never get them back. That’s a certain death. At least this gives them a chance.”
Just as I get ready to floor it one more time, suddenly, the slaverunners surprise me, and slow down. They slow so much that in moments I pull up beside them. At first I can’t understand why they are doing this, and then I realize: they think we are their partners. They still don’t realize it’s us.
We pull up, and just as I prepare to turn hard on the wheel, to smash into them, their tinted passenger-side window lowers. The grinning face of a slaverunner appears, his facemask raised; he still assumes I am one of his.
I lower my window, scowling back: I want him to have one good look at me before I send him to hell.
His smile suddenly drops, as his expression morphs into one of shock. I still have the element of surprise, and am about to turn hard on the wheel, when suddenly, I am distracted: as I look over, I catch a glimpse of Bree in the backseat. She is alive. She looks back at me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.
Suddenly, we hit a pothole. The sound is deafening, and our car shakes as if a bomb has gone off. It jolts me so hard that my head slams into the metal ceiling, and my teeth smash into each other. I feel as if I’ve lost a filling. Our car swerves wildly, and it takes me several seconds to regain control and straighten it out. It was a close call. It was stupid of me: I never should have taken my eyes off the road. We’ve lost speed, and the other vehicle has sped up, and is now a good fifty yards ahead of us. Worse, now they know we’re not one of theirs.
I floor it again: 130…140…. I step on the gas until the pedal is touching the floor, but it won’t go any further. The speedometer hits 150. I assume the car in front of me has the capacity to go as fast, but they, clearly, are being more sensible. The icy conditions on this road are risky at even 80 miles an hour, and they are not willing to take the extra risk. But I have nothing to lose. If I lose Bree, I have nothing left to live for anyway.
We are closing in on them again. They are thirty yards away…twenty.
Suddenly, their passenger window rolls down, and light reflects off of something shiny. I realize, too late, what it is: a gun.
I slam on the brakes, just as they fire several times. I duck as the bullets bounce off our hood and windshield, and the metallic sound of ricocheting bullets fills our ears. At first I think we’re finished, but then I realize the bullets haven’t penetrated: this car must be bulletproof.
“You’re going to get us killed!” Ben yells. “Stop this! There has to be another way!”
“There’s no other way!” I scream back, more to assure myself than him.
I have crossed some sort of line inside, and I absolutely refuse to back down.
“There is no other way,” I repeat quietly to myself, my eyes locked on the road.
I step on it one more time, swerving to the side, then floor it, coming up alongside them. With one strong pull on the wheel, I smash into them hard, just as the slaverunner is reaching out with his gun again. My front fender hits their rear wheel. Their car swerves wildly, and so does mine. For a moment, we are both all over the road. They smash into a metal railing, then bounce back and smash into me. I smash into the metal railing on my side.
The highway opens up and the railings disappear, and there is flat farmland on either side of us. It is perfect. I know I can take them out now. I floor it one more time, preparing to swerve again. I have them perfectly in my sights, and reach up to turn the wheel.
Suddenly, there is a gleam of metal as the slaverunner reaches out again, gun in hand.
“WATCH OUT!” Ben yells.
But it is too late. Gunshots ring out, and before I can swerve, the bullets rip into our front tires. I lose complete control of the car. Ben screams, as we go flying across the road. So, despite myself, do I.
My universe is upside down, as the car tumbles, and we spin again and again.
My head smashes against the metal roof. I feel the sharp tug of the seatbelt digging into my chest, and the world is just a blur through the windshield. There is the sound of metal crunching in my ears, so loud, I can hardly think.
The last thing I remember is wishing my Dad were here to see me now, to see how close I had come. I wonder if he would be proud.
And then, after one final crash, my world goes black.
TEN
I don’t know how long I’m out. I peel open my eyes, and wake to a tremendous pain in my head. Something is wrong, and I can’t figure out what.
Then I realize: the world is upside down.
I feel blood rushing to my face. I look about, trying to figure out what happened, where I am, if I’m even still alive. And then, slowly, I begin to take it all in.
The car is sitting upside down, the engine has stopped, and I’m still buckled in the driver’s seat. It’s silent. I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here like this. I reach over, slowly moving my arm, trying to feel for injuries. As I do, I feel a sharp pain in my arms and shoulders. I don’t know if I’m injured, or where, and I can’t tell as long as I’m hanging upside down in the seat. I realize I need to unbuckle myself.
I reach over and, unable to see the buckle, feel along the strap until I reach something cold and plastic. I dig my thumb into it. At first, it doesn’t give.
I push harder.
Come on.
There is a sudden click, and the belt snaps off and I go plummeting down, landing right on my face, against the metal roof; the drop must be a foot, and makes my headache far worse.
It takes a few seconds to get my wits back about me, and slowly, I get to my knees. I look over and see Ben there beside me; he is still buckled in, too, also hanging upside down. His face is covered in blood and blood drips slowly from his nose, and I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. But his eyes are closed, and I take that as a good sign-at least they’re not open and unblinking.
I check the backseat for our passenger, the boy-and as soon as do, I regret it. He lies on the bottom
of the car, his neck twisted in an unnatural position, eyes open and frozen. Dead.
I feel responsible. Maybe I should have forced him out of the car earlier. Ironically, this boy might have been better off if he stayed with the slaverunners than me. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
Seeing this boy dead reinforces the gravity of the accident; I check my body again for injuries, not even knowing where to look, since everything hurts. But as I twist, I feel a searing pain in my side, my ribs, and as I take a deep breath, it hurts to breathe. I reach over, and it’s sensitive to the touch. It feels like I’ve cracked another rib.
I can move, but it hurts like hell. I also still have the burning pain in my arm from the shrapnel of our previous accident. My head feels heavy, as if it’s in a vice, my ears are ringing, and I have a pounding headache that just won’t quit. I probably have a concussion.
But there’s no time to dwell on that now. I need to see if Ben is alive. I reach over and shake him. He doesn’t respond.
I debate the best way to get him out and realize there’s no easy way to do it. So I reach over and push hard on his seatbelt release button. The strap flies off and Ben plummets down and lands hard, face first, on the metal roof. He grunts loudly, and I’m flooded with relief: he’s alive.
He lays there, curled up, groaning. I reach over and shove him hard, again and again. I want to wake him, see how badly he’s hurt. He squirms, but still doesn’t seem fully conscious.
I have to get out of this car: I feel claustrophobic in here, especially being so close to the dead boy, still staring at me with his unmoving eyes. I reach over, searching for the door handle. My vision is a bit blurry, and it’s hard to find, especially with everything upside down. I use two hands, groping the door, and finally, I find it. I pull on it, and nothing happens. Great. The door must be jammed shut.
I yank on it again and again, but still, nothing happens.
So I lean back, bring my knees to my chest, and kick the door as hard as I can with both feet. There is a crash of metal and a burst of cold air rushes in, as the door goes flying open.
I roll out into the snow, into a world of white. It is snowing again, and it is coming down as hard as ever. It feels good to be out of the car, though, and I get to my knees, and slowly stand. I feel a rush of blood to my head, and for a moment, the world spins. Slowly, my headache lessens, and it feels good to be upright, back on my feet, breathing fresh air. As I try to stand straight, the pain in my ribs worsens, as does the pain in my arm. I roll my shoulders back and feel stiff, bruised all over. But I don’t feel that anything else is broken, and I don’t see any blood. I’m lucky.
I hurry over to the passenger side door, get to one knee, and yank it open. I reach in and grab Ben by the shirt and try to yank him out. He is heavier than I suspect, and I have to yank hard; I pull slowly but firmly, and finally get him out into the fresh snow. He enters the snow face first, and finally, that wakes him. He rolls onto his side, wiping the snow off his face. He then gets to his hands and knees and opens his eyes, staring at the ground, breathing hard. As he does, blood drips from his nose into the white snow, staining it.
He blinks several times, disoriented, and turns and looks up at me, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the falling snow.
“What happened?” he asks, his speech slurred.
“We had an accident,” I answer. “You okay?”
“I can’t breathe,” he says, sounding nasally, cupping his hands beneath his nose to catch the blood. As he leans back, I can finally see: he has a broken nose.
“Your nose is busted,” I say.
He looks back at me, slowly comprehending, and his eyes flood with fear.
“Don’t worry,” I say, going over to him. I reach up with both hands, and place them on his nose. I remember when Dad taught me how to set a broken nose. It was late one night, after he’d come home from a bar fight. I couldn’t believe it. He made me watch, said it would be good for me to learn something useful. He stood there in the bathroom as I watched, leaned into the mirror, and reached up and did it. I still remember the cracking noise it made.
“Hold still,” I say.
In one quick motion, I reach up and push hard on both sides of his crooked nose, setting it straight. He screams out in pain, and I feel badly. But I know this is what he needs to get it back into place, and to staunch the flow of blood. I reach down and hand him a clump of snow, putting into his hands and guiding it up, so that he holds it against his nose.
“This will stop the blood, and reduce the swelling,” I say.
Ben holds the clump of snow to his nose, and within moments, it turns red. I look away.
I step back and survey our car: it sits there, upside down, its chassis visible to the sky. Its three intact tires are still spinning, very slowly. I turn and look back towards the highway. We’re about thirty yards off the road-we must’ve really tumbled far. I wonder how big of a lead they have on us.
It’s amazing, I realize, that we’re even still alive, especially given our speed. Surveying this stretch of highway, I realize we got lucky: if we had tumbled back there, we would have plunged off a cliff. And if the thick snow hadn’t sheltered us, I’m sure the impact would have been worse.
I survey our car, wondering if there’s any way we can get it running again. I realize it’s doubtful. Which means I’ll never find Bree, and which means we’ll be stranded here, in the middle of nowhere, and probably dead within a day. We have no choice: we have to find a way to get it working.
“We have to flip it over,” I say, with sudden urgency. “We have to get it back on its wheels and see if it still works. I need your help.”
Ben slowly registers what I’m saying, then hurries over to my side, stumbling at first. The two of us stand beside each other, on one side of the car, and both begin to push.
We manage to rock it, and then, using our momentum, push it again and again. It takes all that I have, and I can feel myself slipping in the snow, feel the pain tearing through my bicep, through my ribs.
The car rocks in bigger and bigger swings, and just as I wonder if I can go on, we give it one final heave. I reach up, above my head, pushing and pushing it, walking forward in the snow as I do.
It is just enough. The car reaches a tipping point, on its side, then suddenly lands with a crash on all four wheels. A huge cloud of snow rises up. I stand there catching my breath, as does Ben.
I survey the damage. It is extensive. The hood and roof and trunk look as if they’ve been worked over by a sledgehammer. But amazingly, the bones of it are still in shape. However, there is one glaring problem. One of the tires-the one that was shot out-is in such bad shape that there’s no way we can drive on it.
“Maybe there’s a spare,” Ben says, reading my mind. I look over and he’s already hurrying over to the trunk. I’m impressed.
I hurry over to it, too. He pushes the button several times, but it doesn’t open.
“Look out,” I say, and as he steps back I raise my knee and kick down hard with my heel. The trunk pops open.
I look down and am relieved to see a spare tire sitting there. Ben reaches in and grabs it, and I pull back the lining, and beneath it, find a jack and wrench. I grab it and follow Ben, who carries the spare to the front. Without missing a beat, Ben takes the jack, jams it under the chassis, then takes the wrench and starts cranking it up. I’m impressed by how comfortable he is with the tools, and how quickly he gets the car jacked up. He removes all the bolts and pulls off the useless tire and chucks it into the snow.
He puts in the new tire, and I hold it steady as he puts the bolts back in, one by one. He tightens them and lowers the car, and as we step back and look, it’s like having a brand-new tire. Ben has surprised me with his mechanical skills; I never would have expected that from him.
I waste no time opening the driver’s side door, jumping back in the car, and turning the keys. But my heart drops as I hear silence. The car is dead. I try the ignit
ion again and again. But nothing. Nothing at all. It seems the accident destroyed the car somehow. A hopeless feeling sets in. Was this all for nothing?
“Pop the hood,” Ben says.
I pull the lever and Ben hurries around to the front, and I get out and join him. I stand over him as he reaches in and starts fiddling with several wires, knobs and switches. I am surprised by his dexterity.
“Are you a mechanic?” I ask.
“Not really,” he answers. “My Dad is. He taught me a lot, back when we had cars.”
He holds two wires together, and there is a spark. “Try it now,” he says.
I hurry back in and turn the ignition, hoping, praying. This time, the car roars to life.
Ben slams closed the hood, and I see a proud smile on his face, which is already swelling up from the broken nose. He hurries back and opens his door and is about to get back in, when suddenly he freezes, staring into the backseat.
I follow his gaze, and I remember. The boy in the back.
“What should we do with him?” Ben asks.
There’s no more time to waste. I get out, reach in and yank him out, trying not to look. I drag him several feet, in the snow, over to a large tree, and lay him down beneath it. I look at him for just a moment, then turn and run back to the car.
Ben still stands there.
“That’s it?” he asks, sounding disappointed.
“What do you expect?” I snap. “A funeral service?”
“It just seems…a bit callous,” he says. “He died because of us.”
“We don’t have time for this,” I say, at my wit’s end. “We’re all going to die anyway!”
I jump back into the running car, my thoughts fixed on Bree, on how far the other slaverunners have gone. While Ben is still closing his door, I peel out.
Our car goes flying across the snowy field, up a steep bank and with a bang, back onto the highway. We skid, then catch traction. We are rolling again.
I step on the gas, and we start to gain real speed. I am amazed: this car is invincible. It feels as good as new.