The Rental Car
By
Tipper
The
car twisted on the road, arcing into the curve, tires squealing across the
asphalt. The engine shuddered, and the
wheel beneath his hands jerked, shook, felt terrifyingly disconnected. He
gripped it tighter, fingers white, arm muscles tensed so rigidly that he
couldn't let go even if he wanted to.
The
corners of his mouth pressed down; his eyes were narrowed slits, focused only
on the edge of the black pavement. His
teeth were gritted, leaving his jaw aching and his head throbbing.
The
road straightened, and he pushed harder on the accelerator, forcing the vehicle
faster as it plunged down the mountain road.
80...90...100...110...
Fir
trees darkened by the onset of night whipped past the windows, and the lights
of houses twinkled between them, bright and innocent in the distance. Ahead, he could make out the dusky outline of
the flat desert landscape, turned purple and blurry under the dissipating haze
of day.
He
just had to get to Tucson. If he got to
Tucson, it'd be okay.
He
didn't look behind him; he didn't need to.
They were following. Of course
they were following.
The
dashed white line in the middle of the road had turned solid double yellow, a
warning. The high-beams struggled to
make up for the loss of daylight, but the road curved into nothingness up
ahead.
Damn
it! He was supposed to be on vacation!
He
heard the sharp intake of breath from his right as the man with him tried to
press himself deeper into the passenger seat.
He knew without looking that his companion had one hand on the door
handle, and the other on the handle over the window—just holding on.
The
curve came. Just before reaching it, he
jerked the wheel sharply. You didn't
need much. Inexperienced drivers always
turned it too far, too much, not understanding the physics of momentum, control
and arcs.
The
car shook again. It wasn't made for
this. It was a god damned Chevy. And, worse, it was a rental. And an automatic.
Fucking
Hertz. Would it have killed them to have
one stick shift on the lot? Just one?
The
tires skidded as they hit gravel on the turn, threatening to overturn the car,
send it sideways down the hill, barreling through the pine and cactus
forest. He just held on, fighting his
instincts. Don't compensate, don't try
to fix it, just hang on....
The
man on his right moaned quietly, as if in pain.
The
wheels hit tar again, and the car practically lifted up off the road as he
gunned the engine forward—almost as if it was growing excited beneath his
skilled hands, understanding that it was being pushed past its abilities, and
starting to enjoy it.
"I
think I'm going to be ill," the man on the right whispered softly, almost
inaudible over the roar of the road, wind and engine.
"It's
a rental," he replied tersely. "Do what you have to, just not on me."
He
hit another curve, and the car responded better this time, getting the feel for
it.
On
the far side, there was a long straightaway, and in the distance...the flat,
welcoming lights of the city.
The
speedometer was reaching the red, the tiny wand shaking inside the
dashboard.
He
risked a look at the rearview mirror.
And
saw the two helicopters bearing down on them—black against the indigo sky.
Damn
it! Who the fuck said anything about
helicopters?
Why
had he helped this man! Why had he felt
sorry for him? Why hadn't he walked
away?
As
if he'd said it out loud, he heard a soft, "I'm sorry."
"They've
copters!" he hissed, the landscape blurring around him, everywhere except
for the sharp edges of the road directly before him. That was crystal clear.
"I
didn't know."
"Like
hell!"
"Don't
you think I would've told you, if I'd known?" came the strangled,
defensive reply.
He
had no answer to that. He could only
watch them get closer.
And
nowhere to hide.
The
tiny wand was hovering around 140. The
car was shaking, excitement finally overruled by sheer terror as it seemed to
understand what was really happening. It
was not made for this. It was made to be
driven by tourists, by young mothers, by rednecks, by efficiency experts, by average
Americans...by people who didn't partake in car chases for a living.
Something
exploded on the road up ahead. He
swerved around it.
Another
explosion directly ahead. Tar and rocks
slammed into the windshield. He flew
over the hole, begging the tires not to burst, and the undercarriage to stay
attached.
"They're
shooting at us!" the passenger
shouted. "They're firing
missiles! They've got missiles!"
"Really?"
the driver asked, turning around another near miss, the heat and light burning
into his corneas. "I didn't notice."
Another
explosion, and it took out one of the headlights, a large chunk of tar leaving
a massive crack in the windshield.
"Oh
God..." his passenger whimpered.
He
just pushed harder, seeing the open wooden gate. He frowned.
It shouldn't be open. He'd
expected it to be closed—had expected to be forced to drive through it.
He
had no time to question, no time to do anything but fly through the adobe
pillars and onto the main road—skidding on two wheels to the right, turning towards
the city.
Ahead,
there were flashing lights. Just yards
away.
Police
cars. Dozens of them. No way through. And far too close.
He
swore and hit the brakes. The wheel
jerked, this time without his command, the wheels must've hit a hole. The car twisted...and flipped.
The
man on his right screamed.
The
world disintegrated into screeching metal, flashes of light, and stomach
flipping disorientation as the car turned over and over on its side.
They
slammed into something, and then something else, and ended up upside down,
propped up on an angle in the culvert on the side of the road.
Done.
Time
stopped.
He
took in slow, deep breaths. One after
another.
And
then he heard his watch tick, somewhere near his ear.
Glass
had shattered, and he became aware of stinging pains in his arms and chest
where it had embedded itself in his skin.
His legs felt tight and compressed, immoveable beneath the dashboard. Something buzzing slowly died, and he watched
in a daze as the light inside the car flickered and died. He moved his arms—he'd thrown them up in
front of his face—and now he let them hang, knuckles touching the soft fabric
of the ceiling.
He
wasn't sure how much time was passing, but it felt like a lot.
And
then, from his right, a pain filled groan.
"Holy sweet mother f—"
His
passenger never finished the swear as bright light suddenly filled the
interior, the harsh, unrelenting glare of flashlights.
He
heard more sounds then—including the harsh staccato of gunfire. Aimed somewhere else. Good.
"Mr.
Redmond?" a voice called over the
loud background, concerned and filled with worry. "Mr. Redmond? Mr. Finneran? Can you hear me?"
He
turned his head. It felt very
heavy. He blinked a few times until he
could make out the face peering in through the driver's side window. It was a woman. Or perhaps a very clean shaven man...
"What?"
he replied. It was meant to be longer,
the sentence, but he somehow couldn't bring himself to remember any other
words.
"Mr.
Redmond. I'm Captain Carlton, remember
me? I'm the one whom you talked to on
the phone. We called your boss back in New
York, sir. He verified your
background." She leaned a little,
peering into the passenger side. "Mr. Finneran? Are you all right?"
"No,"
came the soft, agony-laden reply.
"Car accident! Upside
down! Ow!"
"We'll
get you both out as soon as we can," the woman promised, smiling now as
she focused pale blue eyes back on Redmond.
They were startlingly bright in the fading light. "Just hang on."
He
stared a moment, then, with one final worry filled thought, remembered what had
been chasing them.
"The
heli—"
"Not
to worry. We took care of them. I take it they were Kreet's
men?"
He
blinked at her some more. "Who?"
"Kreet? Walter Kreet? You rescued
Mr. Finneran from him, remember?"
"Who?"
"Oh
dear," she said, and he wondered why she seemed to be moving away from him. He didn't think she was actually moving. "Mr. Redmond? Oh dear, he's passing
out. No, no...oh, dear...Mr. Redmond?...Mr.
Redmond?"
He
blacked out, her voice calling his name in his ears.
Next
time, he was going on vacation someplace safer.
Like a bomb shelter.
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