The Wrong Goodbye

from whatever dark recess of his mind I’d stuffed him into, he started screaming at me to stop. I didn’t listen. Instead, I jerked the wheel as far right as it’d go. The Hummer’s tires squealed as the vehicle swung perpendicular to the roadway.

Then rubber once more gripped pavement, and the Hummer flipped.

That first roll was the longest second of my life. The Hummer was so tall, and the speed it had been traveling so fast, that it got three-quarters of a rotation around before it ever touched the ground. I went from right-side-up to upside-down to sideways as smooth and silent as if I were underwater —and then my world exploded in shattered glass, spent airbags, and rending metal as the passenger side slammed into the roadway.

I didn’t have much time. I tried my damndest to ignore Asshat’s myriad cuts and scrapes, the shuddering of the Hummer as it skidded along the freeway, and the shriek of steel on pavement. Instead, I visualized the meat- suit I’d left back in the Caddy. The way it moved. The way it smelled. The way my thoughts rattled round its brain. See, every meat-suit’s different. Every one I’ve ever inhabited has left an imprint on my soul, and in every one of them I’ve ever abandoned, I’ve left a little of what makes me me behind. It’s one of the bitches about being a Collector —eventually, subjugating vessel after vessel chips away at you until there’s nothing left but a ghost, a shadow, a feral creature that knows nothing but this cursed existence. But today, I was counting on that fact to save my ass.

See, hopping bodies is a bit like picking a lock. You need to hit all the right tumblers on your way in, or no dice. It takes concentration, focus: two things in short supply when you find yourself smack-dab in the middle of a traffic accident.

OK, maybe “accident” is the wrong word. But who’s ever heard of a “traffic on-purpose'?

Anyways, I was banking on the fact I’d been in the Jonathan Gray body long enough —and left it recently enough —it’d be like coming home. That my key could find the lock in total darkness. That I could stroll on in without whacking my shin on his metaphorical coffee table, or some shit.

Gimme a break —metaphors aren’t my strong suit.

Lucky for me, crazy-ass stunts like this one are.

I closed my eyes. Stretched my consciousness. Latched onto the meat-suit in the Caddy like it was a life- preserver. I’m pretty sure it was.

The transition was fast. Crazy fast. Almost no time at all spent in the Nothing that stretched between. Which is why, even as I was doubled over the Caddy’s driver’s side door puking, I could feel the impact of the cop cars slamming full-bore into the roof of the Hummer.

Holy hell, was it a sight to see. The Hummer was lying on its side in the road, its undercarriage facing us. When the cops slammed into it, it leapt a few feet off the ground and lurched toward us as if by magic, the remainder of its airbags deploying and filling the cabin like oversized popcorn. Then a cop car launched over it, twisting sideways in the air in a strangely balletic turn, and two others, trying to flank the automotive carnage, slammed into the concrete barriers on either side, loosing a flurry of sparks. One flipped, one didn’t, and when all was said and done, the Hummer, two dozen cop cars, and God knows how many civilian vehicles were unwitting accomplices to our escape.

Eh. The civilians were likely all locals, and they were headed into LA proper. This probably ain’t even the worst traffic they’ve seen this week. I just hoped the douchebag in the Hummer was OK.

But we weren’t out of the woods yet. The night was filled with the sound of sirens, and the low whump of the chopper was getting louder. I scanned the sky, and saw it slide in over the roadway behind us, a spotlight surveying the pileup behind us —but then, on orders from below I assume, its spotlight swung our way, a jittery circle of white tracking across the empty freeway, reflecting off the dotted yellow lines. Its wasp-like body tilted after it as though chasing its own light.

So much for shaking them.

I laid my hands on the wheel as my meat-suit’s urge to vomit subsided, and felt Gio yank it wildly to the right. I kicked his foot away from the gas, and yanked the wheel back. “Gio, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Atlantic Boulevard!” he shouted.

“What?”

He waved the chicken-scratch directions he’d copied down from the laptop back in Vegas. “This is our fucking exit!”

Fuck. More like was. By the time I got the message, we were past it. I yanked the wheel. Hopped the curb. Ran across a triangle of exhaust-browned grass, took out a smallish shrub. Hopped another curb, and wound up back on track.

Above us and about seventy yards behind, the helicopter followed, its spotlight skittering over us every now and again, only to slide off once more with a jerk of the wheel, a random tap of gas or brake.

The exit ramp ended at a light. Perpendicular to the exit was a broad commercial stretch, four lanes of traffic surrounded by strip malls, sidewalk storefronts, and auto dealerships, their brightly colored signs pushing back the falling night. The ocean to the west had doused the sun’s blaze by now, leaving the sky overhead that starless royal blue that passed for dark within spitting distance of any major city. Beside me, Gio shouted to be heard over the oppressive din of the approaching chopper, and gesticulated wildly. Though I could barely hear him, my eardrums throbbing from the thrumming of the helicopter’s blades, the gist was clear enough. Our destination lay on the other side of the intersection.

The light was red. Traffic flowed past us in both directions, dense and steady. But waiting for the green was not an option.

I laid on the horn, and goosed ol’ Bertha into action. She leapt forward like she’d been born to, and we shot out into the intersection like a bullet from a barrel.

Horns blared. Shouted curses peppered us in Spanish and English both. The chopper gave chase a moment, and then pulled back, mere inches from a tangle of power lines. The streetlight to its left was not so lucky —it wound up a fine dice as the helicopter peeled away. Sparks rained down. The mangled streetlight pole toppled, yanking free a phone line as it fell. Amidst the swerving, honking chaos, the chrome and steel seas parted. I saw my opening and took it. For a moment, I thought we were gonna make it. But the moment didn’t last.

You wanna know the problem with goddamn UHauls? I’ll tell you what the problem is: the fucking “U'. I mean, sure, most truckers the country over are jacked up on coffee or meth or Pixy Stix or whatever, and not a one of ’em you encounter on the road has had a full night’s sleep in weeks, but at least they know how to drive their fucking trucks. I’ve seen the commercials late at night on cable; they’ve got to go to school and take a test and everything. But all you need to drive a U-Haul is a license and a bunch of shit to move, and it seems to me neither of those qualifications is a reliable indicator of your ability to successfully pilot fifteen tons of truck and cargo down a busy city street. Which is to say, OK, I ran the fucking light, but I still maintain that bastard should have swerved the same as everybody else when the streetlight came down, and he never would have hit me.

He did, though. Hit me. Well, hit Bertha, at least. Smack in the rear right tire. Spun us around like this behemoth of a vehicle was nothing more than a children’s toy, leaving the three of us clinging for dear life so as to not get thrown.

Could’ve been worse, though. If I hadn’t seen him and cut left at the last minute, Theresa would’ve wound up pasted to his grill. I’m guessing getting Gio’s woman killed would’ve made him a whole lot less cooperative —and, you know, I would’ve felt bad and stuff, too. So thank God for small favors.

Anyways, when our Sit’n Spin stopped going round, we found ourselves facing back the way we came. The chopper hovered wobbily above the offramp, its rotor damaged —more keeping watch than giving chase. That bought us some time till the cavalry arrived. Seconds, not minutes.

The Caddy was straddling a low hedge in front of a Staples and a Taco Bell, and tottering like a seesaw. Woozy and out of sorts as I was from the crash, all I could think was what kind of an idiot drops a Taco Bell smack in the middle of one of the largest Mexican populations in the country? I mean, I like Chalupa Supremes as much as the next guy —preferably with some of that caulk-gun guac they put on ’em if you ask —but seriously? Putting a Taco Bell here is like plopping a Red Lobster on the coast of Maine. The sight of it depressed me so, I half wondered if I should let Danny do his thing, and wait for the rising waters to wash the world clean.

But of course then I wouldn’t be around to enjoy it. So to hell with it, I thought —let’s go save the world.

Again.

Problem was, the Caddy wasn’t moving. I must’ve thumbed the ignition a half a dozen times, but she just sat