I look over at Ben and see he has just finished buckling his seatbelt and is now gripping the dash, his knuckles white, looking straight ahead at the road in fear.
“You killed him,” he says.
I can barely hear him over the roar of the engine, and I wonder if I just imagined it, or if it was my conscience speaking. But Ben turns and looks at me, and repeats it:
“You killed that man,” he says louder, as if amazed such a thing could happen.
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
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.
