The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-five

The ancient Ford was no match for the Yukon’s big two hundred fifty-five horsepower, V-eight engines. They barreled down on the Ford, struggling to get long either side of the Ford. For a time, racing at a deadly speed, weaving in and out of heavy traffic Doug managed to keep just ahead of them.

The Yukons caught a pocket and roared ahead, coming along either side of Doug and Molly. For a terrifyingly long minute they bumped the Ford between them, like wolves toying with a prey. Waverly was driving the first, a murderous steel to his eyes as he swung the Yukon sideways, slamming against the Ford and tossing Doug and Molly around inside. He was indeed toying with them, but toying to a predator is only prelude to a kill, and the time to kill was at hand.

“Can you get off a shot?” Doug cried above the grinding of metal and the whining of straining engines.

But Molly couldn’t get off a shot, not as the Ford was rocked and hammered violently about, and not without be sure she wouldn’t hit an innocent driver nearby. There was a garbage truck ahead. The Yukons pressed the old Ford between them, intent and running it hard into the truck. Doug yanked the wheel left and them right with every ounce of strength he possessed, knowing full well when the Yukons intended. He cried out against the strain, Molly still fighting for a clear shot and knew they had just seconds before disaster.

So that was it, he thought. This is how it would end. Doug would never see his girls again. Whatever god he might have believed it once seemed all the more cruel and terrible to take both parents from girls who had never harmed a soul. For an instant, just an instant he was ready to concede everything, so stopping fighting powers and forces much larger than Molly and him. For just and instant he could simply close his eyes and go peacefully to death.

Time slowed suddenly. Bits of glass, papers, a cell phone, a coffee cup seemed to tumble lazily in the small cab, as if suspended and independent of gravity. Cascades of bright orange sparks spit from the sides of the truck. Past the Ford’s windows, all but obscuring the assassins in the Yukons a pocket opened up. Doug looked to Molly. She was still in the fight, refusing to concede a single breath. Past her, beyond the monstrous hood of the big white Yukon traffic parted as people fled as best they could the battle among them.

It was that, a glimmer of hope, that brought time to its properly feverish pace. Doug felt fight and resolve return to him like a force of nature, and slammed a foot on break pedal. The ripping of steel and metal was horrendous as the Ford wrenched loose, grinding to a halt as the Yukons sped forward. Doug gunned the engine and something exploded under the hood, sending clouds of oil smoke that covered the windshield. Behind them the Yukons were picking their way through knots vehicles to continue the chase. Doug vowed to put as much road as possible between them, knowing full well he couldn’t outrun them forever.

“We can’t fight these guys,” he said, running hard, charging through a red light.

“Don’t see another way,” she said. “But I have to know you are in the fight with me, Doug.”

He reached over and held her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Till the end.”

Doug hit the gas and pulled the wheel to the right. The Ford lurched across three lanes of traffic, banged down a grassy embankment and tore through a chain-link fence, nearly overshooting a narrow side road.