Toll Road
Brandon Winstone couldn't decide which parent he liked the most
today. Was it mother, who had so graciously let them use the summer
house this labor day weekend, vacating herself over to Paris three
weeks early just for him, or was it father, who had let him take the
BMW for the weekend?
A matter, he told himself, to give more thought. For now, turn up
the radio.
The house was a big four-bedroom two-story deal in Redondo beach,
right on the water with its own dock and a Mercruiser-powered
cigarette boat out back. He and father had designed it themselves,
patterning it after the house that MTV filled with twentysomethings
every year. The whole thing, boat included, used to be father's, and
mother only used the place for a few months a year, throwing a few
parties, maybe letting a couple of guys stay over, who knew? Since
the divorce four years ago, he'd only heard stories, had never been
down there; he was looking forward to it&emdash;and a boat ride.
The BMW? Top-of-the-line, of course, a brand-new 540i with a
six-speed transmission and the lowered sport suspension, not that
father ever drove it like a sports car, more's the pity. Beautifully
waxed opalescent black on the outside, with big, comfy
parchment-colored leather seats and a killer sound system. It could
hit a hundred and fifty miles an hour, probably more if he were to
remove the electronic limiter.
They weren't going that fast, of course. The Pacific Coast
Highway, which snaked down to Los Angeles from just below the
Oregon-California border, was too narrow and too complicated for that
kind of speed. They'd left Portland at ten in the morning, travelling
down Interstate 5 and then made the shuffle over to the PCH&emdash;or
California 1, as it was officially known&emdash;about an hour later,
so that Sarah could see the water.
Sarah Oldman liked water; it was one of the rare things that
brought a smile to her usually sulky face. Water in the sea and in a
bottle (though not from the tap)&emdash;a Perrier sat in her
cupholder, and there were eleven more in the trunk cooler. Her
dirty-blond hair matched Brandon's and was two or three inches
longer. She was about his height, so long as she was wearing heels:
they had been going out for four months. She spent about as much
money on clothes as he did, though you couldn't tell by looking at
her. The tattered plaid shirt that she wore over a white tank top and
the stained denim cutoffs were designed to look that way, and design
cost money.
As the road curved upwards, ducking in between two clumps of
hugely tall redwoods, Brandon looked in the rear-view mirror at Jacob
Gibson. He'd come along at Sarah's urging, and didn't look all that
comfortable, the armrest in a viselike death grip. He dressed more
like Sarah did, though Brandon guessed not quite as expensively. He
lived on the other side of town. He and Sarah had once been an item,
though it had mercifully ended almost a year ago; they'd remained
friends afterwards.
A slow-moving Toyota emerged over the crest of the hill, and
Brandon swung out to pass it, gunning the engine, giving his
trademark Oakley stare to the driver as they passed. Sarah shook her
head and gulped down some Perrier.
"What's up?" he asked. She didn't know whether he was looking at
her, could only see herself in the mirrored-orange shades.
"Nothing," she said as they flew up the side of another hill. The
road straightened out, into a long, sweeping left-hander. She could
see an Esso sign up ahead, the first sign of civilization since
leaving the Interstate. Glancing over at the gas gauge, she realized
there was no use in asking him to stop.
As they got closer, she could gradually make out the profile of a
truck&emdash;an eighteen wheeler, she guessed, without its trailer.
It was moving to the left.
"You'd better&emdash;"
"He's not going to try it."
The truck was mostly white, some kind of logo painted on its side
door. It was covered in dust. It continued to move.
Jacob released the armrest. "Watch out!" he yelled.
The truck pulled out in front of them, leaning over, its rear
wheels throwing up dust and gravel from the edge of the road.
"Fuck," Brandon said, jamming the brakes. The car shuddered as it
slowed, its engine choking, still in sixth gear. A hail of dust and
pebbles pounded the car. The truck pulled away, two entrails of black
smoke billowing behind it.
"Close one," said Jacob. He was gripping the armrest again.
Brandon threw the car back into gear. "Asshole," he said quietly
and stomped on the gas.
They pulled up to the truck in less than a minute. With its
trailer removed, it was doing close to eighty miles an hour, way over
the posted fifty-five limit, though almost everybody knew how lightly
patrolled California 1 was.
After locating the button for the horn&emdash;the top one on the
left side, above the controls for the radio volume&emdash;Brandon
leaned on it, his whole hand tensed.
"That was unnecessary," muttered Sarah. The bottle of Perrier as
now grasped firmly in her right hand.
"What he pulled back there was un-fucking-necessary," he said,
releasing the horn as he did so. He promptly depressed the button
again.
"Relax," said Jacob. He was leaning forward, his face tense. He
didn't have sunglasses.
"You relax," said Brandon, flashing his high beams. "Enjoy the
ride, OK?"
A hand emerged from the cab of the truck, forming a peace symbol.
"Thank you," he said sarcastically, and pulled out. The road
curved up and to the right. He shifted gears, matching the speed of
the truck, giving him the look and then the finger.
A bright-red Corvette was rounding the bend. "Shit!" Brandon said,
downshifted into third and gave the car more gas.
The Corvette honked.
The truck groaned, but it kept up with them. Brandon squeezed in
close, the side view mirror of the BMW inches away from the truck's
rust- and gasoline- streaked flanks.
The Corvette, still honking, flashed by. There was a crack as its
mirror snapped off, then a screech as it grazed Brandon's door.
Another crack as the red plastic piece flew out behind them.
There was a sharp left corner up ahead, dipping down into a
valley. He didn't let up, and the tires protested. Both hands on the
wheel, Brandon fought to keep the car from sliding. The truck receded
slightly and he drifted back to the right. He cursed. "Father's going
to kill me."
"You have bigger problems than your father right now." Jacob
wasn't looking forward. He and his seatbelt were twisted around,
staring at the front of the truck as it filled the rear window. Its
chrome grille was massive, six-inch long stalactites and stalagmites
with wire mesh stretched between them, oil and dirt smeared on the
shiny surfaces, dead bugs filling many of its crevices and what
looked like animal blood on the pointed center ribs.
Brandon looked back, almost lost the road as it climbed again. A
yellow sign warned them of a deer crossing. He floored it.
The truck faded back and now Sarah was looking. Her bottle of
Perrier, forgotten, lay on its side on the carpet, what was left of
it sloshing out as the car shifted vertically. "Pick that up!"
Brandon yelled.
The truck's front bumper was caved in, two ragged, asymmetrical
holes in it. The license plate was unreadable, encrusted with what
must have been years of dust, roadkill, and insects. It groaned and
closed in.
A large yellow arrow flashed in his view ahead, a red and yellow
warning sign off to the side indicating an emergency gravel stop. The
BMW slowed reluctantly, and as the road bent right, the ground opened
up beside them.
It was the kind of view that Sarah would have loved. Taking
advantage of the decreased momentum, she picked up the bottle
hurriedly and slammed it into the cupholder, then wrapped her arms
around her chest. They rounded the corner, tires squealing in
protest.
"Take the turnoff," advised Jacob. Brandon looked off to the
right, and he could see it, a steep gravel path that led upwards.
"No good, we're going too fast," he said.
"So slow down!" Jacob was gripping the back of the seat.
The truck hit them. There was a sickening crunch, and then a
clanging as something back there came loose. The car, for now, was
still driving OK. They sailed past the runoff.
"Shit," Brandon muttered.
"Get out the map," said Jacob. The truck had dropped back a bit.
He could see the windshield, clear class but smeared with grease and
dirt, two wide arcs cut through the grime. He couldn't see the
driver, only the top of an orange feed cap.
"Map, map, map," said Sarah. She looked around her, into the map
pockets and beside the seat but couldn't find anything. She found a
map in the glovebox, tried to fold it open as the car leaned way
over, slowing down for another left-hander. The glovebox thumped
shut, grabbing one of its corners. She pulled at it, ripping it.
"Where?" asked Brandon, as the truck slammed into them again.
There was a sound of cracking plastic, the soft pop of lightbulbs
shattering. It did not back off. It was pushing them.
"I don't know," she pleaded. "Wait."
"Look for a police station or something. A place where we could
turn off," said Jacob. He was facing forward again. He had moved to
the middle, and his seatbelt was stretched to its limit. "Brake!"
Brandon saw the road almost drop out from under him as he spun the
wheel, the road curling around an outcropping of rock, the rear end
of the car suddenly, horribly, breaking loose, the tires scrabbling
to maintain their traction.
The truck rounded the bend, with no effort at all, and suddenly
Sarah found herself staring at the big Mack logo in the center of the
grille.
The tires held, the car's rear end headed once again to the right.
It straightened out, bouncing as it nicked the front corner of the
truck, knocking off an orange turn signal. They were heading downhill
now, a steep grade with numerous warning signs posted by the side of
the road. "Use lower gear," they exhorted.
Brandon sped up.
Another huge pop as the truck hit, its white body leaning
effortlessly into the BMW's trunk. Through the mirror, Brandon saw
the blue Coleman cooler explode, glass bottles of Perrier hurtling
onto the road and disappearing in puffs of glass and water.
He powered through the next turn, climbing again. "Where!" he
yelled at Sarah.
She tried to steady herself, bracing for another attack. It didn't
come. The truck was farther back now, having difficulty climbing the
hill. She exhaled. "There's a police station. Twelve or fifteen miles
up. Bakersfield."
"Great." The grade leveled, and the truck was gaining again. The C
in Mack was missing, and there were large chips of black paint on the
truck's bulging shoulders. The black rubber strip that surrounded the
rear bumper hung from its grille.
"Fog," said Jacob from the back, looking to see if the truck had
seen it too. The sign was there, and as the road rose, it was
immediately visible. The truck slowed, but was still close.
"Fuck, what now?" asked Brandon. The car slowed, riding the
truck's bumper now. The cabin was lit with the orange-yellow of the
truck's high beams. It was virtually all they could see. The fog,
just wisps of it a few seconds ago, now enveloped the car. He
couldn't see more than ten feet in front of him.
"Right turn!" Jacob yelled as the yellow sign poked out. Brandon
yanked, felt gravel underneath the tires, and straightened out.
Contact again. The engine's started to rumble. "What the hell is
that?" asked Sarah. The map fell to the floor.
"We lost the muffler," Jacob said. The noise was terrible, and he
had to shout to be heard. "Right again. Hard right."
There was a huge thump and the car, for a moment, stopped, then
lurched forward again as Brandon sped out of the turn. "It hit the
tires that time," he said.
"Left left left left left!"
The wheels left the pavement momentarily, but the car straightened
out. They started moving downwards. Quickly.
"Left!" Jacob yelled.
The truck behind them groaned. It made no further contact.
"Left!"
The road plunged down.
The fog lifted.
A blur of a sign off to the right showed a truck on a steep hill.
"Okay," Brandon said. "Let's do this." He stomped on the gas, taking
them to eighty, ninety, a hundred, a hundred and ten; the road
continued its downwards descent. The truck fell back.
And then charged again. It was on them in seconds, wipers going,
high beams on. As the road started to climb once more, its force, not
the BMW's, pushed them up the mountain, the rear wheels lifted up
into the air for seconds at a time.
"Road!"
Too fast. They crested the hill. The tires touched the ground, and
Brandon floored it. "Bakersfield, thank fucking god. Two miles."
A high-pitched scream as the truck started to grind away at the
car again. The trunk lid fell off, clattering to the side of the
road, its custom-fit tool kit dispersing itself on the asphalt. A
wrench cut through the wire mesh of the truck's grille. Jacob hoped
against hope that it might hit something, to no effect. The truck
continued to gain.
A big, sweeping right-hander. Brandon could see the city up ahead,
a couple of motels, a gas station, and praise be, the blue and white
State Police sign. He turned on the lights again, started leaning on
the horn.
As if in response, the truck nudged them again. It hit a corner
this time, sending the BMW sliding sideways. The tires held, though
barely; not before the truck hit Jacob's door, exploding its airbag.
"Shit!"
"You all right?" asked Sarah.
"Look for a turnoff!" Brandon ordered.
"I thought we're&emdash;"
"Too fast. Come on come on come on."
A flash of blue and red lights up ahead. They'd heard him.
"Pull out!" Brandon yelled.
The white and blue Caprice flashed by the side windows.
"Fuck!"
"Right turn," Jacob said. "Brandon, we're going to have to stop
the car."
"The fuck we are."
"What, you're going to let him follow us to your house?"
"He'll stop. The cop's after him now."
"Sarah, look for a cliff," said Jacob, ignoring him.
"What do you mean, a cliff?"
"Fuck you," Brandon said.
"Three more turns up ahead."
"After a hairpin?"
"Sort of."
"After the second turn, Brandon, brake."
"What? Have him plow into us?"
They bent left, entered a tunnel carved through the rock. The
unmuffled engine echoed loudly.
Back into the fading sunlight. The road went right.
"Brake!" Jacob yelled.
"You'll get yourself killed!"
"Brake!"
Brandon braked.
The truck plowed into the rear of the car, and the rear tires
deflated. The sound of the deformed aluminum wheels on the ground, a
high-pitched scream, was too much to bear. The truck continued
forward, almost undeterred, engine groaning against the strain.
They were still travelling at seventy miles an hour. Jacob didn't
know&emdash;
"Shit, there it is. Hard left, now!"
Brandon steered.
"More!"
The car spun around, spun and spun and spun, crashing against the
rock, felling a tree that landed on the windshield. The air filled
with a chorus of warning beeps as the BMW's computer systems
self-destructed, crying out in protest.
And&emdash;suddenly&emdash;a low, plaintive moaning that grew into
an anguished groan, then an angered, vengeful roar, getting louder
and louder, terrifyingly loud, until they could hear nothing else.
Then an almost subdued crump.
Brandon didn't look until he heard the sound of sirens, until the
car was enveloped in the comforting red glow. He didn't know if the
tears he cried were tears of pain or tears of joy.