161. Pedal to the Metal
161
Pedal to the Metal
W illow
“Motherfuckers!”
I take my foot off the gas and let the car behind me pass. The other cars are no longer our competitors. It’s us against the well-armed military force.
“Sorry I fought you yesterday,” Braveheart says as he reaches between his feet and grabs the bottles we filled with gas and rags yesterday. “When you had us prepare these drinks, I didn’t like the idea of bombing our competitors. You were right, Willow. We needed these.”
He hands half of what he called drinks to Valor in the back seat. Perhaps the words Molotov cocktail didn’t translate correctly, but we all know what these are built for. Flaming destruction.
The males with guns aren’t spaced out evenly. They’re clumped together. It’s a lucky break, because there were only so many Orangina bottles to be found, filled with gasoline, and stuffed with rags to set on fire.
These guys are brilliant warriors. I bite back my urge to tell them to use our ammo sparingly. They’ve been in firefights before, which is more than I can say about myself.
I put the sound and sight and smell of incendiary devices out of my mind. I need to race as straight as possible to aid the guys’ aim. That means I’m an easy target for the guards, though. I’m taking no evasive maneuvers.
The armed guards shoot the car directly ahead of us and it explodes so loudly my ears are ringing.
“Jogging left!” I call as I swerve to avoid the flaming car. I don’t even know which team this was. I just keep my eyes on the path ahead of us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Braveheart sitting on the door, half in and half out of the open window. I assume Valor is in the same position in the back seat. I don’t even know how they’re managing to keep the gas inside the cocktails from spilling all over. Or how they keep from bouncing out of this careening vehicle and landing on their asses on the sand.
I keep driving, weaving when I have to, trying to tell the guys what I’m doing so they can compensate when they’re throwing.
We’ve hit a lot of them, Braveheart announces.
The finish line is coming up and we’re third, Valor says. His voice, as always, is calm, but we’re down to the wire and it would suck to arrive alive only to be immediately killed because we showed up in third place.
Okay, Willow. This is what you were born for. Your daddy forbade it, but how many times did you talk your way into secret laps around the racetrack with his pit captain?
Everything I ever learned about racing is right here, ready to be put into action.
I’m hitting it hard, guys. Hang on.
I push my foot to the floorboard and hear the engine whine. She’s protesting, but I won’t take no for an answer.
“Come on, baby,” I sweet-talk her.
I can see my next moves in my mind’s eye as clearly as if I were watching it on a video game. Then I act it out. Jog left, keep the pedal to the metal, and pass the rust bucket in front of me like it was standing still.
Just one more car, and dear God, we’re so close to the flagpole, I’m not sure we’re going to make it. My heart is pounding so loud I swear I can hear it over the screaming engine.
She’s protesting now. If we had another lap to go, I’d let up, worried she couldn’t go the distance under this much pressure. But there’s no time to waste.
There’s a cadre of guards up ahead, trying to pick us off as we get to the finish line. I hear lasers ripping through the side of the car even as the sound of two more cocktails striking their marks makes music in my ears.
I hear a grunt. One of my lovers has been hit, but I can’t take my focus from my mission. I pour on the speed, straining so hard it’s as if I was personally pulling this vehicle toward the finish line. Just in the nick of time, I pass the other car on the left and cross the finish line first.
“He’s been hit!” Braveheart says. “Valor’s… hurt.”