RUSH

[chapter][one][two][three][FOUR][five][six]

Speed dial, six rings, then an electronic iteration of Hailey’s voice saying she wasn’t around, so please leave your “you know what at the you know when. Bye now.”

For a moment all Rush can hear is the locomotive sound of blood pumping behind his ears. The quiet voice’s words rattle around his head but none of it makes sense. All he can grasp is the implication that Hailey might be in danger.

A passerby glances over as Rush calls once more, chanting “pick up pick up pick up” then punches the roof of the car when she doesn’t. They start to walk a little faster but Rush is too focused to notice.

Where’d the keys end up?

Cold sweat.

“Where the fuck are my-”

They’re dangling next to the steering column. Rush pulls the door shut, but when he turns the key the car growls, lurches, and dies.

“No, no, no. Brand new engine. Brand new… everything. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He turns the key again with the same outcome. Driving Hailey’s Buick, an automatic, for the last eight weeks while rebuilding the Camaro’s engine must have gotten him out of the habit. This is a manual.

He shouts “Clutch!” as his foot hammers it to the floor.

The engine screams to life at seven thousand RPM until he pitches the short-throw Hurst shifter into first and pops the clutch, sending a wave of blue smoke thirty feet behind him. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but no one within a couple blocks of Rush’s Camaro could have possibly heard.

“Lift off, motherfucker.”

The engine roars like a pack of ravenous lions on acid as the front end tries to come up, but he lets off the gas just enough to keep the wheels on the ground.

First gear out of the lot, he takes the corner too sharp, jumps the curb and shoots out into the street. But he doesn’t flinch at the sound of metal against concrete. He keeps his foot to the floor.

Eight cylinders howling, pounding out a wall of pure muscle car noise.

He punches third gear the moment he hits forty.

“Second is for little old ladies.”

The back end tries to come around, but Rush is on top of it. He’s handled cars twice this powerful.

Sixty.

Seventy-five.

Fourth gear.

Mind racing.

“Hailey, Hailey… I’m coming.”

Two cars ahead of him in the right lane, a little import and an older sedan.

“Focus. Drive now. Deal with it when you get there.”

Fifth gear.

The sedan is taking a right as he passes. A cop has someone pulled over on the left a few blocks ahead. He looks at the speedometer, closing in on ninety. Looks up again, he needs to take a left in half a block.

The cop is running to his car. Classic speed trap, standing near an abandoned car with your radar out.

“Well fuck my face off.”

The little import, a burgundy Honda, jolts over into the left lane ahead of him, cutting him off.

“Mother-”

Traffic’s clear otherwise so with little effort he swerves right to avoid the Honda and then makes the left, hard, downshifting into third. Rush never heard the Honda’s high pitched horn squealing like a clubbed seal.

The pack of cigarettes fly across the dash and out of the passenger side window, along with a pair of cheap sunglasses.

Around the corner, the car drifts for half a block and the back fender just misses a parked Jeep as he straightens it out. Once he’s clear he stomps into fifth gear like he’s got a grudge against the floor mat.

A few hundred yards later the Camaro gets a little air cresting the bridge over I-94. He worries she may not land straight, but the Camaro handles fine under the pressure.

“Sixth gear?” He hadn’t pushed her this hard yet. “Well fuck it. That’s what it’s there for.”

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© Anthony David Jacques MMX