Page 38 of Existential
Oh, shit.
“Guys!”
Hooch immediately stops his debate, turning his head toward where I run back to him from the trees. Mel continues berating him, unaware.
“We need to go, now,” I urge, ripping the door of the truck open. “Get in, Mel.”
“What? We haven’t even—” She cuts her protest short as her ears attune to the same thing Hooch has just cottoned on to.
“Fuck,” he growls, turning heel to run to his bike. “Follow me!”
I leap into the driver’s seat and crank the engine as the unmistakable sound of sirens wailing echoes off the trees around us.
“Fuck it all,” Mel cries out, taking a hold of the handle over her door. “We didn’t clean a goddamn thing up.”
“Not much we can do about that now, right?” I gun the engine and tear off after Hooch with a spray of mud and grass.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she chants as we careen into a narrow track.
Hooch slides the Harley through the bends, sticking his leg out on the inside of the corners to steady himself so he can open the throttle on the straighter stretches. Thorny bushes scratch at the paintwork of the truck, one wing mirror clipped and dangling precariously from its stem. The track is barely wide enough for me to fit the beast of a vehicle down, most likely made for walkers or horses, but I guess when you’re quite literally running for your life then you take what you can get.
After what feels like forever, we finally emerge from the woods onto a dirt road. Hooch comes to a stop, and I pull the truck up beside him.
“What the hell are we stopping for?”
“Go on ahead,” he demands. “Keep on this road, and no matter what, don’t stop. If I don’t catch up before the freeway, head to Lincoln.”
Dust plumes up in a massive cloud behind him as he opens the throttle wide and spins the bike around to careen back down the track. I stare after him until I can no longer see him, the trees obscuring the view in my side mirror.
“What the hell is he going to do?” I ask out loud, more than to Mel in particular.
“Sort things.” She rolls her eyes as I slot the truck back into gear and take off down the road we’re on.
“What’s in Lincoln?” Hopefully Mel knows what’s going through her brother’s mind, because I sure as hell can only stab a guess.
“Our mother chapter,” she answers, one hand braced on the dash panel. “He wouldn’t go home to Fort Worth; too obvious.” She ducks her head as she stares out the windshield. “But …”
“What?”
“It’s gettin’ late.”
“So?” I ask. “Isn’t that better for travelling when you’re on the goddamn run?”
“Also means the cops can hide out just as easy, make it hard for you to spot them until they’re on you.”
True. Movies have so much to answer for.
I flick my gaze to the rearview, checking constantly for any sign of the man who dragged me into this mess. Road signs indicate the highway turn off several miles ahead and my chest tightens the closer we get to it.
“You think he’s okay?”
Mel shrugs. “I find it’s easier if you pretend he is until you know otherwise.” She reaches across and pats my leg. “Saves you worrying unnecessarily if he’s got things under control.”
We ride in silence to the end of the road, through the intersection, and down the on-ramp for the highway. I ease into a gap in the outside lane and cruise, still checking my mirrors at intervals. Mel leans across and tunes the radio to another station, redirecting the stiff air vents so the warm breeze flows over her face and neck.
“It’s better than nothing.” She gives me a wry smile when she catches me looking.
Dusk settles on the horizon in brilliant shades of pink and orange, promising another fine day tomorrow. Yay for small wins, huh? I ease down the seat, checking the mirrors less often as my hope fades.