Shallow Creek

Seconds later, Brendan rocketed down the dirt trail away from the cabin, wondering how the hell he’d catch up to his brother.  Even at a slow pace, Grant would have a sizeable lead on him by now, but leaving earlier hadn’t really been an option.  Michelle had needed some medical attention, but as Brendan roared around a gentle curve, he realized he probably screwed up on two counts.

To save Spee, he should’ve left Michelle immediately and given chase.  To save Michelle, he should’ve stayed with her and made sure the authorities got out there to help her.  Hell, he could’ve thrown her in the truck and taken her closer to a hospital, instead of leaving her out in the boonies with a battered DEA agent.  Brendan prayed that Tyson had some kind of medical training.

His grip on the wheel tightened as he hit a sharper left turn, not so much from anger or fear, but from the desire to stay in his damn seat.  As soon as he got the fishtailing truck back under control, he ripped at the seat belt, which refused to cooperate until he took a deep breath and then delicately pulled the strap across his body.

Emboldened by the crazed notion that two innocent women could die instead of just one, Brendan floored the accelerator.  The truck shot forward, displaying impressive power as the vehicle slashed through the dry branches scratching at the paint.  If Michelle made it through the night, Brendan promised to get her a new paint job when this was all said and done.  He couldn’t promise he’d get her a new husband after he killed Grant, but he could only do so much.

A series of unadvertised S-bends tested Brendan’s driving skills, and he wished for the first time that he’d brought his own damn truck.  This one was only rear-wheel drive, and the back end gave him hell as he propelled the truck through turns meant for only a fraction of his current speed.

He rounded a bend, corrected the truck’s over-steer, and found himself face to face with a ninety-degree corner dead ahead.  The anti-lock brakes did nothing on the loose gravel.  Feeling the back wheels slipping farther and farther around, Brendan gripped the steering wheel with all his might, but fought back the natural instinct to over-correct his course.  As his velocity dropped, friction reengaged and dragged the truck to a lurching stop two feet away from the nearest trees, but at least he was facing the right way now.

And up ahead he spotted Grant’s bright red truck struggling to get back on the road from a ditch on the right side.  Apparently his brother hadn’t made the turn and had crashed into the trees.  Sensing his advantage, Brendan jumped on the gas and directed the nose of his truck straight at Grant’s door.

The roaring engine must’ve alerted Grant, because his brother turned aghast and floored it out of the ditch.  Brendan’s truck missed the back of Grant’s by inches, and he fought to avoid slipping into the same fate Grant had just escaped from.  Cutting back up onto the road, Brendan raced after Grant, who barreled down the straight road haphazardly.

He couldn’t get too close up behind his brother without losing all visibility in the huge dust spray kicked up from Grant’s rear tires.  Brendan slipped out to the left and reduced the gap enough to avoid the dirty wake.  A blur of movement in Grant’s window caught Brendan’s eye.  Before his brain could register the implications, Grant’s driver side window shattered with the muffled pop of his pistol.  Brendan jerked his head, and his hands to the right, clipping the back of the red truck.

As the two vehicles battled for position, Brendan’s primary thought was how freaking loud that gun must’ve sounded inside an enclosed truck cabin.  There was no way his brother or Spee would be hearing anything for a while.  Better than that, Grant’s shot hadn’t even made contact, at least not that Brendan could tell.

The pistol appeared in the window again, bouncing up and down uncontrollably on the bumpy road.  Brendan slammed his truck into the side of the red truck’s empty bed.  The report of the handgun was much more pronounced this time, but the bullet only pinged off the hood, missing Brendan’s windshield.

Grant’s truck suddenly slid out of view in a red blur.  Brendan craned his neck backwards to see what happened, but turned back to the front urgently.  The sharp turn ahead stampeded right at Brendan as he pounded on the brake pedal.  The caliche under his wheels gave way to concrete pavement.  When the tires finally gained purchase to slow him down, something slammed into the back of his truck, jarring his neck and sending him flying off the road.

His view spun wildly and his body pressed impossibly hard against the door.  Turning the wheel did nothing.  Everything stopped in an instant, jolting Brendan’s forehead forward.  The incredible slap to his face didn’t feel like the unforgiving resistance of the steering wheel.  He opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by slowly deflating airbags.