Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

I yanked my hand back, my whole body shaking.

It wasn’t an explosion. It was a gunshot.

Who was out there?

Jeff’s hand encircled mine, and he squeezed tight, as if to say it would be okay.

But I wasn’t convinced. Someone was out there. Someone who’d tried to run us down and was now shooting at us.

Well, one shot.

Made me wish Willis hadn’t found that gun I’d had. Not that I knew how to use it, but it was big. Big enough to make a statement, even if I just waved it around.

After a few minutes of silence, I reached down again for my bag.

Another shot rocked the air.

Whoever was out there could see me.

“What’s going on?” I whispered.

Jeff was holding on to my hand so tightly that when he squeezed it again, I barely noticed. I moved my head slightly, and he was looking out the front window. I didn’t think he could see any more than I could. Unless his time in the Marines had given him some sort of natural night-vision goggles.

The air bags hung, deflated, in front of us like empty sacks. I was acutely aware that my face felt as though it were on fire. I had turned my face slightly when the bag inflated, and I sensed that my cheek had a huge rug burn. I was afraid to touch my nose, as if any movement would cause whomever was out there to shoot again.

“We can’t just sit here like this,” I whispered.

“Got any ideas?” he whispered back.

“You’re the Marine. What did you do when you got shot at in the desert?”

“I never got shot at in the desert. Except for now.”

His other hand inched toward the door. Great. He was going to try to open it, and we’d both get blown away. But as I contemplated how to stop him, he fingered the knob that maneuvered the side mirror.

It moved a fraction of an inch.

And another gunshot pierced the air and shattered the mirror.

Jeff seemed to have been expecting that because he didn’t move his finger.

“He’s behind us,” he whispered. “I saw the car.”

“Could you see him ?”

“I saw a shadow. He’s standing right at the trunk, watching us.”

A shiver shimmied across my shoulders and down through my legs. “What does he want?”

“Want to ask him?”

I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it tightly.

“I’ve got a plan,” he said.

“Will it get us killed?”

“Hopefully not. But you have to scooch down further. He can’t have a good visual.”

That didn’t make me feel very confident. But we couldn’t just sit here, held hostage by some unknown guy with a gun.

“I’m going to start the car and back up into him,” Jeff whispered.

“You’re nuts. Can the car even start?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we? Get down.”

I tried to slide down farther, but the seat belt pinned me to the back of the seat. I managed to maneuver under the chest belt so it was behind my head. The lap belt was tight across my abdomen, but I could live with it. The deflated air bag covered my legs, but I pulled them up as far as possible. I didn’t want him to shoot my leg. Because I was certain he would start shooting.

Jeff let go of my hand, and I felt even more exposed. He shimmied down farther, too, but not as far. His seat belt was close to his neck, but still across his shoulder. He didn’t move his legs. His foot was hovering over the accelerator.

“Hold on,” he whispered as his hand moved to the ignition and he turned the key.

The engine roared to life, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car shot backward, and I felt as if I was on a roller coaster, my body slamming back against the seat. I had shifted even lower, the seat belt strap across my neck, but I could still see out the front windshield. One of the headlights was out, but the other one illuminated the desert. It was ugly out here, brown with a few tumbleweeds and scattered yuccas.

The gunshots were steady now.

The car swerved around, and we were facing the road again.

“Down, Brett!” Jeff shouted as he put the car into first and we rocketed forward, shots ringing in my ears, barely discernible above the engine’s roar, so much so that I thought the shots might have been my imagination. But then I saw the hole in the windshield. It had just registered when a body came up over the hood, smashed against the windshield, and then rolled off.

I couldn’t discern the hole anymore, because the entire windshield had shattered into a mosaic with the impact of the body.

The car kept going.

I moved up in my seat and stared out my window, looking back to see who it was.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked. My voice sounded too loud.

“Call 911,” Jeff barked, the car still rocketing down the road.

I leaned down and grabbed my bag. We were getting close to a traffic light, but Jeff wasn’t slowing down. There were a couple cars waiting at the light.

“Aren’t you going to stop?” I asked.

Jeff didn’t answer, spun the Pontiac around the cars.

It was brighter here, too, the streetlights doing a better job than the one up the road. I turned to confront Jeff about the speed of the car when I saw it.

The gun had blown a hole through more than the windshield.

Blood was pouring out of Jeff’s shoulder.

Ifelt myself start to hyperventilate, but I took a couple of deep breaths. I still held my phone, but I hadn’t opened it yet.

“You have to stop, Jeff,” I shouted. “You’re bleeding.”

“We’re going to the hospital. Call the cops. Tell them what happened.”

My hand was shaking as I flipped up the cover on the phone. Instinct made me call Tim.

“What, Brett?” He sounded annoyed.

“Tim,” I said breathlessly, still looking at Jeff’s shoulder. All that blood was making me woozy.

“Talk to him, Brett,” Jeff said sternly, although his voice wasn’t nearly as strong as it should’ve been. “Don’t look at me.”

I closed my eyes.

“What’s going on, Brett?” Tim’s voice echoed through my head.

“It’s Jeff. He’s been shot.” It was all I could concentrate on at the moment.

“Shot? Where?”

“In the desert.”

“Where are you?”

I opened my eyes and looked through the windshield. The shattered glass gave it a sort of magnifying glass appearance. The lights from the strip malls and the gas stations and the apartment complexes glimmered against the broken windshield and bounced back off it in a halo effect. How on earth could Jeff see to drive?

“We’re on the way to the hospital,” I heard myself say, the question about Jeff’s driving still bouncing around in my head like a pinball. “He’s been shot.” I didn’t say he was at the wheel.

“Which hospital?”

There was only one on this road, so I figured that’s where we were heading. “University Medical Center.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Um, Tim? We hit the guy who shot at us. He’s back there-I don’t know-somewhere on the side of West Charleston Boulevard in Summerlin. Near a streetlight that’s out. He forced us off the road. Then he shot at us. Jeff ran him over. We left him there.” I couldn’t stop talking; I didn’t want to stop. I felt as though if I stopped, something even more awful would happen. My hand was still shaking as the phone vibrated against my ear.

“Brett, stay calm.” Tim’s voice was soothing. “Did you recognize the guy who shot at you, the guy you hit?”

“No, I never saw him. Even when he hit the car”-the words got stuck in my throat for a second-“I just saw a body. Not his face. Nothing to recognize.”

“That’s okay; don’t worry about it. I’ll meet you at the hospital. I’ll send someone out to Summerlin. How’s Jeff?”