David Wisehart - Blood Alley

They were coming up fast on the bridge below.

Dakota kept pace with the truck. She had a steady hand at the wheel.

Behind Trevor, Claire held his ankles. When he glanced back he saw her head and shoulders sticking up through the sunroof, her blonde hair whipping in the wind.

Trevor himself eased down the windshield and forward on the hood. He reached his right arm out for Ethan, keeping his left palm flat on the hood to brace himself.

His left hand, wet with sweat, slid forward on the smooth metal. He dried his hand on his shirtsleeve, then pressed his palm again to the hood.

It held.

With his free hand he grabbed the collar of Ethan’s leather jacket.

“Gotcha.”

As he pulled on the jacket, Trevor felt resistance.

He pulled harder.

No use.

Ethan looked up at him. Blood flowed into his exhausted eyes. All the fight had drained out of him.

Trevor screamed, “Push yourself up!”

Ethan nodded.

With one hand Ethan let go of the grille guard and grabbed Trevor’s wrist. Trevor pulled him up over the grille guard and onto the hood of the Hummer.

Trevor pushed with his left hand against the hood and shouted to Claire, “Pull me in!”

She tried, but Claire was weak. It wasn’t working.

I’ll have to bring Ethan in myself.

As the tanker truck raced onto the bridge, the chain around Ethan’s ankle grew taut.

It yanked at Ethan.

Trevor held onto the kid, and felt Claire’s hands slip from his ankles.

Oh, shit!

“Trevor!” Claire screamed.

His foot came free of her hands. Trevor slid across the hood, then caught the front grille guard with his left hand.

The road sped under him. The left front tire spun inches from his dangling foot.

The Highwayman felt alive.

This new body belonged to the long haul trucker, Stanley, but the heightened sensations were achingly familiar.

The Highwayman could feel the cool desert wind… tight jeans hugging fat thighs… thin hair brushing a wrinkled brow… the resistance of the gas pedal under the sole of a cowboy boot.

He felt the road change as the big rig reached the suspension bridge. Thick suspension cables sung past the cab windows. A wind swept up from the gorge and made the petroleum tank shudder.

A faint scent of mesquite and creosote laced the desert air. The Highwayman inhaled deeply.

Up ahead, a pair of headlights betrayed another vehicle, a postal delivery truck entering the bridge from the opposite direction.

Ignorant of danger, it cruised toward the Highwayman’s petroleum truck.

This new trespasser had picked the wrong night—and the wrong bridge. He would not live to see the other side.

This will be fun.

The Highwayman swerved into the opposing lane.

Dakota’s head was pounding. Her neck felt hot and her left shoulder ached. Her vision of the road blurred, then focused, then blurred again, like a camera lens adjusting.

Whiplash? she wondered.

Minutes ago, when that truck smashed into the Hummer and knocked it off the road, she’d been tossed around pretty hard. Now something was out of whack. She should be in a doctor’s office, not behind the wheel of Trevor’s H3, chasing down the maniac who almost killed her.

But she had to be strong. Ethan’s life depended on her.

I’m here, Ethan. I’m here.

She was in the driver seat now. It was all up to her.

What the hell am I doing?

Trevor had never let Dakota drive his car before. Everything felt wrong. The seat was too far back. She had to sit forward to reach the pedals. The steering wheel was slick with Trevor’s cold sweat.

He’s as scared as I am.

The revelation hit her hard. Dakota had always thought of her older brother as fearless. He always seemed to toss his troubles away with a laugh and smile.

Not tonight.

The road ran fast beneath her. The needle on the dashboard tickled the 100 miles per hour mark. A flat tire could end it all.

Dakota wanted to slow down, but couldn’t. She had to keep on the tail of the speeding truck. That was the key to Ethan’s survival. If she eased up on the gas, even for a second, the Hummer would drop back further, and Ethan would be dragged onto the road.

She needed to go faster.

Put some slack in the chain .

Only then could Ethan climb for safety onto the speeding Hummer.

Dakota applied more pressure to the gas pedal, closing with the truck.

As the Hummer crossed onto the long suspension bridge, Dakota saw dim headlights approach from the other end—a third vehicle on the bridge.

“Great,” she muttered, and clenched the steering wheel tighter.

Lights from the third vehicle shone on the suspension cables, and Dakota noticed for the first time that the bridge was enormous, like the Brooklyn Bridge or the Golden Gate, except it didn’t span a body of water, but stretched out over a deep, dry—

The tanker truck swerved into the wrong lane.

Oh, no!

The lunatic driver was aiming his truck for the oncoming vehicle, like a game of chicken. Only it wasn’t a game.

More like a suicide run.

“Dakota!”

Claire’s warning was muffled. She was standing up with her shoulders through the open sunroof and her head sticking outside.

“I see it!” Dakota said.

She had to stay behind the tanker truck. She jerked the wheel to the left, matching the movements of the maniac ahead.

Trevor slipped from the front grille, but recovered his grip.

Dakota straightened the wheel, then saw Ethan pull himself up onto the hood. His face was gashed and smeared black with grease. He looked exhausted but alive.

As Ethan climbed over the grille guard, Dakota glimpsed the back of his jacket. It had been scraped thin by the road. Blood seeped through the leather.

Oh, God.

Another few seconds on that road would have killed him.

Don’t let him fall.

Trevor helped Ethan up onto the hood.

Ethan’s jeans were shreds. His legs were a bloody ruin. He tried to swing one leg over the guard grille, but his muscles didn’t cooperate.

Trevor unhooked the chain around Ethan’s ankle. Ethan was now free of the tanker.

Dakota eased her foot off the gas pedal.

The Hummer slowed.

“Careful!” Claire screamed above her.

You’re not helping, Bitch.

Ethan and Trevor clung to the hood. If Dakota tapped the brakes, the boys could be tossed forward.

Ease off slowly.

100 miles per hour—95—90—

Suspension cables glided past the Hummer in geometric waves.

The tanker truck pulled ahead.

Trevor helped Ethan up onto the roof.

The pulpy flesh of Ethan’s legs smeared blood across the windshield. Dakota’s view of the bridge was painted red.

“I’ve got you,” Claire said, and started to pull Ethan inside, but—

A scream of metal.

The back end petroleum tank rose high into the air. Its underbelly was suddenly exposed.

The Hummer rushed toward it. The distance between them collapsed.

The vehicle ahead of her had come to dead stop—

Collision!

The air shimmered with shattered glass. A hailstorm of shards pelted the Hummer’s windshield.

Claire screamed and ducked her head inside.

The tanker truck jackknifed in the air, taking out suspension cables.

The third vehicle—a postal delivery truck, accordioned by the impact—leapt into the web of suspension cables on the other side.

Dakota applied pressure to the brake pedal.

Trevor slipped from the roof.

Nearly fell.

Dakota gasped. She took her foot off the brake. If she stopped suddenly, she’d throw her brother from the vehicle.