Blacktop Wasteland(69)

Closed, it looked like any other door to any other box truck.

Opened, it became a ramp.

Beauregard focused on the ramp. They’d hit another flat stretch. This one went on for just under three miles. Ronnie was doing 60. He’d have to get the van up to at least 65 to get inside the truck and then stand up on the brakes to keep the van from crashing into the cab. This was their best shot. In about three minutes the road became a roller coaster and stayed that way for the next five miles until it passed a desolate gas station.

He pushed the van up to 65 and aimed it at the ramp. He felt it then. Felt it for the first time tonight. The high, the juice, the symbiotic relationship between man and machine. The thrumming vibrations that worked their way up from the blacktop through the wheels and suspension system like blood moving through veins until it reached his hands. The engine spoke to him in the language of horsepower and RPMs. It told him it yearned to run.

The thrill had finally arrived.

“Let’s fly,” Beauregard whispered.

He hit the ramp doing 70 mph. The van rocked like a skiff on the open sea. Beauregard heard the driver moan from the back. Grunting, he eased up on the gas infinitesimally. He’d adjusted the ramp so that the dip between it and the edge of the bed was minimal but if he came in too fast he’d pop the front tires. Without warning the truck shot forward, accelerating violently. Beauregard could feel the ramp slipping from beneath his wheels.

“Fuck!” Beauregard growled. He let up on the gas as the ramp disappeared completely from beneath the van. The front tires slammed onto the asphalt like Fat Man and Little Boy. The van careened from left to right as Beauregard struggled with the wheel. Once he had it under control he fumbled for the cell. He hit the “call” button with his right thumb as he steered with his left hand.

“What was that?” Beauregard said when Ronnie answered.

“I’m sorry, my foot slipped. Fuck it, Bug, I’m sorry I—”

Beauregard cut him off.

“Keep it at sixty. I’m coming in again,” he said. They’d missed their best chance in the long straightaway. Now more steep hills loomed ahead of them. Beauregard gritted his teeth as the van struggled to drag itself up and over while carrying him, the driver and the pallet of platinum.

Ronnie was trying to keep the truck steady but it was jerking, faster on the downhills, slower as it struggled up. Impossible to time it right in these short valleys.

No headlights in the mirror. Not yet. He breathed deeply. They had one more shot. It wasn’t ideal but they didn’t really have a choice. After this last hill the road flattened out again. Only this time it was a matter of feet, not miles.

As Beauregard descended the hill he saw bright orange sparks erupt from the ramp. The rubber weather stripping had burned away and the metal was making contact with the asphalt. The sparks looked like fireflies from Hell. Two hundred feet. He only had two hundred feet left before the road ended and they were back on a main highway. Two hundred feet to make this work. The main highway was forty miles of flat blacktop four lanes wide. Once they hit it the SUV would catch up with them. He couldn’t outrun them on that stretch. Beauregard focused on the ramp. The van’s powerful headlights lit up the inside of the truck. The interior of the truck reflected the light back at him. Through a hail of sparks, he saw the four sandbags he had attached to the wall to act as a backstop. A desolate gas station illuminated by flickering sodium arc lights zipped by his window. The yellow lights left jaundiced streaks behind his eyes.

One hundred and sixty feet now.

Beauregard flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror. He saw the ambient glow of headlights rising above the last hill they had gone over. The SUV hadn’t crested that hill yet but it would in a matter of seconds. It was either going to be now or it was getting shot in the fucking face.

One hundred feet.

Beauregard grunted and hit the gas. The needle on the speedometer shot past 70 mph and leaned on 80. He passed a green rectangular sign that told him Pine Tar Road was coming to an end.

Drive it like you stole it, right? Beauregard thought.

He slammed the gas pedal to the floor. As the speedometer hit 90 mph, sparks washed over the van like a wave of falling stars.



* * *



“There! There it is, goddamn it!” Tyree yelled.

He whipped the SUV to the right and pulled into a desolate, dimly lit gas station. The gas station was about a mile from the end of Pine Tree Road. Tyree slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the vehicle with his AR-15 in one hand. The Hoodie Brothers followed him. They kept their weapons tucked under their shirts and kept their distance from Tyree.

Sitting under the sallow sodium arc lights that sat above the gas pumps was the van. Moths darted around and under the canopy above the pumps, casting strange, fluttering silhouettes that danced across the surface of the van. Tyree approached it from the rear with slow deliberate steps. He pressed the stock of his rifle against his right bicep while he grabbed the rear latch with his left. The doors swung open with a horrid creak.

“Motherfucker,” Tyree said.

The van was empty. No driver, no platinum, no anything. Tyree seized the rear door and slammed it shut. He opened it again and slammed it shut. He did this five more times. The seventh and final time was too much for the rear window. It exploded into a million pieces. Chunks of tempered, smoke gray glass rained across the concrete.