I put the hammer down, felt the tires of the Camaro skip as I burst forward like a bullet, trying like hell to get away from the string of flashing lights in hot pursuit. I was running from years and years of misdoing, but I knew they had me. I kept this on for a few good hours, this flight across the plains, listening to rock music and updates of my high-speed chase on the radio, smoking cigarettes. I was feeling good about things.
A cop sped ahead of the pack and pulled right up close. Right up to where I could see the goatee on his chin through the windshield. His voice came from the bullhorn on top of the car.
"Pull over now,” he said, “This ain't what you want. Stop running. We'll be easy on you.”
His eyes were beady in my mirror.
I remembered how one time I shot a Mexican cop down in Guadalajara. He was a sleepy little guy with a handlebar mustache. I saw him on the street and didn't like the way he was looking around at everybody in the town.
I pulled out my pistol and shot him in the shoulder. He staggered and fell face down into the street. I stood over him watching the blood spread across his back and seep out through his shirt, then finally trickle down to the dirt of the street. Eventually his shoulders stopped moving up and down.
I thought about what this cop was saying to me now. Give in. Let us do what we want with you. Admit that you're a nothing.
At the next curve in the highway I mashed that throttle down. The engine screamed like a warrior as I launched over an embankment into the wide blue sky.
M.R. Phillips lives and writes in Southern California. His work has been
published in Powder Burn Flash, The Scratch Anthology, and the San Diego City
Beat. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.