On the Radio, On the I, Friday afternoon, Memorial Day weekend
“ – to Basket of Troubles! And now, the most ideologically coherent Oedipal Romantic you know – ”
“Helloooo! And thank you, oh Hot One! And welcome America! I am – ”
“Not interested in your anarchist nonsense.”
Keith punched the button on his car radio again.
“It’s four o’clock, and you’re listening to Q! K! R! D! Serving all of the Tri-Counties, plus Outer Greater Reginastan! My name is Tom Bryant, sitting in for the ever-vacationing Tom Bryant, and I will be your host for this beautiful Friday afternoon! We’ve already got a few calls lined up on our board, but there’s always room for more, so give us a ring ding ding! But first, before I let you unload, let’s check out Memorial Day traffic with Lin Knauer in our QKRD Eye-on-the-I Chopper. Lin?”
“Tom, it’s a beautiful day out over the I and it looks like as many folks are leaving the Redge for Gramma’s house or the beach as are coming in for the weekend or on their way through to the Lakes.”
“Summer is here, Lin, and so is the traffic. How does it look, my friend?”
“Summer’s official start-up weekend is getting just a spectacular kick off, Tom! The weather is mild and clear, and the forecast is fair.”
“How ’bout those roads, Lin?”
“Smooth going from Hass to the Donenfeld exit, then a little backed up into Shuster. Getting messy coming up on the airport so watch those merges and don’t be in any kind of hurry. Starting to back up approaching Toth and… Heads up!”
“What is it, Lin?”
“Sea of red lights now westbound toward Toth and looks like a major obstruction there at the exit. Bunch of semis look like they all just jack-knifed in unison, rolled over or turned sideways or – WHOA!”
The radio went dead for a few seconds until Bryant continued. “Sorry folks. Sounds like we just lost Lin’s connection. We’ll get — ”
“Tom?”
“Yes Lin! How’s it going up there?”
“You should see this, Tom! Couple of big black helicopters just buzzed us! They’re escorting us now back to Zertel Field. Pilot just got a buzz from the FAA. We’re in a no-fly zone now and we’re grounded until fur – ”
“Squeeeeee!” Again Lin cut out, but this time he was replaced by a strange new voice. “Attention! This station has been impounded by the Homeland Economic Recovery Office. This is a national emergency and the cities of Reginapolis, DuQuois, Kupperton, and the surrounding areas are under martial law. Please stay tuned to this station for messages of vital importance and follow all instructions from the HERO officers on the ground.
“America salutes you, and thanks you for your cooperation, your service, and your sacrifice.
“We repeat. This is a national emergency and the cities of – ”
“Click.” Keith Jones turned off his car radio and stared at the stationary line of brake lights in front of him. Coming back against the traffic along the inside service lane was a line of cruisers, their top lights flashing red and blue.
The Candidates Exhort the Crowd,
On the Stump for Re-Election and the HERO Amendment
“On the line for 29!
“A better way for the USA!”
The crowd roared and repeated itself several times as Ned took a long drink. He was just about halfway through his time, and he felt like he had his flock ready to charge. As the response began to play out, he leaned onto his rostrum and smiled at them. He gently shook his head. “Now friends, our critics will tell you that this Amendment is cruel and inhuman and a step away from our Constitutional protections, but as always, they’ve got it exactly backwards. There is nothing so kind, nothing so human, nothing so humane, as finding ways to do the most good for the least cost. Some would say we should just… at last, SHRUG… our duties to serve the people – ”
The crowd drowned him out with its loud jeers and laughter and catcalls aimed at Senator Amassi who was seated behind him on the platform. While he waited for his time to speak, he didn’t stir, but he did smile at Adkins’ wordplay.
The crowd quieted itself and Adkins resumed. “Some say we should shrug our responsibilities to our allies, and abandon the homeless and the helpless and the hopeless. But is that the American Way? Or do United We Stand?”
“USA! USA! USA!”
He held up his hands and waited for the chant to abate. As they settled down again he leaned forward. “Friends, it’s all great fun to make sport of our honorable adversaries,” he turned and smiled to Amassi, who nodded in return, “and we should all have a little fun now and then or life’s just not worth the effort.
“But there’s a time for fun and a time for serious business, and governance is serious business. It’s about protecting the borders and our assets and insuring the economy and maintaining our infrastructure and meeting our obligations to our allies. And when it’s time for the government to recover its revenue from its investments in the infrastructure and in national defense and the health and welfare of us all, well… there’s a cost to that too.
“How do we balance these costs? Well…” He smiled. “Again, some say that tax cuts for the rich will enable the invisible hands of the market to work their magic.” The Senator bristled but said nothing. “But here in the real world, we know that sometimes we have to be willing to make the difficult choices and the hard decisions that life demands.”
He clenched his jaw and scowled. “There’s a War on, ladies and gentlemen! A War for our Soul and for our Survival against a Dangerous Deficit and a Cabal of Creditors who threaten to extinguish Our Way of Life and Our Children’s Hopes and Dreams for a Better Future for America. And if we don’t take serious measures you can be certain that in the Kremlin, and in the Forbidden City, and in the Houses of Saul and Saud, they will!”
He glanced at the timepiece on the rostrum. “Let me back up a little. When we talk about choices, we have to talk about the ways that our choices relate to each other. It’s complicated on paper and even more complicated in real life. The Algorithm is written to evaluate thousands of factors affecting human welfare. It aims to minimize the impact of revenue recovery, while still addressing the needs of the people.
“But what do these factors mean to each other? In economics, the easiest way to measure things is in money. We all want it. We all recognize it. We’re all willing to work for it. And we’re all willing to give some of it up when we want other stuff more. We understand it as a way of making unlike things relatable. How many hours of washing dishes is a new motorcycle? Not many cycle dealers want you to wash their dishes. Many of them want eggs, or new shoes for their kids, or pretty baubles for their sweeties. But they’ll all take cash, thank you very much!
“One of the ways that people confuse themselves about economics is they forget that it is about so much more than just money. Money is just the medium, the means by which we convince each other to help us to accomplish great things. Now, people often say, ‘it’s only money, you can always get some more.’ And that’s generally true, but it’s not ‘ONLY money.’ Money is just the means to fairly and accurately exchange our resources — our property and our talents and our efforts and our IRREPLACEABLE TIME. Time is all we ever get, really, to experience and create and savor life. When we are robbed, we are robbed of life. Sure… small fractions, but they’re real and they add up. Now, I’m not about to get all Old Testament on ya’ll and propose the gallows or the guillotine for purse snatchers and second story men, but, well… There is a limit. Know whum sane?
“Why do we punish killing more than most other crimes? Homicide is total. It means the loss of an entire lifetime of experience and wonder and joy. If we punish homicide to answer the loss of an entire lifetime, we must ask, ‘What is an entire lifetime?’ Just like we use dollars to compare donuts to dynamite, let’s get metrical with time, too. And let’s be generous. Let’s say a lifetime is one million hours. That’s a nice round number and it works out to about 114 years. That’s not common, mind, but it’s not unprecedented either. And medicos continue to refine their craft.
“Ever suffer a cyber attack? Virus infect your tablet or telephone? How much time did you spend recovering — or recreating — files? Were you alone in your experience, or was this one of those notorious wide-scale infestations? These deliberate acts of sabotage could easily end up squandering several millions of man-hours, constituting numerous virtual whole lifetimes, even if the deed doesn’t result in any crashed aircraft or botched surgeries. These destructive and dangerous programs are launched intentionally for purposes of enrichment, amusement, and self-aggrandizement. I’d say hangin’s too quick fer ’em if I weren’t so tender-hearted. But it is for just such tricks that we want Ol’ Sparky at the ready. Due process first, please.
“How many hours did you spend working on your tax returns last year? Brewing up a pot of coffee, gathering your receipts, hunkering down at the kitchen table going through the microscopic print of endless files and tables and sub-paragraphs? How ‘bout the year before that? And the year before that? Yeah… you and millions of other Americans. How many billions of man-hours are lost every decade? How many total equivalent human lives are snuffed out to satisfy the needs of civilization? If Ted Bundy or Charlie Manson killed that many people outright, we’d bake ’em! Due process first, please.
“Well, just as I’m ready to dispatch some felonious trickster who’d squander multiple human lives, I can count the costs of recovery methods and, because I value human life above all, I can point to a better way where fewer suffer and more gain. That’s why we’re putting it on the line for Amendment 29, ’cause we’re all in this together, and we need your every vote for every one of the good men and women on this slate! If we can stand up here and say to the doubters and the haters and the greedy and the warped and the heartless that we will face The Algorithm, come what may, come what may for the USA, we trust in our nation to find a better way, then you can join us and stand with us for the USA! We can put it on the line for 29 and a brighter, freer, cleaner, better future for America!”
The crowd erupted again and went back into its chant. Ned smiled and waved at them while they huzzahed and hooted, and when they began to settle, he took his seat as Tristan Amassi took his place at the podium.
“I’m not accustomed to speaking out AGAINST tax cut proposals, but…” Amassi looked down and shook his head. He slowly raised it. “Where to begin?” He turned and addressed Adkins. “Due process, Congressman? Really? After decades of supporting civil asset forfeiture, you’re still claiming allegiance to due process?”
Adkins rose, indignant. “That was about drugs, Senator! You know that as well as anybody! We were fighting drugs!”
“‘Fighting drugs’ was a popular excuse, Congressman. Asset forfeiture was only about power and plunder. It has always only been about power and plunder.”
Studio 4, television station QKRD, Reginapolis, Friday afternoon
The music faded, a man crossed downstage from the kitchen set, and the hidden announcer leaned into his microphone. “Direct from Rockabilly Barndance, Ladies and Gentlemen, Hicks and Hickettes, Okies and Ocarinas, put your hands together for our master of ceremonies, Mister George! B! May!”
“Thank you so much! Thank you so much!” George held his hands up as if to deflect the obedient applause. After the sign winked out and the ovation trailed away and a baby spot illuminated May, he stepped into his microphone and spoke softly. “Are ya’ll ready for some cookin’… and some cookin’?”
The studio guitarist executed a sweet lick and the studio drummer hit a rim shot and the studio audience roared its approval. “Thank you so much! You are so very kind!” The applause sign and the red light on the center stage camera both turned on. The band started the familiar theme music and May spoke directly to the camera. “Get ready folks! From the heart of The Redge to the heart of America, it’s the best darn downhome live-action home cookin’ show in the whole USA! It is time… to…” He pointed to the crowd.
“ROCK! THE! RANGE!”
The rehearsed audience shouted out the show title and then applauded their own performance while George beamed. “Now give it up,” he continued, “for Mister Jose Luis (‘Bud’) Gibson, and Miss Brenda Gayle!” The sign went back on and the audience clapped as the hosts entered from separate wings, meeting in the center of the stage.
“Thank you!” Gibson and Gayle both smiled and waved at the audience as the applause faded. “Welcome! Welcome to Rock the Range, where all dishes are prepared with three skillets and the truth. We got a great show for ya today. Later we’ll have Scrapple Valley out singing their latest country chart topper!”
“Can’t wait for that, Bud! And with summer and fresh tomatoes breathing down our necks, don’t you think it’s about time you shared your Abuela’s secret salsa recipe with the folks!”
“You’re right about that, Brenda Gayle! In addition, we’ll have our special guest, Chef Laurent from Chez Diane, join us to whip up huckleberry flapjacks, chorizo, and Spanish omelets! But first,” Bud’s voice dropped, and he stepped out from behind the prep table and leaned against the front. “I’d like to take a moment…”
“Oh Lordy…” Brenda rolled her eyes and the audience laughed.
“No, seriously Bren. There’s been a lot of talk lately about the HERO Act and all the hard choices that our hired help in Washington’s been havin’ to make and it seems like some folks can’t do nothin’ but criticize.”
“Well that’s our American privilege though, ain’t it, Bud?”
“It sure is, Bren. It sure is! And there’s a time to analyze and a time to criticize and a time to compromise and a time to temporize. But the way it works in Our Country is when Our Congress has acted on it and Our President has signed off on it then it’s time for loyal Americans to get behind it. We had our chance to talk, and now it’s time to put up or shut up. We gotta make this thing work! Either we roll up our sleeves and be Americans United or we might just as well give it up and give Alaska back to the Russians and give the Chinese the keys to Fort Knox and start gittin’ our oil from those Mad Mullahs in Eye Ran.”
The applause sign lit up to cue the audience. As the ovation faded, Brenda said, “Strong words, Bud.” The band began to play softly.
Gibson smiled at the camera. “Sorry folks. Just had ta get that offa my chest is all. We’ll be back after this.”
The loyal home audience sat patiently through recorded advertisements, but Bud and Brenda did not return.
At a little past four pm HERO agents impounded QKRD armed with their own programming and began to process the staff and studio audience. By night’s end about sixteen percent would make it out alive. Neither Gibson nor Gayle would be among that number. Gibson was doubly damned by his massive estate and his poor health, and while Miss Gayle was “only slightly” overweight and just barely into the orange zone, the field agent in charge was no fan of country music and eager to make quota besides. And careless.
Sacred Heart Academy of Kalihi, Honolulu County,
three months after the HERO Act
The long walk across campus to English Comp (which she hated) from Bio (which she occasionally enjoyed, especially when there was any dissecting to be done) usually gave Yarrow enough time to blast out a few posts. Strolling along the breezeway heading up to the English building with her face down in her device, Yarrow didn’t notice the cluster at the bottom of the stairs until she was almost upon them.
“You go ’roun’ haole!” said Leilani Stark. The oversized Hawaiian-Tongan girl had planted herself on the bottom step and was flanked by her equally great Maori and Hawaiian cohorts. Together the three of them completely blocked the way up.
“Get out of my way, please,” said Yarrow, “I need to get to class.”
“You got time you run for it,” said Leilani. She pointed to the other stairway at the far end of the building. The other girls snickered.
“I don’t want to run. Class is just at the top of these steps. Now get out of my way you fat fucks and let me pass!”
As one, the three of them rose and advanced on the smaller girl. “Who fat? Maybe you like run now, yeah haole bitch?”
As the pack stepped toward her, Yarrow made a feint to the left and then dashed right to flank the outer guard but was snagged by the arm as she tried to pass. “Let go of me!” She squawked as the powerful appendage hauled her in and wrapped itself around her. She struggled and flailed as she was lifted from the ground.
“Dis one li’l fish,” said the girl. “Maybe I throw ’em back!”
“Three against one? Does this school give out ribbons for valor now?” An unfamiliar woman’s voice came down to them from the top of the stairs. When the girls all looked up they saw two haoles, a man and a woman. They were matched in black business attire and sun-glasses. “You might want to put Miss Diamond down now, ladies, unless you’d like us to report this incident to Sister Travis.”
As the pair descended the stairs the trio slowly backed away. Yarrow’s captor dropped her and she almost stumbled when she hit the pavement but recovered and glowered at her nemeses as they retreated.
By the time the pair reached the ground Yarrow’s antagonists had gone. “Yarrow Diamond?” asked the man. “‘X-box’?”
“So you read my blog,” snorted Yarrow. “So what?”
“So we like it,” said the woman. “We like what you have to say about life. And people. And mainly what you’d like to do to ‘fat fucks’ who get in your way.”
Yarrow blushed. “Doink…” She thumped her forehead with the flat of her hand. “That’s just da kine, you know? Trash talk. Gamer bullshit alla time. Like pro wrestling, you know? Or politics. Doesn’t always mean anything. We don’t really want to hurt anybody.”
The man in black touched his pad and began to read. “‘Sharks gotta eat too,’ says X-box, responding to Governor Lim’s ‘Project Pono’ proposal.” He looked up, removed his sunglasses, and smiled at her. “Clearly, Miss Diamond, you are more than just an accomplished gamer, and a Registered Master of both ColdMaze and the NoSurvivors series. You also have a great heart, and are fully capable of balancing the needs of innocent sharks and fat fucks.”
Yarrow scowled at them both. “You know my name. You know my game stats. You’ve read my blog, so you know my screen name – ”
The woman handed Yarrow a slip of paper. When she took it she saw that it was an “excused absence” form signed by Sister Garth.
Yarrow read it and rolled her eyes. “Doink. And you know my class schedule. Whattya want from me?”
“Bret Winter.” The man extended his hand. Yarrow took it, squeezed it slightly, and dropped it. He gestured to his companion. “This is Colonel Michaels. We’re putting together a team for the Federal government and we’d like your help. You’d be excused from school,” he gestured to the slip in her hand, “as you can see. In fact, if you chose to work with us, you’d get full Civics and Social Studies credit for all of the rest of high school.”
Colonel Michaels removed her sunglasses as well and smiled at the girl. “Let us take you to lunch. We can talk it over over grinds. We’ll get you home to Catlin Park, and we’ll want to talk to your parents, of course.”
Yarrow still refused to smile at these people. “We need money first!”
Colonel Michaels laughed. “Of course you’d be paid! Whattya say, Miss Diamond? Or do you prefer ‘X-box’?”
“X-box is fine. Yarrow is better.”
“Excellent, Yarrow. How do you feel about Mexican?”
“You read my blog.”
“So you love it! So let’s go! We have Tres Hermanos reservations at Ala Moana in fifteen minutes. Bret?”
“Directions on my pad.” He tapped the screen. “And being sent to our car now.”
Queen City Parking and Security, Monday before Memorial Day
Clifford Shanahan got to work as early as he usually did.
He hated to rush, and he hated to waste time. With the vagaries of traffic, he knew he had to take his chances. If he could only rely on all the other pinheads on the road paying attention, and on hitting the lights just right, he’d show up to work every day with zero seconds to spare. But just because his morning commute could be fifteen minutes from door to door it was almost certain that some dunce on the way would be too lost in his cell phone to pay attention to the lights. So he made it a point to try to get to work five or ten minutes early. It wasn’t so bad. It gave him a chance to knock back one last cup of coffee and to not look at or talk to anybody until he had to.
At one minute before the hour, Cliff rinsed out his cup and lay his thumb onto the blinking glass plate by the door. After the affirmative beep he walked in, took a seat, and awaited the day’s orders. When the minute hand stood straight up, Queen City’s dispatcher waddled up to the rostrum and leaned his bulk onto it. “Good news today! Big contract comin’ in, with some special problems, of course.”
The assembly groaned. Reginapolis was a regular stop for many a concert tour, as well as hosting three of its own pro sports franchises, so the employees of Queen City were accustomed to “prima donna” service. Cliff remembered losing out when the big deal hip hop sensation insisted on only black escorts, and again when the big deal chanteuse insisted on women drivers, because “they’re safer.” Cliff wasn’t always locked out. He was key agent on a couple of assignments. Sometimes he just had to be careful not to make eye-contact with one pop star and to be sure to always be smiling when another walked into the room. Every client was different, and every client was right. As long as they paid up front.
“This new client, for the next week or so,” continued the dispatcher, “isn’t going to be requiring any special candy or beverages, so suck those tears back into your faces. I toldja, this is good news. The client’s looked at our labor and declared that we are over-staffed. They’ve decided to deal with it two ways. Some of you are going to get the week off, with pay. This doesn’t come out of your vacation time or sick leave or nothin’! This is free money, folks. Take it and like it.”
Time off, with pay, sounded good. There had to be a catch.
“There’s a catch. I’m going to read a list of names. These will be the lucky bastards, or,” he nodded to the women present, “the lovely ladies, who get the free week. When I read your name go ahead and clock out and I don’t want to see you until next Monday. On time! So don’t go nuts.”
The crowd leaned forward and waited for their names to be called.
“However…”
“Oh fuck me.” Muttering drifted up from the back, and the group laughed.
“Now Del, don’t be so sure. Names I don’t call remain on schedule, just like you all expected when you showed up today.” He paused again and looked around the room. “Don’t worry. No one should be getting fucked over this deal. Those who aren’t sent home to get their money for nothin’ and their chicks for free are going to be paid time and a half for the duration. Like I said, everybody wins if nobody fucks it up. There will be no appeal from these special assignments this week. You either take the deal and the money, or you give notice and never come back. So how ’bout we all take ‘Yes’ for an answer?”
The dispatcher began reading names and employees began rising and departing. When Cliff’s name was called, he whooped and split, barely pausing at the door long enough to clock out.
DuQuois Correctional, Queen County, Friday afternoon, ca 3pm
“Buon giorno, Dominico! Where ya been, paisano?” Axel Hayes leaned his broom against the wall and extended his hand to the returning CO. “Ain’t seen you around here in a coon’s age, Dom. What up?”
Dominic gripped the trustee’s hand. “Got a date with the warden, Ax. Could concern you, you might want to stay close.”
Axel surveyed Dominic’s snappy new uniform and whistled. “That what all the smart storm troopers are wearin’ this season?”
Halfway down the hall, and leaning against the wall, Corrections Officer Bullock, grunted. “Get back to it, Hayes. Good seein’ ya again, Camp. Warden’s expecting ya, walk on in.”
“Bull.” Dominic Campigno nodded to the man and opened the door.
Lou Simpson rose from the desk and met Dominic in the middle of the office. They half-embraced, their hands gripping elbows. “You look good, Dom! Elite Federal service suits you fine!”
He grinned. “Raise comes in handy, too, now that Felina’s pregnant again.”
“Dom! That’s great! That’s just great!” Lou slapped him on the shoulder, then pulled him in closer, fully committing to the hug, which Dominic heartily returned. “Have a seat, Dom. Catch me up.” They broke their embrace and Lou returned to behind the desk.
“This is the Reconstruction Order for this facility and the surrounding area.” Officer Campigno fetched out a federal warrant and handed it to Lou, who sat and studied it while Dom stood and waited.
Simpson looked up and said, “So we’re in the shit then, are we?”
Dom shook his head. “You’re gonna be fine, Lou. I promise you that. And most of your staff, too, except the names on that list.”
Lou squinted back at the papers. Nervous fingers reached up and pinched the flesh between the eyebrows while pursed lips twitched back and forth. Finally, “I’ve had two of these four before this desk too many times…”
“The Algorithm makes sense, Lou. Troublemakers are expensive. It may seem cruel, but… You know… Freedom ain’t free.”
“No! No!” Lou looked up and grimaced. “That’s not it. I get it. What’s gotta be done has gotta be done. These jokers have been a thorn in my administration since they’ve come on board, and your damned union has had me in handcuffs! Christ forgive me, Dom, but this part is gonna be a pleasure! But these other two, this new guy I don’t know so well, but Harold has been the model CO for as long as –”
“Can’t be helped, Lou.” Dom studied his pad. “Mr Keenan may be a decent sort, but he’s been pulling his Army pension all his time here and now he’s two years from Social Security. And Mr Garson, I’m afraid, is a little overweight, and suffers from diabetes and hypertension. They’re totally red-flagged, Lou, nothin’ you can do.”
“Still stinks, though.” The two remained silent for a bit. Lou continued reading as neatly trimmed fingernails dragged along the jaw line. “End of the line for our guests I suppose.”
Dominic nodded. “Mainly two exits, all according to the Algorithm’s protocols. Full clemency for those few on the list. Reconstruction for most of the rest. You’re gonna want extra labor so we’ll conscript a crew. Expect maybe five to eight per cent of them can work their way through to new housing in a Federal Max. Details, protocols, warrants… It’s all in your hands right there.”
Lou scanned the inmate lists, then sighed heavily, stood up, and stabbed at the form with an index finger. “Thank God!” Dom leaned forward, followed Lou’s finger, and read Axel’s name. Lou walked to the open door and shouted down the hall. “Axel, get in here now! Bull, go to complete lockdown! Secure the blocks and assemble the staff! Now mister!”
“On it, Chief!” Bullock trotted over to the public address station.
Axel dragged his broom into the office. “What up, Chief?”
Lou’s eyes glistened with gathering tears as she pulled the little trustee into her embrace. “We’re going home, Ax. The President is letting us out today. Thank God with us.” She and Dominic both knelt.
They looked up at Ax, who struggled to digest the news. The Warden had always been a decent sort, but cryin’ over an early release? “An early release? Boy shit howdy! A Presidential pardon? You betcha!” He looked down at them. The Warden and Dom were both ready to thank Jesus for his freedom. “Why the hell not?” He knelt beside them and they took his hands and they prayed.
Team Scott, Sachs Exit, DuQuois
When the pilots hit the brakes and the gimbals deployed, the rigs and the trailers lined up three abreast. They were sitting just short of Sachs Exit. Wreckage from the recent collision straddled the shoulder and the exit.
As the team commander in the left rig coordinated with his squad leaders in the trailers, the cab officers from the center rig exited and approached the wrecks. “Queen City, we’ve got incidentals just outside our perimeter.”
“Copy that, Scott. We’ve got you on traffic cam. The Algorithm has just annexed the site, so those’ll be System Caps. Clean it up and send it in.”
The men moved to the vehicles just as the meat wagons started filing down the exit ramp, loud country and western music blaring from the lead van. When they reached the first, upended and its top flattened, they read the plate number onto their pads and waved for the disposal team to start collecting victims. “These two are already dead. Let’s check that Buick.”
Bill Kippert could see it playing in his head over and over. He was making great time, maybe not be late after all, coming up fast and then those stupid trucks start lining up. He moves up through the pack until he is finally on the tail of the Sentra not picking it up fast enough and finally getting past that truck until just about to DuQuois and finally he’s clear and Bill is flooring it and then back in front of the big rig just before it moves left and — That Sentra is still dragging its ass! And BAM! And everything is moving! And everything is loud! And everything is still and everything is quiet and everything hurts and the scene plays over and over.
Then there’s a cop sticking his face in the window and then he’s pointing a gun at him and then everything stops.