Meeting Clara

I made a left turn by the overpass. There a beat up Honda Civic sat steaming with the hood open, so I stopped to help. Then I saw the girl: tall with ripped jeans and a dirty t-shirt. I shouted out the window if she needed help, and she said yes. As she removed the license plate from the Honda, she said, “I need a ride.”

“Sure, do you need a tow truck?” I said.

“No,” she said, “This car’s toast, I just need a ride.” I made room on the front seat of the Mustang and she threw her bag in the back.

“I’m Clara,” she said, “on my way to California.”

“Tom,” I said, “the good news is I’m headed to Fresno.”

It was overcast and thunder rumbled in the distance, I appreciated the company, parts of the drive are boring and bleak. She said she had just bought the car from a friend but thought it might have blown head gasket. She seemed nervous and kept checking the mirrors as we entered the freeway. She noticed a pickup truck parked on the next overpass.

“Shit, shit shit,” she said as she started digging into her bag.

“What’s wrong? I said.

“Sorry to drag you into this. We’re being followed,” she said. It was a black Ford pickup with two men. Suddenly the truck was closing fast.

“What’s going on? Who are these people? Call the cops!” I shouted. Soon the truck was in the rearview mirror. She pulled a gun from her bag, chambered a round and dropped two more magazines in her lap.

“Whoa! WHAT is going on?! Call the cops!” I shouted.

“Floor it Tom, NOW! They WILL kill both of us, just floor it!” She shouted.

Soon other cars were a blur as we topped 100 then 120 and 130. But the truck was still close behind. Suddenly the rear window shattered in an explosion of glass. The bullet blew the rearview mirror off. My heart was racing and time seemed to slow. Focus. I held the throttle to the floor as the tach needle flew up.

We seemed to be losing them but traffic began to slow, there were signs for construction. I cut to the hard shoulder to pass slow moving vehicles as the car rumbled and road debris hammered the car. If I get a tire puncture we’re dead, I thought to myself. I reached over and called 911 on the phone, but she slammed her fist into the display to end the call.

“No COPS!, she shouted, “THEY are part of this!” From behind more shots rang out. In an instant she scrambled into the back seat to return fire. As we passed slow moving trucks in blur, she fired five times at the pickup truck, then shouted, “GOT HIM!”

In an instant the pickup truck blew a tire and started sliding. A fireball erupted as it slammed into a construction vehicle. I took a deep breath and slowed down. There was glass everywhere and the mirror was hanging by the wires. I was bleeding from a cut on my arm but hadn’t noticed.

“Should I pull over and let you out? I said. My mind reeling. She climbed back into the front seat and reloaded the gun. She casually aimed it at my head.

“Nothing personal, but if you stop I will shoot you and take your car,” she said.

“Then I guess I keep driving,” I said. Out of nowhere I started to laugh. She put the gun away and smiled. She started laughing as well.

“That was fucking awesome, where did you learn to drive like that? She said.

“My mom was a race car driver,” I said.

“No way,” she said.

“Are you single, Tom?” she said.

“At the moment, yes, I said.

“I’m glad you turned left at the overpass, you saved my life,” she said.