Fiction Friday: Fun and Games
FUN AND GAMES
by Mark Walker
The Porsche 911 rested quietly in the cool dampness of the garage. Sally Faring strode down the hall, flip-flops slapping on tile. Entering the garage, she slid her hand gently down the steel-gray fender. I know you. Fast and free.
Inside now, the leathery newness flared her nostrils. Surrendering to the smell, she closed her eyes. Sweet memories filled her--aimless afternoon drives in Dad's red MGB, sweeping
through sun drenched California canyons, radio loud, laughing louder, daring him to go faster. Wish he hadn't moved. Opening her eyes, she placed the key in the ignition. The engine started with a throaty mumble. She pressed the garage door remote, checked the mirror--catching a glimpse of her blond hair and wild-wheat green eyes--and placed the car in reverse.
Sally didn't see the others till she reached the stop sign at the end of the street. It was the Mustang. I hate the Mustang. Red, fat tires, loud engine, lots of trouble. Sally took a right onto the two-lane highway that bordered the subdivision. Quickly she glanced down the street, praying they hadn't seen her. Damn, they were coming, and fast!
She pressed the accelerator, hard. The Porsche leapt forward. Ahead lay a twisty patch of road that might allow her to leave the antiquated Mustang behind.
If she could only get some breathing room. Then she could take a right at Beckett's corner and dive behind the 7/11. The first corner rushed toward her. Sally held the accelerator flat. Her breathing was quick, shallow; sweaty hands stuck to steering wheel leather.
In the corner now, the Porsche twitched nervously. Sally released the accelerator, nearly spinning the car as the suspension shifted. She caught it and accelerated toward the next bend, glancing in the rear view mirror. Damn. The Mustang was still there, perhaps closer. They knew what they were doing.
The next corner was smoother, and the next. At last, she was anticipating the car's needs, leading, rather than forcing the machine through the turns. The Mustang receded to an indistinct red splotch in her mirror.
I'm gonna do it. I'm losing them. There was one more turn before Beckett's corner, a tight right-hander by the old man's ranch. She waited till the last possible instant, smoothly braked, downshifted, and drifted through the corner. Yeah, that's the way!
She almost didn't see the truck.
Beckett, in his battered white F-150, slowly pulled from the driveway in front of her. There was nowhere to go. She slammed on the brakes. The Porsche's tail slewed left then right. She tried to correct, but the car was too far gone. It spun, once, twice, coming to rest beside the road, stalled. Beckett continued on his way, oblivious to the commotion.
Frantically, she tried to start the engine, but it wouldn't catch. The Mustang slid to a stop in front of the Porsche, blocking her escape.
Two men exited, laughing. Sally yelled from inside the car. "Screw you. You arrogant jerks!"
The short one with blond hair--probably surfs when he's not busy harassing me--pulled a pistol. His partner made a circular motion with his hand. "Roll down the window."
"No, way, " Sally responded.
The short one, now standing next to her window, spoke next. "C'mon Miss Faring. You know the rules."
Reluctantly, Sally lowered the Porsche's window. She cringed as the surfer thrust the pistol in her face. With a whoop he pulled the trigger, soaking her with ice cold water.
"You were better this time, Ms Faring. But you have to keep your eyes up, focused ahead. You should have seen that truck."
Reluctantly, special agent trainee Sally Faring of the Central Intelligence Agency field division nodded, glancing towards the glove compartment and her own squirt gun. The look was not lost on her fellow agent and instructor.
"Now Ms. Faring," the blond agent said, backing away from the Porsche. "You know the code. Winner squirts, loser hurts."
Sally's gaze returned to the two men. "Yeah, I know. But next time, you guys better wear your rain coats."
"Next time," said the tall man, chief instructor for the CIA's evasive driving course, "we'll bring the 'Vette."
Inside now, the leathery newness flared her nostrils. Surrendering to the smell, she closed her eyes. Sweet memories filled her--aimless afternoon drives in Dad's red MGB, sweeping
Sally didn't see the others till she reached the stop sign at the end of the street. It was the Mustang. I hate the Mustang. Red, fat tires, loud engine, lots of trouble. Sally took a right onto the two-lane highway that bordered the subdivision. Quickly she glanced down the street, praying they hadn't seen her. Damn, they were coming, and fast!
She pressed the accelerator, hard. The Porsche leapt forward. Ahead lay a twisty patch of road that might allow her to leave the antiquated Mustang behind.
If she could only get some breathing room. Then she could take a right at Beckett's corner and dive behind the 7/11. The first corner rushed toward her. Sally held the accelerator flat. Her breathing was quick, shallow; sweaty hands stuck to steering wheel leather.
In the corner now, the Porsche twitched nervously. Sally released the accelerator, nearly spinning the car as the suspension shifted. She caught it and accelerated toward the next bend, glancing in the rear view mirror. Damn. The Mustang was still there, perhaps closer. They knew what they were doing.
The next corner was smoother, and the next. At last, she was anticipating the car's needs, leading, rather than forcing the machine through the turns. The Mustang receded to an indistinct red splotch in her mirror.
I'm gonna do it. I'm losing them. There was one more turn before Beckett's corner, a tight right-hander by the old man's ranch. She waited till the last possible instant, smoothly braked, downshifted, and drifted through the corner. Yeah, that's the way!
She almost didn't see the truck.
Beckett, in his battered white F-150, slowly pulled from the driveway in front of her. There was nowhere to go. She slammed on the brakes. The Porsche's tail slewed left then right. She tried to correct, but the car was too far gone. It spun, once, twice, coming to rest beside the road, stalled. Beckett continued on his way, oblivious to the commotion.
Frantically, she tried to start the engine, but it wouldn't catch. The Mustang slid to a stop in front of the Porsche, blocking her escape.
Two men exited, laughing. Sally yelled from inside the car. "Screw you. You arrogant jerks!"
The short one with blond hair--probably surfs when he's not busy harassing me--pulled a pistol. His partner made a circular motion with his hand. "Roll down the window."
"No, way, " Sally responded.
The short one, now standing next to her window, spoke next. "C'mon Miss Faring. You know the rules."
Reluctantly, Sally lowered the Porsche's window. She cringed as the surfer thrust the pistol in her face. With a whoop he pulled the trigger, soaking her with ice cold water.
"You were better this time, Ms Faring. But you have to keep your eyes up, focused ahead. You should have seen that truck."
Reluctantly, special agent trainee Sally Faring of the Central Intelligence Agency field division nodded, glancing towards the glove compartment and her own squirt gun. The look was not lost on her fellow agent and instructor.
"Now Ms. Faring," the blond agent said, backing away from the Porsche. "You know the code. Winner squirts, loser hurts."
Sally's gaze returned to the two men. "Yeah, I know. But next time, you guys better wear your rain coats."
"Next time," said the tall man, chief instructor for the CIA's evasive driving course, "we'll bring the 'Vette."
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