Blood to Dust

“Get out,” he says, this time almost pleadingly. The look on his face tears me to shreds from inside. “It was a cool ride, but we’re done here. Save your ass, Pea.” Then, on a whisper only I can hear. “Please.”

In the background, the officer is calling for backup while begging me to step away from the car. There’s a lot of commotion, more blue and red lights approach us, and the gun is still glued to my temple. Nate’s eyes are beseeching. He really does want me to get up and leave, even though it was my idea to send the world up in flames. He was getting by just fine until I barged into his life.

And now he wants to take my heat? To burn in hell for my sins?

This guy is delusional. I’m not leaving him. Ever.

“Screw you,” I mutter, revving up the engine and throwing the car into drive. I almost run over the officer’s feet as I pump the gas several times to gain more speed. The acrid scent of burnt rubber seeps into my nose and I open my mouth, gulping air. Say what you want to say about this car, but it is fast. Faster than Stella, God bless her heart. Or engine, in this case.

“What the f*ck!” Nate yells while the car shimmies under the strain of its new speed. “What. The. Fuck?! Do you realize what you’ve just done? Why? Why, Cockburn? Why are you f*cking your life up to try and save an asswipe with no future?” He is yelling and punching his seat, the door, everything around him but me. Though I suspect I’m the only thing he wants to punch right now. “I’m done, but you can still go and live in f*cking Iowa, which, by the way, was the home of the person who invented sliced bread. Did you know that? I do. You know why? Because I googled the shit out of the place you want to live in. Because I love you. Because I f*cking need you alive and safe! Pull over right now and go with Officer Incompetent before it’s too late. Do it f*cking now.”

“No!” I pump the gas again, sliding off the highway and onto a side road. The officer didn’t even have a chance to get into his cruiser yet, but I know that soon enough, the police are going to be on our tail.

I hope it doesn’t end up on television. I always wonder who those idiots are who actually run away from the police. Well, now they’re us.

“I’m not leaving you,” I tell him. “And I already told you, Iowa is out of the picture.”

“I’ll shoot you.” He jams the gun in my ribs. Numbing pain spreads across the area. I don’t flinch.

“You won’t.” I say calmly. “You love me.”

“Fuck!” he kicks the dashboard with his long leg, unable to contain his boiling frustration. “Cockburn, I don’t want you to be locked up for life. Please, please,” he begs, gluing his palms together, the gun clasped between them. “Pull over and let them take you. They’ll take care of Godfrey. I’ll tell them I killed Seb myself. Please, Prescott.”

“No.”

He grows quiet for a moment, rolling his lower lip in his fingers as he always does when he thinks.

“I’ll kill myself.” He suddenly aims the gun at the base of his throat, just under his Adam’s apple, which is decorated with dancing flames and laughing demons. “Do it, Cockburn. I won’t ask again.”

“Guns are for pussies,” I hiss his words back at him, not even sparing him a glance, my focus solely on the road ahead. “You’ll never kill yourself. Let alone with a gun.”

We’re riding deeper into the dense woods. What woods? Who the hell knows? I have no idea where we are, only that we’re heading north. Shit. If I accidentally wandered into Yosemite Park, I’d never know how to get out of there. Finally, Beat pulls the gun away from his neck and shakes his head.

“What are you doing, Baby-Cakes?”

“I have no idea.” My tears make another frustrating cameo. “But I’d like to find out with you by my side.”

Rubbing his knuckles against his cheek, he exhales loudly. I silently pray for him to come up with a plan, any plan, that can get us out of the woods.

“Break back south. We’ll look for somewhere residential. Gotta ditch this car and find another.”

Veering out of the woods, we get back on a highway, its lanes divided by a long set of tall trees. We’re heading south, flashing by a row of police cars making their way north, presumably to try and find us. Soon, we stumble upon a real gem. It’s a small town, deserted, or at the very least not fully occupied. Darkness engulfs us, unlit by city lights, and it takes us exactly three minutes to dump the Camaro in a swamp and break into a white Kia Soul. Talk about keeping a low profile. There’s an unwritten rule somewhere that you can’t purchase a Kia Soul unless you’re between the ages of forty and eighty or have at least three whiny kids in the backseat.

Nate sighs in relief when he slides into the driver’s seat and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, relishing the feeling of space between his legs and the pedals. I bet it’s a lot nicer for him than the Corvette or the Camaro.

“I’m going to ask once again. Do you still want to go through with Godfrey, or do you want us to drive straight to SFO and board the first plane out of this goddamned country? Forget about Vallejo. We can always come back when shit cools down.”

I fall back against my seat and fold my hands over my lap. I know what he wants to hear. He wants to hear that we’re getting out of here as long as we can. If we still can. The more time we waste, the greater our chances of getting caught.