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The chatter of the newscast on the radio barely registered with Larry Golman as he drove his ugly pickup along the highway. The other half of a partnership with Lenny Boland, he had a lot on his mind. He winced as he noticed the level to which his fuel gauge had dropped. 'Lenny told me he filled it up earlier!' he complained in thought.
“It's that heavy home-made wooden camper-shell on the back,” Lenny told him every time he mentioned it.
“The drag it creates slows the truck down and uses up more gas. It's simple aerodynamics!”
“You can't have it both ways,” Lenny said in that annoying I'm-always-right tone he used at times like that. “You either lose the shed or buy more gas.”
Eventually, Larry stopped complaining verbally and kept his gripes to himself. There was no point in getting into an argument he couldn't win. The gas consumption wasn't the only issue, though. The truck was coming to the end of its days. Larry wanted a big green van with the company livery, Bol-L-Gol Gardening, professionally painted on it. He had just the right design in mind, and had enlisted his daughter to draw it for him. When this hunk of junk finally quit on him, he would push Lenny for a new van. Lenny wouldn't be able to argue, and the new van might even get them more business because it would look so professional. Whether he liked it or not, the current Bol-L-Gol vehicle was butt ugly and perhaps a liability.
Still, it was familiar, and he would miss it when it finally went.
He raised his left hand to scratch his head just beneath his grubby bandana. Larry knew it made him look scruffy, but it kept the sweat off his face when he was working. Besides, this truck had no air conditioning. When they got the new van, it would have air con, and that was final.
A bright flash that flared in the rear view mirror drew Larry's gaze to a scene playing out behind him. He could see a helicopter flying way too low – it actually flew under a highway bridge at one point! It kept on going, and seemed to be chasing a large blue van.
'None of my business,' thought Larry. 'Best to stay out of it.' He floored the accelerator.
The disadvantages of the pickup's aerodynamics soon made themselves felt: its top speed was sixty miles an hour. The distant sound of gunfire made him shudder; he murmured a prayer and found himself grateful for his PRAISE The LORD bumper sticker. Only God could help him now – the battle in the background was getting nearer. He knew it would catch up with him soon.
“The Lord's my shepherd, I shall not want,
"He makes me to lie down in – Holy Moses!”
The big police van swerved to avoid him. Pursued by the cop chopper, it ploughed on, leaving Larry behind, shaken and confused.
He slowed down, aware of the deadly trade in gunfire ahead of him. Chances of being hit were very high. The nearest turn-off was a couple of miles away, and he couldn't turn around on the concrete-hemmed highway. His only way out of this was forwards, but Larry was not a man to take chances.
The loud bang and subsequent explosion didn't surprise him. That chopper was way too low. The big van flipped onto its side. For all his desire to stay out of this, he couldn't simply walk away. What would Jesus do? Larry felt the mantle of the Good Samaritan settle upon him. He had to help. He brought the pickup to a halt.
Out he got and trotted briskly over to the van. “Hello?” he called as he pulled at the open back doors.
“We gotta get out.”
That sounded like a child!
“Take the shotgun.”
That sounded like a woman. She cried in pain.
Larry moved around the corner of the huge metal box.
Three bleeding people staggered towards him; a woman leaning on her small son, who couldn't have been more than twelve, and a big muscle-bound biker guy.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. A sense of unreality closed in on him when he noticed the weapons they carried.
Biker Guy looked up at him. Dim highway lights glinted off the metal of his skull, and one eye looked wrong. Unnatural. Instinct pulled Larry backwards. That man was the stuff of nightmares.
"We need your truck," stated Biker Guy flatly.
The red glare of that robotic eye in Biker Guy's torn-up face would haunt Larry in nightmares for the rest of his life. The sound of another crash and the grinding of metal made him turn his head. Approaching them at speed was a huge tanker truck, which drove before it the wreck of the chopper.
The kid swore. “Come on, Mom, come on, come on...”
Biker Guy pushed past Larry, followed by Mom and Son.
“Hurry!” cried the kid.
Larry stood aside and let them take his pickup. There was no point in getting into an argument he couldn't win.
Biker Guy took the wheel and drove away, leaving Larry by the wreck of the van.
He stood and stared at the apparition they were running from; the driver of the tanker truck was a cop wearing dark glasses and a motorbike helmet.
“What the Hell?” cried Larry. He would never forget the thin grim line of the approaching driver's mouth or the downward tilt of his head. Larry leapt over the concrete barrier wall just in time.
With an ear-splitting crash, the tanker truck smashed through the van and thundered after the pickup.
Larry shook his head. “That's not going to end well for any of 'em,” he declared.
Trembling, he hauled himself to his feet and began to walk along the dark narrow walkway. The blare of the horns of passing cars scared him. Some of them got way too close for his liking.
“Get off the road!” shouted a driver.
“I'm trying to!” Larry shot back.
His heart just wouldn't stop thumping and his stomach churned and roiled. Half a mile ahead, he could see a cluster of street lamps where the highway branched out and led to other parts of the city. Larry hurried towards them – just ahead of that cluster was a taco joint where he knew there was a working phone. If he could just get to that phone, everything would be alright.
It seemed to take forever to stumble along that dark narrow walkway, but when he finally reached the taco joint, he felt relief wash over him like spray from a hosepipe. He pushed the doors open with both his sweaty hands, ran to the phone as if his life depended on it and dialled 911, gasping for breath.
He couldn't get through. The automated system kept him on hold, then sent him back to the options. Where were all the cops? The system was jammed. He thumped the wall. “What's going on?”
The blue flicker of a small TV in the top corner over the jukebox drew his attention. He couldn't hear what the reporter was saying, but when the picture of Biker Guy, Mom and Son came on, he realised what had happened. There was no way the cops were going to take his call. Not at a time like this. He pushed down the receiver button, then called Lenny.
He got the answering machine. “This is the Boland residence, and Bol-L-Gol Gardening. I'm sorry I can't take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.” Beep!
“Lenny, this is Larry,” spluttered Larry. “The pickup's been stolen. I'm at Casa Taco, near the steelworks. Come and pick me up!”
He fumbled with the receiver as he put it back, then staggered to a table near the service bar and ordered a coffee. While he was waiting for it to arrive, a brief red flash off a metallic surface made him jump.
It was only the coffee machine.
Larry burst into tears.
The End.
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