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Mr. Juice shoved a key in the ignition. The car’s engine coughed, sputtered, and died. “We’re going to do some business, boy.” Business came out busshhnisss.
He turned the key again. This time the engine caught, its sound rough and uneven.
“Some business with Mr. Daniel?”
“I told you. Mr. Daniel is out of commission.” Mr. Juice slurred the s’s in a long hissing sound. He messed with the knobs on the dash. The radio blared. Benny jerked in his seat, startled.
“Oh, yeah, ACDC. All right. The best classic rock in town.” Mr. Juice pounded on the steering wheel with one hand. The gun dangled in the other, as he pretended to bang his head. “Wahoo! Wahoo!”
He tossed the gun on the seat next to him and put both hands on the wheel, still singing.
Benny eyed the gun and then Mr. Juice. He cussed under his breath, gunned the engine, and the car bolted forward, snapping Benny’s head back against the seat. They slammed out of the driveway and down a long, pitted dirt road, every hole jolting Benny’s entire body.
“Mr. Juice, maybe you should slow down a little.” He had to yell to be heard over the music. A new fear invaded his body. Grownups weren’t supposed to drink and drive. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine, boy. I can drive fine.” Mr. Juice slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and the car fishtailed, throwing Benny against the passenger-side door. His neck popped, and his head hit the door handle. He held in the sob that wanted to come out of his mouth, keeping his lips stiff and tight. No more crying. He would make Daniel proud.
Bright lights blinded him. A car was coming. Help, maybe. Somehow. It was huge, whatever it was, and dark-colored. The lights passed. Seconds later screeching and squealing sounds filled the night air. Then the lights were behind him, reflecting off the passenger and rearview mirrors.
Mr. Juice said bad words, a lot of them, real fast until they were a stuttered mess. He stomped on the gas pedal. The car jerked forward. The back windshield exploded. Glass shot at Benny from behind like tiny, jagged missiles. He tried to duck, but his seat belt stuck and held.
Cold air rushed through the car. Popping sounds. Benny squeezed around and peeked over the seat. A Hummer gained on them. A man hung out the window on the passenger side. Muzzle blasts lit up the side of the Hummer. Benny ducked down, all his breath gone for a second. “Who is it? Mr. Juice, who is it?”
“Barrera. It’s gotta be Barrera. He’s trying to kill me. I ain’t got his stuff.” Mr. Juice screamed cusswords. He jerked the car from the uneven dirt road onto a paved road without stopping at a stop sign bent at a crazy angle.
The car jumped forward. They flew through the darkness. Lights coming from the other direction flashed by them, each one faster and faster, making Benny dizzy. He closed his eyes and opened them, hoping it was a bad dream.
“Mi’jo, get the gun! Shoot back at them!”
Benny wasn’t sure he’d heard Mr. Juice right. The gun had slid across the seat so close he could touch it. He slapped his hands on his chest. His heart beat so hard, his chest hurt. “No!”
Mr. Juice fought to keep the car on the road. “Pick it up! You gotta shoot at them, or they’re gonna kill us both. Do it. Do it!”
Mr. Juice’s eyes were wild. Spit ran down his chin. The smell of pee wafted through the car. Benny gagged. He was gonna puke. Then Mr. Juice would be madder. He let his hand creep toward the gun. He couldn’t let the bad guys kill them. And if he had the gun, Mr. Juice couldn’t hurt him, either.
His hand closed over the gun. It felt cold. His fingers tighten around it. Heavy. One finger slid into the hole where the trigger was. He’d seen plenty of guns. He knew what they did. He stopped breathing. His hand began the slow slide back toward his body.
“Hurry up! Do it, kid. Turn around. Start shooting. Do it! Hurry!” For a second, Mr. Juice must’ve forgotten what he was doing. He lunged toward Benny like he was going to push him. Benny flatten himself against the door. He had no place to go.
The car veered right and left, dancing across the road. “Mister, drive, mister!”
“I got it. I got it.” Juice righted himself and grabbed at the wheel. Too late. They careened across the median and shot across on-coming lanes as high-pitched horns ripped the blackness.
Benny pitched forward and backward, the seatbelt locking him in place. It bruised his chest and sucked the oxygen from his lungs. They bucked across a ditch and slammed into a field full of trees.
The car sideswiped a tree, bounced, then rocked into another one. The world tilted. The car rolled. Suddenly, Benny hung upside down, suspended in air. Pain swelled in his chest as the seatbelt tightened, refusing to give up. He gasped, but the air seemed all gone. The screech of tires and ripping of metal stopped seconds after the car landed on its side.
Silence. The tiny tick, tick sound of a hot engine filled the air.
Benny listened to his own breathing. It still came, in and out, in and out.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness blanketed everything inside the car. He peered around. The windshield was smashed into thousands of tiny pieces. Lines crackled through it, creating a puzzle. Tree branches stuck through it. The driver’s side was gone, now a big gaping hole that let in cold air. Air that helped him breathe again. He couldn’t see anything outside the car. Only dark.
“Mr. Juice?” His voice sounded really high, like a girl’s voice. No answer. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr. Juice, you okay?”
No answer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make us wreck.”
Still nothing. To his surprise, he still clutched the gun in his hands. He wanted to drop it, let it go, let it disappear. Fear won. He needed the gun. The men in the Hummer were coming.
