CUT TO THE CHASE
Clint Hall

My tires squeal as I make a sharp left off Highway 57 onto the Cato Cutoff. I fishtail then regain control, sending rocks spewing from beneath my back tires like so much foam behind a hydroplane. “Why are they chasing me?” I ask myself. A convoy of cars follows me onto the seldom-used country lane. “Come on, Dickie, give me a break.”

Funny, this is the first road my father ever let me drive on. He thought I was driving too fast then—what would he think now? Gotta get these guys off my tail—can’t they just leave me alone?

I tear down the back road with little thought for safety, struggling to keep between the ditches. I dodge potholes, keeping an eye peeled for deer. I check my rearview mirror: they’re gaining on me—was sure I’d lose a few of ‘em on this mangled old road.

I’m driving for my life, literally. If those guys catch me, they’ll kill me for sure. I pass the turn to the old landfill, cresting the hill in time to catch a glimpse of another team of cars headed down the road toward me. Fuck, I gotta get back to that damn road!

I slam on my brakes and the unforgiving gravel slides under my tires. I come precariously close to the ditch on the right. I overcorrect the steering wheel and the car starts to spin under me, revolving four times. The forest and my pursuers become a blur of limbs and lights. I plow into a tree on the left side of the road. The crash smashes the hood of my Mustang convertible, pops the trunk, and deploys the air bag. “Damn!” I scream. I think the airbag broke some ribs. There isn’t time to stop and ask for help now.

I wrestle with the now deflated life saving device and grope for the door handle. The cars approach from both directions. The door is caught on a sapling. I muster as much strength as I can in my condition and force the door open, ripping the small tree out at the roots. I haul my 250 pounds down the small gully and up the adjacent hill into the woods. What a time for another trip down memory lane. I practically lived in these woods as a child. Dickie and I came here all the time to escape the hell of home. No matter what, dad couldn’t whup us here. There must be a thousand places to hide in this old forest, but for the life of me I can’t remember one—not one that Dickie wouldn’t know about too. Two dozen car doors slam. I fall to my stomach and peer back over the crest of the hill. The sun is coming up and I can start to make out faces. Dickie is front and center. The sun filters through the forest canopy highlighting his short brown hair and square jaw. All his men gather around him. He points to a tall lanky man with blonde hair and instructs him, “Go check the car.” Dickie cuts quite a striking figure in dawn's early light. His proud bearing and cool confidence make him stand out but in his blue suit and dress shoes, he ain’t dressed for a walk in the woods.

“He must be in there somewhere,” he says as he points almost directly at my position. “Let’s go get him out.”

Shit! Dickie isn’t going to let this go. I struggle back to my feet and run—as much as my embattled lungs will let me. In only a few miles I’ll be at Sunset Cemetery. There’s another road out there and just a short walk to town.

I sprint for all I’m worth but I still hear the rustle of trees in what seems like two steps behind me. There’s an old trail around here somewhere, but Dickie knows about that. I better stay in the undergrowth. I run and stumble through the forest and look for anything familiar. I come upon a small ravine and spy the remains of an old cabin—OUR old cabin. Well, it’s more like a stack of logs with sheet metal thrown over the top, but it was a cabin to us. It’s oddly beautiful as the sun refracts off the corrugated tin. I pull my revolver from my waistband and cautiously investigate. I’m almost close enough to touch the ancient rotting timbers when a voice calls from behind me.

“Hold it right there!”

Without thinking I spin to the voice and fire. The call’s owner falls dead in a heap. Fuck! I just traded one for a hundred. Everyone within ten miles of here heard that shot. “Damn it, Dickie, you sent him right to me!” I scream. I tear off into the woods to look for a new haven. I can hear the woods come alive as the men searching for me take a bead on where the shot came from. I don’t have much time to slip the noose.

I run as fast as my burning chest will let me. I run toward the rising sun and, if memory serves, the cemetery. I can’t help but notice the sun’s beauty as the burnt orange and stark red peeks over the horizon. A couple miles later, all I hear around me is chirping birds and fleeing animals. I’ve lost ‘em—better not stop now, though. I begin to run again.

I dart through a thicket of trees to find there is no ground beneath my feet—I fall a full sixty feet. Head over heels I tumble down the steep, jagged embankment, landing with a loud splash. God I hope they are too far away to hear that. It’s the old stripper pit—the mine left it when they came through years ago—forgot all about it in the excitement. I hated that old pit as a kid. Dickie loved to swim in it, but I refused most of the time. “There are copperheads in there,” I’d tell him. “Just swim around them,” he would laugh. I loathed that dank crater then, but I love it now. If I can get to the other side I’ll only be twenty yards from the cemetery, and another fifty yards from the road. I now have a shooting pain in my right ankle and too many cuts to count, but I have to go on—too close to give up now.

It’s a difficult swim. My ribs feel like they’re tearing my innards apart, and with every kick, my ankle is a new adventure in pain. I struggle along, gasping for each breath. I reach the other side and remember why it is called a pit. There is another sixty-foot wall of rock and dirt identical to the one I’d just fallen down. What do I do now? What can I do? I climb—and for every two feet upward, I fall one foot back. The rocks give way under my weight. Damn, this was easier fifteen years ago. Finally, I crest the rim of the cavity and stumble the final twenty yards to the cemetery. “I made it,” I say, stumbling out into the open graveyard—and find myself face to face with Dickie.

“I thought this was where you were headed,” he says.

“Damn it, Dickie, why couldn’t you just lead them to the other side of the road?”

“I just couldn’t do that—not even for my big brother. Now are you going to make this easy, or hard?” he asks as he points a gun in my face.

I reach for my waistband but find nothing. I must have lost my gun in the fall. Fuck! I give Dickie a quick knee in the gut. His gun drops to the ground and I dive for it. He quickly recovers and joins me on the ground. We roll around like we’re back wrestling on mom’s living room floor. A loud pop echoes through the graveyard as I feel a new source of pain in my stomach. I roll onto my back and stare off into the sun now high in the sky. Dickie wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and gets to his feet. He walks up, rubbing his stomach, and stands over me his badge shimmering.

“Couldn’t you have just let me roll through one fucking stop sign?” I ask.

“We found her in the back seat, Sonny. She’s been rushed to the hospital and is going to be fine—at least physically. Brother or no, I couldn’t just let that go.” His words echo as I gaze off into the late morning sun.

“I’m..."

© Clint Hall 2004

Clint Hall (mr_fitness@sbcglobal.net) lives in southern Indiana with his fiancée and their combination of six children. He is a graduate of Indiana University and has worked for the State of Indiana for the past eleven years. He began writing a year ago to entertain his fiancée.

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