The Car

The explosion punched the air, a concussive wave that flattened the grass and sent birds screaming into the night. I shielded Arthur’s head with my body as the shockwave washed over us, a hot, angry breath from the mouth of hell.

"My car," I gasped, pointing to the garage.

The main house was a lost cause, a roaring pyre, but the detached garage was still standing. The fire hadn't reached it yet.

"Richard is there," Arthur wheezed, his face pale. "He went for the car."

"We need it," I said. "It's the only way out."

I pulled Arthur up. We stumbled across the lawn, our shadows long and dancing in the firelight.

We reached the garage. The door was open.

Richard was inside. He was sitting in the driver's seat of the sedan, the engine idling. He looked at us through the windshield, his face a mask of shock and pain.

He saw us.

And he gunned the engine.

"Richard!" I screamed, running toward the car. "Wait!"

He didn't wait. He threw the car into reverse, the tires screeching on the concrete floor.

He was leaving us. Leaving his father. Leaving his wife.

I threw myself at the door handle. It was locked.

I pounded on the window. "Open the door! Richard! Open it!"

He looked at me. His eyes were wet.

"I can't," he mouthed. "I can't save you."

He backed out, the side mirror clipping my hip, spinning me around. I fell hard onto the concrete.

The car roared out of the garage, taillights disappearing into the darkness of the driveway.

He was gone.

"The coward," Arthur spat, leaning against the workbench. "He always ran."

I stood up, my hip throbbing. I looked around the garage.

It was empty. No other cars. Just tools, oil cans, and old gardening equipment.

And a riding lawnmower.

Useless.

"We have to walk," I said. "To the gate."

"I can't walk that far," Arthur said. "My legs..."

He slid down the wall, sitting on the floor.

"Leave me here, Helen. Go. Get Maya."

"I have Maya," I said. "She's safe. But I'm not leaving you."

I looked at the workbench again.

There, under a tarp.

A motorcycle.

An old, vintage Triumph. Julian's bike. The one he had restored before he... before he died.

I pulled the tarp off.

It was dusty, covered in cobwebs. But the tires looked inflated.

"Does it run?" I asked.

"It hasn't been started in thirty years," Arthur said.

"It has to run," I said.

I climbed on. I kicked the starter.

Nothing.

I kicked it again. The engine coughed.

"Come on," I whispered. "Come on."

I kicked it a third time.

The engine roared to life. A loud, aggressive snarl that echoed in the small space.

"Get on," I told Arthur.

He stared at the bike. Then at me.

"You don't know how to ride."

"I learned," I said. "On YouTube. Last week."

It was a lie. I had never ridden a motorcycle in my life. But I wasn't going to tell him that.

He climbed on behind me, wrapping his frail arms around my waist.

"Hold on tight," I said.

I gunned the engine.

We shot out of the garage, the rear tire skidding on the wet asphalt. I fought the handlebars, the bike wobbling dangerously.

"Steady!" Arthur yelled.

I leaned into the turn, correcting the skid. We straightened out.

We roared down the driveway, the wind tearing at my clothes.

Ahead of us, I saw taillights.

Richard.

He had stopped at the gate.

The main gate was closed. Locked. The power was out, so the electronic opener wouldn't work.

He was trapped.

I slowed down, pulling up behind the sedan.

Richard got out of the car. He looked at the gate, then at us.

"It won't open," he shouted over the sound of the bike. "The manual release is jammed!"

"Ram it!" I yelled.

"I tried! It's reinforced steel!"

I looked at the gate. It was solid iron, twelve feet high.

But there was a gap. A pedestrian gate, set into the stone wall.

It was narrow. Too narrow for a car.

But wide enough for a bike.

"Move!" I shouted at Richard.

"Helen, wait!" he screamed, running toward us. "Take me with you!"

"There's no room," I said.

I revved the engine.

Richard lunged for the bike. He grabbed the handlebars.

"Get off!" he screamed. "Get off my brother's bike!"

I looked into his eyes. They were wild, desperate. The eyes of a man who had lost everything.

"Move, Richard," I said, my voice cold. "Or I swear to God I will run you over."

He didn't move.

I popped the clutch.

The bike surged forward. The front wheel hit Richard in the chest.

He flew backward, landing hard on the wet gravel.

I didn't look back.

I aimed for the pedestrian gate.

It was closed, but the latch looked weak.

I accelerated.

We hit the gate doing forty.

The wood splintered. The metal groaned.

And we were through.

Into the night. Into the rain.

We were free.