Deathwish

Eugene rose from his chair, his back protesting as he let out a grunt. Getting old sucked. Everything hurt and nothing worked quite right. He closed his eyes, acknowledging Pain. She was an old enemy, a friend he trusted would leave only at the request of Death, and she greeted him as always. He nodded and grabbed for Strength. A fickle friend indeed, absent more and more these days. And Time! Huh! Where the hell had he gone? Eugene would’ve sworn he was there a moment ago.

He stretched, his back causing Pain to tut tut before she quieted. She wasn’t gone, she was never truly gone, just waiting. Eugene tottered forward. Perhaps today was the day? He opened the shop door, and the smell of oil and exhaust calmed him. This was his world. He told people he’d been born in the back of a 17’ Ford Mustang and was driving it before his feet were clear of the womb.

“Hey, Gene! You gonna take it easy on ‘em today?” a voice called from under a car, a pair of wing-tipped oxfords all that was visible of the speaker.

“Not a chance, Max.” Eugene replied smiling. Max Stein was the best mechanic to ever live, as he’d tell anyone who’d listen. Eugene joked that he was part machine, but Max never seemed to find it funny. He’d just get this wistful look and shrug. Max and machine went together like peanut butter and jelly. Like a high ZDDP diesel oil and flat-tappet cams. They just got along. After nearly 70 years of working on engines, Max swore that he’d never gotten a single drop of grease on him, and he maintained that not a single one of his engines had ever disappointed him. Max rolled out from under the car, his pressed white shirt and black slacks immaculate as always.

“Gene, you know they don’t stand a chance.”

Eugene grinned, offering Max a calloused hand, who took it and rose with a groan. Pain was a slutty mistress and Time had gotten away from them both long ago.

Eugene nodded toward the car. “She ready?”

Max beamed in response. “Oh sure sure. She’s rarin’ to go. You just wait and see.”

A loud scoff caused Eugene and Max to turn. A boy in his late teens to early twenties stood smirking disbelievingly, blond hair falling in front of one eye.

“So it’s true. They’re actually going to let this bucket of bolts onto the track.”
Eugene felt Max stiffen beside him, and he placed placating a hand on his shoulder. Anger swelled, but Experience, teacher of them all, restrained him. Eugene spoke to the newcomer.

“Son, little piece of advice: don’t insult a man’s car. Especially when that man has been working on vehicles since you were still at your mama’s tit. What’s your name and number?”

The boy waved a hand dismissively. “Sorry pops, just surprised is all. I’m Jaxton, number seventeen. I’ll be winning this race today.” He said the last part matter-of-factly, as if it were a foregone conclusion. Eugene and Max shared a glance as the young man continued to stare at the car.

“There’s just no way you’ll even survive the first lap. I mean, I don’t even see the inertial dampener.”

Max jutted out his jaw. “Don’t need one. She’s got brakes.”

Jaxton’s eyes bulged. “Brakes?! As in, pieces of metal that clamp together on another piece of metal?”

Max scowled. “Damn straight. The best way to stop a car, if ya ask me.”

Jaxton threw back is head and barked a laugh. “Oh man, this is gonna be rich! Hope your driver has some good life insurance. See ya around old timers.” He waved over his shoulder as he strode away.

Max’s fists were clenched as he turned with a growl.

“Don’t let him get to you, Max” Eugene said softly. “He’s just a kid.”

Max grunted. “I’m gonna go through the checks again. On the track in ten?”

Eugene nodded. “In ten.” And he strode away.

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The cars lined the track bumper to bumper, the stands rising above filled the horizon. A dull roar echoed through the twilit air. The crowd was here to see daring skill and modern engineering, dancing together in a whirlwind of danger along the razor’s edge between Life and Death. Though the dance was the acknowledged attraction, the true desire was blood. Skill and Luck were the lion-tamers of Pain and Death, and the crowd wanted to see someone get eaten.

Eugene took a deep breath, the familiar smell of hot asphalt filling his nostrils. He looked across the track and saw Jaxton striding forward, grinning confidently, seemingly a stranger to Fear. When Eugene caught his eye, Jaxton’s face went slack and paled, the jaunty grin sliding off in disbelief. He gripped his helmet and strode quickly forward.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” he demanded through clenched teeth.

Eugene smiled. “I’m the driver for number 99.”

Jaxton gaped. “N-number 99?! So you’re… you’re the Deathwish Driver?” He whispered in awe.

Eugene winked in response, lifting his helmet over his head and opening the door to his car. His muffled voice came through the faceguard.

“Stay safe out there kid. Pain’s a real bitch, but she ain’t nothin’ compared to Death.”

He lowered himself gently into the vehicle and slammed the door, the engine roaring to life a moment later. The auto shop was home, but this car on the racetrack was his bed. He never felt more comfortable than he did in this “bucket of bolts”. Pain took a backseat, waiting patiently for the race to end, one way or another. Death, on the other hand, was copilot. Eugene looked over at the barred passenger’s seat. The grim reaper looked, well, grim. He gripped his scythe tighter as the engine revved, and Eugene noticed with a satisfied smirk that the seat belt was fastened securely. This bed was about to see some action. Some things may change as you get older, but others certainly don’t.

The light above the cars turned from red to yellow, signaling that the race was about to begin. The drivers were seated, going through the final checks and revving their engines in an attempt to cow their opponents and embolden themselves. The roar of the crowd stilled, their deep thunder becoming a murmur. The countdown began, a sliver of green began to encircle the yellow light. When the circle was complete, the race would begin.

Eugene slowed his breathing and focused on the car, the track, and himself. Everything else seemed to slow as well. It was in these moments, just before a race, that Time came back. He lingered, wandering in no particular hurry, and threatening to stop altogether. But he never did, he simply meandered, until finally, with no grand exit, he was gone.

“GO!” boomed a voice over the loudspeakers, and the engines roared to life, battling to drown out the din of the crowd. Sound saturated the air, vibrations felt rather than heard.

Eugene exhaled one swift breath and slammed the clutch into gear. The engine spun to life, the tires gripped the asphalt, and Space and Time ceased to exist for Eugene Fitzgerald. He sped down the track, dozens of cars nearby doing the same. The rush of the race was almost too much to bear, and Eugene let out a whoop of excitement, at the same time yelling at Death to “HOLD ON ASSHOLE!” But it wasn’t long before Eugene saw more and more tailpipes in front of him. The first part of the race was a straight-away, and as much as Eugene and Max loved their car, it wasn’t built for top speed. It was built for the whole race.

As they neared the first turn, Eugene saw his chance. There! Between two cars that were prudently slowing down to avoid flinging themselves into the electromagnetic barrier. Eugene grinned. He was a stranger to Prudence, shunning her company whenever possible. He gunned the engine, aiming for a strip of track about two millimeters wider than his car. The driver on the outer edge saw what was happening. If Eugene missed the space by even an inch, they’d both careen headfirst into an immovable barrier. The other driver slammed on his inertial dampener, veering behind Eugene to keep from skidding off the track. Eugene took the opening and jumped the line, taking 12th. Through similarly suicidal daring he clawed his way to 10th, 8th, and eventually 3rd.

Lap after lap disappeared beneath Eugene, until only two cars separated him from ultimate victory. One, a blazing candy apple red Carella with the number “17” stenciled in bold white letters on the back. The other, a crafty electric blue Vulper with the number “66” painted splotchily on every available surface in every conceivable size.

Eugene was intimately familiar with number 66. It’s funny how the past has a way of rearing its ugly head to bite you on the ass. It had been years since they’d talked, much less raced. They had parted ways less than amicably. Old love dies hard.
Number 17, on the other hand, was a new rivalry born only moments before the race, the young Jaxton Pauls.
The two cars, 66 and 17, were neck and neck, never more than a hands-breadth apart, vying for first. Each turn and obstacle gave the other the opportunity to dart ahead, only to lose the lead at the next corner. Eugene was a single cars length behind, keeping pace but not trying anything, yet. He had to wait for the perfect moment. He would make his move when victory was certain and retaliation impossible. After what seemed like only moments to Eugene, the cars were on the last lap.

Eugene grimaced. His window of opportunity was closing. But just when he thought he’d have to make his move at an inopportune time, he saw it. The same sharp turn he’d first exploited. Numbers 66 and 17 slowed, the gap between them widening. Instead of slowing, Eugene darted ahead, sure that one of them would veer to avoid putting themselves millimeters from Death. But neither driver changed course. Like a carefully choreographed and rehearsed dance, the three cars took the turn together at breakneck speed, coming out the other side as a single figure. They sped along the track, taking each turn and hill together, the miles tearing past beneath.
Out of the corner of his eye Eugene noticed Death fidget. It was the final lap. Time for a test, children. Get out your pencils.
Eugene gripped the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road and the other cars. But Death interrupted. It would be so easy to finally give in. Death had such allure. He was the end. The final chapter in a book filled with unsavory characters. He would silence all those assholes: Pain, Anger, Grief. But Death was also the end of Love. Of Joy and Excitement. Long-lost friends who never seemed to visit anymore, but for whom Eugene still kept a light on. He shook his head. Countless races, and he’d survived every one, despite the relentless calling of Death. This was supposed to be his last race. Retirement more daunting than Death, but he wasn’t about to give in now.

As they approached the final curve a faint orange light caught Eugene’s attention. Eugene realized with a sinking feeling what that light meant. An accident. One, or multiple, cars had crashed, their smoldering remains serving as the last hurdle for the drivers to overcome before reaching the finish line. As they came into view, Eugene’s heart sank further. It was a firestorm. The burnt husks of nearly a dozen cars lay strewn across the final straightaway of the track, their blackened shells blocking all but a single path, wide enough for only one car. The center path. And Eugene was in the center of this little ménage a trois. Without hesitation, he gunned the engine, and the two cars on either side of him did the same.

As they neared the wreckage, and the finish line on the other side, number 66 and 17 pulled ahead of Eugene, level with each other. They were faster than Eugene, but it was too late. Neither of them could get fully ahead. If they didn’t pull back now, they would either slam headfirst into the burning cars, or attempt to veer into Eugene’s lane, crashing into him and sending them all spinning out of control to join the field of the dead.

Death laughed. Time appeared, curling up in Eugene’s lap and beginning to purr, stretching the seconds into hours. Eugene’s mind raced back to the first time he’d met 66. It was cold that night. Bitterly cold. He remembered that. But he couldn’t remember who’d talked first. Didn’t matter, he supposed. Except it did. Who had approached whom? Who was the bold one? Who would win this game of chicken?
Eugene had three options: kill 66, kill 17, or slam on the brakes to save himself and let the other two decide who lived or died.
Death laughed again.

Shut the hell up. Thought Eugene, gritting his teeth.

Without a sound, Time was gone, and Eugene had to make a decision. He took a deep breath and forced a smile.

“Sorry Max, I’m sure the brakes work great, but I’m just too old to try new things.”

Eugene closed his eyes and exhaled the breath slowly, slamming the gas pedal the last half of an inch to the floorboards. There was no way his car could outspeed either 66 or 17, but he didn’t care anymore. He could almost hear Death’s wide grin beside him and feel the putrid breath on the back of his neck. Guess Death wins after all.

Three.

Two.

One.

Eugene opened his eyes just in time to see the black and white checkerboard banner whiz past above him. He checked his rearview mirror and saw 66 and 17 sitting mere feet from burning wreckage, their inertial dampeners glowing with the recently expended energy. Eugene pressed his own brakes and felt the familiar rumble of metal on metal bleeding off his momentum. As he came rolling to a stop, he barely noticed the empty passenger’s seat, the roar of the crowd drowning out the faint sigh of disappointment. Eugene’s chest felt as if it might burst. He’d done it! What a way to go out. The excitement and exultation strained against his ribs, threatening to choke him. He lifted his arms in victory. As he glanced to the grandstand looking for Max’s starched white shirt, he noticed that he’d only raised one arm. He looked down at his dangling left arm and realized fuzzily that something was wrong. He tried to move his hand, but the tightness in his chest only grew, making him gasp for breath. He could only take short sips, his lungs beginning to burn. His eyes fluttered across the crowd that no longer seemed so loud. It was muffled, as if the people were far away or underwater. As the sound of the crowd faded, another sound began, a tinkling laughter that seemed to dance along Eugene’s skin and burrow into his bones, before picking him up gently. As if he were were a bubble, Eugene felt himself begin to float, up up up, past the top of the grandstands and through the clouds. He continued to rise, until he realized that he could see the entire Earth spread out below him. He began to make out shapes, countries and continents. Up up up he went, until even Earth faded to a point in the distance. Past the moon and then the Sun, through the solar system and out of the Milky Way. Finally, when the stars of all the galaxies were no longer even specks in the distance, Eugene came to a stop. Around him was a strange pink light. It went on forever, but it also made him feel claustrophobic. It squeezed him in its finality. Years passed, or maybe only seconds, before a figure approached out of the pink dusk. That same tinkling laugh accompanied the figure, and as it neared, Eugene realized with calm acceptance who it was. The figure was a slim girl, she could have been in her early twenties, but for her eyes. Her eyes held the universe and more, deep pits of nothing and everything. Eugene tried to look away, but couldn’t. As she approached, she reached out a hand. With a finger she caressed Eugene’s cheek and whispered with the sound of a thousand supernovas.

“Oh Eugene, don’t you know? Death always has the last laugh.”