Slower Than a Bullet

“Come out with your hands up!”

The bullhorn was clear. Crisp. And louder than the movies and high school assemblies. My hands were firm on the steering wheel.

I’m not going anywhere.

I had 346 horses at my gas pedal’s disposal. To the front, a barricade lined with officers armed to the dental pulp. To the rear, at least four cruisers and a helicopter hovering low. Flanked by trees and a median guard rail. There was no going anywhere.

So I made room.

Throttling the gas, I went straight for the barricade. Was it calculated? Nah. I was the kid with his hand was raised first. I was the student who completed his test first. I was the drifter who finished first. And I was the felon who would be arrested last. If at all.

A warning shot went off. I licked my lips and bit my tongue. The road block was a couple hundred yards from me, and my reflection in each helmet and pair of sunglasses grew bigger and bigger.

If I could have slowed time, I would have seen him. I would have watched as, without hesitation, a man behind a shield and a gun decided my final consequence. He might have had a broad chin and sullen eyes, like me. Hell, in another life, he could have been my dad.

I stayed inside, my hands glued to the wheel, as one man’s trigger depressed.

I died doing 45 in a 70, and started my last race to destination: unknown.