Pulp! 2

Chapter 8

“Who the f**k are the Sergeys?” Mohawk Rob asks.

A gunshot rings out. I immediately experience the disconcerting whizz of a bullet flying past my ear. It sounds like a wasp but feels like the Grim Reaper has reached out and touched me. A second gunshot. The bullet ricochets off the ground on Rob’s left side.

“Bastards are shooting at us,” Edge points out.

Sarah screams, “I don’t wanna die on the highway to Albany!”

“Never mind who the Sergeys are, Rob!” I bark. “Just go. Go! Go now!”

Rob hits the gas, pulls out. A tractor trailer hits the horn, and I’m sure we’re about to become roadkill. The truck swerves around us. The semi nearly tips so far to the left the wheels on its right side raise off the pavement. Rob doesn’t seem to notice. He just drives, his foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor, the RPMs on the six-cylinder red lining.

Turning, I look for the black Lincoln Continental. I see it pulling out onto the highway. Acting on instinct, I reach into my bush jacket for my .45, but it’s not there. You don’t carry firearms to a New York City sponsored literary conference. Writers like to write about guns, but most of them are never exposed to the real thing.

“You gonna tell me who these guys are?” Rob begs over the onslaught of wind.

“They’re a pair of Russian mobsters who are after the same thing we’re after,” I confess.

“Dutch Schultz’s treasure,” the driver says. “I guess you failed to mention other interested parties.”

“Does that come as a surprise?” Sarah shouts from the back.

I glance into the side-view mirror, see the big black monster of a car gaining ground on us.

“Can this thing go any faster, Rob?”

“Giving it all I have,” he barks. “Jeeps weren’t meant for the open road. They were meant for off-road, dude.”

Off road . . .

Off road . . .Another glance into the rearview. The Russians are almost on our a*s. I make out a pop followed by an immediate ping as a spark flies off the very top of the rectangular metal windshield frame.

“Holy Christ,” Edge says, “I think the motherfucker grazed my ear.” He reaches for one of the beers stored in the small cooler. He opens the tab like it’s the pin on a grenade. Turning, he winds up and tosses the full beer directly at the Lincoln windshield. The beer explodes upon contact, foamy beer spraying everywhere like liquid shrapnel.

“Way to go, Edge,” I say. Then, turning to Rob. “We don’t have guns, but we do have a Jeep. Let’s put it to good use.”

Both of Rob’s hands are gripping the wheel, white-knuckled.

“Hell do you mean?” he says.

I say, “We’re two-sided with open fields and deep woods. We can ride off-road all the way into the city if we want to.”

My eyes looking into the side-view mirror again. I see Sergey Junior, his bulbous black-hair-covered head, surgical-taped nose, and torso sticking out the open driver’s side window. He points the business end of his semi-automatic at us.

“Get down!” I shout.

Sarah and Edge duck as two more rounds whiz overhead.

“I see what you mean, dude,” Rob says, shifting the Jeep into the right lane towards the soft shoulder.

The Lincoln is right up on our a*s now, its wiper blades swiping the excess beer off the glass. They’re so close I can see Sergey Senior behind the wheel, see the teeth in his big mouth. He gives it the gas and the Lincoln bumps into the Jeep’s rear tube fender.

The Jeep bucks and swerves.

“f*****g asshole,” Rob spits. “f**k with me, but don’t f**k with my Jeep.”

“Edge,” I shout, “another beer grenade.”

The expression on his face goes south. “There’s only three left.”

“We can get more, damn it.”

“Well,” he says, “if it’s for the good of the team.” He reaches into the cooler, pulls another can out, pulls the tab, heaves it at the Russians. Like the first can, this one explodes all over the windshield. The big Lincoln swerves and drifts into the middle lane, nearly colliding with a white soccer mom van.

“Go now,” I say, arm outstretched, index finger pointing directly at the open field to my right. “Go, Rob. Off-road.”

Rob cuts the steering wheel to the right, and we fly off the road and land hard onto the soft earth, Edge and Sarah bouncing around and screaming in the back seat. Turning to Rob, I can make out the great big smile that’s formed on his face. For him, off-roading is the most fun you can have with your ripped up Levis on.

“Where to?” he says.

“Just head for the woods,” I insist.

Another look at the side-view and I make out the Lincoln pulling off the road. The Sergeys are moving at a fast-enough clip that the vehicle’s back end is fishtailing on the gravel covered soft shoulder. The Jeep is plowing through the tall grass, the uneven earth making for a rocky ride, our bodies bouncing out of the seats only to be smacked back down by the seatbelts.

As we head for the tree-line, I make out three more distinct pops from the Sergeys’ guns, but the bullets whiff entirely. Turning, I see the black Lincoln has gotten stuck, its rear wheels spinning streams of mud, and going nowhere fast. We enter the tree-line and, like Alice stepping through the looking glass, disappear for good.