Three Teens and a stolen car(Darrell Case) We were halfway through the house when a shot rang out. Pete dropped to his knees, blood spreading crossed his shirt. I grabbed him by the nap of the neck and drug him toward the front door.

“We’re gonna die," he blubbered.

“Shut up,“ I said.

I wanted to slap him. Instead, I hauled him out onto the porch and down the steps. Closest to the door, Al saw movement in the backroom before we did. Exploding out of the house, he raced to the car and jumped in. Revving the engine, he was waiting for us. He flung open the passenger door.

“Come on, come on, the old man’s crazy.” He shouted.

I shoved Pete in and climbed in after him.

Barely had my feet left the ground before Al accelerated. The car door slammed shut. Fishtailing in loose gravel, the back wheels of the classic Mustang caught traction. Another bullet took out the back glass. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. A dark figure stood on the porch. A rifle filled his hands. He brought it up to his shoulder. His parting shot blew out the driver’s side mirror. We hit the gravel road; the odometer climbing, almost sideswiping the mailbox. The car wanted to run. Al opened it up. We passed the old man’s property line doing over a hundred. Al’s hands were shaking. He was all over the road. I was sure we were going to die. Not from a madman with a gun, but from a crash. Beside me, Pete blubbered.

“Slow down.” I yelled.

Al looked at me, eyes bugging out of his head. The car, a high-performance Mustang good on the racetrack, not so good on gravel, hit the side of the road. I saw the tree coming. I braced for the impact. At the last second, Al pulled it back. His trembling white fingers gripping the steering wheel. He eased his foot off the gas. Three miles from the house, we coasted to a stop at the side of the road.

Shutting off the engine, Al lay his head back and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Pete stopped weeping. Tears wetting his cheeks, he unbuttoned his shirt. Lifting it up, he saw it was nothing more than a flesh wound. Al flung open the door and walked around to the back of the Mustang. He inspected the damage.

The moon had just risen, its light casting shadows of dead trees over the deserted road. Pete and I evacuated the car. He leaned against the hood, his arms outstretched, his feet back. He looked like he was ready to be cuffed. Breathing heavy, my heart hammering, my forehead beaded with sweat, I walked down the road. Stopping, I bent over, my hands on my knees. I stayed that way for a couple of minutes.

Straightening up, I looked around me. The full moon had almost turned the night to day. Fields of wheat waved in the slight breeze. A night bird called, another answered. Turning, I walked back. My elongated shadow touched the car.

Al stood with one hand on the flank of the Mustang.

Bare chested, Pete said, “He ruined my favorite shirt." He smiled, then laughed. Soon, all three of us were roaring in laughter.

“Let’s get this car back before they miss it.” I said, wiping my eyes. The other two nodded. Then we were off on another round of laughter.

Driving slowly, we returned the Mustang to the car lot we had stolen it from two hours before. Jimmying the door with a credit card, Al placed the key back on the hook. The next day, headlines in the local our newspaper screamed ’Vandals damage the most expensive car on Big Wicie’s lot.

Thus ended my first and only plunge into crime.


(By the way, this story is a figment of my imagination. None of it is true.)

 

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