The Rail
The wheel was slippery in his ten-o’clock-two-o’clock death grip, his palms soaking it in sweat. He held on for dear life, utterly focused on his steady left turn like a NASCAR driver. He wouldn’t compromise even one hand to change the radio station as the sound of Sting’s voice overtook it with one of his least favorite Police songs. There’s a little black spot on the suhhhhhn todaaaaaay. Off to his right, past the empty passenger seat, was a picturesque view–a postcard image of Colorado mountains and cloud-laced, purple evening sky, but Jake didn’t want to see it. Not one bit.
Kevin had told him he’d be driving through the mountains, and at one point he’d arrive at a stretch known as “The Rail,” but that’s all he’d told him. And Jake knew why. Because Kevin knew how he reacted to heights… the color draining from his skin, turning almost translucent as his muscles tensed almost to the point of immobility. He’d almost fainted on a ski lift for God’s sake, and now he was clinging to a Colorado mountainside at dusk on a two-lane highway with the tenuous grip of spinning rubber tires that was far too insecure. His front right tire wasn’t even twenty feet from the cliff that was hundreds if not thousands of feet up, and he felt he was being pulled toward it. Slipping. May as well have been thousands for all he cared, on “The Rail.” He understood now, perfectly, why it was called that, because it was rail-goddamn-thin.
He could sense the extraordinary colors of the crystal clear sunset, but he dared not turn his head. Even if he wanted to, his petrified neck wouldn’t allow it. Then he was slapped with a horrific blindness as a bright white flooded his eyes, reflecting from the rearview. He clenched his eyelids and opened them in a desperate squint, struggling for focus on the road, on his turn. His grip tightened. A car was coming up behind him with its brights glaring.
“Sonofabitch,” he groaned, the slits of his eyes struggling to see the road. He managed to lift his right hand off the wheel and waved it frantically, urging the car to pass. It tailed him closely for far too long. Slipping. “Come on, come on,” he pled, his panicked voice wavering, his hand gesturing more and more violently. Finally the car turned into the next lane to pass and the headlights receded, leaving tattoos of floating white spots on his eyes.
Jake turned his head unconsciously and saw that it was a long, jet black car. A Lincoln or a Caddy maybe. It hovered next to him and seemed to veer toward the center line. Toward him. His head turned from the car back to the road, then back to the car, and it seemed to be veering even closer now. Close enough that he could’ve leaned out his window and grabbed the passenger side door latch. “Hey!” he called out as his eyes popped. There was no one driving the car. There was no one in the car at all. It veered closer, then bumped, then pushed. “Hey!” Hey, stop!” It pushed again and Jake’s head spun to the right, out to the distance, to the tremendous, overwhelming height. He jerked the wheel fiercely to the left, at the attacking car. He tried to scream, but couldn’t, his breath stifled in his throat. His instinct was for defense, for preservation, but the terror flushed it all away like a tidal wave. Slipping. There was another jarring bump and he saw the metal railing that lined the cliff smash under the force of his bumper, splinters exploding into the air.
They hung for a second or two, and then trailed Jake’s car as it plummeted in a free fall toward the ground hundreds if not thousands of feet below.
