Speed Enforced by Aircraft
Sweat dripped from my brow. My eyes darted back and forth between the car’s speedometer and the burned-out wrecks which lined the deserted highway. Nobody had tried to drive the gauntlet in months, but I needed to get to Seattle. There was a guy there who supposedly had insulin, but was holding out for coffee. I needed the insulin for my mother; my long-held five pounds of Columbian and my last tank of gas was worth the months it would buy her.
Still, there was The Eagle, always watching. How did he get fuel and re-arm? He had to have a base, a flight crew, but who would participate in this? Maybe they didn’t know what he was doing up there every day. Maybe he told them he was out there blasting enemy ships, of which there weren’t any left, but most people didn’t know that. He’s got the last operating fighter jet in the United States and he spends his days blowing up motorists with lead feet.
No death from the sky, this time. But he was there, circling me like a titanium vulture, waiting for me to slip.