Speed Trap
by Christopher Fulbright

 Alex sped toward home as the sun set over the Oklahoma hills and darkness settled across the Creek Nation Indian reservation. Tulsa was well on its way to being way the fuck behind him, right where it belonged. So he had two things to be thankful for at least; Thanksgiving was over and at a steady 90 miles per hour he’d be back in Dallas by 10 pm.

Thank God for something.

He could still feel the hateful glare of his ex-wife that had burned into him from across the room. Her computer tech boyfriend just sat there, wearing glasses and a perpetual smile. Faking it, just like I used to do, Alex thought. Fucking asshole. And Heidi sat there smug and achingly beautiful, the children playing on the floor at everyone’s feet.

Alex wouldn’t have come if Heidi’s mother hadn’t called and offered him a formal invitation. It had been good to see the kids again ... even if they barely remembered who he was. He’d screwed up several times after the divorce - but he had wanted Heidi to pay. He had wanted to hurt her. He’d call and tell her he wasn’t showing up for the next three weekends. She’d scream at him and tell him he was a piss poor father. Alex figured he was ruining her plans: a hot date over the weekend, legs in the air. He’d call her a slut and hang up.

Now’s no time for regrets. You’ve come a long way, baby.

Oh yeah, he had it made. A new house in Dallas, a new woman with a kid of their own on the way. He recently got promoted, had a new office in City Hall, went to church on Sunday, and had a sweet piece of ass on the side. Life was as perfect as it once had been with Heidi.

Still, every once in a while, he wondered what the fuck happened.

"Not gonna think about it." Alex said. He’d been driving in silence, stewing in fury after the condescending attitude Heidi took as he said his goodbyes. He turned on the stereo now, putting in a Supersuckers CD. He turned it up just loud enough so he didn’t have to think.

The night was a dark maw in front of him. The road was clear. Alex turned on the dome light and reached into the flip-top console, digging for his vial of coke. He tapped some into the plastic top and did a snort in each nostril. It went up like a cool winter breeze, numbing his septum and the bridge of his nose, rushing like white-hot power into his skull, jazzing those pleasure centers and making everything a-okay.

Oh yeah.

"That’s what I’m talking ‘bout!" He yelled to the inside of the car. "Woo!" He screamed and cranked up the tunes, singing along.

"I’ll be very saaaaaaaad - I’ve been very bad."

Alex pressed down on the gas pedal and played drums on the steering wheel. The speedometer crept from 95 to 100 to 105. The Mustang’s engine roared. He was a black bullet in the night - all alone out here. Sleek as the night wind.

A white road sign about half the size of a billboard came into the headlights’ range. He squinted but couldn’t read it just yet. Something spray-painted on it in red. Then, okay now ... there it was. It said: SPEED TRAP AHEAD - Next 1 mile.

Alex laughed out loud.

Shit, he thought. Must be somebody pissed off about so many tickets out here. Fucking cops. Good thing he had his fuzz buster. Bastards wouldn’t catch him with his pants down.

Still, the sign. And it was the holidays.

He started to slow down, clicked on his high beams to see if the bastards were hiding in the trees. Flared his nostrils in the rearview mirror to see if he had any felony rings up there.

All clear upstairs.

He focused his attention on the road ahead, looking specifically for the reflective blue or red of a cop car on the side of the road. Not a damn thing. No traffic at all, nothing in the median except a bunch of fresh flowers around an old wooden cross.

The old rugged cross.

He looked back. Yeah, it was. A sturdy wooden crucifix with a picture attached, a bouquet of roses lying beneath it in a pile.

Then it was gone. He glanced in the rear view mirror, aware of the blood pulsing in his temples.

He needed more coke.

Still nothing in the darkness ahead. A faint sense of unease settled into Alex. Paranoia, he told himself. Just paranoia.

He pulled out the vial again and did another blast in each nostril. It felt good. Damn good. Yeah, shit. He could still make it by 10 ... probably sooner at this rate. A mile had gone by and no cops at all.

"Fuck it," he said. He sniffed, cranked up the tunes, and floored the gas pedal. The engine roared and the power of the car vibrated up through his leg, arousing him. He drummed on the steering wheel and thought about his secretary bent over his desk, her tight ass in his face, unzipping her skirt, pulling it down around her ankles, and giving her a little spanking. Oh yeah. Monday would be here soon enough ...

Alex barely noticed the next sign. This one was small, stuck in the shoulder of the road on a small stick. More red paint on a white background. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it said: SPEED KILLS. He saw it, and then it was gone.

A grin crept across his face and he looked in the rear view mirror to make sure he’d seen it right, and then a picture came together in his head ...

-the cross

-the flowers

-speed kills

Alex shivered, still staring in the rear view mirror, realizing he was swerving.

He looked back at the road. A small girl was standing in front of his car. She shimmered like a vision. Her face was white, with black eyes.

Alex yelled and turned the wheel to the left, but it was too late to steer clear. He slammed on the brakes and the hood of the car passed through her. She reached for him with one outstretched hand and materialized through the windshield like a ghost. Her hand passed through his chest directly above his heart-

Alex’s heart stopped just as the Mustang fishtailed sideways - violently at 95 miles an hour - did a 180-degree turn before it caught the grass of the median, flipped over six times, and came to rest on its collapsed top.

For a while, there was silence. And darkness.

The girl was gone.

 * * *

Twenty minutes later a carload of Texans drove by and saw the accident. They used their cell phone to call 911 and they dispatched the local reservation police. Two patrol cars, an ambulance, and the fire department arrived at the scene. The firemen pulled their truck down into the median and four guys poured out. They pulled tools off the truck and got to work on the crumpled shell of Alex’s crushed Mustang.

"Should have known," said the barrel-chested Indian cop.

"Every year," the EMT shook his head. He stood at the back of the ambulance, smoking a cigarette. A bunch of them stood in a group staring down at the firemen who used the Jaws of Life to extricate Alex’s broken corpse.

"Think he’s dead?" Said another EMT.

"I’m sure," said the Indian.

"Tha’s some bad mojo ‘round this stretch o’ road," the first EMT said.

"Mmm." He nodded.

"Makes me wonder if maybe you Indians put a curse out here - put up them damn ugly signs like some kind o’ sick joke."

The Indian regarded the EMT plaintively for a moment. Then he smiled, slid his hands into his pockets, and started down the hill.

©2002 Christopher Fulbright

Christopher Fulbright says: I am a journalist turned technical writer with stories published in print magazines and online journals including Haunts, Dark Tome, Peep Show, The Late Late Show, Dreadful Dreams, Short Scary Tales, The Murder Hole, Horrorfind, Splatterpunk, Something Wicked, and more. Other stories are scheduled to appear in the magazines Outer Darkness and Whispers from the Shattered Forum. I am the author of "The Slaves of Zilar," an ongoing e-serial at Demensions, and my sci-fi novelette SOMETIMES WOMEN ARE SO COLD was recently released by SST Publications in the UK in limited edition trade paperback (http://www.sstpublications.co.uk). I am the editor of the web-zine Savage Night, and live in Arlington, Texas with my wife and two children.

Visit my website at http://www.mindovermedium.com/chfulbright