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High Fantasy Modern Storyhour - The Long Road (updated December 7)
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<blockquote data-quote="RangerWickett" data-source="post: 2577096" data-attributes="member: 63"><p><em>October 29, 2005</em></p><p><em>7:30pm</em></p><p></p><p>It’s harder than Nathan expected. The bus driver must be trying to make up for lost time from the earlier wreck, so she’s going 75 miles an hour. A cop’s not going to pull over a Greyhound bus, but he’ll gladly pull over a slick BMW going 90. By rights, Nathan’s constant speeding and decelerating whenever he anticipates a cop might be watching should be nauseating, but the ride is almost pleasant. Plus, every time they jump over 85, Scarpedin starts hooting in delight.</p><p></p><p>“In your vision I was dead?” Belladonna says. She laughs.</p><p></p><p>“Yes,” Nathan replies, jerking the steering wheel left then right quickly to sideslip between a pair of pick-up trucks. “But I told you, it’s several months from now. We have more than enough time to avoid that.”</p><p></p><p>The engine hums, and billboards advertising the state fair, Louisianan casinos, and fresh crawfish slip by to the beat of the car stereo. Scarpedin nods his head approvingly, and Terry leans forward in anticipation, but John has a perpetual grimace as they whip through traffic.</p><p></p><p>“There it is.” Terry points. “You said the bus is going to blow up when it hits the bridge?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes, in. . . ,” Nathan glances down at the GPS map, “five miles.”</p><p></p><p>“What are you planning to do?” Terry says.</p><p></p><p>Scarpedin fumbles for the uzi he has tucked in his armpit. “Hey man, how do you roll down this window? <em>I’ll</em> convince them to pull over.”</p><p></p><p>“Holy sh*t,” John says, realizing what Scarpedin is planning. “They’re in a bus; we’re in a Beemer. If we gave them trouble, they’d just knock us off the road.”</p><p></p><p>“Hold on,” Nathan says, stamping his foot on the gas and swerving onto the right shoulder for a moment. A short bridge over a creek is just ahead of them, but he jerks around an 18-wheeler and back onto the highway with ten feet to spare before they would have plunged into the creek.</p><p></p><p>“I could try to charm the driver,” Terry says. “I’m not sure if it’d work through the windshield, though.”</p><p></p><p>Belladonna tries to hold herself steady as the car shakes them. “Blessed mother,” she whispers, “we’re all going to die.”</p><p></p><p>“No we’re not,” Nathan says. “I would’ve seen that if it were going to happen.”</p><p></p><p>They pass the bus, too quickly even for Scarpedin to try to get the driver’s attention. Nathan starts to look at all his mirrors one by one, tensing his jaw. When they’re a mile ahead of the Greyhound, Nathan snaps the car up to over a hundred and ten to reach a gap in the traffic, and then he breaks hard.</p><p></p><p>“Hold on,” he says again.</p><p></p><p>Nathan twists the wheel and the car twists into a bootleg turn, skidding and finally coming to a stop horizontally across the road. Its front wheels rest in the left lane, its rear wheels in the right. Traffic is approaching from the left side of the car at 70 miles an hour, and less than a mile away on the right is the Sabine Memorial Bridge, crossing from Texas to Louisiana.</p><p></p><p>Belladonna cries out and kicks open the door, trying to get out before the oncoming traffic crashes into them. After a second’s hesitation, the others scramble out too, heading for the side of the road.</p><p></p><p>“Ah,” Nathan says, “perfect.”</p><p></p><p>He pops the trunk and swings out of the car. The approaching cars start to honk, but Nathan casually pulls a handful of road flares from his trunk. He lights them, tosses them across the road in front of his car, and smiles as the cars screech to a stop. Slowly traffic backs up as Interstate 10 comes to an end, thanks to Nathan’s stunt.</p><p></p><p>Nathan waves the others over. As they approach, a few cars honk and drive past on the shoulder, their drivers flipping Nathan off as they hurry on to Louisiana.</p><p></p><p>“Now the bus won’t reach the bridge,” Nathan says.</p><p></p><p>“The bomb is probably on a timer,” John says. “Now instead of blowing up the bridge, it’s going to explode and destroy dozens of parked cars. Great.”</p><p></p><p>“Oh my,” Nathan says. “You think so?”</p><p></p><p>“Don’t worry guys,” Scarpedin says. “I got this one.”</p><p></p><p>He sprints off along the shoulder, heading toward the Greyhound bus, which is backed up at least a quarter mile away. John rolls his eyes and starts to follow, but Terry stops him and puts a defensive spell on him, just in case they’re too late and John has to pull people out of the fire.</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p></p><p>The bus lurches slightly and the squeal of a dozen or more tires struggling for traction fills the air.</p><p></p><p>“Dammit,” Robert says, “not again.”</p><p></p><p>The bus comes to a stop without a crash this time, and the weary passengers – many adorned with items purchased at the Renaissance Festival – start to groan. Robert stands up and holds out his hands to calm folks down as he heads for the driver’s seat. People relax as he smiles at them. Robert just projects the air of one of those people who’ll get things done.</p><p></p><p>“What’s the problem Missy?” Robert asks when he gets up next to the bus driver.</p><p></p><p>She’s breathing heavily, irritated. “They all just stopped. There must have been a wreck in front of us.”</p><p></p><p>Robert looks out the window so she doesn’t see his grimace. He’s about to turn back to Missy and recommend they drive on the shoulder when he spots someone sprinting up to the bus.</p><p></p><p>“Oh look,” he says to himself, laughing in weak disbelief, “it’s Scarpedin.”</p><p></p><p>Scarpedin staggers to a stop next to the door of the bus, and he pounds a fist on it. His breath is ragged, and he bangs again.</p><p></p><p>“Open the door!” he shouts. His voice is muffled by the door.</p><p></p><p>“No,” Robert says. “Don’t.”</p><p></p><p>“He looks like he’s in trouble,” Missy says. She pulls the lever to open the door, and Scarpedin heaves himself onto the bus.</p><p></p><p>“Everyone,” he shouts, “you’ve got to get off the bus! There’s a bomb!”</p><p></p><p>People shift in their seats, but Robert sighs and snaps his fingers in front of Scarpedin’s face to get his attention. </p><p></p><p>“What the <em>hell</em> are you talking about, boy? I already got off this bus once today. I’m not getting off again until we get to New Orleans. Except maybe to use the bathroom.”</p><p></p><p>“What the-? Dammit,” Scarpedin growls. “This bus is about to explode! Get off the f*cking bus!”</p><p></p><p>He pulls the uzi out of his jacket and cocks it, then fires a few shots into the ceiling. People scream in panic and start to lunge for emergency exits, kicking out windows and fleeing the madman.</p><p></p><p>“That’s better,” Scarpedin says.</p><p></p><p>Robert is too stunned at the stupidity of what he just saw to act, but Missy reacts heroically, leaping for Scarpedin and yanking the uzi out of his hands.</p><p></p><p>“B-back away!” Missy shouts, shaking the gun in Scarpedin’s face.</p><p></p><p>“Whoa,” Scarpedin says. “Whoa, calm down. Dude, there’s no need to panic. Let’s just step off the bus and, y’know, . . . whoa, don’t shoot. We can, y’know, discuss this peacefully.”</p><p></p><p>“Give me the gun,” Robert says calmly. </p><p></p><p>Missy practically throws it at him, appearing glad to be rid of it. In the moment the gun’s not pointed at him, Scarpedin runs. And then, as soon as he’s out of the bus’s doorway, Missy and everyone else who had not yet gotten off the bus pile out the door, afraid of the bomb.</p><p></p><p>Robert sighs and turns the gun’s safety on. Since he’s the only person left on the bus, he strolls down the steps. The crowd of the bus passengers is twenty feet away, huddled amid trees beside the road.</p><p></p><p>“Seriously people,” he says as he walks up to them, “you’ve got to keep your cool in situations like-”</p><p></p><p>The explosion catches him in the back, picks him up, and hurls him into a tree. Robert lands with a thump, and the blast seems to leave nothing of the bus but a crater, surrounded by other flaming and demolished vehicles. Then from the sky the burning wreckage of the Greyhound bus crashes to the road.</p><p></p><p>After a moment of grogginess, Robert staggers to his feet and bats at the fire clinging to his coat. He’s still holding Scarpedin’s uzi, and the passengers around him scream at the sight of the gun and flee.</p><p></p><p>Robert watches them go, then glances at the massive fireball hovering over the road and back down at the tiny gun before he yells, “Oh, come on!”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="RangerWickett, post: 2577096, member: 63"] [i]October 29, 2005 7:30pm[/i] It’s harder than Nathan expected. The bus driver must be trying to make up for lost time from the earlier wreck, so she’s going 75 miles an hour. A cop’s not going to pull over a Greyhound bus, but he’ll gladly pull over a slick BMW going 90. By rights, Nathan’s constant speeding and decelerating whenever he anticipates a cop might be watching should be nauseating, but the ride is almost pleasant. Plus, every time they jump over 85, Scarpedin starts hooting in delight. “In your vision I was dead?” Belladonna says. She laughs. “Yes,” Nathan replies, jerking the steering wheel left then right quickly to sideslip between a pair of pick-up trucks. “But I told you, it’s several months from now. We have more than enough time to avoid that.” The engine hums, and billboards advertising the state fair, Louisianan casinos, and fresh crawfish slip by to the beat of the car stereo. Scarpedin nods his head approvingly, and Terry leans forward in anticipation, but John has a perpetual grimace as they whip through traffic. “There it is.” Terry points. “You said the bus is going to blow up when it hits the bridge?” “Yes, in. . . ,” Nathan glances down at the GPS map, “five miles.” “What are you planning to do?” Terry says. Scarpedin fumbles for the uzi he has tucked in his armpit. “Hey man, how do you roll down this window? [i]I’ll[/i] convince them to pull over.” “Holy sh*t,” John says, realizing what Scarpedin is planning. “They’re in a bus; we’re in a Beemer. If we gave them trouble, they’d just knock us off the road.” “Hold on,” Nathan says, stamping his foot on the gas and swerving onto the right shoulder for a moment. A short bridge over a creek is just ahead of them, but he jerks around an 18-wheeler and back onto the highway with ten feet to spare before they would have plunged into the creek. “I could try to charm the driver,” Terry says. “I’m not sure if it’d work through the windshield, though.” Belladonna tries to hold herself steady as the car shakes them. “Blessed mother,” she whispers, “we’re all going to die.” “No we’re not,” Nathan says. “I would’ve seen that if it were going to happen.” They pass the bus, too quickly even for Scarpedin to try to get the driver’s attention. Nathan starts to look at all his mirrors one by one, tensing his jaw. When they’re a mile ahead of the Greyhound, Nathan snaps the car up to over a hundred and ten to reach a gap in the traffic, and then he breaks hard. “Hold on,” he says again. Nathan twists the wheel and the car twists into a bootleg turn, skidding and finally coming to a stop horizontally across the road. Its front wheels rest in the left lane, its rear wheels in the right. Traffic is approaching from the left side of the car at 70 miles an hour, and less than a mile away on the right is the Sabine Memorial Bridge, crossing from Texas to Louisiana. Belladonna cries out and kicks open the door, trying to get out before the oncoming traffic crashes into them. After a second’s hesitation, the others scramble out too, heading for the side of the road. “Ah,” Nathan says, “perfect.” He pops the trunk and swings out of the car. The approaching cars start to honk, but Nathan casually pulls a handful of road flares from his trunk. He lights them, tosses them across the road in front of his car, and smiles as the cars screech to a stop. Slowly traffic backs up as Interstate 10 comes to an end, thanks to Nathan’s stunt. Nathan waves the others over. As they approach, a few cars honk and drive past on the shoulder, their drivers flipping Nathan off as they hurry on to Louisiana. “Now the bus won’t reach the bridge,” Nathan says. “The bomb is probably on a timer,” John says. “Now instead of blowing up the bridge, it’s going to explode and destroy dozens of parked cars. Great.” “Oh my,” Nathan says. “You think so?” “Don’t worry guys,” Scarpedin says. “I got this one.” He sprints off along the shoulder, heading toward the Greyhound bus, which is backed up at least a quarter mile away. John rolls his eyes and starts to follow, but Terry stops him and puts a defensive spell on him, just in case they’re too late and John has to pull people out of the fire. [center]* * *[/center] The bus lurches slightly and the squeal of a dozen or more tires struggling for traction fills the air. “Dammit,” Robert says, “not again.” The bus comes to a stop without a crash this time, and the weary passengers – many adorned with items purchased at the Renaissance Festival – start to groan. Robert stands up and holds out his hands to calm folks down as he heads for the driver’s seat. People relax as he smiles at them. Robert just projects the air of one of those people who’ll get things done. “What’s the problem Missy?” Robert asks when he gets up next to the bus driver. She’s breathing heavily, irritated. “They all just stopped. There must have been a wreck in front of us.” Robert looks out the window so she doesn’t see his grimace. He’s about to turn back to Missy and recommend they drive on the shoulder when he spots someone sprinting up to the bus. “Oh look,” he says to himself, laughing in weak disbelief, “it’s Scarpedin.” Scarpedin staggers to a stop next to the door of the bus, and he pounds a fist on it. His breath is ragged, and he bangs again. “Open the door!” he shouts. His voice is muffled by the door. “No,” Robert says. “Don’t.” “He looks like he’s in trouble,” Missy says. She pulls the lever to open the door, and Scarpedin heaves himself onto the bus. “Everyone,” he shouts, “you’ve got to get off the bus! There’s a bomb!” People shift in their seats, but Robert sighs and snaps his fingers in front of Scarpedin’s face to get his attention. “What the [i]hell[/i] are you talking about, boy? I already got off this bus once today. I’m not getting off again until we get to New Orleans. Except maybe to use the bathroom.” “What the-? Dammit,” Scarpedin growls. “This bus is about to explode! Get off the f*cking bus!” He pulls the uzi out of his jacket and cocks it, then fires a few shots into the ceiling. People scream in panic and start to lunge for emergency exits, kicking out windows and fleeing the madman. “That’s better,” Scarpedin says. Robert is too stunned at the stupidity of what he just saw to act, but Missy reacts heroically, leaping for Scarpedin and yanking the uzi out of his hands. “B-back away!” Missy shouts, shaking the gun in Scarpedin’s face. “Whoa,” Scarpedin says. “Whoa, calm down. Dude, there’s no need to panic. Let’s just step off the bus and, y’know, . . . whoa, don’t shoot. We can, y’know, discuss this peacefully.” “Give me the gun,” Robert says calmly. Missy practically throws it at him, appearing glad to be rid of it. In the moment the gun’s not pointed at him, Scarpedin runs. And then, as soon as he’s out of the bus’s doorway, Missy and everyone else who had not yet gotten off the bus pile out the door, afraid of the bomb. Robert sighs and turns the gun’s safety on. Since he’s the only person left on the bus, he strolls down the steps. The crowd of the bus passengers is twenty feet away, huddled amid trees beside the road. “Seriously people,” he says as he walks up to them, “you’ve got to keep your cool in situations like-” The explosion catches him in the back, picks him up, and hurls him into a tree. Robert lands with a thump, and the blast seems to leave nothing of the bus but a crater, surrounded by other flaming and demolished vehicles. Then from the sky the burning wreckage of the Greyhound bus crashes to the road. After a moment of grogginess, Robert staggers to his feet and bats at the fire clinging to his coat. He’s still holding Scarpedin’s uzi, and the passengers around him scream at the sight of the gun and flee. Robert watches them go, then glances at the massive fireball hovering over the road and back down at the tiny gun before he yells, “Oh, come on!” [/QUOTE]
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