On Friday, the Pine Oak High School junior class was throwing a square dance to raise money. At soccer practice Thursday, Coach Tut addressed his team.

“If any of you don’t show tomorrow,” the coach cautioned, “come Monday you’ll be running laps ‘til you die.”

No one doubted that the big redhead meant it. The team went off, grumbling. On the way back to the locker room, Mark fell in step with O’Reilly.

“That weasel,” Mark said. He jabbed a forefinger at O’Reilly’s face. “That snake.”

O’Reilly shrugged. “He’s just looking out for himself,” O’Reilly said, referring to the coach’s role as junior class advisor. “If no one shows up, he looks like an ass.”

Mark waved dismissively. “Ahhh…” What did he care about Tut’s problems?

 
Mark felt aggravated.  He ’d had a lousy practice.  On two separate occasions during an inter-squad scrimmage, Mark had kicked at the bouncing ball and missed so clumsily that his feet had slipped out from under him, and he tumbled onto the grass. Both times, Tut had snorted scornfully and spat. Later during “kamikaze” drills, where two players fight for a ball placed between them, big Joe Brown’s knee struck Mark’s thigh so hard that Mark fell to his side and writhed, feeling as if a redwood had dropped onto his leg.  

“I’m going,” O’Reilly said. “What the hell do I care?”  

   
Mark brooded about the recent, puzzling decline of his athleticism. As he stepped into the school’s lobby, he pictured himself alone against a wall, unable to find a dance partner.

“Tut can kiss my ass,” Mark said. “I’m not going.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll take my mom’s car.”

                                                                                                       ---

​

To the east of Pine Oak lay a series of small mountains and bluffs. Lush woods covered the hillsides and merged with the farmland that comprised most of the valley. Narrow, winding roads darted along the slopes, then plunged abruptly toward town. O’Reilly drove his mother’s car along one of those roads, testing how fast he could go without losing control.

“Relax,” he told Mark as the scenery shot past. “I know this area like the back of my hand.”

Mark was squeezing the door handle. His jaw was clenched. He was half mesmerized by the thrill of motion, half terrified. His heart drummed in his ears, and he could not have told you his name. The car skidded along a curve and leaned toward a jagged, rocky wall inches to Mark’s right.

It was more than Mark could stand. His scream was so primal, he couldn’t believe that the noise came from him.

O’Reilly was annoyed. He glanced at Mark and told him to shut up. O’Reilly looked back at the road. He saw they were quickly approaching a three-pronged fork, and he wasn’t certain which route to take. It was too late to use the brake, and there wasn’t room to swerve.

Calmly, O’Reilly said, “Which way?”

Dusk was blurring their vision. The road and nearby maple trees seemed to bend, as if in a high wind. Mark looked at O’Reilly with an aghast expression like: “Are you kidding?”

The car met a bump, which threw it airborne. As the vehicle crashed to the ground O’Reilly steered leftward. He was responding to an instinct telling him this route did not  lead to the infamous “dead-end-on-the-mountain,” where scores of drunken teenagers had, over the years, crashed their vehicles into a granite wall.          

 
The automobile cannonballed down a narrow, tree-lined path. O’Reilly struggled for control. Suddenly, they emerged onto a residential street. O’Reilly recognized that they weren’t far from the high school. He wondered how they’d reached the bottom so quickly. Then, he crushed the brake.

The car skidded, throwing Mark against the door. O’Reilly had the wheel torn from his hands. He sprawled along the seat, but managed to keep his foot on the brake. The automobile spun three-quarters around.

The car kept skidding, producing a screaming, screeching sound that made Mark hysterical. He roared. Tears streaked across his face. The car slid about fifty feet, then came to an abrupt stop. Momentum threw both boys forward. O’Reilly rolled onto the floor. Mark’s shoulder cracked into the dashboard.

The car rested near a stop sign, its rear tires on somebody’s front lawn. O’Reilly pushed himself back up onto the seat, groaning. After a minute, he straightened his clothes. He glanced into the rearview mirror and smoothed down his hair.  

O’Reilly stared through the windshield. He could see twilight approaching. Light from the setting sun came off the mountains behind them, producing long, sharp shadows along the street and its encircling yards.

O’Reilly was annoyed with himself. No excuse for losing his way back there, he thought. He’d been driving these roads since he was nine!

He said, “We must’ve found a short cut.”

Mark sat up. He felt light-headed and giggly.

“Snap to it,” O’Reilly said.

Mark began to chuckle. It was soft, nervous laughter.

“Hey!” O’Reilly barked.

O’Reilly waved a hand up and down in front of Mark’s eyes.

“Earth to Miller.”

Mark shook his head as if clearing his mind after sleep. Then he snapped his gaze around alertly. He stared at O’Reilly and sneered.

“Know this area like the back of your hand, eh?”

O’Reilly shrugged. “Big help you were.”

Mark settled back in his seat, looking thoughtful. O’Reilly put the car into gear and they headed toward the school.
                                                                                                     ---

“It’s not simply a matter of rejection,” Mark said to O’Reilly. “Hell, rejection’s just a word. My problem is our physical response to rejection. The heart palpitates. The stomach clenches. Poisons ooze through our blood and attack our organs.

“And the worst is, it perpetuates itself. Because every time you recall that specific rejection, you have the same feelings. You’re like Pavlov’s dog. You picture the face of the girl who rejected you, and bam! You feel like shit all over again.

“Tonight, that bastard Tut is making us risk further humiliation,” Mark said.  “More memories that will torment us for the rest of our lives.”

                                                                                                      ---

​

Mark recalled five years ago, in sixth grade, when they danced in gym class.  Boys and girls were paired off. At first everybody pretended to hate it. But once the rock and roll music got going, most of the students enjoyed themselves.

Mark remembered the very first class. He’d locked eyes with a pretty-ish girl.  Both looked away in embarrassment. Then their eyes cautiously met again. Slowly, they began moving, stiffly at first. Gradually they relaxed, and their dancing became smooth and then joyful. Occasionally they smiled at each other, acknowledging their shared experience.    

Those dances had been brief previews of a forbidden and exciting world. I hadn’t a clue what it was really all about, Mark thought now. Turned out to be pure terror.

O’Reilly guided the car into the Pine Oak High School parking lot. He found a space and switched off the engine. He and Mark stepped outside. They were on the edge of a cool, clear night. Stars hung in the violet sky above the mountains. Further west, the sky remained a deep blue.   

Mark stretched his arms.  He realized how much he’d been perspiring.  It felt good to stand on solid ground again.

                                                                                                     ---

​

Mark and O’Reilly walked across the parking lot, then up the sidewalk that led to the main entrance of the school.

Their mirrored reflections grew larger as they approached a set of glass doors.  Mark was the taller one, and slim. O’Reilly was getting pudgy. Mark furrowed his brows and pulled back his shoulders, as he always did when confronting his reflection. O’Reilly was expressionless. He pulled open the door and they stepped inside.

They passed through a dim hallway lined with lockers and classrooms. It smelled of disinfectants and led to the cafeteria, where the dance was about to begin. Mark and O’Reilly paid $1 and went in.

The cafeteria was brightly-lit, noisy and crowded. At one end, several musicians tinkered with instruments. They wore flannel shirts and blue jeans. A couple of them wore straw hats. A few bales of hay were strewn around. All over the rest of the large, rectangular room, students stood or wandered about. Their collective noise produced a shrill roar.

Mark noticed Coach Tut’s head jutting above the crowd. Tut stood near the musicians. He was gesturing with his arms. He appeared to be having an argument with a banjo player.

Next to them, a man with a fiddle fired off some riffs. The banjo player turned away from Tut and joined in, as did two guitar players. Another man spoke instructions into a microphone. About twenty couples started dancing.

Mark and O’Reilly leaned against a wall. The large, active crowd intimidated Mark. He fought his emotions and nudged O’Reilly with his elbow.

“Hey man,” Mark said.  “What’s going on?”

O’Reilly stared at Mark. Mark was bobbing his head, chomping on gum like somebody from a 1950’s juvenile delinquent movie.

“Huh?” O’Reilly said.

 
“What’s going on?” Mark repeated. He kept bobbing his head in Elvis-like fashion.

O’Reilly stared for a few more seconds. Then he burst out laughing.

Mark had his palms turned up in confusion. “What? What?”

O’Reilly turned away and looked over the crowd. There were students here from every social and economic level. Pine Oak High School had many cliques, and a strict caste system. O’Reilly knew he was near the bottom. He considered going outside to get a drink.

“Hey check it out,” Mark said. “The Spratleys are here.”

 

Mark pointed to a group of thuggish-looking farm kids standing near the doorway. They all wore ratty jeans and white t-shits stretched tightly across muscular arms and chests. The three Spratley brothers were in the middle, scowling with unlit cigarettes in their mouths.

O’Reilly watched the farm kids. He felt that the Spratleys were the scariest of the bunch: not so much because they were meaner than the others, but because they were dumber. A Spratley would club your head repeatedly with a bat, then examine your mangled body with a dim, drooling expression. He’d have that same vacant look while torturing a frog or ripping the wings off a fly.

O’Reilly shook his head in disgust. “Someday these morons’ll learn,” he said.  “You can’t have these dumbass events, and let everybody and his incest-victim brother come. Not unless you wanna see people get killed.”

Coach Tut had crept over without either boy noticing.

“Whatsamatter Miller!” the coach bawled. “Got nobody to dance with?”

Mark and O’Reilly were startled. They jerked their arms up, then stared at their coach cautiously. Tut glowered at them from his beefy, red-headed face.

 
“Uh, well sir,” Mark ventured, “we just got here.  I haven’t had a chance to approach anyone yet.”  

      
Tut reached out, grabbed Mark’s elbow and squeezed. His fingers dug into a nerve. Mark emitted a high-pitched whimper.

“By God, Miller!” the coach boomed. “Let’s see if we can’t find us a girl who can stand your presence!”

Tut yanked Mark’s arm, and towed him through the crowd. He shoved students aside, muttering “Out the way, out the way.”  Mark stumbled behind; his face frozen into a ghastly grin.

They approached a group of boys and girls standing and breathing heavily after a dance. “How you folks doing?” Tut asked them.

Their eyes traveled between Tut and Mark. “Fine, fine. Okay.”

“This fellow here,” Tut said. “Looking for someone to dance with.”

The boys and girls looked at Mark without saying anything. Their expressions were flat.

“You all know each other, right?” Tut demanded.

“Uh-huh,” one boy said.
 

Tut pointed at one of the girls. “You,” he said. “C’mere.”

The girl stepped forward.

“Mark Miller,” Tut said.  “This is Sherry Bath. Sherry, this is Mark Miller.”

The coach dropped Mark’s arm, which radiated numbness.  

 

“I’ll let you kids get to it,” Tut said. He turned and walked off through the crowd, cackling to himself, his big head shaking.

Sherry was tall and trim, with shiny black hair. She had a smooth, freckled face.  Her eyes were big and dark. Mark had known her for years, although they’d exchanged maybe a dozen words.

Mark said, “What a guy. Ha ha. Arm’s paralyzed. He was, ya know, squeezing it.” Mark raised his elbow and pointed to it, a hopeful smile on his face.

Merry and the others continued to stare, conveying only a mild curiosity. They said nothing. Mark stared back, his smile growing distressed.

Finally, a man near a microphone shouted: “AWWLL RAAHHTT! Let’s get ready to doe-see-doe! I want all you heifers to grab your partners!”

Mark looked nervously at Sherry. She looked back. She didn’t appear too excited.  But she stayed.

                                                                                             ---
   
O’Reilly left the cafeteria. He walked at a relaxed pace down the same corridor he and Mark had come through earlier. At its end, he turned left and walked down another hallway. The music grew faint behind him; soon it disappeared.  

O’Reilly approached a pair of metal doors. He touched a lever, paused and looked around. He pushed the lever. The door opened and O’Reilly went through. He walked down a flight of stairs. He saw another metal door, which had a red “exit” light above it.  

O’Reilly opened this final door, and stepped outside. He was now behind the school. He walked across the grass, away from the building. It was night now, and the moon was nearly full. The temperature had dropped; O’Reilly shivered a little. He could see a couple of small shadowy figures ahead. They stood near the edge of the wooded area that bordered the school’s property. O’Reilly walked another couple of hundred feet.  Now he could clearly see, along with two boys, a keg of beer. The keg sat inside a large plastic trash can. One of the boys was filling a cup, the other stood and watched.

O’Reilly grinned. After about 30 seconds, he could tell that Flavio and Dean were already wasted.

“What’s up?” Flavio gasped. He had long blond hair, and seemed to be having trouble keeping both eyes open at the same time.

“How’s it going?” O’Reilly said.

“Pretty good,” Flavio said. He stumbled backwards and leaned against a tree.

“Got an extra cup?” O’Reilly asked.

Dean was filling his cup with beer. Like Flavio, his hair was long and blond. “Help yourself.”

If Dean and Flavio were the biggest drunks in the school, O’Reilly was close behind. At Pine Oak High, being a drunk meant that you were more of a pioneer than a degenerate. Dean, Flavio and O’Reilly were, at worst, early birds; as the evening wore on, students would be leaving the dance and sneaking outside. By 10 o’clock the cafeteria would be empty, and the lawn behind the school would be a drunken madhouse.

O’Reilly’s mouth watered as he filled his cup, tilting it carefully to reduce the foam. A molecular drop splashed to his lips; as he tasted the beer his heart accelerated.

O’Reilly had no illusions about booze. He lived in a small house with his mother and five siblings, and everybody was always getting bombed. The last he saw of his father, the man was stumbling half-naked down the road with a six-pack in his hand.  When O’Reilly was old enough to recognize the limits of his world, he began to understand why people drank.

But understanding the phenomenon didn’t put him above it. O’Reilly emptied his cup with one swallow and reached for a re-fill.

Dean was urinating on a tree. “How’s the dance?” he asked.

O’Reilly scowled. “Call that a dance? Bunch a faggots hopping around.”

“What’re you doing after?”

“Maybe go downtown. Gotta take Miller home first.”

Dean zipped his pants. “Where’s he live?”

“Oakwood.”

“No shit. He rich?”

O’Reilly shrugged. “Old man’s a dentist.  Supposed to be pretty good.”

“Hmmm,” Dean said. “I wouldn’t know. Never been to a dentist.” He stepped toward the keg. “Shove over. I’m gettin’ more before you drink the whole damn thing.”

O’Reilly looked for Flavio. He saw him lying on his back, in the tall grass near a tree. The moon highlighted Flavio’s long blond hair. His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow and quiet. O’Reilly thought he looked as peaceful as a boy possibly could.  

                                                                                                     ---

​

The latest set had contained three dances and the musicians were now taking a break. Mark whirled around, savoring a grin. Things had gone well, and he decided to discuss with Sherry just how much fun he was having.      

  
He opened his mouth to speak. Suddenly he realized he was about to talk to himself. Sherry was gone. The whole group was gone!

Mark was surrounded by clusters of people who were laughing, congratulating each other and otherwise expressing friendship and affection. They were all ignoring him.  But it wouldn’t be long, Mark thought, before people noticed his predicament. They would snicker and say: imagine some goofball standing by himself on a dance floor. Has he no friends? Christ, talk about your losers!

Mark believed he had to flee the cafeteria before the other students saw him standing alone. He looked around and was confronted by an aggressive whirl of laughing faces and brightly-colored clothes. Boisterous voices closed in on him. His breathing became labored, and his head began to throb.     

Mark doubted he could continue drawing in enough oxygen. The notion brought him close to panic. Imagine fainting in the middle of these jabbering idiots!  

He glanced up and saw the “Exit” sign above the cafeteria’s main doorway. It looked to him like a beacon of hope. Mark lowered his head and bulled into the crowd toward that sign, darting down narrow paths temporarily created by sweaty, moving bodies.

Mark was making progress when his right leg hit an unyielding object. He looked down to where the problem seemed to be, but saw only an elbow in his face. He glanced back up and saw only a chest. The chest was moving toward Mark’s nose. At the same time, somebody was shoving him from behind.  

Mark felt overheated and heard himself wheeze. He pushed forward as hard as he could. His right leg became entangled with the unyielding object. Mark persisted, but a heavy weight on his leg pulled him to the floor. Mark felt another body slam down next to his. He blinked a few times, then looked into the cold blue eyes of a Spratley.

                                                                                                   ---

​

A few other students had joined O’Reilly, Flavio and Dean outside. These other students were having their second or third drinks, and the alcohol was just starting to loosen them up. Their talk was loud, enthusiastic and aimless. One or two couples went into the woods to make out. O’Reilly could hear their footsteps snapping through the underbrush behind him.    

                    
O’Reilly, Flavio and Dean had already passed through that initial, gleeful stage of drunkenness. They were well into the next phase: feeling relaxed and soothed. Also, they were more experienced drinkers than the other students and therefore less prone to loud and aggressive behavior. Indeed, Flavio had barely moved during the last hour. He continued to lay in the tall grass, every now and then saying something inconsequential with his soft voice. O’Reilly and Dean were about ten yards to the left of Flavio, each one sitting with his back against a tree.

“I got that job,” Dean said.

O’Reilly’s eyes were half-closed. The lights of the school blazed a couple of hundred yards to his left; to his right was a thickening darkness. He savored each lingering moment, and happily inhaled the sweet scent of the dampening grass. He spoke slowly. “Is that the one you, ya know, were talking about the other day?”

Dean didn’t answer for a while. O’Reilly stared contentedly at his half-full cup, which was wedged between his knees on the grass. He focused on a small transparent drop clinging to the side. Then, Dean said, “Which other day?”

O’Reilly smiled. “You just told me you got that job. So you must remember a day when you were telling me about a job. Whatever day that was. That’s the one I’m talking about.”

“Oh,” Dean said. They heard laughing and yelling nearby. They ignored it.  “What’s today?” Dean said. “Friday? Must’ve been Wednesday. Could’ve been. Did I see you yesterday?

“Anyway,” Dean said, “I’m talking about that job at the church. You know the one. Halfway up the mountain on Route 52.”

“Yeah,” O’Reilly said. He shifted his position slightly. “So what’re you doing there? Giving Communion?”

"Know the cemetery? I’m digging graves. Me and McKnight.”

“Graves,” O’Reilly said. “No shit.”

“Puttin’ the boxes in ‘em too,” Dean said. “Usually they have services, and people get buried during services. But a lot of times, nobody gives a damn. The county or someone takes care of ‘em. People been living alone in the hills for years, nobody knows who the hell they are. Who do you think buries ‘em?  I do.”

O’Reilly sipped his beer. “Remind me,” he said. “Not to die around here.”

O’Reilly and Dean laughed quietly. The next time O’Reilly looked up he saw Mark looming over him. O’Reilly blinked hard, as if trying to remember who and where he was.  

“You gotta get me outa here,” Mark said, panting. “My life could be at stake.”   

O’Reilly saw that Mark’s face looked even more stricken than usual. Of course, it could be the darkness.   

“That’s hard to believe,” O’Reilly said. “Why don’t you sit down, relax for a change.”

Mark described his collision with the Spratley brother. “He told me he was gonna cut off my balls and shove ‘em down my throat,” Mark said.

“That could be a problem,” O’Reilly admitted. He sighed and shook his head.  “Jesus H. Christ.”  

O’Reilly looked at Dean. “Whaddya think?”

“I think you’re fucked,” Dean said. “Those bastards carry guns.”

“Really?” O’Reilly said interestedly. “You sure?”

Dean nodded. “My cousin hunts with ‘em. They got more ammo in that chicken shack they call home than they got underwear.”

“That I believe,” O’Reilly said.

“You sober enough?” Mark said. “Can you get me outta here? Or am I gonna have to hitchhike?”

“Don’t worry about that,” O’Reilly said. “This is kid stuff. One time I drank a twelve-pack, drove to the city. Forgot something, hadda come all the way back. Drank another six-pack, drove to the city again.”

“Hey.” Dean was impressed. “That’s not bad.”

Mark threw his hands up, exasperated. “Great! Great achievement! You can tell that one to your grandkids. Meanwhile, those swamp rats will have cut my throat.”

“That,” Dean said. “Or they’ll shoot ya.”

Mark’s mouth hung open as he stared at Dean.

O’Reilly stood slowly. “All right, all right,” he groaned. “Let’s get to it. Maybe tomorrow, when they’ve cooled down, I can get someone I know to talk to ‘em. I’m not without influence in the swamp rat community.”

“Good luck,” Dean called after them. 

                                                                                                 ---

​

Mark and O’Reilly walked into the woods. Their plan was to sneak around the school under cover of the trees, then emerge in the parking lot near O’Reilly’s mother’s car.

The tree tops blocked most of the stars and the moon, leaving the woods as dark as a curtain-shrouded room. Mark trailed O’Reilly with his nose practically glued to O’Reilly’s shoulder blades. Their footsteps crunched into fallen leaves. They had their elbows raised for protection against sharp, snapping branches. When O’Reilly stopped short, Mark walked into him.

“Asshole,” Mark said.

 
“Look,” O’Reilly whispered.

He pointed ahead to their right. There was a clearing about 30 feet away. A couple of human-shaped forms were entangled on the ground. Just enough dim light filtered down to reveal the bottom halves of their naked bodies.

“Who is it?” Mark whispered. 

“Can’t tell,” said O’Reilly. They stared for about a minute. The female seemed to be on top now, and Mark could interpret the nubs on her chest. He also interpreted the loose hair streaming over her shoulders. Her face remained obscure. Mark grew excited.  

O’Reilly grabbed Mark’s elbow. “C’mon.” Mark hesitated, then moved forward.  He looked back wistfully.

“Spratleys’ll kill ya,” O’Reilly said, “whether people’re gettin’ laid out here or not.”

They continued to tramp through the woods. Mark’s knees wobbled with each step. Butterflies flapped in his stomach.

 

“My life hasn’t turned out the way I wanted,” he said, close to sobbing. “I go to a dance, think it’s gonna be a disaster. But not like this.  This is . . .a calamity.”

O’Reilly turned and clapped Mark affectionately on the back. “Ever get the feeling you can’t do anything right?” O’Reilly said.

“Sometimes,” Mark said ruefully.

“Well you’re right.”

“What? Why you prick…”  Mark gave O’Reilly a shove, and they stumbled forward along the path.
                                                                                                    ---

Mark and O’Reilly reached the edge of the woods. The parking lot was in front of them. O’Reilly said, “We can do this one of two ways. See my mom’s car? We can sneak over there and hope nobody sees us. Or we say fuck it, and run like hell.”

“Let’s run,” Mark said.

"On three,” said O’Reilly.  

“One. . .two. . .th-“

They accelerated forward. For the first few steps, Mark was aware of his feet hitting the pavement; after that, his feet felt nothing. It was as if adrenaline, like rocket fuel, had lifted him off the ground. A primeval force, exploded from God knew where inside him, propelled his legs so that they whirled in a blur. He felt the air blow past his ears. A pure white light dominated his mind. The only other time he’d felt like this, he was on a roller coaster. But now his body was driving him, and he was conscious of how amazing that was.  

  
Mark arrived at the car seemingly in about half the time it should have. He breathed heavily. An energizing, tingling sensation lingered in his body. The bottoms of his feet were white-hot.

He’d beaten the portly O’Reilly by just a couple of seconds. O’Reilly unlocked the doors and they scrambled inside. O’Reilly started the engine, pulled the car from its space and peeled out of the lot, tires squealing.

They cruised down Main Street at a moderate speed, heading toward the mountains. Traffic was light.

“Step on it,” Mark said.

"Some nights I come down here,” O’Reilly said. “Three or four in the morning, half a dozen cars. You wouldn’t believe it. We race, going from the school to the traffic light. It’s exactly a mile and a half. Ninety to a hundred miles an hour. One minute of pure fucking intensity.

“My point is, it’s too early for that. Not too many cops around at three a.m., plenty around now. If we go too fast, we get pulled over. More time for the Spratleys to catch up. Tell a cop the Spratleys are after us, they’ll laugh. I know from experience.  Unless something happens, they don’t do shit. When something happens, then they’ll do shit.  Like look at your body, pull out the knife.”

They turned left at the traffic light. The road began a slight incline upwards. As time passed, the incline became steeper. Mark watched the glowing moon ahead; he felt as if they were being gently lifted toward it. The road was lined with trees that looked like tall, threatening shadows. Houses, stores and street lights gradually disappeared as they moved away from town.  

Mark was bursting with the desire to tell O’Reilly about his engagement with Sherry. “Know who I danced with?” he blurted.

“Who?”

“Sherry Bath,” Mark said. “Whaddya say to that?”

“What, did Tut force her or something?”

Mark was miffed that O’Reilly recognized the truth. “Hey,” he said.  “Listen here.”

“Yeah?”

Mark stared out the window, grumbling. He rolled up the glass. “Gettin’ cold out,” he muttered.  

                                                                                                 ---

​

O’Reilly slowed the car. The road had narrowed and was winding across the flatter parts of the terrain. There were thick clusters of trees, brush, and rocks. Branches brushed against the top of the car. Every now and then, O’Reilly noticed a small animal scoot through the headlights’ glare and disappear into the underbrush. After a couple of minutes they began climbing again—this time along the steepest portion of the ridge. It felt like nearly a 45-degree angle as O’Reilly guided the car upwards at about 15 miles per hour. Gravity pulled Mark and O’Reilly against the backs of their seats like they were strapped into a space ship.

The road leveled off when they reached the top. At that point, the pavement ended. As O’Reilly’s front wheels struck dirt, their car was immediately assaulted by what seemed to be huge floodlights on their right.

Mark stared into the center of the blazing white tunnel, too astonished to react.  Then he looked away, blinded and screaming. O’Reilly was also startled; but he immediately recognized what was happening.

The Spratleys are dumber than shit, O’Reilly thought, but cunning. Knowing that I like to come this way, and that Mark hangs out with me, the bastards just drove here and waited. I should’ve known, O’Reilly told himself, I should’ve known!

O’Reilly jammed the accelerator to the floor. His mother’s car shot into the thick of the woods. The uneven dirt surface bounced it violently. O’Reilly concentrated hard so he could react to the road’s sudden curves. His body leapt up and down, back and forth.  The Spratleys’ vehicle stayed glued to their tail.

“What kinda car they got?” Mark asked.

“Some piece of shit Chevy pickup,” O’Reilly said. “Normally, that would be to our advantage. But as you know, we’re riding in a piece of shit too.”

O’Reilly had grown up in these hills, and he had an instinctive feel for the land and a sure sense of direction. But that was true also of the Spratleys. O’Reilly knew that whether or not he and Mark get away would depend almost entirely on luck.

Mark said, “Maybe we can pull over and you can reason with them. Huh?  Whaddya think, huh?”

O’Reilly shook his head. “Ever hear of steroids? You probably have. It’s a drug that builds your muscles. It has other effects, too. Among those other effects is, it turns you into a raving lunatic. And if you mix steroids with booze, you’re off the fucking charts.  

“Now, we’d be in trouble no matter what. The Spratleys are Neanderthals.  They’d as soon kill you as look at you. As if that’s not bad enough, I happen to know they use steroids and, sure as I’m tryin’ to save your dumb ass, they got empty beer cans laying ‘round their truck. And they didn’t get empty by getting poured out the window.

“On top of which, they probably have guns. Given all that,” O’Reilly said, “if you still wanna pull over and try ‘n talk with ‘em, be my guest. But I’m gonna drop you off and get the hell away.”

Mark understood this, and deep down, surrendered. He leaned back in his seat and took long, relaxing breaths. He decided that since there was absolutely no hope, there was no reason to keep his body in a stress-fueled uproar. Whatever will be will be, he thought.

O’Reilly knew that there was a wooden bridge a few yards ahead.  It was a primitive structure, comprised of logs nailed and chained together. It crossed about ten feet above a creek. The general rule was to slow down when approaching it, and drive across with caution. With the Spratleys behind him, O’Reilly realized that slowing down would be even crazier than speeding. He hit the edge of the bridge hard, and his vehicle flew halfway across; it bounced like a volleyball along the rest of the way. O’Reilly’s eyes were wide with intensity. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

Mark and O’Reilly’s vehicle shot off the bridge and clattered onto the dirt road.  The Spratleys stayed just off their tailpipe, headlight glare bursting through their interior.  O’Reilly was beginning to doubt that they could get away.      

 
He had an idea. There was one alternative to escape. It was a heavy one, and ugly. O’Reilly nervously blew out air and steered them back down the mountain.

They skidded around a corner and headed toward a bank of dark, ghostly bushes. O’Reilly slammed the brake and spun his steering wheel leftward. Then he gunned the accelerator as they straightened out. The car shot forward. O’Reilly muttered curses, his upper lip slick with perspiration. Mark sat with no expression on his face, arms folded across his chest.    
They rumbled to a spot they had passed back when the evening began. About a half-mile ahead, O’Reilly was thinking, there was a fork in the road.

The Spratleys had dropped back several yards. O’Reilly tapped his brake. He wanted them closer.

The Spratleys’ pickup truck banged the rear of O’Reilly’s mother’s car. “Keep coming, assholes,” O’Reilly said aloud. He sped up slightly.

O’Reilly hoped to distract the Spratleys with the change in speed. While they were trying to keep up, their concentration might slip. O’Reilly pressed the accelerator a little more. The Spratleys stayed close. O’Reilly squinted through the windshield, into the bizarre black night.

O’Reilly sensed the fork in the road. He floored the accelerator. He shot toward the middle prong. As they approached its entrance, he twirled the steering wheel and stomped the brake.

Their car was skidding sideways, pushing through saplings and branches until it thumped solidly into a tree trunk. The force threw Mark into O’Reilly’s lap. They heard a crash behind them, then an explosion that sounded like a cannon fired next to their ears.  Flames lighted the area, suddenly infusing blazing colors onto the trees and leaves.

The flames lighted Mark’s face, too. Mark had a pale, tortured look. His eyes were tightly closed, popping ridges along his upper nose and brow. His body trembled.  O’Reilly’s heart went out to him. He knew that this one was going to be a bitch to get over.

As flames reached toward the sky, O’Reilly put a hand on Mark’s shoulder.  “Remember,” he said softly. “We didn’t ask for this. They did.”

O’Reilly repeated himself. Mark buried his nose into O’Reilly shoulder and sobbed.
                                               
                                                                                            THE END