The Sapphire Express

by J. Max Cromwell

  The stock market was paralyzed, and most of the brokers, financial experts, hedge fund managers, and whatnot had already escaped the upcoming carnage. The lucky few with access to private planes and helicopters were crisscrossing the crowded skies like fly-parasitized zombie bees, and several bizarre accidents had already happened in New York City and elsewhere in the country. A private Gulfstream had crashed into a church in Harlem, killing fifty people, and a brand-new Sikorsky was hanging from a black tupelo in Central Park—the dead pilot and a handful of masters of the universe still trapped inside. The liberal mayor of New York City had been bludgeoned to death with a mallet inside Gracie Mansion, and his security detail had been badly injured in the incident. Someone in South Carolina had ridden a giant wild hog through the window of a small country bank and gotten away with five hundred dollars and a broken popcorn machine. The whole thing was just a goddamn mess, and I was glad that I wasn’t part of the herd that tried so desperately to save their lives. I felt like a bored Puritan at a Chrystal Meth Anonymous meeting.

  I turned the TV off and started packing for my road trip. The same show was playing outside the theater so there was no reason to watch it in my house.

  I put some warm clothes in a large garbage bag and organized my toiletries neatly in a small cardboard box. Then I grabbed some simple food items from the pantry, filled a three-gallon plastic jug with fresh water, and put fifty thousand dollars of my insurance money in the hunting bag. The most important item was, however, the Sig Sauer and a full clip of ammunition. The second in importance was the machete, and all of my other weapons followed closely behind. I needed to be prepared to defend myself fiercely because I knew that a van with a full tank of gas was something that the crazies would love to take away from me. It was the end of days, after all, and the lunatics would be out in numbers that I had only seen in disaster movies. It was more or less guaranteed that I was going to have to shoot a few of them.

  As I was putting my knives into the hunting bag, I thought about the doomsday preppers and wondered what they felt like now that they could finally use all the crazy shit they had stacked in their underground bunkers and shoot all those assault weapons they had hoarded and cleaned so patiently for all those years of relative peace. I wasn’t sure whether they were happy that they could finally prove themselves right, or if they were scared shitless like the rest of the good folks in the nation. My guess was that the satisfaction that filled their hearts from being right was stronger than fear, and they were smiling victorious smiles as they led their families underground and started devouring those yummy dried beans and gobstoppers. Too bad they had to stay with the earthworms and lucky rats for a year or two. At least they were right, and that was most likely all that mattered to them. The proactive men and women were going to survive the nuclear winter and emerge one day as true winners with a lot of facial hair and some very, very dirty underwear.

  Before I knew it, I was all packed and ready to go. I put the food, the water, and all my personal belongings in the back of the van and threw the hunting bag on the passenger seat. Then I secured the two loaded Remingtons carefully behind the driver’s seat and made sure that I could pull them out fast. The shiny shotguns had to be ready for my command to turn a prospective carjacker’s head into an empty space on his shoulders. I might have been an Armageddon newbie, but I sure knew how to pack for a good old zombie road trip.

  The Econoline had, once again, transformed into a van from hell that only a man with a serious death wish would want to approach. Its driver was a cold-blooded killer with blood dripping from his unforgiving fangs, and he had the best weapons money could buy in his bag. The peculiar van/man combo was a sword of cruel terror and merciless punishment, ready to unleash its fury upon the unwise and indecorous without any hesitation. It might have looked benign to the untrained eye, but it was deadly as hell.

  I glanced at my borrowed nest unemotionally for the last time and started driving toward the freeway that would take me to the coast of salvation. The air still smelled like hope, but smoke was rising from many different parts of the town. That wasn’t a good sign, and it was evident that the doomsday party had already begun. I knew that I needed to get out of the urban area fast if I wanted to arrive at my destination uninjured. The good news was that I was heading east, and if I managed to reach the freeway, I would most likely make it all the way.

  I glanced at the map and decided to take a shortcut through a rough neighborhood that I normally avoided like the plague, because I knew that any extra mile would be a dangerous mile, even a deadly mile. I figured that all the neighborhoods were probably pretty rough on a special day like that, and I was confident that the Econoline would protect me from any flying objects and charging crazies. The Sigs and the Remingtons would take care of the rest, and I was prepared to plow through the fields of fire like a devil’s combine harvester.

  As I was cruising in the blighted town curiously and trying to keep my focus on the road, I saw four cop cars hauling ass with their lights on, and a group of frantic, crying people desperately trying to stop them. The officers just kept going and almost ran over the wretched souls who tried to get too close to them. They seemed to be occupied with something very important, like protecting the mayor, and I knew that if I got in trouble, no one was going to hear my scream. I didn’t blame the men and women in blue, though, because they did what they were ordered to do, and no sane person would have stopped in the middle of a suicidal mob that was completely out of control. If I had been a cop, I would have just stolen the police car and driven to my family in San Jose, or some other place far, far away from the crazies and the corrupt ass of the mayor.

  The lawlessness and the absence of police didn’t really bother me, but I still preferred not to be kicked to death on a dirty asphalt road by a mob of frantic Econoline fans. I wanted to be the master of my own demise, and no one was going to steal that title from me—no one.

  I figured that the looting and madness I witnessed was standard in any bona fide disaster where authority was totally absent, and I accepted it as a fact of life. The only difference with the nuclear kind was, however, that the good citizens who had decided to stay behind knew, or should have known, that they were going to die or get very sick within a couple of days, and that perhaps boosted their madness slightly. The crazies were running rampant, and their only mission was to steal as much as possible, as fast as possible, and live another day. I still didn’t quite understand why they needed a new refrigerator when they had only days to live, but maybe I wasn’t even supposed to understand that. Maybe the crazies knew something I didn’t. “Carpe diem, motherfucker,” they would have probably told me, and I had to admit that it wasn’t too bad an idea to at least keep your final meal properly refrigerated.

  They crazies didn’t seem to be very interested in me or the Econoline, and I started to feel optimistic about my chances of making it out alive. That optimism was, however, short-lived, and after two miles of uneventful cruising, my luck ran out big-time. A mindless lunatic in a giant dirty diaper threw a brick at the Econoline’s windshield, and the impact formed a large spider web in the glass.

  I took the Sig from the bag, rolled down the window and pointed the gun at the giant baby. The confused infant looked at me with vacant eyes and started jumping up and down in front of the van like someone had poured a bottle of Mad Dog 357 Plutonium 9 Million Scoville Pepper Extract in his ass. Then he picked up another brick off the ground and started running toward the Econoline like a zombie from a cheap horror movie. I tapped the gas pedal gently with my eager boot and gave him a little kiss with the bumper. The baby hit the grille like a freeway mosquito and landed on the concrete with a painful thud. I shrugged, drove around the diaper avenger, and glanced in the rearview mirror. The crazy bastard was getting up again and soon started to jump up and down like someone had poured two bottles of Mad Dog 357 Plutonium 9 Million Scoville Pepper Extract in his ass. I figured that the fucker was on PCP or bath salt
s—or both. There was no way in hell that a normal man would have gotten up that fast, and I knew that I needed to shoot the next shitbird in the face just to be on the safe side.

  I got my chance after a couple of minutes when two big men with a sawed-off shotgun and a large Rambo knife started rushing toward me like I was John Rocker’s twin brother. They wanted the van; that was 100 percent guaranteed. I knew that I had no time to play games with them, and I opened the window and let the Sig Sauer recite a deadly, but, oh, so beautiful, sonnet. With an unforgiving heart, I emptied the clip in the running men, and they fell fast and without any unnecessary protesting. Then I hit the gas hard, and the furious Econoline roared forward like a Kodiak bear that had been shot in the rear end. I had seen enough of the apocalyptic madness for one day, and I decided that I was going to simply run over anyone who wanted to challenge me. Fighting the crazies was getting old fast, and my ears were ringing from the earsplitting roar of the Sig Sauer. I was more than ready to enjoy the freedom of the open freeway and just be alone with my trusted Econoline. Killing zombies was a young man’s game.

  I drove like a mad horse with blinkers and ignored all stoplights and traffic signs. I refused to yield to anything or anybody, and my survival was the only thing that mattered to me. I plowed the desolate fields of misery and hopelessness with my modified harvester like the Grim Reaper 2.0 and reached the eastbound freeway ramp after killing—or severely injuring—two more crazies with my unforgiving doomsday machine. It was a fine tactic, and I realized that I should have chosen to follow the virtues of offensive driving right from the beginning.

  A burning police car was partially blocking the freeway ramp, and I had to carefully maneuver around it to avoid the hot, contagious flames that were dancing on the hood erratically with the ominous wind. I glanced at the smoldering lump of fallen valor with sadness glowing in my tired eyes as I entered the freeway to perdition.

  I felt a hot wave of relief thawing my rigid body when the cursed town disappeared from the mirror, and I loosened my white-knuckle grip of the wheel and looked around. The road was eerily quiet, and only a handful of vehicles were traveling on that daunting gateway to guaranteed heartbreak and pain. I seemed to be one of the rare souls who wanted to experience the landfall of a nuclear storm, and that made me feel a little dejected, even inferior. I just didn’t know why my decision wasn’t good enough for the others.

  After traveling about ten miles on the silent freeway, I glanced to my right and noticed a secondhand luxury car dealership that still had some vehicles in the showroom. I pulled the Econoline into the shoulder and looked at the expanding spider web in the windshield. It was clear that the mean baby’s temper tantrum had triggered a chain reaction that was going to make the glass break sooner or later. The only sensible thing to do, therefore, was to say good-bye to the mighty Econoline and replace it with something better, something faster—something unbelievable. I was going to ride the freeway to hell in style.

  I drove to the dealership’s parking lot and rammed the Econoline through a feeble gate that didn’t stand a slightest chance against my powerful friend. Then I increased my speed to twenty miles per hour and crashed through the showroom window under a glorious glow of madness and guaranteed impunity. The thick glass shattered like a used car salesman’s dream, and I was soon granted unrestricted access to a motor enthusiast’s heaven.

  The immaculate showroom was packed with truly extraordinary rides, and most of them had been custom-made for customers with a keen eye for detail. I didn’t know much about expensive cars, but they all looked fantastic, and I decided to find the meanest and fastest of them all.

  I walked past a golden Lamborghini and a couple of aggressive-looking Ferraris and peeked into a Rolls Royce coupe that most likely was worth more than my old house. They were all very nice vehicles, but there was something in the corner of the showroom that got my full attention. It was a machine that looked like it belonged in a cage.

  I approached the beast cautiously and read what was written on the price tag. The pitch-black predator had a name: Mercedes-Benz Brabus CLS Rocket V12 S Biturbo. The price for the car was $600,000 dollars, and the window sticker listed the following specifications: Speed: 225 mph; 0–60 mph: 3.9 seconds; Max. Power: 730 hp.

  I thought that the numbers looked good, and I walked to a little black box that was attached to the showroom wall and got the keys to the car. I had just become the owner of my first Mercedes-Benz.

  I stepped into the car enthusiastically and turned the key. The monster started breathing hard, and I pushed the gas pedal gently. A vicious roar filled the showroom like an Oklahoma thunderstorm, and it sounded like the Brabus was upset that it had been left all alone in the dusty corner and not allowed to do what it did best: devour asphalt and dirt like an immortal creature of darkness and make its master quiver with illicit excitement. That master was now me, and I was going to feed the beast—feed it good.

  I drove the Brabus through the hole that the valiant Econoline had made and stopped outside the showroom. Then I walked back inside and jumped into the mighty van for the last time and got all my belongings, including the Remington shotguns that had been unemployed for way too long. As I closed the van’s humble door for the last time, I stopped and looked at the only friend that had stood loyally next to me through the insanity of the past weeks. The poor thing looked sad and defeated. Its glass eyes were broken, and a grimy sleeve from a brown leather jacket hung from its shattered grille like a plastic bag in a leafless autumn tree. I felt sorry for my partner in crime, whom I had forced to commit a suicide. The Econoline had never complained or judged me. It didn’t point a blaming finger at me when I kidnapped the father of two young children and burned his bones under the midnight sky. It didn’t tell me to stop when I sent a shiny bullet to remove the brains from the garbageman’s skull and delivered him to hell a little early. It never questioned me or scolded me. It was the most reliable and trusted friend in the whole world, and if I just gave it some gasoline and oil to drink, it did whatever I wanted it to do. It murdered, and it mauled, and it crushed the thighbones of a madman like they were funny little candy canes. It delivered money to orphans and gave a working girl a well-deserved break. It was the devil, and it was the angel from the kindest of heavens. It was the mighty Econoline—the best goddamn van in the world—and it stood ready to serve the best man in the world or the worst man in the world. It didn’t care. It was just a fucking piece of metal with a damn good engine stuffed under its shiny hood.

  I put the garbage bag, the food and the water in the Brabus’s trunk and tossed the hunting bag on the passenger seat. Then I shifted the gear back into drive and got ready to go, but before I could hit the gas, a private security guard appeared behind the corner in a white pickup truck like a blabbering mother-in-law on Super Bowl Sunday. He was driving fast toward me, and the little amber emergency light on his roof was flashing feverishly. I shrugged and slammed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and clenched the steering wheel hard with both hands. The Brabus went absolutely ballistic, and thick smoke from the burning rubber filled the air. The beast started rushing toward the pickup at an ungodly speed, and I had to grasp the steering wheel with all my strength to keep the raging maniac on the road. I saw the terrified look on the security guard’s face when he realized that the charging German bull wasn’t going to stop, and he swerved into a small ditch and started banging the steering wheel furiously. I waved at him as the Brabus flew past him like a .223 Winchester Super Short Magnum and laughed out loud. It was absolutely guaranteed that no man had any chance of catching me. I was driving the fastest car in the whole state, and it was full of powerful guns and nasty knives. I was invincible, the shining star on the freeway to hell. The era of the suburban Antichrist had reached its peak.

  For the first time since my daughter had died, I felt the minnows of life frolicking in my clogged arteries. The layer of color that had disappeared from my world with Annalise had come back,
and the trees looked their normal green again. The sun was bright yellow, almost too bright, and my vision was sharp and focused. I felt a little guilty that a stupid car had made me feel alive again, but I figured that it was more complicated than that. It was about knowing that I was going to be successful and able to turn my escape plan into reality. The Brabus was the key to my salvation and the last missing element that would unlock the gates of eternity and offer me a chance to see my precious daughter again. It was a fast and powerful monster devoid of any fear, and it was there to help me.

  I was flying like the wind on the quiet freeway, and the scenery was changing fast. The speedometer stayed at a steady 120 miles per hour, and it seemed like a nice cruising speed for an inexperienced driver like me. It felt pretty much the same as driving 40 miles per hour in a regular car, and there was no shaking or excessive noise inside the vehicle. The Brabus was capable of reaching almost double that speed, but I didn’t have any desire to share Phaethon’s fate and embarrass myself like some nouveau riche asshole who didn’t understand that a 700-horsepower car behaved a little differently than his daddy’s Volvo—even if it the damn thing was turbocharged and advertised as sporty.

  The eastbound side of the freeway was clear, and I was lucky that I wasn’t following the stampeding herds. All the westbound lanes were completely blocked by stranded vehicles, and the whole place looked like a scene from a disaster movie. The freeway was jam-packed with fleeing people who were trying to save their families and the few belongings they had managed to tie hastily to their roofs. The traffic had come to a permanent standstill, and three lanes had turned into five. The impatient souls were using the shoulder and the grass to get past the stopped vehicles, but that approach was totally futile and just caused more accidents and formed more and more chokepoints on the freeway. It was a human soup made with frustration and fear, and the lid was about to blow off. The smell of murder was starting to blend with the crisp air that was soon going to turn into radioactive poison and kill them all.