You take the high road.
You take the high road and drive into the mouth of Hell. I must be
crazy, you thought. What am I doing here? But something was drawing
you here. You reach a stop light and brake just before it turns to
red. An bone-chilling cackle rises out of the sulpur-spewing earth. A
sarcastic voice booms: ³Our little rule follower, eh? We can¹t have
that, can we?² Your car¹s stick shift rams into 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th,
then 5th! And as you grip the steering wheel with mouth gaping open,
the car nose tilts upward, wheels squeeling, racing through
stoplights, running on sidewalks over devilish pedestrians. You look
fast over your shoulder at their hissing, and cursing, but the car
races forward until the whole picture was a swirl of ugliness and
hatred and fear.
You come to. . . your head resting on the steering wheel. You step out
of the car and onto the hot pavement that burned through your soles.
You look for a cool spot to rest and collect your thoughts, but there
is no quite spot, no cool and inviting place to think. Instead you see
a girl, small and huddles, crying, her face in her hands. She looks
up briefly, dirty with burns on her hands and face. For a moment you
pause, and your face lights up with recognition, ³Babs?² She moans.
³Babs!² You embrace. ³Iknew there was a reason for coming! We have to
get out of here!²
