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Kevin Wade wrestled the Lincoln's steering wheel, the squeal of tires filling the air as his car jumped from the gravel shoulder back to the pavement. The car cut across the empty highway and headed for the guardrail separating the north and south bound lanes of I-95. He stood on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel right to line back up with the road. The car shook with a deep rumble as the anti-lock brakes kept the rear of the car from spinning into the guardrail. Kevin braced for an impact as the Doppler wail of a tractor-trailer's horn filled the car. He whispered, "Thank God," as the car merely rocked from the bastion of wind pushed by the passing truck. He stepped on the gas and looked in the rear view mirror, praying the traffic behind wouldn't trample him. The tiny dots of headlights were far behind, and he let out his breath. "Jesus, I'm awake now." Kevin's heart pounded through the words. His fingers shook from the adrenaline as he fumbled across the armrest and found the down button on the power window control. The night air, cold even for February, poured through the window and whipped furiously through the car's leather interior. He flipped on the dome light of his Lincoln Mark VIII and glanced at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Two bloodshot eyes stared back languidly. He blinked hard a few times. "Damn I need some sleep, or some Visine." He turned off the dome light. The dashboard clock glowed 11:42 PM. Kevin turned on the radio and began pressing the pre-programmed buttons until the digital display read "101.1". "DC 101, Washington D.C.'s only rock." The station identification growled through the speakers a moment before the characteristic shrieking of Aerosmith's lead singer began bouncing around the car's interior. Kevin began drumming along with the tune, the top of the steering wheel becoming cymbals and the airbag acting as the drums. The cruise control freed his right foot for the base drum. Kevin smiled as he thought of his wife, Becky, making him hide his collection of compact disks in his desk drawer at home to avoid offending visitors with his preferences in music. Kevin always argued he didn't want his music to put him to sleep. Suddenly one of the singer's rasping wails merged with a wash of static. The guitar fought back for a few seconds, then finally succumbed to a chatter of static. Kevin looked down at the radio and pressed the station's pre-programmed button again. The speakers went silent for a moment, then continued their babble of static. When he pressed the scan button, the digital frequency display spun upward without stopping on a station. Kevin leaned over and struck the console with his palm. "Com'on, you bastard! What's wrong with you?" The radio ignored him and continued racing through its frequency range. "I'm only a few miles out of the city; I can't be out of range." He sighed and turned it off. Just after midnight, he steered the car gracefully off the interstate at the last Stafford exit and slowed to a stop at the top of the ramp. Turning right, he headed west along route 624. The streetlights shone through the windshield casting bars of light that flowed down his face and across his lap in quick succession. About a mile from the interstate, the engine started to buck and choke. Kevin tapped the accelerator, trying to urge the car onto the gravel shoulder. Once its left wheels rolled off the pavement, the car revved, then died. Kevin sighed and let his head fall against the steering wheel. "What now?" He stared through the steering wheel at the fuel gauge. Its tip was just slipping past the three-quarter full mark. He lifted his head from the steering wheel and fell back against the seat. Through the tinted glass of the moon roof, Kevin saw a shower of colored lights filling the night sky. Deep in the heavily wooded neighborhood of Brenthill Estates, twelve-year-old Ricky Collins sat upright in bed with the covers pulled over his head to form a tent. His flashlight had rolled into the depression made by his weight and lay against his shin as his fingers furiously mashed the buttons of his GameBoy. The beam from the flashlight covered the inside of the sheets with twisting shadows that trembled slightly from the boy's movements. A black wire linked the game to a set of headphones spanning his head. The last time Ricky had glanced at the clock, it read 11:27 PM. He had heard his Aunt Betsy go to bed over an hour ago, and Carrie, his four-year old sister, had been in bed since eight. For months now, he had battled insomnia. He'd lie in bed, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting the urge to let them fly open and stare into the darkness. He didn't know why he couldn't sleep, only that every night, his mind would race, panicked at the thought of another sleepless night. Sometimes, playing his GameBoy or reading would help, but usually he would not fall asleep until after two in the morning. Being the only one awake in the house was adventurous, but it also felt terribly lonely. Suddenly, random spots appeared across the GameBoy's screen. Ricky continued playing, trying to find the targets behind the scattered noise. Finally, the game locked up. "Damn," Ricky said aloud. "What a stupid time for the batteries to crash." There were new ones were in the kitchen, but Aunt Betsy would certainly hear him sneak downstairs to get them. Next time, he would remember to bring a fresh set to his room before going to bed. Ricky turned off the flashlight and pulled the covers from his head. He swung his torso over the edge of the bed and stuffed the flashlight and the GameBoy through a tear in the fabric covering the bottom of the box spring. It had gotten warm under the covers, and he kicked them free as he lay back and tried to fall asleep. Through his bedroom window, Ricky could see brilliant flashes of color, twisting and darting through the night sky. |