The Sedan

May 23, 2008
By Steven Chevalia, Hawthorn Woods, IL

This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen. It was right out of a bad dream, or a Stephen King horror masterpiece. Yet, his mind raged, the black Sedan has been following me for more than thirty miles. The license plates, which should have read KILL3R or DANG3R, were not on the car at all. Naturally, his brain ranted, no cops were around when he needed them. He longed to see the red, white, and blue that always struck fear in his heart, even when he was only driving five over the limit.

The first time he had received a ticket he had been pulled over by a brute of a man, a maniac. He had been going fourteen over the limit when he was tagged and he had been reamed out for at least fifteen minutes before he had been given his ticket. The man had taken a second to scribble down the information he needed to, after ‘politely’ asking for Stan’s license and registration, and had then thrown the ticket in Stan’s face.

But, now the fear of the cop left Stan, that had been a long time ago, when he was in high school, and still invincible. He was forty-five now, the opposite of invincible. He was weak, powerless, and could die if the man in the Sedan even got half his wish. Stan wondered if he was a random victim, or maybe the man had chosen him for a reason. Had the man picked him out? Maybe bugged his car?

Most of the new Sedans, Stan thought, have those GPS tracking systems, and if someone knew what they were doing they’d be able to be a hell of a nuisance, if not down right dangerous. Stan swept a hand across his brow. His fingers were long and smooth, the hand of someone who never let anything happen. They were the fingers of a very careful man and yet now his life was in danger thirty-one miles and still the Sedan took a left moments after he did, or switched into the left lane as he tried to lose it on the expressway.

The Sedan persevered, however, as soon as Stan’s Ford LTD entered the highway the man in the black car followed suit. They man in the Sedan was the devil. The sudden thought startled Stan. He hadn’t pieced the facts together yet. He started into his rearview mirror, watching the man with black eyes, a black car, and more than likely, a black suit. The man looked Stan in the eyes. He could feel his pupils widening as he felt his soul freeze. The man was the devil, Stan was the farmer, just he didn’t remember selling his soul.

Was he Job that God could just make bets on his soul?

The Sedan swerved and Stan’s attention went back to the black man with pale white skin gripping the steering wheel. The man was dieing; the devil had limited time in his current form, if he was going to strike it would be soon. Stan’s ford sputtered, the cars zooming by him on either side took no notice of the ford which slowed down on the right shoulder going over the sharp juts in the shoulder meant to wake sleeping drivers careening off the road. His vehicle stopped, the needle, on the gas gauge, reading E. His hand wiped his brow, flicking sweat across his car. The car was heating up. The Sedan pulled behind him and the man with no soul stepped out.

The temperature spiked again, raising the temperature to a whole new level. The man came closer, and closer. Stan’s heart couldn’t take the heat. It stopped.

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This article has 1 comment.

on Aug. 5 2008 at 6:10 am
Wow. That was really great. I love how you said so much with so few words.

I loved it!

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