Drive
A low, primitive groan rose from the car’s core and its systems vibrated back to life. “HELLLLLLLLO will butler,” the robotic voice said, filling the chamber. “MY APOLOGIES FOR THE MINOR ISSUE BUT I’M NOW FULLY OPERATIONAL. LET’S GET ON THE ROAD AGAIN AND CONTINUE OUR TRIP TO logan airport.” As if for emphasis, Willie Nelson’s cheerful voice rang out over the speakers: “On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again . . . “ Pulling away from the curb, the Beemo picked up speed and maneuvered itself expertly back into the flow of traffic.
Relieved and a bit surprised to be on the move, Will checked his watch. Only a ten-minute delay. I can live with that. Except for the blood-dipped display and strange messages, the car appeared to be working fine. He was relieved they’d avoided the highways today; better to have a problem on Boylston Street than barreling down the highway at seventy-five miles an hour.
“Beemo, confirm destination and arrival time.”
“will butler YOUR ETA IS NOW nine oh-nine. ENJOY THE RIDE WHILE BEEMO GETS YOU THERE BEAUTIFULLY, SAFELY AND ON TIME.”
Satisfied, he tucked his laptop away in his briefcase and sat back in the leather seat. The lucent dome offered gorgeous views of the city. They were approaching Trinity Church where he and Alison occasionally attended Sunday services followed by brunch and Bloody Marys at Sonsie. The plaza buzzed with professionals, students and skateboarders. Will’s eyes followed one ragged-looking boarder as he skimmed his deck along the curb, passing so close to the Beemo that Will could have practically reached out to high-five the dude. As he contemplated the poor souls stuck behind the wheels of their own cars, Will relished his own Beemo experience. So up-close and personal . . . so present. It made him feel like he was floating through the city in a giant bubble, like Glinda The Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz. Zac loved that movie.
Shotgun Willie finished his song and the Beemo was silent. The route map still hadn’t reappeared, but when it did, he hoped it would still be pointing east towards the airport. Will was nervous that the lingering glitches could portend another time-wasting breakdown. A new message appeared and began to blink on screen:
REBOOT COMPLETE. VIRUS ID POSITIVE.
INITIATING KILL SEQUENCE . . .
Kill sequence? What the f*^& is that? Obviously, there was still some sort of glitch in the car’s systems. You could bet he’d be getting in touch with Beemo Customer Service and giving them an earful as soon as he landed in Chicago. He was a frequent rider, after all; they’d have to listen to him. Maybe if he was indignant enough they’d even throw some freebies his way, like the airlines did. It was worth a try.
The car was moving fast as they approached the red light at the intersection of Boylston and Berkeley. Still adrift in his thoughts, Will expected the Beemo to slow down. Instead, it began accelerating, the inertia pressing him back into his seat. The crosswalk bustled with people as the Beemo’s speedometer crept up to 45 . . . 50 . . . then past 55 to 60.
Shit! We’re going way too fast . . .
A young man in a blue hoodie stepped off the curb, staring at the phone in his hands and not bothering to check for approaching traffic. He had sandy hair and a matching goatee and a satchel slung over his shoulder . . . probably some kid on his way to work at Pinkberry, or the mailroom in Fidelity. I bet he has Apple airpods in his ears too, cranked at full volume, oblivious—he doesn’t even know we’re coming.
The Beemo wrenched hard left, cutting off a truck and putting itself on a direct course with Blue Hoodie. What the fuck!? Other pedestrians, catching sight of the speeding Beemo, jumped back, panicked, shouting a warning to Blue Hoodie. But everyone could only watch helplessly as the young man’s fate raced toward him at sixty miles per hour.
In a split-second impact, the Beemo struck Blue Hoodie, passing through him like wet newspaper and flipping his body into then over the windshield. Shocked, Will swiveled to see Blue Hoodie’s limp form land on the sidewalk with a dull thud, like a sand-filled scarecrow tossed off a building.
It killed him, Will thought crazily. That boy must be dead and my car did it. He felt an icy pit in his stomach and his head filled with a murky haze as he tried to process what had just happened. He knew the Beemo was programmed to stop in the event of an accident, but the car hadn’t slowed at all. If anything, it was energized, gaining even more speed as it tore down Boylston Street with a vengeance.
Around them, startled bystanders stared in horror as a rising crescendo of screams pierced the air then grew faint as the evil egg sped on. Will sat rigid in his seat, eyes transfixed on the blood and jelly-like substance (Brains?! Oh dear Christ!) streaking across the windshield. He looked at the face staring back at him in the tinted glass, and he could barely recognize his own ashen reflection. In his forty-one years on Earth, Will Butler had only a passing familiarity with Death, but now he could feel its spidery fingers pulling at him. Then, like an icepick to the brain, he had a moment of pure clarity:
Maybe this is the day I die.
