last race
. . . .
The walls are too small, the air too saturated. There's the whirring of a fan in the corner, but now it's more of an annoyance than a comfort. It's too suffocatingly quiet. Finally, there's relief when the garage door forces itself open. Lightning McQueen exits into the cool October air, not totally sure of where he's going.
He finds himself at Willy's Butte, parked a few yards away from the starting line. It had been a while (weeks? months?) since he's been at the track. Doc had joined him last time, though McQueen desperately wishes he hadn't. If he never showed up, then maybe his engine wouldn't have failed, maybe he'd still be here- no. Thinking about it wouldn't help it now, nor would it change the past. He pulls up to the line, and settles in. The dirt is cool under his tires, and the moonlight is bright enough to light his way. A couple laps to clear his mind, and then he'd go home.
It's exhilarating; the feeling of eighty, ninety, one-hundred miles per hour, the dust and dirt flying behind him. Three times 'round, then he stops. The cold air burns his lungs and his eyes are dry, but he's content. Four laps, and then two more. He keeps going, and going, and going-
Until he sees the light. Confused, he slows to a stop. It's suspended in mid air, hovering in an almost anticipatory way over the starting line.
It's morphing, churning, glowing; not a solid, nor liquid, nor gas.
Immediately, McQueen's mind jumps to the Ghost Light. He remembers, very clearly, the old wives' tale: an ethereal, ill-intentioned, blue light that would steal you away and leave nothing but your licence plate. That was a story meant to keep the children in at night... Not to mention, ghosts aren't real.
McQueen suddenly notices that the *thing* is starting to take shape. What used to be a disgusting, bubbling mass begins to form wheels, and then a front bumper, and then a hood ornament. From the ground up, it builds a silhouette that he wished he didn't recognize.
Ghosts aren't real, and Doc Hudson is dead. Yet, Doc is right here, standing in front of him, so one of those statements must be false.
McQueen didn't realize that he'd been staring. Doc- no, not Doc. An echo of him, maybe, but it definitely wasn't him- turned to face him, and gestured towards the starting line. Slowly, nervously, McQueen approached.
Doc takes off the minute McQueen reaches the line. Stunned, he stares as Doc speeds away. He's too dumbfounded (and slightly scared) to go after him.
McQueen jumps as Doc reappears next to him. He gestures from the line, to the track, and back at himself.
"You... You want to race?" McQueen asks.
Doc nods exasperatedly. Unsure, McQueen settled back into the dirt, and starts his engine.
They're off in a matter of moments, battling for the lead. This time, it's not as restful, nor is it exciting. McQueen has a dreaful feeling about the whole situation, like something bad might happen if he let's the ghost win.
Nothing comes out of it, though. They reach the finish line, tied. Doc is smiling gleefully, but tiredly. He's sinking through the ground, now, and he utters one, single word before he disappears completely: "Thanks."
Dumbfounded, McQueen stands there, staring at the spot where he disappeared. He feels like it's been hours, or days, or maybe even weeks since he last slept.
"Stickers? Stickers, are you alright?"
Sally's voice brings him out of the trance he's in. She's stood in front of him, but there's no sign of the ghost. He blinked. "What? I'm fine, what's going on?"
She sighed in relief. "You were just standing there, staring off into space." She said, "What're you doing out here? It's three in the morning!"
"Couldn't sleep," McQueen replied. He must have passed out on the track, and just dreamed that he saw Doc. He stands there, thinking, for a few more minutes. "Let's go home," he finally said. He turns to leave, but not before spotting the duo of racing tire tracks leading away from the starting line.