Thanks for reading and reviewing, folks. This one's sort of short, but very focused on Alan.
38:Survival,Tracy-Style
Nearing Spartanburg, South Carolina-
In the aftermath, Alan decided that those bodyguards his dad had suggested might have been a good idea… or that maybe he should hire a brother or two to ride shotgun and sit with his pit crew. Virgil, maybe. The third Tracy was just about un-killable (survive pretty near anything, time and again) and a cinch to get along with.
Keep him well stocked with music, art supplies and fishing gear, and Virgil Tracy was one-hundred percent contented. Anyhow, it would have been nice to have Virge along when the world took a sharp left turn straight into gridlocked Hades.
Actually, Alan's memory of events turned out a little bit spotty, when he tried to think matters over, afterward. John could've provided a diagram with precise locations and distances, wind-speeds, a lurking brown mutt nosing garbage, and everyone's license tag numbers (with emphasis on the primes). Alan saw more of a flame-edged collage.
He'd turned off the highway at a handy exit… definitely recalled doing that… then drove onto a local road sparsely dusted with struggling tourist traps and eateries. Didn't find out till later that the whole thing was a set-up; that a subtly flashing, subliminal-frequency blinker had been placed on that particular exit sign, making it impossible to ignore or pass up.
How'd they know he'd be coming this way? There weren't that many fast, direct routes between Wichita, Kansas and Darlington Motor Speedway in South Carolina. Kind of simple to keep those few covered, arranging a little surprise at each one. Especially for someone with resources like the former Drake Pleasance (who'd already taken a brand new name and identity).
A saner young man would have halted at Stuckey's or Amoco, but Alan R. Tracy had always been an adventurer. He liked collecting stickers and stupid tourist junk at each unlikely pit stop, sampling their "Big Man Truck-Driver Special" menus. So, instead of pulling in at one of the big-time concerns, he drove right past them.
…And that's where his memory started to break up and sliver like a jigsaw puzzled when somebody bumps the table. Must've been some kind of sensor at the intersection, triggered by a small transmitter placed on his car in Kansas, somewheres. Anyhow, Alan tooled on past the obvious food-and-watering holes, headed for Ma's Good Eats. He was driving too fast, of course, but his racing fame went a long way with most local cops, so Alan wasn't much worried.
Flashing lights appeared in the rearview, not unexpectedly. Then came this loud, booming, chunk-jetting, fiery explosion. Alan couldn't tell you the exact when, why or wherefore; just that the earth and sky rumbled, shook like Jell-O and vomited flame. That blazing debris rocked his speeding car, smashing dents in the metal and crazing the windows. That a brief flare of intense heat softened the Mustang's tires and knocked him half-conscious. And that there were suddenly no flashing blue and red lights.
He drove through a fireball of erupting gas pumps and underground fuel tanks, and then somehow was out the other side, hearing roaring and screams and the harsh clatter of falling debris. Did what any self-respecting young Tracy would do, then. Pulled over, vaulted out of the scorched red Mustang and got to work, hitting 911 on his cell phone, followed by 137 (John's special code).