Chapter II- Interception

Once out on the road, Jack quickly realized he had no idea what he was doing. He turned too slow or too fast; he stopped just the same way. He received many honks, dirty looks and glares, but so far his luck had held.

No cops.

His house was an hour's walk away, much less by car. But the journey was now made much more complex by the very mode of transport Jack had chosen- he was driving a stolen car.

Rolling the window down and propping one bare arm up, Jack did his best to effect a casual manner, acting just as nonchalant as he could. It was summer, after all, and he was hardly the only half-naked teenager driving a car somewhere. Some experimenting with the controls soon had Jack aware, if crudely, of the essentials- turn signals, brake and gas pedal, gear shifter and so on. Little else was important, and the windows were hand cranks. That was another thing Jack already knew.

As he made his way down the road, surrounded by plenty of cars but- thankfully- no cops, Jack began to relax for real. At one point, he even thumped the steering wheel, whooping with glee at his success. He'd just done two of the most esteemed acts any teenage boy could aspire to- his first with a girl, and his first drive in a car! And on top of that, he'd stolen the car, too. That was sure to give him one hell of a story to tell in school on Monday. What frustrated Jack was the thought, the realization, that few of his friends were gonna believe it. This was just too incredible, even for the well-known daredevil style of Jack.

As he passed through one suburban intersection and headed for the next, Jack realised he could get out into the country- his parents lived close to the county border- and ditch the car way out there somewhere. Then he could just walk back. As he took a turn to start heading towards the interstate, Jack laughed at his own cleverness. This was just too damn easy.

A sudden flashing of colored lights interrupted his thinking as Jack saw the interstate entrance turn coming into view. Red and blue… shit. Jack glanced back, and sure enough it was his local county police, come to pay him a visit. Immediately, the urge surged into him- run for it. Just stomp the accelerator and run. But something else told him… not yet. Not just yet.

So Jack played it safe, obeying the command of the pissed-off sheriff's deputy to pull the car over now, I'm not talking to hear my own voice. He slowed, pulling over to the side in the interstate turn-lane. Jack waited for the county Dodge to stop, waited for the cop to get out of his own car… and then floored it. The Plymouth roared and took off down the pavement, chunks of blacktop and gravel spraying from the rear wheels. Jack yelled with excitement as adrenaline rushed through him and the car tore through the exit lane and onto the highway. He'd done it again.

This time, though, they weren't long in following. The county police car was soon joined by another, and both of them came flying up onto the interstate through the same exit Jack had taken, less than a minute after his second getaway. For a time, it looked like Jack still had a chance- maybe to find a quick exit ramp and disappear for a while. But his luck ran out when he passed a state trooper's Chevrolet at the side of the road, and the trooper, bored after hours of sitting but still holding his radar gun, clocked him at over seventy miles an hour.

In a fifty-five.

When the state police cruiser took off after him, Jack started noticing the traffic around him parting like the Red Sea. He'd been seen. Tromping the gas pedal, Jack willed the Plymouth to not just to faster- he wanted it to fly. The car did its best, taking him up to the fastest speed its speedometer even mentioned- 85 miles an hour. Going much faster than any of the other cars now, Jack had to swerve many times to avoid slamming into someone. The Plymouth's suspension was a little too loose, a little too soft- the car wallowed about, and Jack's sloppy driving did him no favors. He managed to outmaneuver the police for a full ten minutes, but his ability to outrun them didn't last as long- twelve minutes into the chase, a state trooper's car caught up to him and rammed the Plymouth's rear end from the side. Jack had seen it on TV a few times- classic PIT Maneuver. He tried to compensate, tried to take back control of the maroon Plymouth, and failed miserably. The Plymouth not only slewed, it rolled- and ended up doing so at almost 90 miles per hour.

What exactly happened next Jack could never do well at remembering. All he knew was that suddenly, with a scream of rubber that seemed to drown out the world, Jack's stolen Plymouth was suddenly going sideways. Momentum wanted it to keep going forward- the fact that Chrysler Corporation had never, ever designed a Plymouth to drive sideways would not allow.

The car rolled. Jack knew that much. It rolled and rolled, and Jack was mercilessly thrown about inside the car- he'd never bothered to hook up his seatbelt, and a trooper later would comment it was a miracle he hadn't been ejected from the car. Steel bent, glass shattered, and Jack was showered with tiny pieces of the car's windshield as the safety glass broke. Eventually, though, the crashing and banging slowed… then stopped. Jack found the car to have stopped upside down, and he- incredibly- was now quite bruised, but not dead. A sharp pain in his side made him wonder, though- had he bruised his ribs or something? He hurt all over, actually… and the numerous flashing lights all around could only mean one thing. As he crawled out of the flipped-over Plymouth and staggered to his feet, Jack found himself staring straight into the blinding flashlight of one state trooper- and into the barrel of another's pistol.

Jack grimaced and raised a hand to shield his eyes. Looking at the sweaty, grimy kid with more cuts and bruises than he'd seen in a while, the one trooper laughed grimly as he grabbed Jack's wrist, expertly spun him around, and cuffed him. "Sorry, kid. Fun's over." The trooper said.

"Fuck you!" Jack spat, struggling defiantly as they started to move him towards one of the cars.

"Careful, kid," one of the troopers said, "The more you try to get out of those cuffs, the tighter they'll get."

The other added, "He's got to have some of the tiniest wrists we've put these on, though."

The first trooper considered. "Yeah, go on and struggle, kid. Makes our job easier once those handcuffs are nice and tight."

"Fuck your mom! I fucked your mom!" Jack yelled, pissed off and humiliated in defeat.

The troopers laughed as one of them opened the rear door of the cruiser and unceremoniously shoved him inside.

Jack sat up and immediately worked his hands toward one of the door handles, but nothing happened. Noticing what he was doing, the trooper getting in the driver's seat turned around and faced him. "Still trying to get away?" he said, sounding- and looking- half-amazed. "It's no good, I'm telling you. Those doors don't open from the inside."

"You got quite an attitude, kid." The one in the passenger seat said. As they got going, the state police car passed the Plymouth Jack had rolled- he hadn't just wrecked it; he'd destroyed it. Jack suppressed a smile- he'd really outdone himself tonight. Part of him really didn't care what happened next- what were they gonna do, lock him up in the county jail for a night or two again?

The trooper riding in the passenger seat spoke again. "What's your name, kid? Not like you got your driver's license. You've dug a nice, big hole for yourself tonight, and somebody's gonna have to call your parents and let 'em know about it."

Jack flashed a grin. "I'm the kid that fucked your mom, remember?"

The trooper's face darkened. "Just keep making it worse for yourself, why don't you? Give us your damn name, kid."

Finally, Jack shrugged. What was the harm in telling them? It would get him out of the cell he was headed for a little faster, and in any case, part of Jack wanted these guys to know who'd led them on a chase he knew they'd all remember for years. So he told them.

"Jack."

"Jack what?"

"Jack Merridew."