Honda still harder. “Find out what he knows!”
The rest of Drew’s words are lost in the roar of wind past my ears as we race toward the end of the bowl.
“Look!” he shouts, pointing at the almost stationary headlight. “We’ve got him!”
The smaller engine whines like a chainsaw, and then the headlight begins moving jerkily uphill.
“Fuck!” bellows Drew.
Suddenly the entire bowl is blasted by white light, as though God ripped back the night sky to expose a hidden sun. In the blinding light I see a narrow gap cut in the Cyclone fence. Drew steers toward it.
“You can’t make it!” I scream, realizing the hole was cut for a motorcycle to pass through. “Don’t do it!”
Drew jolts across the track with abandon, then—realizing he can’t break the laws of physics—hits the brakes, throwing the Honda into a skid. The ass end of the four-wheeler spins forward, and suddenly it’s me who’s most likely to slam into the fence. But the grass is slick from rain. We spin once more, and then the front bumper of the ATV just kisses the loose wire of the Cyclone fence.
“Come on, baby,” Drew pleads, trying to restart the engine, which died during the skid.
“Give it up, man. Let him go.”
As the rattle of the motorcycle grows fainter, the steel fence post beside me sings as though struck by a hammer. Almost instantly that sound merges into a deafening boom that echoes around the bowl like cannon fire. Only then do I realize that the supersonic crack of the rifle bullet escaped me altogether. For a moment I wonder whether, despite the evidence of my eyes, Drew has drawn and fired his deer rifle at the fleeing motorcyclist. But he hasn’t.
“Somebody’s shooting at us!” I yell, clapping him on the shoulder.
“No shit!” he grunts, finally cranking the Honda to life. “Get off and hold the fence back!”
As I dismount the ATV, a second rifle shot blasts across the bowl. Drew yanks his own rifle from the boot and shoves it into my hands. “You know where the switch is? For the stadium lights?”
I nod blankly.
“Shoot back! Sooner or later, that asshole’s going to hit one of us.”
I scramble through the gap in the fence, move to the side of the opening, then lay the rifle barrel through one of the diamond shaped holes in the fence and sight in on the staircase at the base of the press box. The switch box is mounted on the wall just above it. I see no one there, and I’m glad for it.
As Drew tries to bull the Honda through the gap in the fence, I draw a bead on the metal circuit box that contains the light switches. The Remington bucks against my shoulder three times before the blazing lights go dark.
“Get on!” Drew yells, the four-wheeler suddenly beside me in the darkness.
I shove his rifle back into the gun boot and climb onto the seat behind him, shocked by my exhilaration at having neutralized the threat from above. But the greatest threat to my safety probably wasn’t the shooter in the stadium; it’s the man whose waist I’m clinging to in the dark.
There’s no path through the trees, but this doesn’t deter Drew. He accelerates up the incline like a whiskey-crazed redneck in a mud-riding contest, dodging pines and briar thickets with inches to spare. As we crest the first hill, I feel the front wheels rise off the ground, and for a second I’m sure the Honda is about to flip backward and crush us, a manner of death all too common in Mississippi. But Drew stands erect and leans over the handlebars, restoring enough equilibrium for us to ramp over the hill and land in one piece on the other side.
To my surprise, he brakes to a stop and switches off the headlight. Now we face a darkness so deep, it makes the bowl seem hospitable by comparison. This is the darkness of the primeval forest.
“You’ll never catch him,” I say softly.
“Shhh,” says Drew, killing the motor. “Listen.”
Sure enough, somewhere below us and to our left I hear the faint protest of a
The rest of Drew’s words are lost in the roar of wind past my ears as we race toward the end of the bowl.
“Look!” he shouts, pointing at the almost stationary headlight. “We’ve got him!”
The smaller engine whines like a chainsaw, and then the headlight begins moving jerkily uphill.
“Fuck!” bellows Drew.
Suddenly the entire bowl is blasted by white light, as though God ripped back the night sky to expose a hidden sun. In the blinding light I see a narrow gap cut in the Cyclone fence. Drew steers toward it.
“You can’t make it!” I scream, realizing the hole was cut for a motorcycle to pass through. “Don’t do it!”
Drew jolts across the track with abandon, then—realizing he can’t break the laws of physics—hits the brakes, throwing the Honda into a skid. The ass end of the four-wheeler spins forward, and suddenly it’s me who’s most likely to slam into the fence. But the grass is slick from rain. We spin once more, and then the front bumper of the ATV just kisses the loose wire of the Cyclone fence.
“Come on, baby,” Drew pleads, trying to restart the engine, which died during the skid.
“Give it up, man. Let him go.”
As the rattle of the motorcycle grows fainter, the steel fence post beside me sings as though struck by a hammer. Almost instantly that sound merges into a deafening boom that echoes around the bowl like cannon fire. Only then do I realize that the supersonic crack of the rifle bullet escaped me altogether. For a moment I wonder whether, despite the evidence of my eyes, Drew has drawn and fired his deer rifle at the fleeing motorcyclist. But he hasn’t.
“Somebody’s shooting at us!” I yell, clapping him on the shoulder.
“No shit!” he grunts, finally cranking the Honda to life. “Get off and hold the fence back!”
As I dismount the ATV, a second rifle shot blasts across the bowl. Drew yanks his own rifle from the boot and shoves it into my hands. “You know where the switch is? For the stadium lights?”
I nod blankly.
“Shoot back! Sooner or later, that asshole’s going to hit one of us.”
I scramble through the gap in the fence, move to the side of the opening, then lay the rifle barrel through one of the diamond shaped holes in the fence and sight in on the staircase at the base of the press box. The switch box is mounted on the wall just above it. I see no one there, and I’m glad for it.
As Drew tries to bull the Honda through the gap in the fence, I draw a bead on the metal circuit box that contains the light switches. The Remington bucks against my shoulder three times before the blazing lights go dark.
“Get on!” Drew yells, the four-wheeler suddenly beside me in the darkness.
I shove his rifle back into the gun boot and climb onto the seat behind him, shocked by my exhilaration at having neutralized the threat from above. But the greatest threat to my safety probably wasn’t the shooter in the stadium; it’s the man whose waist I’m clinging to in the dark.
There’s no path through the trees, but this doesn’t deter Drew. He accelerates up the incline like a whiskey-crazed redneck in a mud-riding contest, dodging pines and briar thickets with inches to spare. As we crest the first hill, I feel the front wheels rise off the ground, and for a second I’m sure the Honda is about to flip backward and crush us, a manner of death all too common in Mississippi. But Drew stands erect and leans over the handlebars, restoring enough equilibrium for us to ramp over the hill and land in one piece on the other side.
To my surprise, he brakes to a stop and switches off the headlight. Now we face a darkness so deep, it makes the bowl seem hospitable by comparison. This is the darkness of the primeval forest.
“You’ll never catch him,” I say softly.
“Shhh,” says Drew, killing the motor. “Listen.”
Sure enough, somewhere below us and to our left I hear the faint protest of a
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