The Challenger

Sherry sat in the center lane of three, waiting for the traffic light to turn green, tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel of her 2020 Shelby GT500, Hermes.

She named all her vehicles. Hermes, the Olympian God of many things including speed, was aptly named. She wasn’t about to call her car Nike, after the Greek Goddess of Speed, Strength, and Victory. The name fit, but Sherry couldn’t bear thinking of her car being named after a shoe, or a company that made shoes. 

Looking to her left she saw a Toyota Prius-C, driven by an old guy. Well, old to her. He was probably about 32 or 33, close-cropped black hair held in place with some kind of mousse or gel. On her right sat a VW bug, the older model,  probably 1964-1965. The driver, a pimply-faced teenager, was smiling at her and her candy-apple red Shelby. He gave her a thumbs up.

She thought about smiling back, but decided against it, turning to look at the traffic light again. Her fingernails still hammered out a rapid beat on the wheel, but she could relax. No need to floor it when the light turned. Not when she sat between a Prius and a bug.

Then she heard a loud, low growling sound from behind her car. Her rear-view mirror filled with the front grille and hood of a muscle car just as red as her own - in this case, a 2020 Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat Redeye. Maybe she would need to floor it, after all.

The Challenger honked at her. Definitely need to floor it. She turned just in time to see the VW and the Prius pull slightly ahead of her into the intersection. No wonder the Challenger honked - she was apparently asleep at the wheel, sitting still when the light turned green. 

Sherry rammed her foot down hard on the accelerator, putting the pedal to the metal. Her tires squealed, threw smoke at the Challenger, then grabbed the pavement and pushed her past the Prius and the VW, halfway down the next block. A quick glance showed her the next light turning green, so she kept it going, racing through that intersection and the next in mere seconds. Hermes’s Supercharged V8 screeched like a cat singing until the car completed his shift into third gear. Then he purred like a mountain lion.

The throaty roar behind her swallowed Hermes’s pleasant purring. The Challenger was right on her tail. Sherry’s grim smile, beneath her twinkling eyes, reflected in her rearview mirror as she spoke to the stranger in the Challenger, words he couldn’t hear. “OK, wise guy, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The traffic light at the next intersection was turning yellow. Sherry jinked over to the right-hand lane, threw her e-brake to initiate a drift, whipped her wheel to the right immediately followed by a hard countersteer left, and drifted around the corner. Her tires sounded like screaming banshees and smoke billowed out behind her as she completed the turn and accelerated, straightening out. “That’s not my tires screaming, it’s the asphalt,” she reminded herself, remembering a poster she saw at Formula Drift the year she got her driver’s license.

She couldn’t see the intersection behind her at first, through piles of slowly dissipating smoke. But she could hear that Challenger making the asphalt scream again as it swung around the same corner in hot pursuit.

“Damn,” she muttered. “That can’t be an unmarked police car, can it? They can’t afford a souped-up muscle car like that.” Less than 10 seconds later, after she drifted around two more corners, she left the city limits behind. During those rapidly passing seconds thoughts raced through her mind. “Maybe they impounded that car,” followed by “from a drug dealer,” followed by “I’m in deep doo-doo if that’s a cop.”

Flashing red and blue lights drifted through the smoke behind her. Third gear, fourth gear, Hermes’s transmission whining, and his engine roaring a primeval challenge, her thoughts turned to an urgent decision she had to make. Should she slow down and pull over, or continue to run for it?

Hermes wasn’t making any smoke now, barreling straight down the road. Nor was the Challenger. And those lights weren’t coming from her pursuer; they were flashing behind him, and falling further behind as she watched.

“But the police have radios, and helicopters and speed strips. I think I should head for cover.” Hermes downshifted to third again as Sherry mashed on the brakes. She pulled around a wide bend to the left, then pulled a hard drift right, onto a dirt lane. Throwing dirt and grass now, she goosed it, and Hermes upshifted. She knew this road very well. And she knew where she was going.

“Too bad if Challenger boy gets to follow me,” Sherry told Hermes, shaking her head. “Better him than the cops. I hope.” Five long seconds later she was under a cool canopy of elm trees. She slowed down to a crawl and approached another side road. Turning left, she approached an isolated farm. One with stately old plantation buildings and a big barn the color of rust. She pushed a remote control, causing the security gates to swing wide open. She cruised through, opened the barn doors remotely exposing a stable full of high-end cars, not horses. Coasting in and shutting down Hermes, she let go another expletive.

“Damn. I was in such a hurry to get into the barn I left the gates open.” Too late. She heard the Challenger, now purring softly, slide through the gates and pull to a stop outside the barn. That purring engine sound was swallowed up by the wail of sirens. The spiraling dust, beginning to settle down, took on the twin colors of red and blue as the police cruiser followed the Challenger into her yard.

Sherry walked out of the barn, closing the door behind her. As the door dropped shut, enveloping Hermes in shadow, the driver stepped out of the Challenger. Behind him, the police cruiser drew to a stop.

He was a cool drink of water, as her mother used to say about Tom Selleck. He stood a good two feet taller than his Challenger, his head topped with wavy black hair and his long legs wrapped tightly in denim. Bright teeth gleamed in a rugged, tanned face. Eyes a brighter blue than the police flasher twinkled, surrounded by laugh lines. He winked at Sherry, then turned to face the approaching woman in blue.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, driving like a madman through town?” she barked. “I’m going to cite you for careless driving, reckless endangerment, and speeding.”

“A madman? I beg your pardon ma’am,” he said, bowing first, then standing tall. “A madman wouldn’t be able to handle a car like mine. I drove extremely carefully, didn’t hit any other cars or pedestrians. Therefore, nobody was endangered. You got me on the speeding, though. How much over are you going to cite me for?”

Sherry smiled. The policewoman didn’t, as she brought out her pad of tickets. Neither did her partner, although he was taking a good, close look at the Challenger.

“That’s him,” he confirmed, pointing at the Challenger’s license plate. “The dispatcher said he was driving a red Shelby with a license plate that said Hermeee.”

Sherry swallowed a lump in her throat, the Challenger’s driver smiled and the policewoman slapped her ticket book against her thigh and scowled. “Damn it.” She turned back towards her cruiser. “We have to let him go.”

“What the . . .” wondered her partner.

“That’s not a Shelby, Frank. It’s not even a Dodge. It’s a Ford.” The woman in blue pointed to the man’s car behind her. “It’s a Dodge Challenger.”

“But we followed him. He was doing ninety plus.” Frank sputtered.

“That sign back there? The one we saw just before we turned on the lights and the siren?”

“Yeah?”

“That was the county line. We need that witness to testify that he was speeding in our jurisdiction.”

While the two police officers talked, the tall Challenger’s driver walked over to give Sherry a bow, much deeper than the one he offered the policewoman earlier.

“Hi. I’m Evan.” He stuck out his hand. “And I’m impressed.”

“With my car?” Sherry took his hand in hers. It was firm and strong, yet gentle and smooth. And warm.

"With you," Evan answered, smiling. Before she said anything to him she nodded towards the pair in blue, starting to climb back into their cruiser.

“The witness will say it was a Ford, with a license plate that reads H-E-R-M-E-E-E. He’s driving a Dodge, with a plate reading H-E-R-M-E-S.”

“At least it’s a red car,” Frank mumbled, closing his door.

The policewoman looked back at Evan’s Challenger. “That’s not a red car, Frank. That’s a red dream.” She climbed in behind the wheel and they left.