Wanting To Meet Her

The murderer drove.

Thankfully for the Bouchie household, the killstreak maintained by Adam Jucas was still stalling at one.

Michael Bouchie, suspected to be the uncle of the woman Adam had brutally slaughtered within the past hour, was right behind him, driving a Ford F-150 truck, mimicking the velocity of a Lockheed-Martin F-15 jet. If any industrial journalists were present, it would've been their lucky day - to put the Bentley Continental SS to the test.

Four pairs of wheels spun round and round, like vinyl records being played on an Edison era phonograph. Two pairs belonging to each vehicle. One delivering greater torque, the other guaranteeing better performance.

'Blasted blasphemy!' Adam cursed at his fate and luck. As far as he could recall, it all began from the moment he'd set foot at the café.

He had to lose his tailgating pursuer.

Speeding along the highway, with a fuel tank full of petrol (gasoline), Adam Jucas was confident that his superior speedevil would outrun Michael's.

He didn't blame that man.

If he had the privilege of having a niece in his family and if someone had committed such a sin to her, surely he would've chased that rascal down to the pitfires of Hell.

"Tell me where's my niece, ya bastard!"

Michael's booming voice spit out anger-flavored words of angst. The auditorium bracketed by layers of branchless trees ricocheted the aerial vibrations around the artificial biome.

Up ahead, out of nowhere, a chasm greeted the incoming cars.

Putting his faith forward, Adam accelerated further.

"Oi, stop right there, you son of a Jucas!" Michael's voice was no longer audible with sufficient clarity, given the lack of proximity. "If that blood belongs to my niece, I'll shower you with so many bullets there'll be nothing left to bury!"

Adam ignored the threats bluntly and continued approaching the massive crack in the ground. The highway continued perfectly on the other side. Based on his mental pantry of knowledge cakes, one crumb narrated that the hundred-meter-wide horizontal hole was a faultline. Atleast a thousand feet deep. A fatal fall, but not for the dragon-hearted.

Adam was determined to see the sun rise up again.

Michael pressed on his brakes, the Ford skidding under the influence of oversteering to the right. Paragliders of the tar kingdom rose up in smoke, attempting to hide the embarrassment of the heavy truck being unable to make a jump that far.

His rage-driven ocular irises only reflected the stunt being performed by the ex-detective's Bentley. His jaw muscles clenched themselves tight, colliding thirty-two white enamel-coated bones together in his mouth.

Michael got out of his truck and aimed his Remington 870 shotgun.

***

Climbing out of the wreckage, the first thing that brought wrinkles of nervousness to Adam's forehead was whether his favorite tuxedo was dented or not.

Pulling out some glass shrapnel from his arm, he frowned.

The damage dealt to his Bentley was the least of his worries. Underestimating Michael's fury, he had to survive punctured tires and gain more distance from the redneck behavior. Unfortunately, his car rammed right through the bordering trees, while trying to break free from the line of Mike's sight.

Cars could be fixed. Suits could be stitched. But the pain from bullet wounds couldn't be mitigated with ease.

The ex-detective knew from experience.

'Damnations!' he carefully lifted his legs out from the debris of the windshield and windows. 'Maybe choosing this route was a bad idea.'

He made a quick prayer to the divine entity above all, for ensuring his safety with a minimal amount of injuries.

But time wasn't his friend. Nor was fate.

Adam grabbed two weapons from the glove compartment of his dying mechanical mount - two handguns, identical and indistinguishable for ordinary eyes save his, one containing lead-antimony cones in shells and the other with coins in its womb.

The area seemed a bit familiar to him.

He chose a random direction away from the clean asphalt for now, heading into the haphazardly domain of petrified trees.

The prince of the sky was en route to bed, slowly descending through the vertical horizon, painting tiger skins and flat skeletal shadows from canopy to forest floor.

Somewhere in Adam's mind, it all felt very familiar. Reeds of his consciousness grew around ponds of his memories. A sensation too oddly close to one he'd detected before.

Trudging briskly, highly alert, he placed his pistols into his pockets.

From the corners of his eyes, he concluded that he was being watched. But from locations unknown and undisclosed. Not from the ground, nor from the trees.

He walked, treading with a steady crutch of caution.

'If someone really wants to make me taste death, they should be here. Any moment now.'

The forest was silent. Not a bird nor any fauna in sight.

He saw wooden edges amongst the closely-standing conifers.

Based on the patterns he'd been facing throughout the day so far, Adam could predict what the object was. But he still couldn't contemplate on the reason why it should be there.

Or why he should be here.

His mind was certainly packed to the brim with stress and guilt. And the cabin in the woods was just a blink away.