Karma 44

A dark green four-door with personalized plates coasted peacefully along a country road one cool late-summer evening. The windows were down, and the sky was pink-blue heavenly.

Quite a few miles behind, a loud crowded hand-me-down full of under-age punks picked up speed. They wanted to be undeniably heard yet not heard, seen and not seen, bold and anonymous enigmas.

The dark green four-door is the same model that the nuns drive, but no cross hangs from the mirror. You know someone who drives this car; it's common, practical, affordable. This particular one was bought at an auction after being repossessed. Someone burnt a huge hole in the driver's side carpet, but it was covered with a mat. Someone smashed the passenger radio speaker, but it still works well below a certain decibel. Right now begins, just loud enough to hear, Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor.

The melody is soon completely drowned in the roar of an engine and high-pitched squeals as the car-full of teenagers pulls up dangerously close to the right. The drivers' eyes meet for a moment, one pair widened in surprise, the other narrowed with impatience. Then, the baby-faced driver with the dirty cap on backwards shakes an-almost fist at the other driver. One particularly-insulting finger is expressed. As a sharp corner nears, the green car's run off the road, and the other passes by, motor revving.

The rhythmic flow of Beethoven's Moonlight comes back into focus. The sun has set. Soon the dark green four-door is speeding in pursuit. The sky is darkening. The teenagers don't hear it coming. The speedometer nears ninety, 100, 110... A buzz like a large mutant insect, and the green car has passed.

"What the hell was that?" "Oh, my God! Dude, pull over." Near a corn field up ahead, the car that had passed is turned upside-down and still spinning. The kids jump out of the car in amazement. "Yo, where's your cell phone." "Do you see any blood?" "Wait, shh! shh!... The radio's still playing." The dark night moves slightly, and there's a rustle in the field. Two slow beats of the chord, and the song is over. Silence.

You are across the street. You just called 9-11. There is a lake in the distance shining.

You turn back towards your friends. The car is running, but all else is still, very still. You suspect they are playing a trick on you, and at a very inappropriate time. As you approach, you see them lying in awkward positions. Dear Lord, they are dead, all of them, mangled and torn, broken. How could this be? You are terrified.

You look frantically around you for the killer, then turn towards the car. The headlights are on, and you hear it shift gears. Someone has survived! Oh, please don't leave without me!!!

It has backed up and shifted into drive. It turns onto the road, but no, it's not your friend's car at all. It's dark green and the plate reads "Karma 44."

You are alone for only a moment. Sirens and flashing lights approach, and soon there are paramedics swarming your friends. A firm hand on your shoulder asks if you were the one who called. "Yes..."

See your friend's car on its head. Look up. See the full Sturgeon Moon, orange-red through the haze of death.