Just Try Not To Die by Gareth K Pengelly

Author:Gareth K Pengelly [Pengelly, Gareth K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-11-13T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven:

All The Zeroes

Brian was a driving god. That’s how it felt, at least, as he’d pulled out of the tiny, derelict-looking garage in Long Rock, the door closing behind him and the street resounding to the off-beat burble of the enormous V8 that throbbed under the bonnet. Car drivers snapped at the neck to watch him pull out onto the road in a squeal of tyres. Pedestrians’ jaws hit the floor, though whether at the sight of his car, or merely the fact that a skinny, nerdish nobody was at the wheel of such a machine, he didn’t care to guess. As he cruised back towards Penzance through the orange, early evening glow, the merest whiff of throttle wafting him along on a surge of power, he leaned further back into the leather seat, one arm hanging relaxed out of the window, letting the auto-box do all the work, and finally allowed himself a smile.

The day had been full of terror and humiliation, but at least one good thing had come of it.

He still couldn’t believe that this beast was his. Granted, it came at the expense of dedicating his life to a scary pursuit of risking life and limb, of hunting gribbly monsters in grim places, but hey – he got a muscle car out of the deal! Never did he think he’d ever get the chance to even drive a car as incredible as this, let alone own one. But then, he thought, it wasn’t really his, but the Order’s. More of a company car, in all honesty. Still, all the gawping pedestrians weren’t to know that. As he pulled up at the traffic lights, a gaggle of young ladies, all dolled up ready for a night out on the lash in town strolled over the pedestrian crossing. He put on his best imitation of a confident grin and blipped the throttle, the car rocking from side to side. One of them said something to the others and they all giggled. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Often it wasn’t. But then he wasn’t often in a Camaro.

A sudden noise from beside him, a leather-clad biker pulling up on something plastic, pointy and horrendously loud. The man looked at him, as though sizing up his car, whether it was worthy of his time, before nodding to the road ahead. Did he want a race? It seemed so. Never before had anyone challenged Brian to a street race; it just didn’t happen in Cornwall and it certainly didn’t happen to people riding ancient, asthmatic mopeds. But that was a different Brian, an old Brian, a Camaro-less Brian. He was living in a post-moped world now. He looked ahead at the road before him, wringing the steering wheel as he mused. It was a long straight, maybe half a mile of bend-free, traffic-free tarmac before the roundabout outside Sainsbury’s, plenty of space for Brian to flex his new car’s muscles without risk. With a

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