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HIJAX-Fiction by Liz McAdams
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the only goodbye he deserved-Poem by J. J. Campbell
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A Song of Vengeance-Poem by Christopher Hivner
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singles ad Westwood Magazine-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
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ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

hijax.jpg
Art by Steve Cartwright 2018

HIJAX


by


LIZ McADAMS

 

 

“Goddamned son of a bitch, he’s got nothin’ on me,” pink mohawk bobbing, Hijax twisted around in the driver’s seat. The sedan was still following, couple blocks behind.

“You sure about that?” Cheri asked.

Hijax glared at her.

Cheri looked out the window pretending to take in the scenery. Sometimes you had to chill around Hijax, even when they were obviously up shit’s creek. She glanced over at Hijax; the vein in her forehead bulged, and her lip was all chewed up.

This wasn’t gonna be good.

Hijax, used to be Jacqueline, and after years of everybody saying ‘Hi Jax,’ that’s what stuck.

It helped that Hijax specialized in car theft and robbery.

Cheri was just along for the ride. Since hooking up with Hijax, they’d done a few heists together, made some decent cash, and the sex was good, so she stuck around.

Nothing better to do, she guessed.

Cheri eased a peek behind her, trying to see across traffic. “Don’t look,” Hijax hissed. “They’ll think we’re up to somethin’.”

The noontime heist was Hijax’s idea, grab a car, and hit up a small gas station. She figured there’d be enough cash from the morning rush, and the till’d be full before the midday bank drop.

Cheri had to give it to her, sometimes Hijax was smart like that. But now –

“Don’t look, I said,” Hijax cut across three lanes of traffic, and pulled a hard left onto a one-way through Chinatown. People and vehicles everywhere. Cheri wasn’t surprised when a minute or so later, the sedan appeared, still a couple blocks away, and keeping their distance.

“If I could find an alley – we can ditch the car.” Hijax glanced in the rearview mirror. “Son of a bitch.”

“But they’re right behind us.”

“I know, damnit,” Hijax pounded her fist against the steering wheel, then paused, thinking. “What if you bail?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, get out, run toward the car, start crying or something, say I kidnapped you.”

“You sure?”

Hijax glanced in the rearview mirror, and scanned for an alley. Chinatown was packed – lunchtime shoppers and cars everywhere. Delivery trucks parked blocking possible escape routes, all unloading groceries and crap. “There’s nowhere to ditch the car – you gotta go.”

“Then what’ll happen to you?”

“I’ll take off, get rid of it.” Hijax looked up in the rearview mirror. “It’d give me a couple minutes’ head start.”

“What if I get arrested?”

“You’re clean, babe. No record. Just turn on the water works – make it a big deal. Stick with the kidnapping story.” She shrugged, “And if you get arrested, they gotta let you go sooner or later. I’ll meet up with you. Promise.”

“But –”

Hijax twisted the steering wheel and eased the car in front of a delivery truck, she glanced up in the mirror as the sedan closed in. “Ready babe?”

“But –”

“Go – now,” Hijax slammed on the brakes. Cheri fumbled for the door handle, and staggered out. Hijax didn’t even wait for the door to shut, the car lurched forward as she hit the accelerator, passenger door flapping alongside.

Cheri dashed into the middle of the street, waving her arms and blubbering, her mascara running; she stumbled, twisting her heel. Damnit, Hijax, she thought.

The sedan pulled to a halt in front of her, doors flew open, and two officers popped out, guns already drawn.

“Don’t move, don’t move –” 

Sudden crash of metal on metal, shattered glass and steady drone of a car horn filled the air.

Oh crap. Cheri turned around. Hijax was climbing out of the wreckage of the car, now wedged into the back end of a delivery van.

“Stop – police –”

Like a child’s toy, Hijax ducked down, grabbing something, and mouthed the words, “Go on Cher, run.”

They opened fire.

Hijax dropped to the ground.

*

Cheri screamed, and kept screaming as they put handcuffs on her, choking into gasping sobs. Seated in the back of the unmarked cruiser, she turned her back on the half-open duffle bag sitting in the front. Three hundred bucks cash, and a dozen cartons of smokes.

That’s it.

Hardly worth it with Hijax gone now, but still, it’d been a hell of a ride.

 

 

-- THE END






Liz McAdams is a short, sharp, writer and fond of dark things. Her work appears in the usual places, including Spelk, Near to the Knuckle, Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, and scattered around Twisted Sister lit mag. Check Liz out at https://lizmcadams.wordpress.com/.













In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2017