Moving Van

by dbdevilliers

The moving van merged right, passing a grey sedan before merging back left in front of it. The move was unusual, since the left lane is typically used when passing another vehicle, and the German-made turbocharged engine in the sedan was by no means propelling it slowly. Professionally-armored cars are often designed such that the vehicles appear virtually indistinguishable from their stock counterparts; however, while heavy steel plates can be concealed from the eye, their massive weight remains—the sedan was travelling as quickly as its talented driver could control—a far cry from its factory top speed.

Immediately after the van overtook the car, its driver activated a small switch attached to the steering column. It activated a signal light inside the moving van’s rear cargo box, an alarm gave a short warning report, and a small opening cut into the large roll-up rear door was revealed. Directly inside the opening sat a large machine gun—an M2 Browning of Belgian manufacture, procured for a large sum—fixed to a short swiveling stand.

The sedan’s driver, having experience in regards to evasive driving, knew almost immediately what was about to take place, but that cruel split-second delay separating recognition and reaction might as well in this case have lasted a century.

Black until now, the trapdoor became illuminated.

Lying prone behind the heavy gun, the gunner opened fire, unleashing a torrent of hellfire into the sedan’s windshield. Another man crouched to his left, ensuring that the Browning’s action remained clear and functional. Both men wore ear and eye protection, in addition to respirators—firing a heavy machine gun from an enclosed space can be less than pleasant for the unprepared.

Fifty-caliber rounds perforated the sedan and its driver, and the vehicle’s interior caught fire. Suddenly, the twenty yards of highway which separated the moving van’s rear door and the sedan’s front bumper began to rapidly close.

The driver, killed instantly, had managed to posthumously depress the accelerator, and the sedan’s eight-thousand-pound bulk jerked menacingly forward toward the van. The gunner liberally peppered the car with steel-core rounds, aiming low at where he presumed the engine block to be.

The van’s driver then glanced into the rear-view mirror, and, taking notice of the burning Benz threatening to collide with his vehicle, swerved right, and a stray round pierced the sedan’s front axle. The axle snapped.

At this point, the gun fell silent. The sedan swerved and struck the concrete median with force, compromising its fuel tank. The entire vehicle erupted into flames and slid to a screeching stop, a smoldering husk of steel and flesh.

The gunner’s partner slid the trapdoor closed, and the moving van sped down the interstate into the summer evening haze.