A Deadly Race

A Deadly Race

It was a few minutes before midnight when Kyle rolled up to the starting line. People jeered and teased him as his Honda Civic idled beside a heavily modified Pontiac Sunfire GT. He blushed in spite of himself when he saw he was racing a girl. Her car was just as pleasing to the eye as she was: body kit, 18” chrome rims, gold metallic paint with matching undercar neon lights, hood vents, Z3 fenders, black window tint, large spoiler, dual quad-tip exhaust, nitrous purge and blackouts on her lights. She blew him a kiss and winked at him, prompting Kyle to roll up his window to hide his red face.

Wow, she’s hot! he thought as his window obscured her face. For the first time since he bought his car, he felt ashamed of it. He raced in a black 1999 Honda Civic Si. No body kits, stock spoiler, factory wheels, no fancy hoods or fenders, no visual modifications at all save the window tint and the large chrome-plated exhaust tip. But Kyle wasn’t into show. He was all into performance. He spent thousands of dollars under the hood: a three-stage turbocharger (with the large intercooler hidden behind the front grill), direct-port nitrous injection, an H22 custom engine swap, port and polished heads, cold-air intake, 6-speed manual transmission swap, performance chip, and a plethora of other performance upgrades that made his non-descript Civic into one of the fastest cars on the street.

His clock read 11:59 when he heard Blondie begin revving her engine. Apparently, she was no slacker in the performance department, either. He heard her turbo spool up and snap. He grinned from ear to ear as he felt the adrenaline and anticipation pulse through his veins. This is what he lives for. The Sunfire was really revving hard now, every now and then shooting mist out of the hood vents as she activated the nitrous purge. People were cheering and whistling at this display when Kyle finally started revving his car. The larger 2.2-liter engine gave a nice throaty sound as he gave it heck. Jaws dropped as fire shot from his tailpipe.

Now you’re mine, girl, Kyle thought smugly. His car clock changed to 12:00 and a girl wearing a pink tank top and tight jeans walked out between the two street racers. She raised her hands high above her head and Kyle floored the clutch and shifted to first. His car drifted back a hair as he revved his engine. He smiled as the adrenaline began to surge through his veins. The girl began waving her hands and Kyle braced himself for launch. He held the tach needle steady at 4000 RPM, then the hands dropped and he released the clutch and floored it.

The tires spun and the two cars squealed off the starting line in a haze of blue smoke. Kyle slammed his foot down on the clutch and pulled his car into second gear. Moments later, the tachometer redlined and he shoved it into third. Already he was two car lengths ahead of the Sunfire and still pulling hard. Sssssssssssnap! Kyle shifted to 4th gear. Sssssssssssssssssnap! 5th Gear. The speedometer flew past 150 mph. At 180 mph, Kyle shifted to 6th gear with a hissing and snap of his turbo. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the Sunfire was suddenly gaining ground on him. Kyle gripped the wheel tightly with both hands, then pressed and held the button under his thumb labeled N2O. He was pushed back in his seat as his car quickly accelerated past 200 mph. At 220 miles per hour, he could see the finish line rapidly approaching. Then disaster struck.

With a muffled flash, the overtaxed engine of the Civic blew up, forcing the hood open. Suddenly blinded going 220 miles per hour, Kyle slammed on his brakes, shattering the brake pads in an instant. A fountain of sparks trailed behind him as he unsuccessfully tried to slow down. The hood finally ripped off in the car’s slipstream allowing Kyle an instant to realize he was about to crash into a parked car.

He jerked the wheel hard right, but it was no use. With an awful crunch, the Civic cartwheeled over the car, initiating a roll that flipped the Civic eight times before it screeched to a halt fifty feet away, leaving in its wake bits and pieces of his car. What was left of Kyle’s car caught fire and Kyle, miraculously still alive and conscious, struggled drunkenly to free himself from the wreckage that pinned him in the car. Flames filled the cabin, and Kyle barely had time to scream before the inferno reached the two enormous canisters of nitrous oxide, turning the wrecked Honda Civic into a mushroom cloud of fire.