Under Control

According to your federal government, the following never happened.

Chapter One
Los Angeles, California
Wednesday, April 5, 2008

Diane took her bare foot off the gas pedal of her new Toyota Corolla and moved it to the brake pedal. She began to apply pressure to slow down for the red light ahead. Her spiked orange hair and nose rings moved in unison as she bobbed her head to the latest Shakira tune. Suddenly the brake pedal pushed back against her foot, and the car began to accelerate fast, like someone had shoved the gas pedal to the floor. Diane pushed harder on the brake, but the pedal resisted, refusing to engage the brakes. The Corolla gained speed, barreling toward the car ahead that was slowing for the light. Diane’s heart jumped into her throat. She screamed and jerked the steering wheel to the right, fighting for control, and barely missing the other car. She careened into the open curb lane, brought both feet to bear on the stubborn brake pedal, and pushed with all her might, but it held solid. Her car continued to accelerate. In a panic, Diane reached for the ignition key, but the lurching car defied her efforts, and she quickly brought her hand back to the steering wheel.
Panicked onlookers dove for cover on the crowded sidewalk. A mother snatched her child from the edge of the curb. A heavy man tried to jump back, but lost his footing and scrambled on all fours toward the grass. A well-dressed man shoved an elderly woman with a walker to the cement. Four people trampled her getting to safety.
Wide-eyed, Diane saw three cars crossing ahead, and her mind flashed twenty-two years of life in a split second, like a movie on hyper-speed download. Her candy-apple red Corolla charged toward the intersection, its engine on full throttle roar. She thought she heard a choir singing as she decided to smash her three-month-old car into the closest light pole, which was just across the intersection. She flew past the crosswalk at sixty-two miles per hour, her heart racing, her hands death-gripping the wheel, her mouth wide open in a full-on scream.
Diane never saw the city bus; it just suddenly appeared in front of her. She slammed into it broadside with both feet still on the brakes. As everything went dark, she thought of how late she was going to be for the date with her fiancé.
Sirens blared from all directions, snarling traffic and bringing police, firemen, and ambulances to the scene. Two dead, including Diane, and fourteen injured, four seriously. Four hours later, the emergency responders had the mess cleaned up and traffic flowing again.
No one noticed the dark gray Chevy Impala that had been following the Corolla until the crash. No one cared that it pulled over and parked about a block away from the accident scene. No one noticed the two men inside, the passenger pecking on the keys of his laptop, the driver sitting calm behind the wheel. No one paid much attention when the driver got out, walked down to the bloody scene, and stood in the crowd observing the disaster his companion had caused. Not one person objected when the driver turned and made his way through the crowd to leave.
On his way back to the Impala, the driver stopped at the Jack in the Box and ordered two number sixes with onion rings instead of fries. His jet black hair held its well-oiled place as he opened the door to the Impala and slid into the driver’s seat, careful to set the bag containing the passenger’s burger on the armrest between them.
“That went well,” said the passenger, opening the bag and fetching an onion ring. “Two more and we’ll be ready.”
The driver nodded, straining to set his drink on the floor without spilling it into the tattered carpet.
The passenger bit off a part of the burger and smiled as he tapped away at the black keyboard. The driver opened his bag and pulled out the burger and rings. He spread them across his lap, opened a ketchup pack, and started munching away. The passenger continued tapping, his thick tanned fingers a blur on the keyboard between mouthfuls of beef and onion. At last the passenger closed his laptop and spread out the rest of his meal on top of it. The driver started the Impala and pulled into traffic.
“Next stop, Denver,” the driver said.
The passenger, squeezing ketchup onto his burger and rings, nodded.