Out of Control in the Driver's Seat

A short story about a man and his electric car

Help me! Help! Help meeeeee!

I scream so loudly at the oncoming car, my ears ache, and my ribs vibrate.

But that red, model-year 2032 Volvo-Hyundai hydrogen-powered car just whizzes by, heading due south on county highway 88, completely oblivious to my cries for help.

I have no choice but to squirm. What else can I do? My hands and feet bound, my chest and stomach strapped to the passenger seat of a very familiar self-driving e-car that’s going 65…75… now 85 MPH.

I alternately feel helpless and weak, then white hot terror and anger. According to the digital dash, this self-driver is headed for the cliffs over what was once Greenwood Lake. Now it’s just a dried-up riverbed.

I yank and twist and thrust until I’m drenched with sweat, but these restraints, though shoelace thin, are strong, like steel. I woke up in this car a few minutes ago, in clothes that I recognize, but can’t remember wearing. Ever. My memories are fuzzy, static, unmoving images. No voices, no sound, no movement. Stillness. A greasy distorted lens.

Through the windows, pines trees whoosh past. My stomach churns. Bile singes my raw-from-screaming throat. My ankles and wrists are crimson from chafing. My back and shoulders, stiff, brittle, creaky. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t piece together how this all started.

I remember yesterday. Yeah, yesterday. I went to work like I always—no, wait, today’s Monday. I think… Claire took Henry to soccer practice—no, can’t be. Soccer is in late fall. It’s summertime.

My mind alternately sputters and clears. When it clears, I realize, the police will most likely blame my wife Claire for this. For this… murder. But it’s not her, of course, who would put me in this situation. Right? No, no, of course not. Not her. It can’t be. Then I think of Henry, my 7-year-old son, growing up without a father. His mother hounded by police and unscrupulous reporters.

The trees grow tall and wild along the asphalt road as the car nearly careens into a gully when it makes a sharp right turn onto a wide, bumpy dirt pathway. Still ultimately heading toward that fossilized lake. The dead-ahead sun concentrates its solar rage on this craggy, desolate land.

The faded green sign by the side of the dusty highway informs me that Waskuga Trail Junction is two miles away, and there’s a scenic overlook in three miles. Why can’t the sign tell me how to get out of this mess?!

Think, Tom, think. Think! Who would do this to you? I don’t owe money to anyone, except a mortgage. There were those two brothers, just kids really, that Edgar the floor manager caught stealing tools and other supplies in the battery factory last year. Doubt they would or could do this. Think!

Randy, my older brother, playing a practical joke? Not likely. Yeah, he’s been my best friend — only friend really— since the day I was born. That damn lug was even the best man at my wedding, and he did once get up at 5 am to help me move out of our parents’ house.

That Randy? Sure, he loved a good practical joke. Like the time he convinced 14-year-old me that college sophomore Sue Eckleman, had a thing for me and that I should recite Shakespeare outside her bedroom window. At midnight. Huge mistake. Sue’s father, a hulking fireman type, had no interest in the Bard.

I mean, even for Randy, this stunt is a bridge too far.

Wait. A bridge…too…far. A bridge? Something wells inside me. First, a chuckle, then booming laughter. I mean, come on, what’s funnier than guy needing a bridge to save his life laughing about a figure of speech involving a bridge?

But you wanna know the real joke? The one and only Tom Wilcox dying in a fiery auto crash. Now that’s a real laugher. I designed this car. That is one thing I do remember. This is Wilcox Motors’ JFR88, a self-driver, my first success in the industry. Out of all the 18 self-driving brands and their 106 different models, Wilcox is tops in safety. At least that’s what all our ads say.

One mile left.

I close my eyes, and once again try to summon my golden memories. But they’re two-dimensional cutouts. Henry. Claire. Nothing but sepia-toned fragments.

Another fear grabs my throat and squeezes. What if… what if I did this to myself? A suicide made to look like an accident? Nothing makes sense. Thoughts jumbled, linear, untouchable.

Half-mile to go. The dirt road narrows.

There’s a small clearing. I can see the cliffs ahead.

I close my eyes. My throat constricts.

The screams come, involuntarily. Ears crack, ribs ache, temples throb, knuckles burn, toes clench, knees grind. My lungs burst from the shrieks.

Anticipating a forever blackness, I brace for the impact.

But it never comes.

Nothing. Nothing but stillness. And sweat. Sweat that trickles down in globs. A personal rainforest.

Just a few feet from the wide open expanse of the dried-up lakebed, the car slowly powers down. Click! The door locks open.

Certain death avoided.

I slowly open my moistened eyes, and the first thing I see is a huge white banner with black letters flapping in the breeze, held up by a pair of thin metal poles.

WELCOME, TOM!

There’s more lettering underneath “WELCOME, TOM!” Familiar words. Words whose meanings I know. But there’s two words that catch my attention.

Two words…

But there’s no time to consider.

A mob rushes me. Friends, coworkers, and… yes! It’s Claire and Henry… and Randy! They’re here too! Everyone’s here! A celebration? I’m too bewildered to celebrate.

Suddenly, I’m untied. I feebly exit the car, barely able to stand. One man and one woman, presumably doctors, use handheld scanners to check my vitals as they quickly hover their devices all over my body, head to toe, shoulder to shoulder. After a few minutes, the doctors ooze weak smiles and give a pair of tepid “thumbs up.”

Then each member of the crowd takes turns… petting me, like a zoo exhibit. I speak. I want answers. I have questions. I’m ignored. Everyone smiles at me, but their gazes linger. Too long.

I grow weary trying to follow their strange and lurid conversations. But a few lines here and there bring back that recent feeling of deadly helplessness: “…change self-driving forever… adjustments still needed… self-preservation algorithm… unclear moral implications.”

But something Randy says sends a piercing chill up my already aching, sweaty back. “At least he didn’t die trying to escape this time.”

This. Time.

And then there’s those other two words, the ones on the banner.

I see Claire waving, coming my way.

I wave. My wife’s hands clasped to her chest, which means she’s happy. Which is a good, because that makes me happy. Very happy. But she doesn’t wave back.

“Oh, Tom!” Claire squeals. “You’re a genius! You did it!”

“Did what?” is what I would have said. My eyes unsuccessfully capture her loving gaze.

A man standing nearby speaks on my behalf. Not only does this man cut me off, but he calmly addresses my son as if they’re lifelong friends, best buddies, confidants.

Who is this guy?

I can’t see the man’s face as he shouts: “Henry, come on! Do the honors!” The voice is jarringly familiar.

Henry, my pride, my joy, the best kid any dad could ask for, runs toward this… this person, who fishes something from his pocket and hands it to my son.

Both the man and my son pause for a moment. Now I see clearly what that something is. Dread slinks up and down my back.

“Do it quick, just like I taught you,” says the man to Henry.

I catch a brief, but vivid glimpse of the man. I stare, dumbstruck, nauseous, bewildered.

That’s me!

My heart races, my throat constricts, my ears fill with an ocean of rushing blood. That familiar terror flares, that powerlessness. As if I’m strapped into that self-driver again, hurtling toward doom.

Henry scampers toward me. My boy isn’t quite right. Henry, that sweet young kid who wouldn’t hurt anyone or anything, brandishes a laser guided e-gun with confident recklessness.

But it’s the way he looks at the weapon. His eyes squint as if all the good and true has been wrung out of them. His hands grope the glowing, crackling e-gun. His lips pursed, moist. Sinister.

“Come on, Henry, good citizens clean up their throwaways,” says my doppelganger.

“Listen to your father,” says Claire, avoiding me, avoiding my gaze. Avoiding.

Who am I then if not Henry’s father? Am I not Tom Wilcox, a self-driving car industry… well, titan? Who is Claire then? I can tell you about a mole she has on a sensitive body part! Ask me where we first met! I know Henry’s first word! Ask me!

Henry points the e-gun at my head.

The gun discharges with a sizzle, and just before the energy globule burrows into my forehead, short-circuiting my brain, that’s when I finally understood the meaning of two words on that banner greeting my arrival today: CONGRATULATIONS!!! FIRST SUCCESSFUL LAUNCH OF SELF-DRIVER WITH ONBOARD …DISPOSABLE CLONE.

THE e-END!

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