False Memory

globe, an arctic winter’s worth of fine white snow.
    “Zachary,” Martie finally said, “without turning away from me, using your left hand, open your door. Kevin, you keep your hands on the headrest.”
    Zachary tried the door. “Locked.”
    “Unlock it,” she said.
    “Can’t. It’s the childproof master lock. He has to do it up front.”
    “Where’s the lock release, Kevin?” Martie asked.
    “On the console.”
    If she allowed him to operate the lock release, his hand would be within inches of the machine pistol that was no doubt lying on the passenger's seat.
    “Keep your hands on the headrest, Kevin.”
    “What kind of video games you design?” Kevin asked, trying to distract her.
    Ignoring him, Martie said, “You have a pocket knife, Zachary?”
    “Pocket knife? No.”
    “Too bad. If you so much as twitch, you’ll need a knife to dig two hollow points out of your intestines, because you’ll never live long enough to get to a hospital where a real doctor could do it”
    As she slid backward across the seat, to a point at which she would be midway between the front headrests, Martie kept the pistol trained on the redhead, although the weapon would have been more intimidating if she could have continued to press the muzzle hard into his abdomen.
    “In case you’re wondering,” she said, “this piece isn’t double-action. Single-action. No ten-pound pull. Four and half pounds, crisp and easy, so the barrel won’t wobble. Shots aren’t going to go wide or wild.”
    She couldn’t see well enough into the front while sitting in the back, so she eased forward, rising off the seat, legs bent in a half squat, feet splayed and braced, twisted toward Zachary but her right shoulder against the back of the front seat, with a cross-body grip on the pistol. Awkward. Stupidly, dangerously awkward, but she couldn’t figure any other way to keep the weapon trained on Zachary and be able to watch Kevin's hand as he lowered it to the console.
    She didn’t dare reach into the front seat herself. She would be unbalanced, completely distracted from Zachary.
    Two angry Orcs and one Hobbit locked in a car. What are the chances that all three get out alive? Poor.
    Either the Hobbit wins and moves on to the next level of play, or the game ends.
    To peer into the front seat, she’d have to turn her head away from Zachary, leaving him visible only in her peripheral vision. “One sound of movement, one glimpse out of the corner of my eye, and you’re dead.”
    “If you were me, I’d already be dead,” Zachary noted.
    “Yeah, well, I’m not you, shithead. If you’re smart, you’ll sit tight and thank God you have a chance of coming out alive.”
    Heart beating so hard it felt like it was tearing loose. That was okay. More blood to the brain. Clearer thinking.
    She turned her head and leaned to look into the front seat.
    As she expected, Kevin’s machine pistol was on the passenger’s seat, within his easy reach. Big magazine. Thirty rounds.
    “Okay, Kevin, carefully use your right hand to pop the lock release, with the emphasis on carefully, and then put it back on the headrest.”
    “Don’t get nervous and waste me for nothing.”
    “I’m not nervous,” she said, and the steadiness of her voice astonished her, because she was shaking inside if not out, shaking like field mouse in the shadow of an owl’s wings.
    “Gonna just do what you say.” Kevin slowly lowered his right hand from behind his head.
    Martie glanced quickly at Zachary, who was keeping his hands high, beside his face, in order not to alarm her, even though she hadn’t told him to do that—and she should have told him—and then she looked into the front seat once more.
    As Kevin’s hand seemed to float down toward the lock release, he said, “I like to play Carmageddon. You know that game?”
    “I’d figure you for Kingpin,” she said.
    “Hey, that’s some cool action, too.”
    “Easy now.”
    He pressed the rocker switch.
    What happened next seemed to have been planned between the two men telepathically.
    The locks released with an audible sound.
    Instantly, Zachary threw open the back door and rolled out, and from the corner of Martie’s eye, she saw him reaching down to scoop the machine pistol off the floor as he went.
    Even as Martie squeezed off two shots at the departing redhead and sensed that at least one might have hit its mark, Kevin dropped sideways onto the front seat and grabbed his weapon.
    Her second round still booming like cannon fire in the confines of the car, Martie went