Quick recap: The detective that investigates Christine's killings in the film (and original book) is named 'Junkins'. Christine was a 1958 Plymouth Fury. In my story, she's back as a '59 Dodge 2door. Go find a picture of one..you'll see why! ;) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter Five: "How your heart beats, when you run for cover, You can't retreat, I spy like no other...." Stella's Diner was a bit further out than many better restaurants, but the charm was the attraction. Both Stella's and the diner's. She was the married mother of four ingrate boys that would rather fish than fuck. Big surprise as her husband taught them everything they knew- or thought they knew. They thought they knew a lot. So did Hank. And as soon as he got his 'big break', he was going to make a killing selling tackle and bait to the throngs of tourists that would flock to Drewer Lake (more recently known as Sewer Lake). That overgrown septic was no closer to being able to support life again than it was when Hank got the deal of the century on forty five 'prime' lake-front acres six years ago. As for the diner, it was a retired Erie Lackawanna passenger car, converted, as so many were, to food distribution duty back in the fifties. Stella blew her inheritance from her dad on the downpayment for it back in 1967. Business had never really boomed, but it'd been steady. Junkins stopped his cruiser in the handicap spot right outside the door. The sun was just rising and except for Stella's Bonneville at one end of the trailer and the cook's truck and the dishwasher's car at the other end, there were only two other cars in the lot. He was only going to be in and out for coffee, so screw it. The 'Handeez' had the whole balance of the lot to park in. He got out of the car and went in to sit at the counter. Stella was on the stool near the kitchen doors reading yesterday's paper with her back to the entrance. "Can I see your Health Inspection Certificate. please." He said. "You'll never take me alive, copper!" Stella spun and grabbed Junkins in a bear hug. He nearly spit out his cigarette. "Hey, stranger! Long time, no squeeze!" "Yeah,yeah. Well-shit- work ,you know? We just finished up a meat run on the interstate and I'm heading home now. Can I get a coffee?" "What's that?" She laughs and slaps his arm. He does lose the cigarette this time. He bends down and retrieves it off the floor, then glances around at the customers to see if their watching as he put it's back in the corner of his mouth. Stella brings the coffee and small talk. "A meat run? How bad?" "Nasty. Another dumbshit with no clue how hard it is to slow an eighteen wheeler. If they'd give 'em a few more inches, the fuckin' junk yard wouldn't be so full of flat Datsuns." "Well don't go into the gories on me. You know how I get. You want to eat?" "Nah. Coffee's good." "Aw, c'mon. How 'bout an omelette? Ham...some cheese? Home fries?" "Bacon?" "Ham." "Reject?" "The guy ordered ham, then claimed he ordered pancakes. Like I was gonna leave the omelette for free! Hah!" "Is it still hot?" "Just like me!" "Bag it. I wanna get home to bed." "Done, sweetie." Stella went into the back to bag up the food as Junkins glanced around again. This time he looked outside to see a big....no, correction- HUGE black car across the roadway, sitting on the shoulder. It faced north, leaving it’s driver’s side and rear end visible from this angle. The steaming tailpipe meant it was still running, but no one was in it. He scanned what he could see of the parking lot but saw no one walking up to the entrance. Looking over the car again, at this distance, it looked a bit like the ‘58 Fury he’d dealt with years ago. This car was black, but the shape and size were similar. He shook off a chill and turned back to his coffee. Then he heard- or felt it. "Shitter!" He whipped around, staring at the car. Then the rear tires spit gravel into a plume behind the car as it lurched forward and swung into a tight turn, across the road and into the diner's lot. The few customers noticed the noise and watched as the car disappeared around the back side of the diner, fishtailing the whole way and raising a cloud of dust. It reappeared at the other end, going even faster now. But instead of going around the building again it shot toward the roadway, spun around at the lots edge and halted. The engine roared. Stella emerged from the back with food in hand and Junkin's screamed at her. "Phone!!" "What?" He jumped up and shoved past her to the greasy wall phone. As he dialed, the tires spun again. He watched the car as it made another lap of the diner and stopped at the side edge of the lot, facing the dishwashers’s little sports car parked ass against the diner's end. "State Police, This is-" started a voice. "This is Junkin's- I'm at Stella's. I need backup,fast!" "Junkins? What the hell are-" The black car rocketed foreward on a collision course with the sports car. As it impacted, the Dodge's nose bounced upward, still careening forward, and crashed through the end wall of the diner, throwing glass and other debris everywhere. The booths flew apart as if splinters of balsa wood. The car smashed down on what remained of tables and seats. The heavy guy with his blueberry- smothered hot cakes never knew what hit him as the Dodge slammed his seat from behind, throwing him forward, down and under it's wheels. The right fender smashed back onto the tire the moment it struck the end of the counter that now flew up and to the side in pieces. Junkin's dropped the phone and ran for the entrance. He wouldn't have made it if he'd tried to use the door. He dove through the large glass window and landed on the hood of his un- marked cruiser, glass raining down around him. Stella wasn't so lucky as the car finished the first half of the counter and hit her, sending her careening into the kitchen. The injuries she took from the car might have killed her anyway, but the impact with the stainless steel cabinet didn't help any. Gory was the word. Junkin's rolled of the hood, landing on his scurrying feet. He yanked open the door and jumped in. As he threw it into reverse, he glanced up to see the young couple in the window booth thrown up through the glass, landing on the gravel lot below. He punched the pedal, crossed the lot and entered the roadway backwards and sliding. When the tires caught the pavement, he slammed forward and prayed to Christ that this was another bad alcohol dream. It wasn't. It was Christine. Who else? Christine never slowed as she routed that railroad car, nor as she burst out the other end, using Stella's old Bonneville to break her fall. As she contacted the gravel, she jumped to the left and tore after the fleeing police cruiser. How the fuck did this happen again? Junkin's mind was a blur of useless information. No- thing he thought of made sense. Nothing about Christine ever did. All that made sense was running. This cruiser had never failed him before. He suspected it wouldn't matter. The sickening sound of metal contacting metal roared through his ears as his car jerked foreward and left a bit. In the mirror was that fucking car. But it wasn't the same. Paint? Yeah, the paint was black, but the car was different, too. Uglier. More insane. Did they actually build them like that on purpose? Sick Detroit fucks! Junkins fought to control the car as Christine struck again. Seeing a small opportunity, he yanked the wheel right, sending him onto the freeway entrance ramp. Christine took an extra millisecond to react. She missed the paved ramp but tore up along side it on the grass covered siding. And she was gaining. Junkins was doing well over one hundred as he reached the six lane blacktop and accelerat- ing. Christine reached the end of the divider, smashing down the yield sign. She touched down on the pavement smooth, like when honey rolls off a spoon. Her body was flawless- again. As she closed on the cruiser, she flashed her headlamps, as if to indicate she wanted to pass. But with three lanes to choose from, that wasn't likely her intent. She slammed the cruiser's rear harder this time. Junkins fought the wheel of his car to keep it from spinning out. Just as he regained control, she hit again, harder still. Up ahead, Junkins spotted a toll booth plaza. He hit his red light and siren, frantically flashing his headlights. The attendant of the one occupied booth hesitated, then hit the button to raise the flimsy wooden barrier. As he did, Christine slammed Junkins' car again. This time, he lost control. His car spun around, pinning him to his door. The transmission clicked furiously in protest as the engine said forward but the tires argued backward. The car began to slow, but was still doing over ninety when Christine moved along side to pass. Side by side the cars went through the plaza. She went though the open gate. Junkins' car smashed backwards through the booth, going airborne before slamming down, squarely on it’s wheels. But sliding sideways, the tires caught ground and the car flipped over...and over again. After eight revolutions, the car slid on it’s roof several hundred feet before it came to rest in the middle of the roadway. The booth attendant stood up, brushing off the debris that lay on him. No part of the booth now rose higher than his waist. He looked down the road to see the wrecked cruiser lying on it’s top....and the mangled body of it’s driver, about 200 feet from the car, resembling a rag doll forced into the corner of a childs room. Christine never looked back. She wasn’t done. (Story excerpt copyright 1996 JWRosa (112661). All rights reserved.)