Note: This story was written specifically for the second round of NYC Midnight's 2024 Short Story Challenge. Accordingly, the prompt that this was written to stipulates that it must feature: Action/Adventure as the genre; A stunt-person as a principal character; and high security as a primary plot element. The word count was also set at a hard limit of 2,000, and appears here exactly as it was submitted to that contest.
“Overdrive”
By Robert Docherty
Metal scaffolding wreathed in obnoxiously green foam surrounded Chris Sheffield as he looked ahead at the gaggle of cars, like the beginning of a high school demonstration to scare kids off driving drunk.
In Chris' headphones he heard the cue.
Slamming his visor shut, he hit the clutch and slammed into first gear, the other foot flooring the accelerator. The vehicle bucked underneath him, his foot coming off the clutch, the rear tires finding traction and rocketing forward in a cloud of burning clutch and rubber. He held the wheel steady ..
The mess of vehicles rapidly approached and he made a guttural scream; a war cry, had he been on horseback, hefting a lance. He barely noticed but over the sound of the engine nobody else would either.
Rending metal screeched horribly, his angle perfect. He impacted the nearest SUV perfectly so his car was slowed enough to avoid serious injury, meanwhile it sent other vehicles careening into each other in ways he hadn't considered but the director would appreciate.
The motor silenced, spewing coolant and oil.
The director's "Woo-eee !" broke the silence as he clapped, followed by the rest of the crew. A tornado of safety personnel descended on the car like flies to the most recent donation of carrion to the Serengeti.
In a daze, Chris got out of the car and the director clapped him on the shoulder and shouted into his ear.
"What?" Chris asked.
"Fuckin' hell, that was great! You hit it even faster than we expected, the camera had to catch up with you ! Where'd you learn to do this shit, man?"
"Uh, did some racing when I was younger. Tested with Andretti, some Formula 3 teams in European."
"Well shit man, that's awesome. What got you stuck with us instead of racing?" he thumped Chris on the shoulder.
"Racing's expensive—you don't get into it to make money, you just end up spending it. The cash just…dried up," he said.
As he spoke, the director's headphones squawked. "Well that's great man, that's really great," the director gave some stock thanks and rushed off to deal with whatever had come up.
The director was right—they got the shot.
In front of Chris' apartment complex, police cruisers and cops stood in front of a woman trying to hold back tears as she spoke to an officer, notepad in hand.
Chris ascended the steps and considered asking Wendy if she knew anything. Usually nobody did, and cops just left people on edge. Between grow-ops, warrants, and minor drug dealing operations meant to keep the lights on, nobody in Chris' building wanted the cops around.
He decided not to mention it as he knocked on Wendy's door.
As it cracked open, an excited little boy rushed through. Chris hoisted Max up into the air from under the arms amidst a flurry of giggles. "There's my little guy!" Resting Max on his hip, Chris turned to Wendy as the door opened further. "Thanks, as always."
"Of course," she said, thumbnail jammed between her teeth.
"Same time tomorrow okay? My call time is the same."
"Yeah," she said, staring at Max. "But, um…"
"Yeah?"
Wendy swallowed. "I found work." She rushed the words out. "I can't watch Max anymore. He's a cute kid, but I'd need to start charging more than I know you can afford, or go back to work."
"I understand," he whispered. The precarious financial situation he'd only just attained suddenly disintegrating like a headlight assembly in a head-on collision.
"I can watch him until I start though, in two weeks."
Chris nodded his understanding again and said he was happy she finally found something. Wendy waved goodbye to Max who returned the wave with a haphazard flap of his wrist.
As they walked away Max looked up at his father. "Ms. Wendy was sad today." It was almost a question, but his four year old brain wasn't sure—he only noticed the difference and commented.
"Yeah buddy, we won't see her as much pretty soon." He'd need a better explanation than that.
"Oh," Max replied, as Chris unlocked their apartment.
After a dinner of dinosuar nuggets and a sudsy, laugh-filled bath, Max fell asleep to a bedtime story. Chris stared at the muted T.V. for a long while afterward, watching but not seeing as the cheap display flashed the room like repeated stun grenades. Periodically he would glance at the bottom drawer of the entertainment console, the neck of his nearly-empty beer bottle pinched between a thumb and forefinger.
He stood and drained the beer as he walked to the console and dug around. His hand came up with an old flip phone. After a cheap animation on the screen, he found the contacts and selected the only number listed.
"Hey Nicky, it's Chris," he said into the phone after a few rings. "It sure has been a long time, but look, I've got some unexpected bills so I was hoping we'd talk, see if you've got any work available?"
Pause.
"Not tonight," he laughed. "Sure, 1900 tomorrow. Same place? Great, see you then." He snapped the phone shut and let out a long breath before shutting off the television.
#
Nicky sat on the porch, waiting.
"How've you been?" he asked as Chris stepped up.
"Not as good as I'd like."
"Well, guys that that come to me when they're doin' fine really got a screw loose. Let's chat inside."
As Chris recalled, the ex-hippie's house had a layer of cannabis smoke drifting against the rafters. A tricked out AR-15 leaned beside the door alongside a pump action shotgun with "ATF? Arrest This Faggot!" carved into its wooden handguard. A comma would've made it clearer, but 10-gauge buckshot usually shut up any quibbles about grammar.
Along one wall, Nicky took down a tube of paper. He unfurled it and spread it along the dining table, weighing down the corners with ashtrays, a handgun and a lamp.
Chris inhaled, recognizing the floorplan of a bank.
"First Mutual, 82nd and Walker," Nicky said. "Comes with to their OTA network for keycodes, plus details on delivery and pickup. Knew this one's for you soon as you called, man. Delivery of untraceable bills at 0700 every Thursday in time for payroll plus we got next week's codes—you just gotta stroll in around 0900, I kill the alarm remotely, you fill a bag with what you can carry, then do your thing." He mimed a steering wheel. "I get an eight percent cut—friend discount—rest is yours."
"Eight percent of…?"
"Depends. They could have upwards of ten million and you can probably carry more like six—half that if you're moving fast, more if you've got help. Either way, nice chunk of change."
"No help," Chris said. "Not again."
"Still blame 'em for killing the Formula 1 dream?"
Chris glanced up. "I was never gonna make it to Formula 1. But I could've had a career if I didn't spend six years in prison. That's their fault.
Nicky dropped it and they went over the plan again. Chris didn't love the idea—particularly with Max around this time—but stunt drivers weren't exactly getting Brad Pitt money even when audiences were supposed to think Brad Pitt was in the car. And as much as Chris wanted to deny it to himself and anyone who might ask, a twinge of excitement ran through him at the idea of being behind the wheel like that again.
The uneasy feeling got worse as Wednesday night arrived. Chris was stretched thin, paying Wendy for a marathon of longer nights with Max.
On Monday he'd finagled the lock on a silver Toyota Camry—the best selling and most overlooked car in America—and the next morning he met with an old associate dealing firearms. He went to work afterward, a Colt AR-15, magazines, and enough ammo to fill them all wrapped in an old blanket in his trunk.
"You smokin' again?" Nicky asked over the phone as he heard Chris inhale.
"Yeah." He looked down the darkened street outside the apartment complex, Max asleep upstairs.
"I'll have the alarms off at exactly 0930, then it showtime," Nicky finished.
"Okay." Chris pitched his cigarette butt into the gutter, snapping the phone closed. Until he stepped through the metal detectors and they didn't go off, he wouldn't be entirely calm.
The lone guard was reading a newspaper in the lobby as Chris stepped through the automatic doors in a slate-grey suit at 0930 exactly. Chris walked past the guard and stopped in between the metal detectors, letting out a breath and a silent thanks to Nicky.
The guard heard Chris stop and exhale. He looked up, curious, just in time for Chris' rifle butt to land between his eyes. Chris moved like a sprinter off the block, and in one motion he pulled a ski mask over his head and sunglasses from a jacket pocket. Grabbing the guard by the collar, he dragged him forward into the bank itself.
"THIS IS A ROBBERY!" he shouted. Two clerks and their lone patron whirled, gasping at the sight of the gun and the unconscious guard. From another pocket, Chris took out plastic handcuffs for each of them.
"Manager?" he barked, directed at the two clerks. "I'm not here to hurt anyone, the money is insured and I have no interest in violence unless I'm forced. So who's the manager?"
"I am," the older woman said.
"I need the safe opened, and I need everyone to come with me."
"You won't get away with this," she said, the defiance in her voice undercut by a nervous waver.
"I suppose we'll all find out together." Chris waved the gun barrel and shouted, "WE'RE WALKING!" as he directed them all towards the obvious safe door.
Unlocked, the safe door slid open to reveal something Chris had never expected. Forget ten million, at least thirty sat on the rolling tables. He ordered the three against the wall, face first, and took out his bags, filling them with as many handfuls as possible.
As he was nearly done with the second, he saw a flash—an LED screen reading "911."
"FUCK," he shouted running forward and slapping the phone away from the bold patron, the battery popping out and the screen cracking. In a moment of rage he smacked the patron across the temple and immediately regretted it.
He knew the risk, but despite the sudden shortage of time, Chris hoisted both bags anyway. Their weight threatened to take his legs out from underneath him as he charged for the exit and rounded the corner to the waiting Toyota, door open and engine running. He threw the bags in, ripped off the mask and jacket, and hid the rifle under the passenger seat.
He saw the first flashes of blue and red halfway down the block. A cruiser screamed around a corner ahead of him and Chris held his breath.
The officers never even glanced at him.
He let out the breath and continued driving, one eye never leaving the speedometer.
"I'm sorry it's the last time," Wendy said ushering Max out the door. She looked up, eyes widening. "You seem…good."
Chris smiled. "It's been a long day, but…I think I'll be fine."
"You've been rushing around the last week and a half, it's a surprise to see you relaxed."
"The rushing paid off. I got a gig from a friend, I can afford a little less time at work and someone to watch this little guy. Anyway, thanks again. Here's the week's worth plus a little extra." He winked.
Wendy thanked him and closed the door. She unfurled the cash, finding a single $20 bill.
The other nineteen were all hundreds.
Wendy gasped and threw open the door again, but Chris and Max were already gone.