The Hanging Hill

8

Zack, Judy, and Zipper were flying across the state of Connecticut.

Actually, they were on the interstate in Judy’s Saab—a type of car built by Swedish guys who also designed jets. North Chester was located in the northwest corner of Connecticut, while Chatham and the theater were over on the east coast—down where the Connecticut River emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. It would take them about two hours to drive across the state.

Judy had a stainless steel tumbler of black coffee in one cup holder and a thermos bottle full of it in the other.

Zipper had the backseat all to himself and was fast asleep.

Zack, riding shotgun, was happy to be leaving Mad Dog, Doll Face, and Old Sparky behind for their Extremely Extended Stay at the Marriott. He didn’t think the ghosts would bother his dad. They usually left nonbelievers alone, picked on people like Zack instead.

He let his mind wander.

He imagined the Saab was a real jet.

No, a rocket ship. An intergalactic space cruiser. Cool—because the inky night sky sparkled with stars.

“There’s our destination,” Zack thought. “Third star on the left! Blast off!”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

He fingered what others might call the window button but what he knew to be the toggle switch to initiate the launch sequence. The window opened a half inch. Zack heard the air whoosh, whine, and whistle. Yep. The rockets were fully operational.

He eyed Commander Judy’s control console.

The digital readout behind her circular yoke (which looked sort of like a steering wheel) glowed with a green 65.

Judy certainly knew how to pilot a rocket ship: sixty-five times the speed of light! Incredible. They’d zip past the moon in about a minute. Faster if nobody needed a bathroom break.

Now Zack observed an obstacle—dead ahead.

“Houston, we have a problem,” he thought.

“This is Houston.” He imagined a different voice to keep the dialogue rolling in his head. “We see it. Appears to have eighteen rotating drive mechanisms. What in blazes is it, man?”

“Some sort of cargo vessel,” navigator Zack shot back. “The markings on its tail fin flaps suggest it’s an intergalactic grocery hauler from the planet Krogerus. How ever, I suspect it’s actually a pirate ship carrying concealed contraband from the mining colony on Melkior Six.”

Judy flicked on her turn signal and, increasing speed, eased into the passing lane.

“Houston, we are initiating aggressive counter-measures.”

“Careful, man!”

“Careful? Ha! I laugh in your general direction. Ha, ha, ha!”

“You might run into a meteor shower,” said the nervous radio voice back on earth.

“No thanks,” the cocky space cadet voice snapped back. “I already washed my hair.”

Zack knew every good space movie needed a couple corny jokes. They called it witty banter.

Suddenly, a glowing missile came flying out of the truck.

A cigarette butt.

Its tip flared red as it left the driver’s window and flew like a hot coal shot from a cannon. It would’ve scored a direct hit on their windshield, but the small car’s sleek aerodynamic design sent it up and over the roof!

Ha!

The invisible force field had once again proven to be an excellent defense against sneak butt attacks!

Zack checked out the side-view mirror and saw the cigarette smack into the pavement, where it exploded into a shower of a thousand tiny sparks.

Cigarettes.

They were always out to get him.

Cigarettes were what killed his real mother. Gave her cancer. Of course, she said she only smoked so much because Zack drove her crazy and ruined her life just by being born.

He felt the turbocharger kick in as they eased past the rumbling truck. Zack looked up to give the trucker a wave—just to let the guy behind the wheel know how not afraid of flying butts he was.

Only the truck driver wasn’t a guy.

It was a woman, a fresh cigarette already jammed between her lips.

She flicked her lighter and Zack saw her face, illuminated by the candling flame.

She looked angry. Furious at the whole world. She looked exactly like his real mother had looked right before she’d gotten sick and died.