I let the clutch out, and a cold part of my mind took over: Easy, man—if you pop the clutch and stall this fucker, she’s dead.
Petunia rolled. I revved the engine up to a bellow and let the clutch out all the way. Christine roared at Leigh again, her hood crimped almost double from her first hit, bright metal showing through the broken paint at the sharpest points of bend. It looked as if her hood and grille had grown shark’s teeth.
I hit Christine three-quarters of the way toward the front and she slid around, one of her tyres pulling off the rim. The ’58 slammed into a litter of old bumper jacks and junk parts in one corner; there was a booming crash as she struck the wall, and then the hot sound of her engine, revving and falling off, revving and falling off. The entire left front end was bashed in—but she was still running.
I slammed on Petunia’s brake with my right foot and barely managed to avoid crushing Leigh myself. Petunia’s engine stalled. Now the only sound in the garage was Christine’s screaming engine.
“Leigh!” I screamed over it. “Leigh, run!”
She looked over at me groggily, and now I could see sticky braids of blood in her hair—it was as purple as I had expected. She let go of the struts, landed on her feet, staggered, and went to one knee.
Christine came for her. Leigh got up, took two wobbling steps, and got on her blind side, behind Petunia. Christine swerved and struck the truck’s front end. I was thrown roughly to the right. Pain roared through my left leg.
“Get up!” I screamed at Leigh, trying to lean even farther over and open the door. “Get up!”
Christine backed off, and when she came again she cut hard to the right and went out of my line of vision around the back of Petunia. I caught just a glimpse of her in the rearview mirror bolted outside the driver’s side window. Then I could only hear the scream of her tyres.
Barely conscious, Leigh simply wandered off, holding both hands laced to the back of her head. Blood trickled through her fingers. She walked in front of Petunia’s grille toward me and then just stopped.
I didn’t have to see in order to know-what was going to happen next. Christine would reverse again, back to my side, and then crush her against the wall.
Desperately, I shoved the clutch in with the mop and keyed the engine again. It turned over, coughed, stalled. I could smell gasoline in the air, heavy and rich. I had flooded the engine.
Christine reappeared in the rearview mirror. She came at Leigh, who managed to stumble backward just out of reach. Christine slammed nose-on into the wall with crunching force. The passenger door popped open and the horror was complete; the hand not clutching the mop-handle went to my mouth and I screamed through it.
Sitting on the passenger side like a grotesque life-sized doll was Michael Cunningham. His head, lolling limply on the stalk of his neck, snapped over to one side as Christine reversed to make another try at Leigh, and I saw his face had the high, rosy colour of carbon monoxide poisoning. He hadn’t taken my advice. Christine had gone to the Cunninghams’ house first, as I had vaguely suspected she might. Michael came home from school and there she was, standing in the driveway, his son’s restored 1958 Plymouth. He had gone to it, and somehow Christine had… had gotten him. Had he maybe gotten in just to sit behind the wheel for a moment, as I had that day in LeBay’s garage? He might have. Just to see what vibrations he could pick up. If so, he must have picked up some terrible vibes indeed during his last few minutes on earth. Had Christine started herself up? Driven herself into the garage? Maybe. Maybe. And had Michael discovered that he could neither turn off the madly revving engine or get out of the car? Had he maybe turned his head and perhaps seen the true guiding spirit of Arnie’s ’58 Fury, lounging in the shotgun seat, and fainted in terror?
It didn’t matter now. Leigh was all that mattered.
She had seen, too. Her screams, high, despairing, and shrill, floated in the exhaust-stinking air like hysterically bright balloons. But it had, at least, cut through her daze.
She turned and ran for Will Darnell’s office, blood splattering behind her in dime-sized drops as she went. Blood was soaking into the collar of her parka—too much blood.
Christine backed up, laying rubber and leaving a scatter of glass behind. As she pulled around in a tight circle to go after Leigh, centrifugal force pulled the passenger door shut again—but not before I saw Michael’s head loll back the other way.
Christine held still for a moment, her nose pointed toward Leigh, her engine revving. Perhaps LeBay was savouring the instant before the kill. If so, I’m glad, because if Christine had gone for her right away, she would have been killed then. But as it was, I had an instant of time, I turned the key again, babbling something aloud—a prayer, I guess—and this time Petunia’s engine coughed into life. I let the clutch out and stepped down on the accelerator as Christine leaped forward again. This time I struck her right side. There was a shrill scream of tearing metal as Petunia’s bumper punched through her mudguard. Christine heeled over and smashed against the wall. Glass broke. Her engine raced and raved. Behind the wheel, LeBay turned toward me, grinning with hate.
Petunia stalled again.
I rattled off a string of every curse I knew as I grabbed for the key again. If not for my goddam leg, if not for the fall I’d taken in the snow, this would be over now; it would just be a matter of cornering her and smashing her to pieces against the cinderblock.
But even as I cranked Petunia’s engine, keeping my foot off the gas to keep from stalling her again, Christine began to reverse with an ear-splitting squeal of metal. She backed out from between Petunia’s grille and the wall, leaving a twisted chunk of her red body behind, baring her right front tyre.
I got Petunia going and found reverse. Christine had backed all the way down to the far end of the garage. All her headlights were out. Her windscreen was smashed into a galaxy of cracks. The bent hood seemed to sneer.
Her radio was blasting. I could hear Ricky Nelson singing “Waitin in School”.
I stared around for Leigh and saw her in Will’s office, looking out into the garage. Her blond hair was matted with blood. More blood ran down the left side of her face and soaked into her jacket. Bleeding too damn much, I thought incoherently. Bleeding too damn much, even for a head wound.
Her eyes widened and she pointed past me, her lips moving soundlessly behind the glass.
Christine came roaring straight up the empty floor, gaining speed.
And the hood was uncrimping, straightening out and down to cover the motor cavity again. Two of the headlights flickered, then came back strong. The mudguard and the right-hand side of her body—I only caught a glimpse, but I swear it’s true—they were… reknitting themselves, red metal appearing from nowhere and slipping down in smooth automotive curves to cover the right front tyre and the right side of the engine compartment again. The cracks in the windscreen were running inward and disappearing. And the tyre that had been pulled off its rim looked as good as new.
It all looks as good as new, I thought. God help us.
She was going directly for the wall between the garage and the office. I let the mop-handle off the clutch fast, hoping to interpose the tanker’s body, but Christine got past me. Petunia backed into nothing but thin air. Oh, I was doing great. I backed all the way across the floor and crashed into the dented tool-lockers ranged there. They crashed to the floor with dull metallic janglings. Through the windscreen I saw Christine hit the wall between the garage and Will’s office. She never slowed; she went full speed ahead.
I’ll never forget those next few moments—they remain hypnotically clear in my memory, as if seen through a magnifying crystal. Leigh saw Christine coming and stumbled backward. Her bloody hair was matted to her head. She fell over Will’s swivel chair. She hit the floor, out of sight behind his desk. An instant later—and I mean the barest instant—Christine slammed into the wall. The big window Will had used to keep track of the comings and goings out in his garage exploded inward. Glass flew like a cluster of deadly spears. Christine’s front end bulged with the impact. The hood popped up and then tore off, flying back over the roof to land on the concrete with a metallic sound that was much like the sound the falling tool-lockers had made.