Fat Boy found a little road to the right and took it, drove down into the thick woods. The headbeams showed sparkles to the left and right. Bill realized there was water in the woods.

“Where the hell are we?” Bill said.

“I ain’t never been down here,” Fat Boy said. “But I know it’s the bottoms. I know some niggers fish down here all the time. They say you get down in here good, ain’t nobody ever gonna find you. There’s supposed to be enough bodies down here, you could dig them all up and count ’em, there’d be enough to fill a town.”

Fat Boy threw an eye on the rearview mirror, said, “Fuck!”

Bill looked over his shoulder.

Lights flashing. A moment later, sirens. Chaplin’s body bounced around the back seat like a jumping bean, the Roman candle sticking out of his face, his dead hand clutching it as if holding a telescope to his eye.

“Goddamn,” Fat Boy said. “Cop turned around. Someone must have given them a make on the car.”

“Probably one of my nosy neighbors ’cross the highway,” Bill said. “Show them fuckers you know how to drive.”

Fat Boy put his foot to the floor. The car leaped. A curve showed up in the headlights, Fat Boy made it, threw dirt as he went. The dirt reflected in the red tail-lights like a bloody mist. In the back seat, Chaplin hopped about as if excited.

The cop car made the turn too. When Bill looked back the cop car was rocking left and right, but it fell in line and jumped close to them.

“Go! Go! Go!” Bill yelled.

There was a big curve coming up. Fat Boy went around it, pedal to the metal, nose forward, ears back, balls sucked up tight as mad baby fists.

They made the curve and the cop didn’t. His car went through a barbed wire fence and smacked a tree. The front turned butter soft and looked like an accordion. Steam hissed out from under the crumpled hood and made a white mushroom cloud.