Hell Rode Shotgun

The dumb bastard thought he could take it. Just walked up, popped the lock, and slid behind the wheel, grinning like he’d won the lottery. He didn’t know what he was sitting in. Didn’t know the history baked into the leather, the ghosts stitched into the seams. Didn’t know some things aren’t meant to be stolen.

The engine caught, roared to life like a caged thing let loose, but the moment he dropped it into gear, the car fought back. The wheel jerked hard, the brakes locked, and the whole frame shuddered like it was coming apart at the seams. He tried to control it, but the machine had other ideas. Smoke poured from the hood, something deep in the guts of the car grinding and screaming. He wasn’t driving anymore – he was being driven.

Then came the heat. Not from the tires or the engine, but something deeper, older. Flames licked up from beneath the dash, the radio shouting things in a voice that didn’t belong on this side of the grave. He tried to bail, to throw the door open and roll, but the handle wouldn’t budge. The tachometer needle buried itself in the red. The last thing he saw was the road stretching ahead – straight as a preacher’s lie – before the world turned upside down.

And hell came to collect.