Head On (by Wendy James)At least they're over the mountains before it really sets in. Such heavy rain, so loud. In the dim warmth of the car she feels submerged, subterranean. But safe: the Land Rover is solid; the wipers rhythmic, efficient; Brian steady and intent at the wheel. The children are asleep, Elsie curled against a pillow, Danny sprawled, lips flickering, hands twitching, restless even in slumber. She'd like to sleep herself, but won't, in deference to Brian and out of some vague childhood superstition: if she nods off on a journey she won't wake, will never arrive. She'd rather face whatever's coming head on, as it were...
And then, just as she's winding her seat back, preparing to relax, there's this sound like a gun firing and the car is bucking and skidding; the steering wheel jerks madly, twists out of Brian's hands. She pushes herself up. Time slows, augments. What's happening? Brian?... feels her lips thick around each syllable, turns her head, the movement infinitely heavy, towards the children, still sleeping, thank God... turns back. Brian has caught hold of the wheel again, but she can see that there's no response, that the connection between driver and machine has been severed irrevocably. And suddenly she knows, knows as if it's something she's known forever, that this is it. There's no possible way to avoid the coming impact, the rapidly approaching headlights, unwavering, expanding, inevitable. Oh, but the children! She sits upright, stricken, clutches the sides of her seat, closes her eyes...
[The short short story comp is announced and explained here.]