Rhubarb by SwagDaddy
Walter Winchester took a step behind the yellow line and into the safety booth, donning his safety goggles. The Range Rover had been prepped and it was currently reversing into position via remote control. Ahmadinejad, the crash test dummy, leered out the window at Walter. As the jeep reached the 200m mark of the pristine white hangar, the room was bathed in blood red light as the warning light automatically flicked on.
With a roar, the Range Rover took off towards the solid steel-reinforced concrete crash wall at the end of the cavernous room. As the vehicle built up speed, so did Walter’s heart rate. They achieved synchronicity just as the vehicle entered the 20 meter danger zone. This marvel of modern engineering smashed into the wall with an ear-rending screech. As the beam of the sensory lasers was broken by the jeep, the 1,000,000 frame-per-second high speed cameras came to life, documenting the impact in hyper slow-motion.
Walt, watching this unfold, felt that same shiver, that release, as the Range Rover submitted to the wall, not flinching when deadly shards of metal spitefully attacked the safety booth. Stepping out of the room, he approached the car with a tablet in his hand, making marks with his stylus as he examined the jeep. He nodded appreciatively as he inspected the interior of the car. The president of Iran peered out the window at him, the dummy mercifully unharmed albeit with the equivalent of broken legs. Not bad for 140 mph.
Susan Winchester stood with her back to the open boot of a 2013 Range Rover as she smiled at customers, trying to will them over to her stall. Farmer’s markets were always the toughest to crack, especially in the organic rhubarb business. Her pleading body language reeked of desperation, actively repelling potential customers.
With a sigh, she slumped on the lip of the jeep boot, her body losing all shape. She looked around the market: popular stalls green with salad vegetables, hers green with envy. She fiddled with her produce, the pink of the rhubarb painting her hand with a pale reflection from the high sun poking through the clouds.
Hopping off the back of the jeep with renewed vigour Susan started engaging passers-by, drawing them to her stall with her enthusiasm. As the sun peaked and then crested, the market started to empty until it came time to pack up. With her stall safely packed in the spacious back of the jeep, she walked around to the driver’s side door and climbed in.
As she pulled out of the field that served as the marketplace, Susan took out her phone and texted her husband, promising to be home by seven. With her attention divided, she barely noticed the truck coming down the road from her left. Reaching for her brake she slammed her foot accidentally onto the accelerator. With a roar, the jeep shot forward and went flying into the bank that ran parallel to the road. It hit the ditch with a crunch, the bonnet all but undamaged.
The last thought that ran through Susan’s head as she flew through the windscreen was whether or not she put an ‘X’ at the end of her text before she sent it. With a squelch, her body impaled itself on the branch of a low hanging tree with roots wrapped around the bank. Her scream died in her throat as the highly pressurised blood flooded her oesophagus. With a shudder, Susan Winchester took her last breath, the silver body of the Range Rover vandalised by her life’s blood.