The Tyrant's Tomb

Dude, this isn’t cool
Dude just tried to eat my dude
That’s my dead dude, dude
I LIKE FLYING CARS. I prefer it when the car is actually capable of
flight, however.
As the hearse achieved zero gravity, I had a few microseconds to
appreciate the scenery below—a lovely little lake edged with eucalyptus
trees and walking trails, and a small beach on the far shore, where a cluster
of evening picnickers relaxed on blankets.
Oh, good, some small part of my brain thought. Maybe we’ll at least
land in the water.
Then we dropped—not toward the lake, but toward the trees.
A sound like Luciano Pavarotti’s high C in Don Giovanni issued from
my throat. My hands glued themselves to the wheel.
As we plunged into the eucalypti, the ghoul disappeared from our roof—
almost as if the tree branches had purposefully swatted it away. Other
branches seemed to bend around the hearse, slowing our fall, dropping us
from one leafy cough-drop-scented bough to another until we hit the ground
on all four wheels with a jarring thud. Too late to do any good, the air bags
deployed, shoving my head against the backrest.
Yellow amoebas danced in my eyes. The taste of blood stung my throat. I
clawed for the door handle, squeezed my way out between the air bag and
the seat, and tumbled onto a bed of cool soft grass.
“Blergh,” I said.