Heya, ff.n's NASCAR team! (Since Tweedle Duh said she liked being called that, I thought that maybe some others might too ; )

Okay, here's chapter five! There's only two more left after this, FYI.

Oh, another thing you might want to know: I posted another NASCAR fic last night. I'm fairly sure I told you it was coming along. It's a short piece called "Rock Star" that I think you Junior fans especially will enjoy. So please check it out; you can get to it through my profile.

Here's chapter five!

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5: The Metal Sepulcher

Darrell’s heart sank. It became lead to his feet, and he just stared as NASCAR officials rushed onto the track. A whimper from his right drew Darrell out of his stupor. Junior raced past him, threw his arms into pit wall and hurled his body into the air. But Dale sr. grabbed the collar of his son’s shirt before Junior could take off.

“No, son!” Dale demanded, as the boy struggled against his father’s grasp, his face to the wreck, neck muscles straining. Darrell saw the desperation in Junior’s eyes, to get out there and do something, a longing that freed Darrell of his psychosomatic paralysis. He leapt over the wall, soaring through the grass and toward the wreck, faster than any official.

His stomach lurched as he approached, as he side-stepped jagged hunks of sheet metal and miscellaneous car parts. He slowed as he approached the steaming remains of the automobile. Burnt rubber assaulted his olfactory. But the stench was too great to be just rubber. Darrell thought he was going to throw up his lunch when the notion crossed his mind that maybe what he was smelling was burnt flesh.

A pair of charred sneakers hung through a hole beneath the car, just below where the foot pedals should have been. Motionless shoes, connected to motionless feet and legs. Darrell reached out and ripped the window net out of his way. He flung it over his shoulder, and braved a peak inside the battered automobile.

Slumped in the driver’s seat was Darrell’s brother. The fingers of Michael’s gloved right hand still hooked onto the misshapen steering wheel, his crooked elbow hanging just beneath. The other arm was jammed between the seat and his body. His head lolled to the right, his usually exuberant eyes now closed.

Darrell choked back tears as he gazed upon his brother inside the roughly hewn metal coffin. “He’s dead!” he murmured softly to himself, and melted to his knees by the window. “My brother’s dead!”

NASCAR officials were now at the older Waltrip’s back, but froze as they watched the man remove his brother’s helmet, and cradle the younger’s head in his arms. They choked back tears of their own as they watched the older man sob into the injured’s dark curls.

At long last, an official stepped forward, and laid a hand on Darrell’s shoulder. “Mr. Waltrip,” he whispered. “I’m afraid we need to get in there.”

Darrell released Michael’s head and nodded. Stepping back from the car, he swiped his forearm across his nose and sniffled. He glanced over his shoulder. Those blue tarps were being pulled out.

“Dear God,” Darrell voiced his prayer, a hushed tone barely audible to himself over the buzzing crowds. “Please bring back my brother to me. Please!” He clenched his eyes shut and opened them, pulsing tears across his eyelashes and down the sides of his cheeks. He wiped them away. Inhaled a sharp breath, and returned his sights to the wreck.

The blue tarps were being unfolded.

Darrell gasped. He bit his lower lip, clenched his eyes shut, and bowed his head. When he opened his eyes, they focused upon a small piece in the grass. Darrell leaned over and picked it up. Junior’s chewed-up golf pencil; it must have shot out of the car. Darrell rolled it in his fingers before squeezing it into his palm. Glancing toward pit road, he watched as Dale sr. embraced his son from behind, as Junior held onto his father’s fingers and stared frightfully at the wreck. Even from a couple hundred feet away, Darrell could see the tears staining the boy’s face. Which brought on a new surge of his own.

“Mr. Waltrip!”

Darrell looked to the paramedic knelt by the side of the car’s steaming frame, the one who held Michael’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger. The EMT beckoned the Winston Cup driver to him. Darrell approached with trembling steps, his feet slipping and sliding on the grass. He held his breath as he gazed through the window once again.

Michael’s eyelids twitched, then fluttered open. With wide blue eyes, he stared at Darrell. He gaped at his brother, mouthed a few words before finally speaking.

“Did I… did I just hit the wall?”

Darrell fought back tears and smiled at his brother. “Boy, you just made the worst single car crash in the history of stock car racing.”

Michael’s eyes darted about like he were looking for something. “I did?” he exclaimed, his voice climbing a couple octaves. He glanced down at his body, then back up at Darrell. “Then how come I don’t hurt any?”

“You’re not in ANY pain?!” the paramedic by the door exclaimed.

“Heck no! I feel fine!” Michael wrapped his fingers around the bottom rim of the window and pulled himself halfway out.

“Sir!” the paramedic exclaimed, pressing his hand into Michael’s shoulder. “PLEASE take it easy! We need to thoroughly check you out, to make SURE that you are uninjured!”

Michael flopped back into his seat. “Well okay!” he complied. He leaned back and rested his hands on the wheel.

Darrell watched his brother with wonder and a smile. Michael was dead. He HAD been dead! Darrell was convinced of that. He had SEEN it! But, now, here Michael was, looking around, dazed and confused, and VERY much alive. As far as Darrell was concerned, he was looking at Lazarus.

He watched as officials folded up the blue tarps and tucked them back into their trucks. Behind them, he saw the yellow flag lowered and the green flag rise. The pace car glided down pit road, out of the way of the feverish Busch Series drivers, who ripped out of the caution lap.

Paramedics raised Michael out of his jagged metal tomb, and laid him on a stretcher. They wrapped a white foam brace around his neck. Before they could strap him to the backboard, Michael rolled onto his side. He looked from the track, to his car, to his brother. Scrunching up his nose, he asked Darrell,” You don’t suppose I still have a chance of winning today, do ya?”

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A/N: This chapter took FOREVER to write!!! But, when I finally sat down and got going, it all flowed. Later, I went back and added details that I’d picked up from my car accident. I just realised how much religious imagery I use in my writing; I REALLY went to town with it in this chapter! Anyway, I am really pleased with this chapter, and I hope y’all liked it too. Please review.

- dj