You're All Alone (illustrated) by Fritz Leiber

you going to do?” snapped Carr.
    The roadster bucked, leaped forward with a roar.

CHAPTER XI
When you know the world’s a big engine, it may go to your head. You’ll think you can take crazy chances. But the big engine can chew you up just as quick as an ordinary engine chews up a smart-alecky factory hand . . .
    CARR’S gaze swung up as the grimy red wall of a truck loomed higher, higher. “World Movers,” the sign said. He closed his eyes. He felt blood-checking swerve and a chalk-on-slate caress along their fender. When he opened his eyes again, it was to see a woman and child flash by not a foot from the running board. He lurched sideways as they screamed around a corner, let go his hat to cling to the car, watched a coupe and streetcar converge ahead of them, closed his eyes again as they grazed through the gap.
    “Stop, you idiot!” he commanded. “You’re drunk!”
    The small dark man leered at him. “That’s right,” he said triumphantly and turned back to the wheel just in time to miss taking the side off a parked sedan.
    To either side small indistinguishable stores and dusty white street globes shot by, while blocks of brick and gleaming streetcar tracks vanished under the hood.
    “Tell me what it’s all about before you kill us,” Carr yelled.
    The small man snickered through his teeth. His hat blew off. Watching it go, Carr demanded, “Are you one of the men with black hats?”
    The roadster went into a screaming skid. Carr cringed as a hot-dog vender’s white stand ballooned in size. But the small dark man managed to straighten the roadster out in time, though Carr got a whiff of hot dogs.
    “Don’t ask questions like that,” the small dark man warned. I’m not brave.” Then he goggled at Carr, drove with his left hand for a moment while he tapped his bare head with his right’, and said wisely, “Protective coloration.”
    Ahead cars skittered to the curb like disturbed ants. Over the motor’s roar Carr became aware of a wailing that grew in volume. A wild white light mixed with red began to flood the street from behind them, its beam swinging back and forth like a giant pendulum. Then from the corner of his eye Carr noticed a seated man in a big black slicker heave into view several feet above him, creep abreast. Below the man was a bright vermilion hood. Behind him were dim ladders and coils, other slickered figures.
    Ahead the street took a jog. It was impossible for both the roadster and the fire engine to get through.
    Grinning, the small dark man nursed the throttle. The fire engine dropped back just enough for them to careen through the gap ahead of it, under a maze of trolley wires, while frozen pedestrians gaped.
    Carr’s fear left him. There was no use to it.
    The street narrowed, its sides grew dark. Behind them the fire engine braked, took a turn.
    “You’re mixed up with Wilson and Hackman and Dris, aren’t you?” Carr asserted.
    This time the roadster swerved to the left, and for a few moments roared along only inches from the curb, kicking up mud.
    “Nor that brave,” the small dark man told him reprovingly as the roadster came back into the middle.
    Carr caught a cold whiff of water and oil. Skyscrapers twinkled against the sky ahead, but just this side of them a gap in the buildings was widening „ and a black skeletal structure loomed.
    A rapid clanging started. Towers flanking the black structure began to blink red. Carr grabbed for the wheel, stamped at the brake. “They’re opening the bridge!” he yelled.
    The small man kicked him in the ankle, clubbed his hands aside, and accelerated. Ahead were stopped autos and a black and white barrier. Swinging far to the left, they struck its flexible end. It rasped along the roadster’s side, tore free with a great twang. They shot forward onto the dark span. To either side solidity dropped away. Far below, yellow windows of skyscrapers flowed in uneven patterns on the water.
    THEY WERE three-quarters of the