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For the second time in two days, my face ricocheted off the steering wheel, and again the old vision went cloudy. A salty hot fluid began trickling down my throat and out my nose, but most of that was immediately forgotten. I had another problem, more immediate and a great deal more monumental. |
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My unexpected impediment had rolled up over the hood and crashed into the windshield with a sickening thud. Fracture lines now raced across my field of vision like a crazed jigsaw puzzle, and for the briefest of moments, I was face to face with a hideous, bloated prehistoric face, twisted in rage. The thing rolled backward, regained its equilibrium and sat hunched like a brooding gargoyle on the crumpled hood; its long, black, apelike arms were outstretched, while it belched out a kind of putrid, black, oily substance. |
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My brain was short-circuiting. |
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It was pure survivalist instinct. The Mauser had a mind of its own. It was out, and I was firing point-blank. The decimated windshield was no barrier. Despite the shattered, diffused glass, despite the blurry vision, despite 101 other reasons why the torrent of shots could have gone astray, I was right on target. |
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The beast took the first slug in the right side of its face, erupting tissue and a thick black liquid like a volcano. One of its |
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