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rocketed past the red line into the danger zone; pieces of twisted body panels began bending back and slapping violently as the pickup hurtled through the darkness like a wounded bull. There was an explosion under the hood and then another. Fragments of disintegrating engine spewed out of the chamber that bad once housed it and flames began leaping out from under the dash panel, scorching my legs, pumping a torrent of blistering heat into the cab. The wiring caught on fire and acrid, choking smoke engulfed me. |
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When you can't see, you can't breathe, and you're hurtling blindly into a dense fog bank at something close to 50 miles an hour in a truck that's belching out flames and smoke from what was once called the hood and cabyou need a plan. My standard repertoire does not happen to include one that covers this type of situation, so I reverted to my baser instincts and decided to get the hell out of there. What little bits of logic that were managing to filter through told me that that foul-smelling, antisocial mountain of hostility that had twice tried to rearrange my face was sprawled somewhere, dazed and full of big ugly holes, three blocks or more down the highway. If that was the case (and even if it wasn't) my options were still limited; get the hell out or barbecue my long-cherished main frame. |
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