18 Wheels of Horror
Page 30
He started the engine and eased out onto the highway. His head seemed clear for the first time in hours, the cobwebs suddenly blown away. He rolled down the window and a cool breeze brushed across his face. Breathed deeply and all the tension in his body eased.
And maybe… Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe while she was packing up her bright summer dresses and her serious blouses and her little black cocktail dress. Maybe while she was taking her things from the bathroom—the toothbrush, and the lotions and the creams and the gels, and her pink silk panties that hung over the shower rod. Maybe she’d stopped. Maybe she’d stood there, holding them in her hands for a moment. And maybe she’d had second thoughts.
Maybe when she’d taken down the wedding photo—or the one with the family crowded around the birthday cake or the one from the trip to Puerto Vallarta with their arms around each other and the ocean behind them—maybe she’d stopped for a moment and looked at them, stopped for a moment and studied the faces. Maybe she’d been moved. Maybe something had shifted.
Maybe when she was packing the kids’ toys—the stuffed animals and the doll with the fancy clothes from San Francisco and the catcher’s mitt from Fenway—maybe she’d stopped and held them to her breast. Maybe she’d taken a deep breath. And maybe she’d felt something. Something.
And maybe it wasn’t too late. And maybe it would be okay. Maybe.
And it was now 5:47 am. And it was 318 miles to Chicago.
Patsy Cline again sang from the radio, this time more optimistically, reminding her lover that he belonged to her.
The cell phone rang. Amanda Calling, read the display.
Thank God. He breathed a sigh of relief and snatched up the phone from the passenger seat.
“Amanda? Sweetheart—”
“Howdy, good neighbor,” came the familiar voice.
Every muscle in his body froze.
“Ah’m here with your lovely wife, Amanda,” Buzzsaw continued. “And ah tell you, boy, she sure is a looker.”
“You… You’re…?”
“Cute kids, too. Seems a damn shame leavin’ them alone for so long. Alone and unprotected, you know what ah’m sayin’?”
“You lay a hand on any of them—” Warthog put the hammer down, pushing the semi to 80mph.
“Amanda, she’s quite the feisty one, ain’t she? Don’t do what she’s told the first time. Got to show her who’s boss. Thinkin’ you might have just spoiled her some, boy.”
“You son of a bitch. You goddamn—”
He pushed it to 90mph.
“Them kids could use some discipline, too. Think maybe you been too soft on ‘em, boy. Got to toughen ‘em up some, what it is. Toughen ‘em up. That’s what ah think. Ah surely do.”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking—”
100mph.
“What ah’m wondering is, are any of them gonna call your name? When the time comes, ah mean. When the time comes, they gonna remember you? If the kids were in pain, say. If your wife…if Amanda…if she were havin’ some…intense feelings of some sort. You know, the way ladies do sometimes. Ah’m wonderin’ if she’ll be callin’ your name. I mean, I’m just wonderin’ if they’re even gonna remember who you are at the end. That’s all ah’m sayin’…”
“You fucker! You sick twisted fuck! You fucking piece of sh—”
He was doing 110 when he hit Dead Man’s Curve, a hairpin turn halfway up a ravine. Too late, he pulled his foot off the pedal and tried steering into the skid, wrenching the wheel to the right, eighteen tires screaming at the asphalt. He resisted the impulse to slam on the brakes, holding his breath and easing down as gently as he could to try to regain control. But the tires skidded on the wet pavement and the whole rig lurched sideways, the trailer pulling violently to the right. At the last possible moment, with no other option, he slammed down on the brakes as hard as he could.
The semi slipped over the edge of the ravine, the wheels spinning, the trailer hurdling down on top of the cab. And the air filled with the shattering of glass and the crunch and grind of metal on metal.
***
Ttschhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
“Dispatch, this is 82, over.”
“Go ahead, 82.”
“Got a ten-fifty, half mile west of the I-80 entrance. Semi down the ravine.”
“Dead Man’s Curve took another one, huh?”
“Looks like. Driver’s dead.”
“Other fatalities?”
“Nope, truck’s empty. Based on the skid marks, sumbitch must have been doing a hundred.”
“Drugs?”
“Pulled a bottle of pills from the cab. Looks like speed.”
“Hell, take enough of that shit, probably start thinking you can fly.”
“Yup. Start seeing monkeys fly out your own asshole’s what I hear.”
“Okay, 82. Meat wagon’s on its way.”
“Roger that, dispatch.”
Ttschhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
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