make a U-turn or pull off the highway, but all he could do
was gape at the truck.
He cried out, legs retracting, as a horn blast sounded
behind him. Snapping up his head, he looked at the
rearview mirror, gasping as he saw a yellow station
wagon bearing down on him at high speed. Suddenly, it
veered off toward the eastbound lane, disappearing from
the mirror. Mann jerked around and saw it hurtling past
his car, its rear end snapping back and forth, its back
tires screeching. He saw the twisted features of the man
inside, saw his lips move rapidly with cursing.
Then the station wagon had swerved back into the
westbound lane and was speeding off. It gave Mann an
odd sensation to see it pass the truck. The man in that
station wagon could drive on, unthreatened. Only he’d
been singled out. What happened was demented. Yet it
was happening.
He drove his car onto the highway shoulder and
braked. Putting the transmission into neutral, he leaned
back, staring at the truck. His head was aching again.
There was a pulsing at his temples like the ticking of a
muffled clock.
What was he to do? He knew very well that if he left
his car to walk to the truck, the driver would pull away
and repark farther down the highway. He may as well
face the fact that he was dealing with a madman. He felt
the tremor in his stomach muscles starting up again. His
heartbeat thudded slowly, striking at his chest wall. Now
what?
With a sudden, angry impulse, Mann snapped the
transmission into gear and stepped down hard on the
accelerator pedal. The tires of the car spun sizzlingly
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before they gripped; the car shot out onto the highway.
Instantly, the truck began to move. He even had the
motor on! Mann thought in raging fear. He floored the
pedal, then, abruptly, realized he couldn’t make it, that
the truck would block his way and he’d collide with its
trailer. A vision flashed across his mind, a fiery explosion
and a sheet of flame incinerating him. He started braking
fast, trying to decelerate evenly, so he wouldn’t lose
control.
When he’d slowed down enough to feel that it was safe,
he steered the car onto the shoulder and stopped it again,
throwing the transmission into neutral.
Approximately eighty yards ahead, the truck pulled off
the highway and stopped.
Mann tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Now
what? he thought. Turn around and head east until he
reached a cutoff that would take him to San Francisco by
another route? How did he know the truck driver
wouldn’t follow him even then? His cheeks twisted as he
bit his lips together angrily. No! He wasn’t going to turn
around!
His expression hardened suddenly. Well, he wasn’t
going to sit here all day, that was certain. Reaching out,
he tapped the gearshift into drive and steered his car
onto the highway once again. He saw the massive truck
and trailer start to move but made no effort to speed up.
He tapped at the brakes, taking a position about 30 yards
behind the trailer. He glanced at his speedometer. Forty
miles an hour. The truck driver had his left arm out of
the cab window and was waving him on. What did that
mean? Had he changed his mind? Decided, finally, that
this thing had gone too far? Mann couldn’t let himself
believe it.
He looked ahead. Despite the mountain ranges all
around, the highway was flat as far as he could see. He
tapped a fingernail against the horn bar, trying to make
up his mind. Presumably, he could continue all the way
to San Francisco at this speed, hanging back just far
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enough to avoid the worst of the exhaust fumes. It didn't
seem likely that the truck driver would stop directly on
the highway to block his way. And if the truck driver
pulled onto the shoulder to let him pass, he could pull off
the highway, too. It would be a draining afternoon but a
safe one.
On the other hand, outracing the truck might be worth
just one more try. This was obviously what that son of a
bitch wanted. Yet, surely, a vehicle of such size couldn’t
be driven with the same daring as, potentially, his own.
The laws of mechanics were against it, if nothing else.
Whatever advantage the truck had in mass, it had to lose
in stability, particularly that of its trailer. If Mann were
to drive at, say, 80 miles an hour and there were a few
steep grades— as he felt sure there were— the truck
would have to fall behind.
The question was, of course, whether he had the nerve
to maintain such a speed over a long distance. He’d
never done it before. Still, the more he thought about it,
the more it appealed to him; far more than the alternative did.
Abruptly, he decided. Right, he thought. He checked
ahead, then pressed down hard on the accelerator pedal
and pulled into the eastbound lane. As he neared the
truck, he tensed, anticipating that the driver might block
his way. But the truck did not shift from the westbound
lane. Mann’s car moved along its mammoth side. He
glanced at the cab and saw the name k e l l e r printed on
its door. For a shocking instant, he thought it read k ille r
and started to slow down. Then, glancing at the name
again, he saw what it really was and depressed the pedal
sharply. When he saw the truck reflected in the rearview
mirror, he steered his car into the westbound lane.
He shuddered, dread and satisfaction mixed together,
as he saw that the truck driver was speeding up. It was
strangely comforting to know the man’s intentions definitely again. That plus the knowledge of his face and name seemed, somehow, to reduce his stature. Before, he
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had been faceless, nameless, an embodiment of unknown terror. Now, at least, he was an individual. All right, Keller, said his mind, let’s see you beat me with
that purple-silver relic now. He pressed down harder on
the pedal. Here we go, he thought.
He looked at the speedometer, scowling as he saw that
he was doing only 74 miles an hour. Deliberately, he
pressed down on the pedal, alternating his gaze between
the highway ahead and the speedometer until the needle
turned past 80. He felt a flickering of satisfaction with
himself. All right, Keller, you son of a bitch, top that, he
thought.
After several moments, he glanced into the rearview
mirror again. Was the truck getting closer? Stunned, he
checked the speedometer. Damn it! He was down to 76!
He forced in the accelerator pedal angrily. He mustn’t go
less than 80! Mann’s chest shuddered with convulsive
breath.
He glanced aside as he hurtled past a beige sedan
parked on the shoulder underneath a tree. A y
oung
couple sat inside it, talking. Already they were far
behind, their world removed from his. Had they even
glanced aside when he’d passed? He doubted it.
He started as the shadow of an overhead bridge
whipped across the hood and windshield. Inhaling raggedly, he glanced at the speedometer again. He was holding at 81. He checked the rearview mirror. Was it his
imagination that the truck was gaining ground? He
looked forward with anxious eyes. There had to be some
kind of town ahead. To hell with time; he’d stop at the
police station and tell them what had happened. They’d
have to believe him. Why would he stop to tell them such
a story if it weren’t true? For all he knew, Keller had a
police record in these parts. Oh, sure, we’re on to him, he
heard a faceless officer remark. That crazy bastard’s
asked for it before and now he’s going to get it.
Mann shook himself and looked at the mirror. The
truck was getting closer. Wincing, he glanced at the
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speedometer. Goddamn it, pay attention! raged his
mind. He was down to 74 again! Whining with frustration, he depressed the pedal. Eighty!— 80! he demanded of himself. There was a murderer behind him!
His car began to pass a field of flowers; lilacs, Mann
saw, white and purple stretching out in endless rows.
There was a small shack near the highway, the words h e l d
f r e s h f l o w e r painted on it. A brown-cardboard square
was propped against the shack, the word fu n er a ls
printed crudely on it. Mann saw himself, abruptly, lying
in a casket, painted like some grotesque mannequin. The
overpowering smell of flowers seemed to fill his nostrils.
Ruth and the children sitting in the first row, heads
bowed. All his relatives—
Suddenly, the pavement roughened and the car began
to bounce and shudder, driving bolts of pain into his
head. He felt the steering wheel resisting him and
clamped his hands around it tightly, harsh vibrations
running up his arms. He didn’t dare look at the mirror
now. He had to force himself to keep the speed unchanged. Keller wasn’t going to slow down; he was sure of that. What i f he got a flat tire, though? All control
would vanish in an instant. He visualized the somersaulting of his car, its grinding, shrieking tumble, the explosion of its gas tank, his body crushed and burned
and—
The broken span of pavement ended and his gaze
jumped quickly to the rearview mirror. The truck was no
closer, but it hadn’t lost ground, either. Mann’s eyes
shifted. Up ahead were hills and mountains. He tried to
reassure himself that upgrades were on his side, that he
could climb them at the same speed he was going now.
Yet all he could imagine were the downgrades, the
immense truck close behind him, slamming violently
into his car and knocking it across some cliff edge. He
had a horrifying vision of dozens of broken, rusted cars
lying unseen in the canyons ahead, corpses in every one
of them, all flung to shattering deaths by Keller.
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Richard M atheson
Mann’s car went rocketing into a corridor of trees. On
each side of the highway was a eucalyptus windbreak,
each trunk three feet from the next. It was like speeding
through a high-walled canyon. Mann gasped, twitching,
as a large twig bearing dusty leaves dropped down across
the windshield, then slid out of sight. Dear God! he
thought. He was getting near the edge himself. If he
should lose his nerve at this speed, it was over. Jesus!
That would be ideal for Keller! he realized suddenly. He
visualized the square-faced driver laughing as he passed
the burning wreckage, knowing that he’d killed his prey
without so much as touching him.
Mann started as his car shot out into the open. The
route ahead was not straight now but winding up into
the foothills. Mann willed himself to press down on the
pedal even more. Eighty-three now, almost 84.
To his left was a broad terrain of green hills blending
into mountains. He saw a black car on a dirt road,
moving toward the highway. Was its side painted white?
Mann’s heartbeat lurched. Impulsively, he jammed the
heel of his right hand down against the horn bar and held
it there. The blast of the horn was shrill and racking to
his ears. His heart began to pound. Was it a police car?
Was it?
He let the horn bar up abruptly. No, it wasn’t. Damn!
his mind raged. Keller must have been amused by his
pathetic efforts. Doubtless, he was chuckling to himself
right now. He heard the truck driver’s voice in his mind,
coarse and sly. You think you gonna get a cop to save you,
boy?Shee-it. You gonna die. Mann’s heart contorted with
savage hatred. You son o f a bitch! he thought. Jerking his
right hand into a fist, he drove it down against the seat.
Goddamn you, Keller! I’m going to kill you, if it’s the
last thing I do!
The hills were closer now. There would be slopes
directly, long steep grades. Mann felt a burst of hope
within himself. He was sure to gain a lot of distance on
the truck. No matter how he tried, that bastard Keller
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couldn’t manage 80 miles an hour on a hill. But I can!
cried his mind with fierce elation. He worked up saliva in
his mouth and swallowed it. The back of his shirt was
drenched. He could feel sweat trickling down his sides. A
bath and a drink, first order of the day on reaching San
Francisco. A long, hot bath, a long, cold drink. Cutty
Sark. He’d splurge, by Christ. He rated it.
The car swept up a shallow rise. Not steep enough,
goddamn it! The truck’s momentum would prevent its
losing speed. Mann felt mindless hatred for the landscape. Already, he had topped the rise and tilted over to a shallow downgrade. He looked at the rearview mirror.
Square, he thought, everything about the truck was
square: the radiator grille, the fender shapes, the bumper
ends, the outline of the cab, even the shape of Keller’s
hands and face. He visualized the truck as some great
entity pursuing him, insentient, brutish, chasing him
with instinct only.
Mann cried out, horror-stricken, as he saw the ro a d
r e p a ir s sign up ahead. His frantic gaze leaped down the
highway. Both lanes blocked, a huge black arrow pointing toward the alternate route! He groaned in anguish, seeing it was dirt. His foot jumped automatically to the
brake pedal and started pumping it. He threw a dazed
look at the rearview mirror. The truck was moving as
fast as ever! It couldn't, though! Mann’s expression froze
in terror as he started turning to the right.
He stiffened as the front wheels hit the dirt road. For
an instant, he was certain that the back part of the car
was going to spin; he felt it breaking to the left. “No,
don’t!” he cried. Abruptly, he was jarring down the dirt
road, elbows braced against h
is sides, trying to keep from
losing control. His tires battered at the ruts, almost
tearing the wheel from his grip. The windows rattled
noisily. His neck snapped back and forth with painful
jerks. His jolting body surged against the binding of the
safety belt and slammed down violently on the seat. He
felt the bouncing of the car drive up his spine. His
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Richard M atheson
clenching teeth slipped and he cried out hoarsely as his
upper teeth gouged deep into his lip.
He gasped as the rear end of the car began surging to
the right. He started to jerk the steering wheel to the left,
then, hissing, wrenched it in the opposite direction,
crying out as the right rear fender cracked into a fence
pole, knocking it down. He started pumping at the
brakes, struggling to regain control. The car rear yawed
sharply to the left, tires shooting out a spray of dirt.
Mann felt a scream tear upward in his throat. He twisted
wildly at the steering wheel. The car began careening to
the right. He hitched the wheel around until the car was
on course again. His head was pounding like his heart
now, with gigantic, throbbing spasms. He started coughing as he gagged on dripping blood.
The dirt road ended suddenly, the car regained momentum on the pavement and he dared to Took at the rearview mirror. The truck was slowed down but was
still behind him, rocking like a freighter on a storm-
tossed sea, its huge tires scouring up a pall of dust. Mann
shoved in the accelerator pedal and his car surged
forward. A good, steep grade lay just ahead; he’d gain
that distance now. He swallowed blood, grimacing at the
taste, then fumbled in his trouser pocket and tugged out
his handkerchief. He pressed it to his bleeding lip, eyes
fixed on the slope ahead. Another fifty yards or so. He
writhed his back. His undershirt was soaking wet, adhering to his skin. He glanced at the rearview mirror. The truck had just regained the highway. Tough! he thought
with venom. Didn’t get me, did you, Keller?
His car was on the first yards of the upgrade when
steam began to issue from beneath its hood. Mann
stiffened suddenly, eyes widening with shock. The steam
increased, became a smoking mist. Mann’s gaze jumped
down. The red light hadn’t flashed on yet but had to in a
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 27