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Alms for the Dying; Collected Short Stories: 1991-1992
A Friendly Visit
Chapter 5 Page 8
Alms for the Dying; Collected Short Stories: 1991-1992
A Friendly Visit
Chapter 5 Page 8
They plunged through the drainage ditch lining the road. The wheel was jerked out of his hands, nearly tipping the truck over on its side. Ron was thrown into the passenger floor board, his hold on the gas pedal loosened. Mike found his seat again and floored the accelerator himself, riding out the bumps as the truck fish-tailed from side to side.
At last he was in control, and they were running full out on an evenly cut dirt road. When he checked the speedometer, it was pegged at ninety five, its highest mark, and they were still accelerating.
Ron picked himself up out of the floor board. Now the light was overwhelmingly bright, filling the cabin of the truck with an orange glow brighter than any noon sun. The roar was deafening, it made the very ground tremble. Somebody was screaming, but he could barely hear the sound, though it was coming from his own mouth.
Then the light passed overhead in a horrendous rush, shattering the windshield with the force of its movement. Mike's face was peppered with cuts, but he pushed the truck faster and faster.
A billowing cloud of heat and dust pelted them, blinding their eyes and filling their lungs. Coughing, Mike aimed the vehicle as best he could. At least there was light enough to see. More than enough light, it blinded him long after the dust settled. The other windows of the truck blew out, filling the bed with glass fragments that glistened in the blast furnace glow.
At last he was in control, and they were running full out on an evenly cut dirt road. When he checked the speedometer, it was pegged at ninety five, its highest mark, and they were still accelerating.
Ron picked himself up out of the floor board. Now the light was overwhelmingly bright, filling the cabin of the truck with an orange glow brighter than any noon sun. The roar was deafening, it made the very ground tremble. Somebody was screaming, but he could barely hear the sound, though it was coming from his own mouth.
Then the light passed overhead in a horrendous rush, shattering the windshield with the force of its movement. Mike's face was peppered with cuts, but he pushed the truck faster and faster.
A billowing cloud of heat and dust pelted them, blinding their eyes and filling their lungs. Coughing, Mike aimed the vehicle as best he could. At least there was light enough to see. More than enough light, it blinded him long after the dust settled. The other windows of the truck blew out, filling the bed with glass fragments that glistened in the blast furnace glow.
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