Blue Stew (Second Edition) Read Free Page A

enough sense to throw a foot onto his brake pedal as the two cars together rampaged all the way off the road, yet this was as ineffective as his previous maneuver, and with his whole front-half layered with mud, he saw nothing more than shapeless black forms flying past as his van bounded wildly into the dark.
    A half-formed image of the two cars plunging into the cold, raging river somewhere ahead entered Walter’s mind just before his head was ripped forward with a tremendous noise, dislodging all thought from his brain. At the same instant, an explosion of intense pressure slammed into his body, and then was gone in the next instant, replaced by a wave of delocalized burning all through his upper-torso and midsection.
    His reeling head lolled from side to side before he could coordinate the muscles to bring it upright. His neck felt like an old, overused rubber band. His ears rang from the sound of the impact. The first thing Walter became aware of, beyond the pain, was that he was no longer moving. Whatever his van hit had stopped it completely.
    Blinking through the stillness and the darkness, his ears still ringing shrilly, Walter saw that the windshield had partly disconnected from his van, and through an opening he could see the frontend bent around a large pine tree. The hood was gone and the engine was shooting up steam where water was falling freely onto its hot metal casings.
    Walter groaned as he raised a hand to touch his neck. All the joints connecting his arm to the rest of him protested. He was happy to at least confirm that his head hadn’t been ripped half off.
    The ringing in his ears was not fading. If anything, it was getting louder as his senses began to clear. Dazed as he was, pained as he was, this still lifted a red flag.
    That’s when it dawned on Walter that the loud noise that was filling his head was not originating from inside his head. The constant, high pitch whining was coming from behind him. Deep unease swelled around his heart as he realized what the sound was.
    Walter unlatched his buckle and gingerly turned his body and head to look behind him.
    One of the Jeep’s round headlights was still lit and now shone brightly through the hole where his rear window had once been, wedged up against the backside of his van, a backside that now resembled one half of a partially compressed accordion. The Jeep’s driver, nevertheless, seemed bent on turning his green van into a fully compressed accordion: The piercing whining sound was a mixture of the Jeep’s engine, revved completely, and the Jeep’s wheels, spinning aggressively—but uselessly—in the mud. The direction and intention of the wheels was obvious, for in the dull refraction of the one headlight Walter could see a spray of muddy water shooting out behind the Jeep, into the dark.
    He whispered the words that described his immediate reaction, “O h my god. Does this guy wanna fucking kill me or something ?” Fear spilled over his consciousness, joining the pain in a terrible party of ill-sensations. Had he bought from the wrong dealer recently? Had he, in one of his belligerent stupors, pissed off the wrong cokehead or meth-addict?
    For the first time in a long time, Walter felt scared for his life.
    From the direction of the Jeep’s engine there came a tremendous bang , a clattering of metal, and then silence, but for the plunking of rain dripping off of the trees overhead. The engine had blown.
    Walter tensed. Now was some big hick going to step out of the Jeep and beat him to death with a tire iron? Walter was six feet tall and athletic—or, he’d been athletic way back in high school, a solid player on their middling hockey team—but in his reeling state he felt as defenseless as a young boy.
    A change of wind brought the smell of burnt rubber and burnt machinery to Walter’s nose. He didn’t notice. He remained fixated on his ears and his eyes, poised to receive any sign of movement from the Jeep behind.
    None came.
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