When the Lincoln landed it rolled several times before bursting into flames, where it came to rest in the middle of the road.
Ira mashed the brakes on the truck, and slid to a shuddering stop in the road, craning over his shoulder, staring out at the burning wreck behind him. As he watched the gas tank caught, and the car lifted from the road with a loud, Whump! It clattered back down seconds later, scattering parts of itself across the rain slicked roadway as it did. Ira stepped cautiously from the pickup, and continued to watch as the car burned.
He was still watching a split second later, in horror, as the dark-haired man crawled from the wrecked car.
The right side of his face was covered with new pink skin, and curls of flame and smoke leapt from his black clothing as he crawled out of the inferno and straightened to stand. The flames on his clothing seemed to flare up as if in anger, and then, within a space of seconds, die out altogether and disappear.
He glared at Ira, and Ira stared back, momentarily transfixed. As he watched, the skin of the young man’s face began to darken, no longer pink; it seemed to be healing over the wound from the rifle.
Ira quickly reloaded the rifle, and as the man lifted his hand as if to shoot once more, Ira shot it off. The dark hared man screamed and began to pound down the rain slicked road towards him. Ira, surprised at how calm he felt, aimed carefully, squeezed the trigger, and the man’s head blew apart, flying backwards into the rain. It smacked onto the pavement, and rolled, as dark green fluid jetted from his neck and rained down around him, pattering to the pavement. The remaining hand flew upward, grasping for the head that was no longer there, then he stumbled and fell forward onto the road. Ira watched for a second, before he turned,jumped back into the truck, and quickly started it.
Before he pulled away, he glanced into the rearview, back at the car. As he watched the body staggered to its feet and crawled back into the flames curling from the car. Ira dropped the trucks shift lever into drive and drove quickly away.
He pushed the truck hard until he arrived in Fairport, and constantly checked the mirrors, expecting the car to reappear at any moment. It didn't, and when he almost lost control of the truck sliding around a stalled car in the road, he finally slowed down, afraid that he would wreck the truck, and end up dead, or dying on the side of the road, doing the man’s job for him.
He turned right at the four corners, passing a small gas station that sat there, and headed towards Rochester, still glancing nervously behind him. Just as he was leaving the Fairport village limits, he topped a small hill and glanced back once more. The car was nowhere in sight, so he pulled off into the parking lot of a small store and turned off the motor.
He sat for a moment, with the rain streaming in the opening where the door had once been, listening. He half expected to hear the Lincoln's engine roaring towards him. He didn't, the air was silent, save the thrumming of the rain on the steel roof of the truck, as it fell and splashed its way to the ground.
He slowly became aware of the pain in his left leg, as his heart slowed down and resumed a somewhat normal beat again. He stepped out of the truck to the ground, testing the leg. Dark blood covered a large area of the outside pant leg, just below his hip, and the blue denim fabric was shredded and burned.
The skin was spit open for a few inches, he saw, but the bullet had only grazed the upper thigh. He breathed a sigh of relief, and turned and walked towards the store. He took his rifle with him, and, glancing back at the road, listened carefully before he entered the store. Nothing.
Inside he slipped off the jeans and clenched his teeth tightly together as he sprayed the wound first with a disinfectant, then poured a full bottle of peroxide over it. He wrapped the leg with clean white gauze, and taped the flap tightly. It stung a great deal, but he was afraid of infection, and it wasn't likely he would be seeing a doctor soon, he thought.
He looked out the front glass doors when he had finished, still listening, then stepped outside. He had seen a small shopping center when he pulled in, to the left of the store, and set off towards it now, to replace the bloodied and torn jeans.
He picked up two complete sets of clothes, leaving the others where he had removed them in the aisle of the store. The blood had seeped into one boot as well, he discovered, so he replaced them with a new pair.
He walked back over to the store, and then back to the rear coolers. He was surprised to find them still cold, and was even more surprised to hear a small fan kick on as he pulled a cold beer from within.
He hesitated, then pulled out one more. He wasn't quite sure what God felt about drinking, it had never come up when they had talked, but he didn't feel it was a sin, or at least not a mortal one.
He walked back towards the front counter, went behind it, and sat down on the stool that was there, staring out the wide glass windows at the parking lot as he sipped from the can. The rain dripped and drizzled, letting up somewhat.
"Well, I made it this far, Lord," he said aloud. "I sure hope the rest of this trip ain't as bad as the last part's been."
He finished
