Right in front of me.
With every bit of strength I have, I punch the gas pedal hard. Hard, hard, hard. I want to crash into him; I want to kill him; I want to flatten him.
The truck bears down on the Wolfman.
He half raises his gun, and I think, Yes, mother-effer, take the time to raise your gun; take your time and see what it gets you.
But he’s too smart. He abandons the gun, letting it sling useless against his side, and leaps into the brush as the truck barrels past.
He’s behind me now, but I’m still not in control. It’s too fast; everything’s too fast. Another sharp bend almost sends me into a tree. Hitting the brake hard, I then try to figure out a pace that’s doable on this treacherous mountain lane.
Sticking with the pace for a few seconds, I think of Wolfman gaining ground, climbing a ridge. Once he’s on a ridge, with that hunting rifle, he’ll look through his scope and he’ll see me. He’ll shoot up the truck. He’ll get me. He can still get me. I know he can still get me.
I want to stop myself, but I can’t. My right foot can’t stop pushing the gas pedal, sending the truck lurching down the path. The road forks. I choose left.
Only two hundred yards later I hit a dead end.
It takes a million-point turn before I can get the truck going back to where I came from.
I’m ready to see him, standing in the lane, his rifle at the ready.
He’s not there, not in person, but he’s in my mind. He looms so large I can’t get away from him. I get back to the fork and go the other way. Just a few seconds later and I’m forced to face another choice.
I don’t want these damn choices; I want a route out. I want out of here.
But there is no clear path. There’s a labyrinth of country roads, more trails than roads, really, and I don’t know where the hell I am.
I pick a road, but in no time I face another dead end.
And another.
And now I have no idea where I am.
I take yet another path that ends in a dead end, and I recognize it as a dead end I’ve already visited. I’m driving in circles. I’m not getting out.
I’d thought this truck was my trip to victory. Now I hate it. I hate it like I’ve never hated an inanimate object in my life. I hate the way it lurches; I hate the rotten mildew smell of it. It can’t get me where I want to go. It can’t get me anywhere but lost. Inside it I’m big and loud and visible; I’m an easy target.
These poor excuses for roads follow the low spots, the valleys. I’m a slow-moving bug down in a rut, and the Wolfman is up there somewhere, up on the ridges, with his high-powered rifle and his scope, and he’s waiting for me.
How long have I been driving? I don’t know, but I’m covered with sweat.
I’ve focused my energies, picking my way forward, making mental landmarks of where I’ve been. It’s impossible to say if I’m taking the best path possible, but at least I’m not making the same dead-end mistakes over and over again. It takes a while, far longer than I’d like, but I find myself on a well-maintained gravel road. It’s a huge improvement over the trails and dirt lanes of the morning. It’s a strange road though. The gravel is piled on inches thick, and it’s broader than you’d expect.
Driving conservatively, driving to preserve every drop of gas in the tank, I follow the gravel road like it’s a lifeline. Because it is.
It goes on and on and on and on and on and on, and I start to worry about how much gas I have left. It dawns on me that this is a DNR road. Department of Natural Resources. It’s kept up not because people are ever on it. It’s kept up in case of wildfire or other natural disaster. All the same, even a DNR road will meet up with a real road eventually. I’ve started to lose faith in miracles, but one might happen, and I might run into a forest ranger making his patrols.
Up ahead there’s something long and solid and white gray. It stretches across the road, and the sight of it puts a lead weight of dread into my belly. I think I know what it is, but I hope I’m wrong. Or maybe there’s a way around it I just can’t see yet.
With every yard it becomes clearer, and soon there’s no hope, no denying what it is.
A concrete barricade. There’s no way around it. No road beyond it.
This “road” I’m on is nothing but a firebreak. It’s not a road at all.
When I’m finally turned back to the direction I came from, the fuel light blinks on.
It’s too much.
The engine is loud, and when I pull the key out of the ignition, the silence is like a vacuum. I need to take a break, think.
But I don’t think.
I feel.
I feel rage and hate, self-pity and sorrow; I feel soul-scorching waves of agony. I want to punch my way out of reality and into a different world, but instead I hit the steering wheel, because it’s right there. I hit it as hard as I can, until I can hit no more.