Another semi was coming toward us, its lights flashing, its horn blaring. At the last second I pulled off the road into the prairie grass. I had the door open before I left the road. Just before the Impala hit the cyclone fence I jumped free and rolled onto the grass.

There was a terrible scream of metal on metal as the truck behind me drove through the Impala, knocking it from its path. I scrambled up the cyclone fence, did a belly flop across its pointed top that raked open my shirt and my stomach, and landed on the cement floor beyond.

I made myself get up and start moving again, but red pain was searing my lungs and I was starting to black out. I stumbled over a hubcap and fell down. Lying on my back I watched the semi plow through the fence, heading straight toward me, its headlights pinning me.

I staggered upright. My right foot caught in a discarded tire and I started to fall back to the concrete. I seemed to be dropping in free-fall: I was landing slowly enough to watch the tractor rush toward me.

Just as I hit the pavement sparks erupted from the cab top. A cannon exploded, making my head vibrate against the concrete. The engine ruptured the cab’s grille and a geyser of antifreeze sprayed the night. As I wrenched my ankle free of the tire and dove away I heard a heart-shattering scream. A starburst the color of blood decorated the truck’s windshield.

I lay behind a pylon, panting. The exit ramp notched down too low here for a truck to clear, but Simon had been so intent on killing me that he hadn’t noticed. The top of the truck had caught the edge of the ramp.

I looked up at the cracked concrete. In the dim night air I could just make out pieces of exposed rebars. Traffic roared overhead. It seemed so queer that people were rushing to and fro above me, utterly oblivious of the violence down here. The world should have paused a moment to catch its breath, make some acknowledgment. The expressway itself should have shuddered. But the pylons towered over me, unmoved.

51

Just Deserts—or Whatever—for the Guilty

I ended up in my own bed that night, although for a while it didn’t look as though I’d get there. The trucker who’d been heading toward me had called the cops on his CB once he’d extricated himself from his cab. He had slammed into the side of Simon’s trailer as it jackknifed across the road. His own cab had flipped over, but he’d been wearing a seat belt and mercifully walked away from the accident with minor bruises. By later accounts he’d been threatening to sue everyone involved until he saw Simon’s pulpy head.