vehicle.
“Aw’right, wise guy,” Mark whispered, watching the truck swing heavily out into the passing lane. “Let’s see what you got.”
Tension blossomed in his stomach as he sped down the road, keeping his lead on the semi. Wind ripped through the opened windows, thumping loudly, sounding like huge fists were pummeling the car.
“How are you for gas?” the GPS asked, its sharp voice piercing Mark’s ears like an electric drill.
Mark glanced at his fuel gauge and saw that he had less than a quarter tank of gas.
“How’d you—”
“I guess you’ll have to stop at the next service station, huh?”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
A heavy concussion smacked the air inside the car when Mark passed a car heading in the opposite direction. It appeared to be moving much slower than he and the semi, almost as if it was standing still. The trees and shrubs along the roadside whisked by in a dreamy haze of green and brown.
“If you pull into this gas station, he’ll follow you.”
“And?”
“And…he’ll probably beat the shit out of you.”
Mark couldn’t deny the anxiety that twisted like a tangle of barbed wire in his stomach. He fixed his gaze on the GPS unit and said emphatically, “He’s the one’s causing trouble. Not me!”
“Uh-huh.”
The voice sounded colder now, accusing. A shiver ran up Mark’s spine as he imagined a confrontation with the truck driver. No doubt he was a beefy son-of-a-bitch who would wail on him with a tire iron or baseball bat. The exit for the gas station was rapidly approaching.
Mark had to decide.
Finally resolved, he slowed down and even snapped on his turn signal a couple of hundred yards away from the rest stop exit. His shoulders tensed as he waited to see what the truck would do. Mark hoped he would swing out to the left and pass him by, but after a tense moment or two, he heard a thundering rumble of backfiring exhaust as the truck slowed to pull over.
“Fuck,” Mark whispered.
“You’re screwed, man,” the GPS said. “When he catches up with you, he’s gonna kick your ass from here to tomorrow.”
“The hell he will.”
Mark smiled when he saw the fork in the road ahead with large painted signs, indicating that passenger vehicles should exit to the left, and trucks should go to the right.
“Suck on this,” Mark said as he slowed down and took the turn, but a lightning bolt of terror hit him when the truck driver, ignoring the signs, remained right there on his tail.
“Oh, boy. You’re a dead man now,” the GPS said.
“Will you please shut the fuck up?”
There weren’t many vehicles in the parking lot, but Mark slowed down to ten miles per hour in case a pedestrian darted out in front of him. Through the opened window, he could hear the semi as the driver rapidly downshifted, its air brakes gasping like a laboring beast as he slowed down.
Why isn’t there a cop around when you need one? Mark asked himself, looking around for a cruiser. He was certain—now—that the truck driver was going to stay on his tail no matter what.
“You’re fucked twelve ways to Sunday,” the GPS said, and this time Mark couldn’t ignore the almost gleeful note in the machine’s voice.
It’s a damned machine, he reminded himself. That’s all it is. If it really was talking to him, then someone at the factory must have messed with it, programming it to screw with him like this.
Mark slowed down, letting the truck close in on him, making as if he was going to pull into one of the vacant parking spots close to the front door of the convenience store. The truck rolled behind him silently now, blue exhaust spewing from its exhaust pipes and rising like smoke into the crisp morning sky.
“Aw’right, asshole,” Mark said as he squeezed the steering wheel and slammed the accelerator down hard. His tires screeched on the asphalt, sending up plumes of black smoke and gravel behind him. The smell of burning rubber filled the car, making Mark
“Aw’right, wise guy,” Mark whispered, watching the truck swing heavily out into the passing lane. “Let’s see what you got.”
Tension blossomed in his stomach as he sped down the road, keeping his lead on the semi. Wind ripped through the opened windows, thumping loudly, sounding like huge fists were pummeling the car.
“How are you for gas?” the GPS asked, its sharp voice piercing Mark’s ears like an electric drill.
Mark glanced at his fuel gauge and saw that he had less than a quarter tank of gas.
“How’d you—”
“I guess you’ll have to stop at the next service station, huh?”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
A heavy concussion smacked the air inside the car when Mark passed a car heading in the opposite direction. It appeared to be moving much slower than he and the semi, almost as if it was standing still. The trees and shrubs along the roadside whisked by in a dreamy haze of green and brown.
“If you pull into this gas station, he’ll follow you.”
“And?”
“And…he’ll probably beat the shit out of you.”
Mark couldn’t deny the anxiety that twisted like a tangle of barbed wire in his stomach. He fixed his gaze on the GPS unit and said emphatically, “He’s the one’s causing trouble. Not me!”
“Uh-huh.”
The voice sounded colder now, accusing. A shiver ran up Mark’s spine as he imagined a confrontation with the truck driver. No doubt he was a beefy son-of-a-bitch who would wail on him with a tire iron or baseball bat. The exit for the gas station was rapidly approaching.
Mark had to decide.
Finally resolved, he slowed down and even snapped on his turn signal a couple of hundred yards away from the rest stop exit. His shoulders tensed as he waited to see what the truck would do. Mark hoped he would swing out to the left and pass him by, but after a tense moment or two, he heard a thundering rumble of backfiring exhaust as the truck slowed to pull over.
“Fuck,” Mark whispered.
“You’re screwed, man,” the GPS said. “When he catches up with you, he’s gonna kick your ass from here to tomorrow.”
“The hell he will.”
Mark smiled when he saw the fork in the road ahead with large painted signs, indicating that passenger vehicles should exit to the left, and trucks should go to the right.
“Suck on this,” Mark said as he slowed down and took the turn, but a lightning bolt of terror hit him when the truck driver, ignoring the signs, remained right there on his tail.
“Oh, boy. You’re a dead man now,” the GPS said.
“Will you please shut the fuck up?”
There weren’t many vehicles in the parking lot, but Mark slowed down to ten miles per hour in case a pedestrian darted out in front of him. Through the opened window, he could hear the semi as the driver rapidly downshifted, its air brakes gasping like a laboring beast as he slowed down.
Why isn’t there a cop around when you need one? Mark asked himself, looking around for a cruiser. He was certain—now—that the truck driver was going to stay on his tail no matter what.
“You’re fucked twelve ways to Sunday,” the GPS said, and this time Mark couldn’t ignore the almost gleeful note in the machine’s voice.
It’s a damned machine, he reminded himself. That’s all it is. If it really was talking to him, then someone at the factory must have messed with it, programming it to screw with him like this.
Mark slowed down, letting the truck close in on him, making as if he was going to pull into one of the vacant parking spots close to the front door of the convenience store. The truck rolled behind him silently now, blue exhaust spewing from its exhaust pipes and rising like smoke into the crisp morning sky.
“Aw’right, asshole,” Mark said as he squeezed the steering wheel and slammed the accelerator down hard. His tires screeched on the asphalt, sending up plumes of black smoke and gravel behind him. The smell of burning rubber filled the car, making Mark
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