Free The Dead Zone by Stephen King

says, ‘Blow it outcha you-know-where.’ ”
    â€œYeah,” Johnny said. Now woods were floating by. Carson’s Bog was on the left. They were seven miles from Cleaves Mills, give or take. The meter kicked over another dime.
    One thin dime, one tenth of a dollar. Hey-hey-hey.
    â€œWhat’s your game, might I ask?” the cabbie said.
    â€œI teach high school in Cleaves.”
    â€œOh, yeah? So you know what I mean. What the hell’s wrong with these kids, anyway?”
    Well, they ate a bad hot dog called Vietnam and it gave them ptomaine. A guy named Lyndon Johnson sold it to them. So they went to this other guy, see, and they said, “Jesus, mister, I’m sick as hell.” And this other guy, his name was Nixon, he said, “I know how to fix that. Have a few more hot dogs.” And that’s what’s wrong with the youth of America.
    â€œI don’t know,” Johnny said.
    â€œYou plan all your life and you do what you can,” the cabbie said, and now there was honest bewilderment in his voice, a bewilderment which would not last much longer because the cabbie was embarked upon the last minute of his life. And Johnny, who didn’t know that, felt a real pity for the man, a sympathy for his inability to understand.
    Come on over baby, whole lotta shakin goin on.
    â€œYou never want nothing but the best, and the kid comes home with hair down to his asshole and says the president of the United States is a pig. A pig! Sheeyit, I don’t . . .”
    â€œLook out!” Johnny yelled.
    The cabbie had half-turned to face him, his pudgy American Legionnaire’s face earnest and angry and miserable in the dashlights and in the sudden glow of oncoming headlights. Now he snapped forward again, but too late.
    â€œJeeesus . . .”
    There were two cars, one on each side of the white line. They had been dragging, side by side, coming up over the hill, a Mustang and a Dodge Charger. Johnny could hear the revved-up whine of their engines. The Charger was boring straight down at them. It never tried to get out of the way and the cabbie froze at the wheel.
    â€œJeeeeee . . .”
    Johnny was barely aware of the Mustang flashing by on their left. Then the cab and the Charger met head-on and Johnny felt himself being lifted up and out. There was no pain, although he was marginally aware that his thighs had connected with the taximeter hard enough to rip it out of its frame.
    There was the sound of smashing glass. A huge gout offlame stroked its way up into the night. Johnny’s head collided with the cab’s windshield and knocked it out. Reality began to go down a hole. Pain, faint and far away, in his shoulders and arms as the rest of him followed his head through the jagged windshield. He was flying. Flying into the October night.
    Dim flashing thought: Am I dying? Is this going to kill me?
    Interior voice answering: Yes, this is probably it.
    Flying. October stars flung across the night. Racketing boom of exploding gasoline. An orange glow. Then darkness.
    His trip through the void ended with a hard thump and a splash. Cold wetness as he went into Carson’s Bog, twenty-five feet from where the Charger and the cab, welded together, pushed a pyre of flame into the night sky.
    Darkness.
    Fading.
    Until all that was left seemed to be a giant red-and-black wheel revolving in such emptiness as there may be between the stars, try your luck, first time fluky, second time lucky, hey-hey-hey. The wheel revolved up and down, red and black, the marker ticking past the pins, and he strained to see if it was going to come up double zero, house number, house spin, everybody loses but the house. He strained to see but the wheel was gone. There was only blackness and that universal emptiness, negatory, good buddy, el zilcho. Cold limbo.
    Johnny Smith stayed there a long, long time.

Chapter 3
♦ 1 ♦
    At some time a little past