Free Bitter Cold by J. Joseph Wright Page A

she readjusted it, she saw only empty road behind her.
    In front, though, the headlights of the fast-approaching freight truck blinded her. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal, spinning her front tires, but going nowhere. The trucker sounded his horn so rapidly it seemed like one continuous tone. As the blinding glare from the semi washed over her face, she pressed hard on the accelerator.
    When the truck got close enough for her to read FREIGHTLINER on the grill, her studded tires dug in, propelling the car forward. Combined with some quick maneuvering by the semi, the vehicles avoided what would have been a devastating head-on.
    Still blaring its horn, the eighteen-wheeler swerved, straddling the center line as it continued on its southbound course. Finally, April allowed herself to breathe, realizing she’d been going without oxygen for the last minute and a half. Her pulse lumbered in her ears, throbbing inside her temples like a rock drummer, John Bonham hammering his famous solo from Moby Dick. She could almost hear the snare, bass, roto-toms, bass, snare-bass-snare .
    She took another deep breath, trying to calm her erratic heart. She twisted in her seat, craning to find the pickup. It had to be the NWP truck that rear-ended her, but she couldn’t see it.
    A burst of brightness turned the interior of her car from night to day. Before she had time to react, a shock from the side sent the Neon into a tailspin. She looked back and recognized the corporate pickup from its silhouette.
    Her mind tried to put together what had just happened. The truck didn’t allow her the time. It sideswiped into her rear fender, denting the sheet metal.
    The Neon did a half circle and pointed into the ditch. Momentum took it over the side, and down a steep embankment. The fall would have been much more devastating if not for the mounds of snow. Still, it packed a punch. The vertical terrain pitched her forward. The car’s rear upended and flipped over the front, sending it onto its top. Upside down, hanging from her seatbelt, she saw white everywhere. The air, dusty with iridescent flakes, hung in silence. Her head complained of pain, a throbbing somewhere she couldn’t quite place. She tasted blood. For a few moments, she couldn’t remember anything as she blinked away shards of shattered glass.
    Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch
    The sound of boots in the compacted frost brought it all flooding back to her. She realized those men from NWP meant to kill her. Pure and simple. It couldn’t have been an accident. The driver of that pickup knew exactly what he was doing, and now was coming to finish the job.
    She reached for the seatbelt release and pressed the button. It wouldn’t budge.
    Crunch, crunch
    She saw boots. Looked expensive. Impeccable brown leather with silver fox fur lining. They stopped on the passenger side. She played dead. A face peered in. She recognized the gray-tipped hair. McCullah.
    “Yoo-hoo,” he sang. Sick bastard. “You awake in there?”
    She stayed quiet and motionless, blood filling her head.
    “Little lady? You okay?”
    More crunching. Another set of boots.
    “You sure she’s dead?” as soon as he spoke, she knew it was Armstrong.
    “No. I’m not sure.”
    “Then what are we gonna do?”
    “I’m going to strangle her fucking neck,” McCullah sounded winded. “As soon as I can get to her.”
    Her pulse raced. She struggled with her seatbelt again, fighting for her life. Pressing as hard as she could, she gave it a yank. The lock clicked loose. She fell against the ceiling on her shoulders, hitting the dome light with her forehead.
    “She’s alive! Hurry!”
    She used her feet to clear away the remaining bits of broken glass around the window frame, then pulled herself onto the frigid tundra. Without gloves, her hands burned in the cold.
    She crept only a few feet, then tumbled end over end, landing at the bottom of the hill against a thin, flexible sapling. It cushioned the blow. She