Free Ruthless by Carolyn Lee Adams

hum. Everything is a hum. Sights, sounds, sensation, it all melds into a hum around me. I want to keep sharp, but I’m dulled by fear. I’m stuffed full of it.
    There are only a few trees between me and the front door now.
    It’s now or never.
    Before I’m really ready, I run.
    Please, please, don’t be home, don’t be home.
    Reaching the front door, I sling open the barricade, throw open the door, and find the keys on the nail. Like they were waiting for me.
    I grab them.
    Time does funny things, and now I’m in the truck without any memory of how I got there. I turn the key, and the old engine cranks.
    â€œOh, good truck, good truck,” I say.
    I floor it.
    This old truck has power. More power than I’m used to.
    And now I know why he was so slow, so careful on this path that doesn’t even count for a road. The curves and bumps send me to two wheels.
    I’m going to crash before I’ve even gone a quarter of a mile.
    I release the gas, and the truck returns to all fours, but it’s jouncing up and down like I’m in an inflatable bouncy castle. No seat belt on, I can’t quite get a good grip on the wheel. There’s a bend in the road; I manage to crank right and follow the clearing.
    And there he is.
    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