“Kid,” Hatchett said. He let out a sigh, then began collecting the bits of what was once a squirrel from the ground. “Open your damn eyes, and keep watch.”

I pulled myself off the ground, wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. I was dizzy, it was hard to concentrate. I looked into the woods, in time to see green glowing eyes crossing between two trees, as it stalked us. “Shit.” I fumbled with my gun. I switched the safety on, then off again. “Hatchett, crap. It’s coming.”

It felt like smoke, rising through her body, obscuring her vision. A moment later she felt the fire, centered at a spot directly between her legs and up, hot enough to melt a hole through her jeans. She looked at Mika, appreciating anew the soft glow of the woman’s spiked dark brown hair, the mysterious recesses between her folds of tummy flab, the delightful curves of her thick upper arms. Allison tensed her muscles, feeling acutely the pressure of her thighs against one another, and prepared to jump on Mika. She looked so delicious, so tender, it would be a shame not to take her and consume her right now.

Allison jumped up, lifting her rear off the couch. She stopped mid-pounce and stood, blinking, surprised at herself. “Wow.”

The trick is to stay conscious. If you start to focus on the pain then maybe you black out. Don’t know what happens then. Keep breathing, through the pain, even though blood is leaking from your lungs and your throat, keep breathing. My mind is flooded with helpful tidbits like this: like the head trauma has unlocked memories that I didn’t know I had.

I watch the water mixing with the blood and I think, there’s a perfect metaphor. Time and space, blending together. The different streams of simultaneous experience all come together, and in a moment I will be in all places and all times at once.

No wait, that’s the head trauma talking again. It’s a terrible metaphor. Worse than the pie.

Its wipers flip side to side at an insane speed, like upside down pendulums in a clock running too fast. The grill is blindingly bright, reflecting the headlights. The truck is in the lane next to me now, coming up beside me. My brights gleam in its glossy paint as it pulls ahead. The cabin is painted black, but the trailer that it’s hauling is a bright red, red enough to shine in the darkness like the glistening flames of hell. Metal exhaust pipes curved like dull horns, sheets of water cascading off them. On the mud-flaps, icons of deranged and screaming faces, jagged and almost formless.

It is a devil-truck. A horned lorry dispatched from hell, birthed up from a fissure in the earth and given orders on crackling CB radio to take my flaming wreckage back down with it. And I know why.