Read Online Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead by John Siwicki - Free Book Online
Authors: John Siwicki
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the cliff; right into the bottom of that gorge.
The driver blinked and crushed his wild nerves, that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away, and vanished into the trees.
It looked just like Harley. Couldn’t have been, though. There’s no way. He closed his eyes and caught his breath.
Man that was . . . close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around and confirming he was okay.
Definitely not a good way to start a trip.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled over to the side.
I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.
His fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there.
He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.
Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.
As he tried to get out of the car, it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; had to actually say, Move legs!
In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle graze in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over the hill.
Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at the blue sky, and those clouds up there, a fleet of ships floating on an upside down sea.
Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.
There it is. This’ll be a good shot.
After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around, he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood. No chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves, no sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.
Panic raced in his blood again. What? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he looked left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.
There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear. The world came to life, birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.
That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone.
Some sort of delayed shock—
He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.
Now—that—is . . . weird!
He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.
How can that be?
It looks okay under here, too, he said, crouching on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.
The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late.
He read one new message.
Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.
Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her.
You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made. I’m okay.
He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.
Call you later :-)
He set the phone down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.
Now, let’s see. Where I am?
He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines, and printed figures.
Here’s the road, Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.
He sat back and ate the
The driver blinked and crushed his wild nerves, that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away, and vanished into the trees.
It looked just like Harley. Couldn’t have been, though. There’s no way. He closed his eyes and caught his breath.
Man that was . . . close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around and confirming he was okay.
Definitely not a good way to start a trip.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled over to the side.
I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.
His fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there.
He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.
Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.
As he tried to get out of the car, it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; had to actually say, Move legs!
In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle graze in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over the hill.
Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at the blue sky, and those clouds up there, a fleet of ships floating on an upside down sea.
Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.
There it is. This’ll be a good shot.
After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around, he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood. No chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves, no sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.
Panic raced in his blood again. What? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he looked left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.
There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear. The world came to life, birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.
That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone.
Some sort of delayed shock—
He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.
Now—that—is . . . weird!
He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.
How can that be?
It looks okay under here, too, he said, crouching on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.
The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late.
He read one new message.
Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.
Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her.
You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made. I’m okay.
He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.
Call you later :-)
He set the phone down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.
Now, let’s see. Where I am?
He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines, and printed figures.
Here’s the road, Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.
He sat back and ate the
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