Road Kill
by Shirlee Jellum
As usual, long after midnight, the road was deserted—a long black ribbon stretched thin for nearly thirty miles, only a couple of slight curves and one crossroad leading to an abandoned ranch to the west and hunters’ camps in the foothills to the east. No cars, just an occasional long-haul truck, the towering silhouettes of saguaros, the slow meander of tumbleweeds, and always a pair of glimmering eyes in the headlights’ glare.
Tonight the sky was a bowl of onyx, filled with diamond chips, the full moon a pearl pendant. George rolled down his window, inhaled the hot dry air, admired the vast shadowy silence, then dared himself to close his eyes for five seconds without slowing down, to see if he could maintain a straight course. He often did this, starting with a few seconds, once managing almost a minute before he felt the pull of gravel along the road’s edge, which happened to be on a steep embankment above an arroyo. Gosh, that was close, he’d thought, his heart thudding in his throat, hands slick on the steering wheel. This time he lasted nearly thirty seconds before he heard the front end dragging a tumbleweed and stopped so he could remove it from the bumper.
Back inside, he flicked on his favorite country western station and was soon humming a few bars, cruising along at eighty. Up ahead, about a quarter mile, a jackrabbit darted into his lane, stopped and faced the speeding car. “Two points,” he mumbled, as he sped up to ninety, his smile as bright as the gleaming eyes. At the last second, it leapt into a ditch. “Well, dang it!” he said, slowing down and searching for movement. Nothing but sagebrush and the glitter of a couple beer cans tossed from car windows.
Back up to eighty, George thought about his recent kills—one ugly buzzard, a coyote pup, skunk (big mistake!) and a snake, darn near as long as my trusty Buick. He chuckled then cranked up the volume on the radio.
Halfway to the crossroads clouds obscured the moon. George turned off his headlights. Same as closing my eyes, he thought, as he raced forward into the blackness, counting the seconds.
A strong whiff of skunk wafted into the car. Fumbling for the window lever, George’s sleeve caught on the door handle, wrenching his arm backward and spinning the steering wheel out of his other hand. A sickening crash, then the tinkle of glass, was followed by a stab of pain as his head smacked against the dash. Blood tricked down his brow, but he was breathing and his arms and legs moved.
“Holy moly that hurts,” he muttered as he turned off the music and grabbed a flashlight from the glovebox, then shakily exited the door to survey the damage. The headlights were shattered, a massive saguaro crumpled under the front of the car, one wheel twisted, the other tire flat. Just ahead he could make out the lumbering shape of a skunk, its stripe as white as a beacon.
He leaned against the hood, mopping the blood from his face, when a sudden high-pitched buzz filled the silence. As he peered toward the noise, a snake with six, no eight, oh lordy ten pearly buttons inched across his foot, wrapped around his ankle then slowly spiraled up his leg. He froze.
While wondering how he’d escape this mess, a whoosh of wings enwrapped his head and several talons punctured his shoulders. The wings beat time to his heart, slapping his ears for balance while a beak skewered his neck.
George flailed his arms at the bird and stomped his feet trying to loosen the snake nearing his crotch. Blindly he ran into the road then heard barreling toward him the screech of brakes and a deafening air horn. Moments before impact the bird flew off with a large chunk of his skin, the snake dropped to the pavement, after a quick bite to his thigh, and somewhere in the hills a lone coyote howled.
Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher living in the middle of nowhere. When not traveling, gardening, or backpacking, she publishes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, most recently in Gleam, Honeyguide, Flash Fiction, and Memoirist.