Hitting Coyotes on a Back Country Road

A young man and his friends are involved in a nasty car accident after hitting coyote while on the way to a party.

Twelve feet from the side of the road, Chris remembers the Bronco flipping, rolling, and skidding after hitting a coyote. Seconds earlier, he and his friends were trying to blow their ear drums out with the overly loud ministrations of Trent Reznor while on their way to a party. They only saw the coyote right before it vanished under the front end of the Bronco. Such is the life of a small town teenager. Chris drags himself from the overturned ruins of Detroit steel, and is lying in the middle of the road.

Eleven feet from the side of the road and Chris is remembering stories about car accidents that his father had been in, trying to find a way to relate those situations to the one he’s currently in, hoping that the proper course of action may reveal itself in a moment of salvation- but his father had grown up in Chicago, and had never hit a coyote.

Ten feet from the side of the road, and in a kinder world Chris would  have had his chance at getting into Felicia’s pants later in the evening, but maybe she’ll throw him an awkward “I’m So Glad You’re Not Dead” f**k once he gets out of the hospital.

Nine feet from the side of the road and five minutes after the accident, Trent Reznor is crooning about trying to save himself (but can’t because his self keeps slipping away), drowning out the screams of the three teenage males still hanging upside down in the ruins of the Bronco.

Eight feet from the side of the road and Chris can feel his legs, but can’t stand on them because the bones protrude from his jeans like the bleached skeleton of a picked over carcass. He continues crawling towards the grassy field. His legs hurt so bad that he wants to black out.

Seven feet. Chris wonders how pissed off his parents are going to be that he wrecked the Bronco they bought him for his 16^th birthday. He is worried that that they may ground him for the rest of the school year.

Six feet. A coppery tasting liquid runs down Chris’ face, through his right eye and into his mouth, obscuring his increasingly narrow field of vision. His is feeling something beyond pain in his legs, and is struggling to remain conscious.

Five feet. Chris using every last bit of energy he has to reach the safety of the side of the road.

Four feet from the side of the road and Chris is close enough now that he can make out a gnarled wooden post, barbed wire, and the large bovine shape behind it. The bull has been watching the preceding events with little in the way of concern, having been preoccupied with chasing the coyote out of his field.

Three feet.  Two feet. One foot.  

Chris is face to face with a massive black bull whose lower jaw is moving in a vaguely circular orbit as it chews a wad of grass. Chris is blacking out as the bull says to him, “That looks like it hurts. Do you want me to go and get help?”

Reviews

[FugitiveBalloons]

very interesting. Btw I love Trent Reznor...I enjoyed reading this tho it made me feel uneasy with all the thought of blood even though u didn't mention it all I could envision was a bloody man crawling in the dark trying to find salvation.