Drt by Eric Thomas Read Free Book Online

road had been closed for a long time and there was a waiting line to get through the newly opened lanes. I inched along, occasionally looking to the left, searching for the crash. Some of these delays were mostly likely due to what they call a ‘Gawker delay’ in the industry, and in this case, completely understandable. When a tractor trailer goes careening into trees, people do everything they can to get a glimpse of the carnage.  
    I looked to the left toward the median. After the overpass, I started seeing the lights and activity. I remember the smell of spilled gas from the collection of vehicles. I could also smell the burned rubber and various other car fluids that all mixed when an engine block and person are skewered. Heavy duty tow trucks hissed and pulled. The chainsaw sound of the jaws of life purred faintly through the trees. I watched policemen, firemen and the Maryland Highway people as my car crept by the scene. They stepped around winding cords and hoses and shouted orders to co-workers. The veterans carried casual countenances, the new recruits looked nauseated.   They all walked with heads shaking, knowing this grisly business would be their whole day.  
    The lights from the fire trucks and ambulances spun colorful, while the kleig lights from the TV crews were as bright as the sun. Combined, the rays leaked though the trees, throwing rungs of radiance onto the ground. Standing among the beams, I saw a Maryland State Highway worker, motionless on the dirt of the shoulder, his gloved hands covered his face as he hunched over. It looked like a new guy needing some air after witnessing his first fatal.  
    I decided to inch to the left, where the worker was standing. The least I could do was help. Try to make the best of a bad situation, make the worker feel better, maybe get some information from him and relay it back to the network.
    “Hey,” I said, leaning out the window.  
    The state highway guy didn’t respond. He was now doubled over, his hands on his knees.  
    “Hey!” I persisted, “I am a traffic reporter.”  
    He was barely a foot from my driver’s side door. He looked up; the klieg lights were directly behind him, his face in shadow.  
    “I'm a traffic reporter. What’s the progress over there?”
    The man spoke. His voice was soft, as if far away. It had a strange quality to it, like a tonality of both high and low pitches at the same time.
    “You didn’t tell me,” the man said.  
    “I reported about it on the radio. I gave you guys all the information I had when you called and asked.”
    The man leaned over and put his hands on my door. I finally noticed that he was not dressed like Maryland State Highway. He wore a pair of jeans and a white undershirt. He looked gaunt and emaciated, his jawline pockmarked with red spots that shone like beacons on his pale white face. He had a sharp nose with a thick mustache underneath it and his eyes were so bloodshot that they looked like stained glass. When he opened his mouth, his teeth were slicked in blood.  
    The man spoke in the horrible dual tone again. His voice was both screeching high and roaring low. His eyes were questioning and filled with pain.  
    “Greg, you didn’t tell me about the car.”

7
    By some miracle I managed to convince the police that I had been horribly frightened by a bee in my car. I calmly explained that it had somehow gotten in, which is why I had launched into a near catatonic bout of screaming and soiled myself. I’m convinced that they let me go because they had so much clean up with the truck. I drove home with my car smelling like a septic tank and my undershorts rapidly chafing my ass.  
    It had been a rotten day. The shower was helping. I got a chance to wash off and comfort myself a bit in the warm water. I leaned forward and held myself under the jet, my scalp surrounded in uterine warmth.  
    The current matter of contention was the man standing on the side of the road. I was sure that