The Rendering Truck filled the world with roar and dust and an oncoming wall of scabrous red metal. The driver was no longer visible as the windshield glinted blindingly. It was less than thirty feet away and bouncing on, ripping fence posts out of the ground as it came.
Duane left his sneaker where it was, pulled his foot free, heaved himself over-feeling the barbed wire rip at his belly-fell heavily into soft soil at the edge of the field, and rolled away across cornstalks even as he gasped for breath.
The truck missed him, snapping off the fence post he'd climbed and throwing wire and weeds and gravel into the air around him.
Duane got to his knees in the deep loam of the field. He was stunned. His flannel shirt was in tatters and blood from torn skin on his stomach dripped onto his corduroys. His hands were a mess.
The Rendering Truck bounced back onto the road. Duane could see the brake lights glowing like red eyes through the cloud of dust.
Duane turned to find Witt, saw him lying two rows over-still stunned-and then he looked back. The truck turned slowly, ponderously to its left, nosedown in the ditch. The rear wheels spun, throwing gravel like birdshot. Duane heard stones patter on the corn in the opposite field. The truck backed up, bounced into the low ditch across the road, moved its long hood in Duane's direction, and came on.
Staggering, weaving, Duane kicked aside cornstalks to get to Witt, lifted the listless dog, and waded off through the rows, moving deeper into the field. The corn was lower than his waist. Witt's tail dragged across tassels.There was nothing but this low corn for a mile to the north, and then only another fence and a few trees.
Duane kept moving, not looking back even when he heard the truck bounce across the ditch, heard the fence snap and tear a second time, heard the sound of cornstalks smashing under bumper and wheels.
It rained just a couple of days ago, Duane was thinking as he slogged on, moving at a glacial pace. Witt hung tired and heavy in his arms. Only the slight panting and movement of his ribs showed that he was alive. Just a couple of days ago it rained. The top inch or so is dust, but beneath it. . , mud. Please, God. Let it be mud.
The truck was in the field with him now. Duane heard the whir of the differential and the grating of gears. It was as if some huge, insane animal was coming after him. The smell of dead livestock was very strong.
Duane plunged on. He wondered if he should stop and face it-lunge aside at the last second like some nimble matador. Try to get behind the damn thing. Find a rock and throw it at the windshield.
He wasn't nimble. He couldn't dodge that way with Witt in his arms. He slogged on.
The truck was forty feet behind him, then twenty, then fifteen. Duane tried to run but could only manage a broad-strided walk. Corn whipped around him and pollen matted Witt's fur. He realized that a row he'd just crossed had been wide and wet, a crude irrigation ditch. He kept on moving. Behind him, the roar of engine and wheels on dirt turned into a whine, then a scream.
Duane glanced back. The truck was at an odd angle, left rear wheels spinning wildly. Mud and torn vegetation flew in an arc behind it.
Duane kept on moving, kicking aside stalks that threatened to scrape at Witt's eyes. When he looked back again, the truck was a hundred feet behind him, still at an odd angle but rocking back and forth now. Stuck in the mud there.
Duane fixed his vision on the line of scattered fields to the north and kept on moving. Beyond that fence was Johnson's pasture . . . and beyond that, to the north and east, the woods that ran all the way to the Black Tree. There were hills there. And a deep gully along the stream.
Another ten rows and I'll look back.
He was pouring sweat now, and he felt it mixing with the blood and dirt as a terrible itch between his shoulder blades. Witt stirred once, moved his legs the way he had since he was a pup when he was dreaming about chasing rabbits or something, and then relaxed as if willing to let his master do all the work.
Eight rows. Nine. Duane kicked aside corn and glanced back.
The truck was free and moving again. But backwards. It was backing out of the field, bouncing and jolting. But definitely moving backwards.
Duane did not stop. He continued to lurch toward the fence-less than a hundred yards away now-even as he heard the whine of wheels and differential change pitch, heard the distant scrape of gravel as the truck accelerated.
There's no way in here. No way it can head me off. I can get all the way to our own back pasture if I stay in the woods, away from the roads and driveways.
Duane reached the fence, gently dropped Witt across it, and lost more skin climbing barbed wire before he allowed himself a second to rest.
He squatted next to his dog, wrists limp on his torn knees, panting loudly and listening to the roar of his own pulse in his ears. He raised his head and looked back.
The water tower was clearly visible. Another quarter of a mile south, he could see the dark trees of Elm Haven. The road was empty. There was no sound. Only a slowly settling cloud of dust and the ravaged fence far across the field told Duane that he hadn't dreamt it all.
He crouched next to Witt and petted his side. The collie did not stir. His eyes were glassy. Duane lowered his cheek to Witt's ribs, held his own breath so his mad breathing would not drown out sound.
There was no heartbeat. Witt's heart had probably stopped on him even before they'd crossed the first fence. Only the old collie's urge to stay by his master had kept him breathing and struggling as long as he had.
Duane touched his old friend's narrow head, patted the thin fur there, and tried to close Witt's eyes. The eyelids would not come down.
Duane knelt there. There was a great pain in his chest and throat which had nothing to do with cuts or bruises. The pain became a terrible swelling, almost an explosion of emotion, but he could not swallow it or bring it up as tears. It threatened to choke him as he gasped for air, raising his face to the now blue sky.
Kneeling there, pounding his bleeding hands against the soil, Duane promised Witt and the God he didn't believe in that someone would pay for this.
Mike O'Rourke and Kevin Grumbacher were the only ones who showed for the Bike Patrol meeting that Mike had called. Kevin was nervous, pacing the length of the chickenhouse and fiddling with a rubber band, but Mike just shrugged. He realized that Dale and the others had better things to do than come to a silly meetings on a summer morning.
"We'll skip it, Kev," he said from where he lay sprawled on the sprung couch. "I'll talk to the guys sometime when we're together."
Kevin paused in his pacing, started to say something, and then stayed silent as Dale and Lawrence burst through the small door.
It was obvious that something had excited Dale: his eyes were wild, his short hair in disarray. Lawrence was also agitated.
"What?" said Mike.
Dale gripped the doorframe and gasped for breath. "Duane just called . . . Van Syke tried to kill him."
Mike and Kevin stared.
"It's true," gasped Dale. "He called me just when the cops were getting there. He had to call Carl's Tavern to get his dad to come home, and then he called Barney, and he thought maybe Van Syke would come while he was waiting at home, but he didn't, so his dad got home but doesn't really believe him, but his dog is dead. . . . Van Syke didn't exactly kill him, but in a way he did, because ..." "Hold it," said Mike.
Dale stopped.
Mike stood up. "Start at the beginning. The way you tell stories when we go camping. First things first. Is Duane OK and how did Van Syke try to kill him?"