Drivers Are Murderers
...and should be locked up.
You are walking back to your car, it is dark. Beside you is a usually busy traffic artery, almost abandoned at this hour.
You hear a chorus of girlish screams to one side, normal for a Saturday night. One of them in particular catches your attention because of its desperation, terror, and because it is harmonizing with the squealing of rubber. You turn quickly.
It is amazing how much you can take in in a split second. You see a single car hurtling forward on the empty road. New, grey, SUV, slicing through the cold air, not a care.
Its wheels are completely still.
Locked in position, skidding forward, peeling off smoke behind them, while the car slides along ahead merrily. Then you notice that its windshield is shattered in two places. Two spider's webs of cratered glass, punctured and sparkling, as you puzzle. Jagged veins shooting out from the centers of the impressions split the darkly distorted face sitting behind the wheel into many pieces. You wonder why he is driving with a broken windshield.
Then you see the body.
It is about ten feet above the ground, hovering over the hood, camouflaged against the night sky. It is falling. It is screaming.
The blustering car pays it no attention as the body rockets downward again, crumpled, twisted like a leaf in the wind. The body bounces off the stabbing, thrusting, merciless hood, arching and snapping unnaturally. Its wrists and neck are curled as it skips along the hood like a stone across water, bruising at every collision. The bumper of the car is ramming it forward, herding it like livestock as it writhes, agonizes, contorts. The car stops with a hiccup and the body continues forward, flinging away from the bumper, hopping across the concrete. It lands almost at your feet and rolls slowly onto its stomach, its tangled hair matted across its back and neck.
It is a woman. Her mini skirt is pulled up to her stomach. There are red welts streaking across her upper legs and her shoes are absent, revealing playful white ankle socks. She is facedown into the gravel on the side of the road. You strain for life signs. What you hear is not welcome. She is whimpering faintly.
Oh, this WILL be continued...