That’s when it happens—that’s when time just sort of stops, or at least slows down, practically on a dime. That’s when everything starts moving in slow-motion, like in a movie. When, watching as the beast tries to advance but is prevented from doing so by Benny—who’s got it in a headlock and is punching it repeatedly, even as he himself bleeds out—I realize he isn’t just trying to survive but is trying to protect us; to protect Beth and Will and myself. And, too, that I’ve raised my own rifle and begun to squeeze the trigger—even though I know it’s too late and that we are swerving out of control. That the whole truck is tipping, falling, impacting against the street—not just once but three times. Four times, at least. Five.
That we are in fact rolling: tumultuously, shatteringly, riotous
