TOMORROW’S DEAD, by David DeanThe old man opened his eyes and groaned. A string of reddened spittle spun from his busted lip and stretched itself impossibly upwards, crawling across his narrow field of vision in its quest for the ceiling of his car. He wanted to wipe it away, but his arms felt heavy and useless. He looked down to find his hands but they were absent from his lap.
He thought irritably of his wife—perhaps she could explain; quite probably she was responsible. Wincing from the pain in his neck, he managed to turn towards the passenger seat. His wife hung loosely within her seatbelt, tendrils of her grey hair floating above her head like that of a drowned woman.
He understood now; began to remember. There had been a truck…a very large truck with one of those great push-bumper
