Crunch Thump Thump
P. R. O’Leary
For me though, it was quite known, since I live, like most people in this area do, in the stretched-out network of through-roads that connect one town center to the next. I have driven this particular route many times, which was good, because the Girl’s Night buzz of a sensible amount of alcohol and gossipy camaraderie had me a little hyped and distracted. But my gray Civic was a trusty, knowing steed and I angled it up and down the hills towards the mountainside development and the small house my boyfriend and I shared.
Most of the intersections I passed were unmarked. The only signposts pointed back the way I came, governmental signage only caring about directing people to the town center and not away from it. It didn’t bother me because my own guidepost towards home was a long straight-away several miles ahead, and a rare streetlamp before a curve that marked the entrance to Gravel Road. One not literally made of gravel, luckily, but the one where I lived.
No other vehicles this time of night. The radio was off. Sometimes I liked to drive in silence, especially after an evening out, so all I heard was engine noise and the flow of the air past my open window.
I took my foot off the gas to negotiate a rise in the road, and that’s when I saw the figure at the bottom of the decline, walking along the shoulder. My headlights gave me a good view. Big brown winter coat, hood covering their head, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. They were walking against traffic as the law dictates, as far over the shoulder as possible. A good citizen. Their head tilted up when my headlights caught them, but they made no other sign. Just a person out walking. Enjoying the night air.
It was so easy for me. There was no adrenaline. No crazed compulsion. An intentional thought didn’t even enter my head. I felt like I was just obeying normal traffic patterns. Driving on autopilot. I put my foot on the gas, pushed the car back up to cruising speed and angled it into the oncoming lane. No car was oncoming. I felt no sense of danger or distress. I just drove the vehicle towards the person walking on the side of the road.
There is a freeze frame image in my mind of what happened next. It was a man. He had a beard. A ruddy nose below surprised eyes. Thick black hair. About my age. His clothes were nice, good winter gear. His hands were coming out of his pockets, the shine of a ring on one finger. My high beams illuminated his realization of what was happening. His body started to shift in panic. Attempting to dodge or jump.
The car hit him as he moved to the side. I felt the force of impact against fender and hood and turned the wheel back towards the right side of the road, scooping him away from the shoulder like my car was a giant spoon. Then he slid down, his body disappeared under the car, and first the front then the back of the car lurched upward as I drove over him with both axles.
He didn’t make a sound. No scream. No cry of pain. Nothing. I continued to drive, glancing into the rearview mirror. The body was lying across the white line separating the road and shoulder. A pile of misshapen cloth illuminated red by my taillights. Unmoving.
The whole thing took only a few seconds. I didn’t feel exhilarated or horrified. This was never something I had done before, but I didn’t particularly feel surprised by my action. It just… happened.
I drove calmly the next few miles, alone on the blacktop, finally hitting the straightaway and the lone streetlamp that signaled home. A half mile down Gravel Road, after passing a few of the neighborhood houses, I pulled into our driveway.
The house was shaded from nearby neighbors, less by the big pines, which had been cleared out on this street, than by a few tall ornamental bushes. Raggedy looking things that my boyfriend promised he would spruce up, which I ribbed him about every few weeks.
With the engine off there weren’t many sounds besides various entomological utterances emanating from the forest and the faint barking of a dog somewhere. I opened the door, feet on the asphalt as I exited. The small light above the front porch finally detected motion and flashed on.
The dog stopped barking. I walked out to the street, heels clicking in the silence. Back the way I came, country road 571 was no longer visible. I didn’t expect to see anything. This wasn’t a horror movie. Five miles hence, the crawling body of the man I hit would not be making its way towards me. He was dead. I knew it as soon as I heard the crunch thump thump.
I don’t know why exactly I looked. Maybe to see if anyone had noticed anything. Silence. Stillness. No cars driving by. No panic in me.
I walked back to the car, looking at its hood and tires and fender. Maybe two tons of metal and plastic versus maybe two hundred pounds of flesh and bone. The result, a small dent in the front next to the headlight, a spider web crack through the headlight itself. More obvious, though, was the streak of blood that ran from the headlight down below the car. Like a giant paintbrush had placed a stroke of red there.
The back tire had more blood. On the black rubber it looked like water except the pads of my fingers were crimson after touching it. Stuck in the tire treads was what looked like a white pebble. I bent closer, moved the shadow of my head away from the moonlight and pried it out with my manicured nails. A tooth. Or a piece of one. A clump of black hair stuck to the wheel archlike a dead rodent. With my free hand I tugged until it peeled off like it was glued to the metal.
A fistful of hair, a tooth between my fingers, I walked back to the street and tossed them into a nearby sewer drain. I was wondering what I should use to clean up the blood when I felt a drop on my arm. The rumble of thunder in the distance. Heavier darkness forming overhead. The moon and stars disappearing behind storm clouds.
Next to the front porch was a garbage can full of paper recycling. I found a week’s worth of circulars for the local supermarket and balled one up. By the time I walked back to the car the rain was starting to come down. I wiped at the front of the car, the hood, the headlights. The tires. The paper growing wet and red in my hand. I went back for a second one, then a third. Afterwards, I dumped the bloody clumps in the same storm drain and rinsed my hands in the torrent of water now rushing down into the grate.
Before I went back into the house I paused on the porch and took one last look at the car. I could barely see the cracked headlight and the small dent. To anyone else, it would just look like any other regularly used, aging car. Nothing unusual.
Inside, I took off my now wet clothes and put them in the laundry. I took a hot shower, scrubbing the last marks of blood out from under my fingernails, everything washing off me and down into the drain. Afterwards, warm and dry in comfortable pajamas, I headed to bed.
My boyfriend was asleep. I could hear his soft breaths when I went into the bedroom. I slipped under the covers, kissed his forehead and pulled his arm over me. He mumbled something that sounded like he was asking how my night was.
Nothing special. I said. Nothing special.
Then I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
Thanks for reading - but we’d love feedback! Let us know what you think of Crunch Thump Thump on Facebook.
Mythaxis is forever free to read, but if you'd like to support us you can do so here (but only if you really want to!)