The Wine Dark Earth

by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer-6

I am looking in the side-view mirror when I see them: just a blur of black and yellow, like wasps—rounding the corner from Stewart Street onto First, pursuing us down the avenue. Nor am I oblivious to the vibrations in the air—as though reality itself were being pricked by a pin—or the whiff of sulfur and graphite in the cab, meaning Benny and Slater have engaged, have already opened fire—on them, the allosauruses (I can see now clearly); the wolves of the Jurassic.

Nor do they fall—not even one—but continue the chase: weaving between the stalled vehicles (and falling meteors) like dolphins, like black and yellow orcas, bounding over them like cheetahs as Will navigates the same obstacles and tries to pick up speed, tries to outrun them.

Which he comes close to doing—before one of the animals veers close and picks Slater off like a lamb, like a sacrificial calf (I can see it through the passageway); biting him in the leg before yanking him from the truck—pinning him to the road as his blood splashes like red wine and mingles with the rain.

And then we’re slowing—were grinding to a crawl, as Will turns onto Seneca Street and the truck leans precariously, threatening to tip, and the predators swoop past on both sides, like hawks. Then we’re speeding toward the waterfront and the sub as the animals regroup and relaunch their pursuit and the meteors fall all around us—exploding like grenades.

Indeed, then we are almost home—having turned onto Alaskan Way and even passed University Street—when the impossible happens and a juvenile allosaurus leaps into the truck—even as Benny retreats, firing. Then it all falls apart as the wet animal pins him to the floor and he drops his shotgun and Will—before we can even react—draws his sidearm and tries to target the beast. Whilst driving.

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, riotously—over and over and over again.

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