Blacktop: Terry Lloyd Vinson
In Blacktop atop a dark, desolate stretch of blood-spattered West Texas asphalt, the road to survival will require the ultimate sacrifice.
Terry Lloyd Vinson author of Blacktop will give a digital copy of Blacktop to one randomly drawn commenter.
The commotion, and alien sounds reverberating from same, drew me, beckoned me back to the open door, so much so that by the time I stood on the bottom step looking out, I couldn’t recall even a trace of the actual movement that got me there. I might have considered, before better judgment kicked blatant stupidity’s ass, venturing out to obtain a better visual not so obscured by the latest in torrential downpours. In retrospect, it wasn’t at all necessary. I’d seen plenty, more than enough, to fuel a lifetime of couch-trip counseling sessions. To describe it in the layman is damn near impossible, the closest I’ve managed is to say it was a scene written by Sid and Marty Krofft, storyboarded by H.R. Giger and directed by David Cronenberg. Sometime during the duration of what had begun as my private voyeur session, I’d felt but utterly ignored the presence of others peering over my shoulder from the higher steps. There were startled gasps, muttered curses and assorted grunts and groans that proceeded the turning of the Beast’s engine and subsequent revving, a few of which might’ve even been my own. This was due to…
From no more than five or six yards away, Blake Carver’s limp form was being slung and swung about like a rag doll on a stick, the stick in question being the right arm of Deputy Olive-Oil, AKA Grimes, the fingers of the attached hand clenching and unclenching in a furious attempt to free itself from the once future king of porn’s thoroughly hollowed-out skull. As Stony’s lifeless corpse flopped and floundered, at one point spinning in a complete circle, head over heels and back a total of three times like a roulette wheel constructed of flesh and bone, the good deputy struggled mightily to free that wrecking ball disguised as a fist from the backside of his mutilated noggin.
It was, bat-shit crazy as it sounds, like watching a disgruntled angler try to free a snarled fishhook from the catch of a lifetime, as in ‘the one that got away’. Only, poor Stony hadn’t been so lucky. In his haste to avoid death, Blake had apparently ran smack dab into the King Kong of right hooks. Bony build aside, it seemed the good Deputy possessed some seriously hazardous punching power. As disturbing as watching Blake’s faceless husk being flung and jostled about was, it was no better than a child’s boo-scare compared to his killer’s verbal frustration in being unable to free her submerged appendage. Frustration and something else; a wail of pure agony I could only equate with the highest order of regret.
Head tilted back, her mouth was pulled so wide I swear I could’ve chunked a regulation-sized basketball inside, the klaxon-like shriek that escaped was no more human or animal than the pulsating, orange-glow eyes or forked tongue, three, I swear I counted three separate prongs that accompanied its ear-splitting concerto. One final, ferocious jerk Grimes had paused to strategically plant the back of a booted foot at the corpse’s lower back for leverage sent the body sailing overhead, spinning into the distance with arms and legs failing and giving the temporarily illusion of life. The ruin that had been Blake Carver landed with a loud crash atop the Deputy’s parked cruiser, what little that had remained intact above his shoulders bursting apart like a rotted Jack-O-Lantern while splintering the windshield dead center.
Call me a cracked egg, no denying it at this stage, but my initial thought at seeing Stony’s headless corpse splayed across that powder-blue hood was that the adult industry’s loss was gonna be decent society’s gain. Cruel I know, but apparently my subconscious was large and in-charge and not at all in the mood to mince words. As for that aforementioned hodgepodge of gasps and groans only partially overheard from over my shoulder, what little dialogue was identifiable went something like…
“Sweet Jesus, did she just…boss, w-what the fu…” cried Wesley Muncie.
“As I’d stated most vehemently, old friend, this very second is the time to vamoose,” replied Malcom Gentry, seemingly on the verge of hysteria-driven tears.
ALSO BY Terry Lloyd Vinson
AUTHOR BIO: Blacktop: Terry Lloyd Vinson
Born and raised in Northern Alabama, Terry Lloyd Vinson is an Air Force veteran and former corrections officer who is the author of over a dozen published novels. Having previously resided in five states and overseas, he currently homesteads in Nashville with his wife Liza and their canine pal, Dexter.
Road-trip, horror, Texas, backroads, flood, apocalyptic landscapes
Website URL: www.authorsden.com/terrylvinson
Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/terry.vinson.90
Twitter handle: @Tagsmaniac