Snort a Cloud – Wes Miles Virus

e-mail [email protected] (15) He lost his train of thought, distracted by the strange, high, rapidly increasing ringing in his ears—Barely audible, like a radar frequency buzzing through his skull. He thought he saw a rabbit or some small animal running into the road—He swerved into the next lane, scraping an enormous brown sedan. The white-haired mummy behind the wheel honked three times, hysterically. Bolton flipped her the finger and sped up… He felt severly agitated, but his thoughts were unfocused, delirious—His peripheral vision seemed to be swimming into blackness… His hands throbbed, felt sweaty, itchy, swollen. He figured this was it—The cataclysmic heart-attack he’d feared and dreaded, and dared and flirted with, all these fat feasting decades. And on the freeway too, doing 80 miles per hour—It was coming, now, and when it hit he would take as many of the fuckers with him as possible. He gunned it, the needle pushing past the red—90… 100… His heartpounding in his chest, face flushed, sweating prodigiously, weaving through the lunch-hour traffic like a madman… 105, 110… Everyone honking at him, swerving to avoid this massive, careening white van encrusted with grime and dead bugs. He really meant to do it—At the first sign of cardiac arrest, he’d swing the wheel sharply to the left and swerve madly into the oncoming traffic. But, gradually, his heartbeats slowed, became more regular—He wasn’t sweating quite so feverishly, and he slowed down …