Old Floyd

11.

The locals claim that Old Floyd Cooper’s 1958 Chevy half-ton pickup is on its third engine. Body half rust and half plastered red-dirt Bondo, the rig is a marvel of after-market mechanical engineering. Legend has it that Old Floyd has personally changed-out, replaced, machined, jury-rigged and makeshift repaired every moving part at least twice. Barroom tales have it that he once used a sawed in half golf ball, a roll of baling wire and a wad of Bazooka bubble gum to plug a punctured gas tank, and that his mileage actually increased as a result.

His arthritic Australian Sheppard, Earl, sits shotgun watching every passing movement with ears flapping in the breeze. Old Floyd and Earl are making the morning rounds, 'driving fence' as Old Floyd calls it, inspecting the barbed-wire barrier that keeps his cows his. They have done this every morning since the Eisenhower administration, always ending at Maggie’s Diner in town for coffee and a slice of pie.

To say that Old Floyd knows these roads is like saying that Elvis could sing. Old Floyd reaches over to the truck radio to add some volume as Burning Love tests the amplitude modulation. This momentary distraction coupled with a rare bark from Earl happens just as they are about to round the corner. By the time that Old Floyd has returned his attention to the road he sees they are moving way too fast and tries an emergency brake correction.

It is too late.

He is astonished to see two people dressed in what appears to be army cammo fatigues running directly towards him. He stomps on the brakes and pulls the huge steering wheel hard left. Earl is thrown out the window just before impact as the truck is now fish-tailing out of control, two wheels on the ground and a pair in the air.

Saunders sees it, hears it rather, first. She is alerted by Earl's bark seconds before the they hit the half-way point in the arc of the turn and instinctively moves to the right, as far from harm’s way as one heart-beat will allow. She has time enough to shout a shrill "LOOK OUT," before the truck sideswipes them, rear bumper twisting ahead of the front right quarter panel like a drunken bull whip.

She takes a glancing side-blow as momentum carries her past Old Floyd’s now rolling wreck. She hears what sounds like a vintage Elvis oldie. Quickly gathering composure, she self-assesses the damage and besides a throbbing left hip finds she is OK. Looking up from the side of the road she sees the carnage now showing a downed captain, a pickup on its side - wheels still turning - and a dog barking at the panicked arrival of the team. An old man is staggering across the road drenched in blood.

"FUCK."