He hit brake, felt the car slide, saw the great whiz of dust white in the headlamp beams as he slipped to shoulder, felt the grit as the stilled tires fought the gravel and ripped it free, but the skid was controlled, never close to loss, and as the car slowed, he downshifted to second, lurched ahead and caught the angle of the turn just right, pealing back across the asphalt and leaving the dust explosion far behind as he found the new, perfect vector and powered onward into the night. It was Iron Mountain, and 421 slashed crookedly up its angry hump. Sinnerman, where you gonna run to Gonna run to the moon Moon won't you hide me Run to the moon Moon won't you hide me But the moon it was ableedin', All on that day A climb and then a sudden turn.
WHEEL OF TIME AUDIO BOOK TORRENT TORRENT
His right foot involuntarily pressed pedal to metal and the car leapt forward, breaching the century mark, now 110, now 120, right at death's edge, right near to and within spitting distance of oblivion, and he loved it, a crack in the window seal sending a torrent of air to beat his hair.
It was late, it was dark, it was quiet, except of course for the thunder of the engine.
WHEEL OF TIME AUDIO BOOK TORRENT FULL
He rode the corner perfectly, left-footing the brake and coming off it at the precise moment so that he came out of the hairpin at full power. It was Baptist fire and brimstone, his father's fury and anguish, it was Negroes in church, afeared of the flames of hell, it was the roar of a hot, primer-gray V8 'Cuda in the night, as good old boys in sheets raised their own particular kind of hell, driven by white lightning or too much Dixie or too much hate, it was the South arising under the red snapping of the flag of the Confederacy. Sinnerman, where you gonna run to Gonna run to the sea Sea won't you hide me Run to the sea Sea won't you hide me But the sea it was aboilin' All on that day It was that old-time religion, fierce and haunted, harsh, unforgiving. He was holding at eighty-five miles per hour, even through the turns, though that took a surgeon's skill, a miracle of guts and timing. He punched the iPod up all the way until the music hammered his brain, its force beating away like some banshee howl from the high, dark mountains hidden behind the screen of rushing trees.
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