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Here is the prologue to my new trilogy:

A tire squeal from the blue Mustang GT pierced the chilly evening air as the vehicle followed the exit ramp off Interstate 44 heading southwest.  The car sped onto the two-lane Liberty Drive and at the first intersection pulled into the right hand turn lane, making a vroom-vroom sound while banking a right onto Willow Road.  The sleek vehicle accelerated rapidly, barking the tires as it up-shifted.  Inside, Michael McKing slipped his favorite hi-adrenal rap CD into the player and turned up the volume.  It kicked out a tha-thump, boom, tha-thump, boom-boom.  Traffic was nearly non-existent as he revved his car in the direction of the western horizon.
After scrolling through a few names on his wireless phone, Michael pushed ‘talk’ for his weekend buddy.  “Yo, Jay!  Whazzup? Whazzup?...  Oh, I’m out cruisin’ the countryside full throttle, just clearing my thoughts, man.  It’s been a crazy week….  I know,… I’m tryin’ not to think about it.…  Me? Oh I’ve been kickin’ it down at the club.  They’ve got that new group ‘Street Fightaz.’…  Uh-huh!  We’ll do it!…  Later!”
He sank back into the leather seats of his four-wheel rocket as it hopped a little with the rises and dips in the road.  McKing, a muscular, dark-complexioned man with a clean-shaven head, checked to be sure his radar detector was on.  The big hill was coming up and he put all the horsepower into action so he could “ramp” off the coming hill.  The dotted yellow line became more like a solid blur as the one-man projectile tore dangerously down the road.  Noticing headlights ahead, he eased off the accelerator.
“No jump this time,” he muttered to himself as he neared the hill.  At the top of the hill he laid into the pedal again once he confirmed that the other vehicle was not a cop.  McKing’s eyes readjusted to the road, after the headlights of the pickup had passed, and saw the silhouette of a person walking on the road.  Fighting the downhill pull of gravity, he screeched his brakes and swerved into the other lane.  His Mustang careened haphazardly as he tried to fight the momentum and the car swerved back into the lane he’d just left—straight toward the man on the road.
“No!” McKing screamed as he watched the person’s head indent the windshield.  The body vaulted over the car, disappearing from the driver’s view.  He couldn’t see where his victim had gone because the Mustang was still bucking and suddenly flung itself into a ditch.  The bone-jarring impact of the air bag caused him to lose focus of events for a moment but he suddenly realized that the car had landed on its side.  Breathing a sigh of relief, the reckless driver examined his situation, hanging in his still-buckled seatbelt.  The passenger’s window remained unbroken but packed with grass and dirt. 
As he was trying to find a way out, the car groaned and tipped slowly onto its roof.  The windshield splintered into a spider web design before his eyes.  McKing sat in stunned silence as the smell of tire rubber and hot engine coolant filled his nostrils.  The taste of blood from his lip trickled into his mouth. 
Afraid of being burned alive, he wriggled out of his safety restraint and forced his bulky figure through the shattered passenger window, trying to not cut himself on the thousands of tiny chunks of glass.  Staggering back up the road, favoring his right knee, he saw a vehicle stop on the side of the road. The driver jumped out, leaving the lights of his truck on and the engine running.  In his daze of pain and confusion, McKing felt the rhythm of his music still pounding the back of his head from the inverted sports car.  He spit blood and limped toward where the hiker had landed.
The body was sprawled on the side of the road, lying awkwardly in the long grass.  Blood from a head wound had soaked the man’s jacket.  The driver of the truck yelled, “I turned around after I heard your tires squeal….  Is he alive?”
McKing shook his head, “There’s no way.”  He stood over the motionless body and made the sign of the cross over his own.  His thoughts raced, considering his liability for this incident.
The other man knelt and felt for a pulse.  “I don’t know how to do any of this, except for what I’ve seen in the movies.”
“What should we do?”
“Call for an ambulance!”
McKing cursed and dialed 911 on his phone.  “I don’t think he’s even breathing.  It looked like he was trying to get hit—it was suicide.”  The other man’s head snapped toward the Mustang driver. 
A deep-voiced woman answered, “911 dispatch, what is your emergency?”
“Yeah, uh, there’s been a man hit by a car out here on Willow Road by Lath Trail….  He may not be alive.”
The other driver breathed a prayer and searched for a sign of life.

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