Winter was always your favourite season. You told anyone who’d listen that it separated men from boys. The prepared from the foolish.
You placed a nut roast in the safety box alongside a sleeping bag, flask of tea, fully-charged emergency mobile phone, a whistle and hi-vis vest. Punched a brand new four-digit combination into the alarm pad then locked the door. When you bid your neighbour at No 64 good morning, it was not reciprocated.
You smiled at Jack Frost’s handiwork and the neanderthals toiling to scrape ice from ill-prepared vehicles. Meanwhile, you placed the safety box in the boot before removing the magnetic protective covers to find brilliant, clear, shiny windows. A quick spot-check of your top of the range German Winter tyres and you were fully prepared.
You ordered the car entertainment system to play Henri Mancini’s greatest hits. Donned your brown, vegan driving gloves and set off.
Amateurs, you whispered, at the sight of numbskulls clearing pathways. Smooth progress was made and you soon proceeded onto the motorway. Apart from a huge bulk of a truck far in the distance, the lanes were clear. You whistled along to Latin Golightly and tapped on the steering wheel.
The heating system was too efficient so you made a slight adjustment and lowered the passenger side window a couple of inches.
Mirror, signal, manoeuvre.
A horrible, bleating sound filtered through the gap in the window. You pulled level with the truck. Overcrowded cattle barged for your attention at countless windows over three levels.
Their eyes. Desperate, pleading eyes. The last thing you remember before you lost control was their eyes.