There were six of them in total, more than had been present in the bar (not that it mattered, they would have rounded up others, I was sure). The important thing is that it was them — the MAGA crew — of that I had little doubt. Three of them were crowded into the cab while three others rode in the payload — all of them wearing crudely-stitched burlap hoods — and each brandishing some form of weapon, whether that meant a pistol or a rifle or a rusty pitchfork. The truck, meanwhile, was right out of central casting — I’d seen others like it in the red states I’d already passed through. You’ve seen them too: those jacked-up tanks with the huge tires and pig-ear smokestacks (their way of saying “fuck you” to the environmentalists), and the twin flags crackling in their payloads — usually an American and a “Don’t Tread on Me,” but sometimes a bona fide Confederate Southern cross, which is what this one had, along with one I couldn’t clearly see. All I can say for certain is that the men in the back put down their weapons as I watched and appeared to fiddle with something in the payload — I really couldn’t say because I had to look away in order to focus on the road.

Meanwhile it didn’t exactly surprise me to see that I — we — were going about 90 miles-per-hour — the fastest I’d ever traveled in a moving vehicle, and a speed at which the Camry had become dangerously unstable. I thought then of my decision when I was young to never own a firearm, and laughed a little at my own expense. Only then (and how I’d managed to not think of it until that instant remains a mystery) did it finally occur to me: my bloody phone was right there on the passenger seat!

The truck’s engine roared and its flags crackled as I snatched the thing up and dialed 911, putting it on speaker so that I might better focus on the road, not to mention re-grip the wheel firmly in both hands.

A moment later it came: “911, what’s the address of your emergency?"

I stammered and babbled before managing, “Old State Route 51 — yes — Old State Route 51, between Danville and Tomlinson. I’m being pursued by a truck full of masked men, h-heavily armed. Let me repeat that; they are heavily arm —”

“What is the make and model of the truck?”

I glanced out the window. “I — I don’t know. A Ford, maybe. Yes, a Ford, I’m certain of it. It’s dark green and has flags flying from the back. One of them’s a Confederate. I—”

I noticed movement and focused on the man nearest me — by the window in the truck’s passenger seat — saw him training his pistol on, on.…

My tire. My fucking front tire!

I let off the gas immediately and slowed down before veering into the lane behind them, even as the operator asked calmly, “Are you able to see the license number? If so, read it to me — as carefully as you can. Are they Kentucky plates?”

I was distracted by the men in the payload, who appeared to be lifting something heavy, but quickly focused on the plate. “Yes. Kentucky 527 CXS, Franklin County.” I squinted in the fog. The lettering didn’t look right. “I — I think it’s been altered. I’m following as close as I dare, and it looks like—”

“You are behind them?”

“Yes. One of them was—”

“Sir, be advised that units are on the way and that you are not to pursue. Repeat, do not pursue. Pull over immediately and wait for officers to arrive. What is the make and model of your vehicle?”

“I — it’s a blue Toyota — a Camry. 2004, I think. I’m — I’m slowing down. But so are they. There’s men in the payload. It, it almost.…”

I was about to say that it looked like they were lifting, well, a trough, to be frank, one of those big aluminum vats used to water horses, when the men heave-hoed the thing twice…and sent its contents hurling toward my windshield. At which point the thick, viscous stuff hit the glass like a hammer — exploding everywhere — and turned the world black.

Black and blood red.