Portent of Death

Danny Ockerman had crossed over the great divide in Montana at midnight. He’d seen the Black Dog in the mountain pass, the same moment the highway’s zipper lines wiggled and he’d dozed off. He’d awakened just in time to wrestle the lumbering 18-wheeler away from Hell’s breath and back to the highway’s center line.

“Jesus Christ,” Danny cursed when the apparition materialized again.

Danny jammed the Mack’s tranny into the big hole as the truck barreled down the mountain.

The Black Dog appeared a third time. Danny slept as the Mack plummeted over a cliff and burst into flames.