The Dog

It lay on the bitumen, broken legs twitching feebly in the air and red foam bubbling from its ruined maw. George poked it gingerly with the toe of a boot and it whipped its head around to clamp down on the meat of his calf with what was left of its teeth, its gummy, blank eyes rolling with frightfully grim excitement.
It didn’t really do that; the dog was as dead as dead can be. George let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and inhaled the stench of foul meat. His arm flew up to protect his mouth and nose, and he staggered back towards the car, gagging. 
"Jesus. Fuck,” he sputtered, feeling a mass crawl up his gorge and fill his mouth with a bitter taste. He turned away and spat in the dry grass. With nausea still clutching his gut with its slippery, rubber-gloved hand, he fumbled the car door open and glanced back at the mess on the road. Flies had already begun swarming, alighting off and on the body with a frantic, nervous energy.
George knew that it was wrong to leave it there, to let it be picked at and savaged by wild dogs or even wedgetails, to let it become nothing but an indistinguishable mat on the bitumen. But he had to go. He had wasted enough time. He slid into the driver's seat, trembling slightly as he closed the door and buckled his seatbelt. He turned the ignition and the engine turned sheepishly but didn't start. He tried again only to be met with that awful sputter. He tried again. And again. And each time, his hand shook more and slipped on the key more - before he froze as he noticed the smell of burnt acrylic and smoke wafting from the hood.
He was stuck in the middle of a country road, in the middle of butt fucking nowhere without a single gas station or pay phone for several kilometers either direction.
Panic clawed at his ribs and just as quickly turned into a buckling, rearing rage, and he began screaming and beating the steering wheel with his fists so that the horn hysterically screamed with him. Over and over, flesh slammed onto plastic until his hands were finally raw and throbbing with sickly heat. He freed himself from the car, throat burning as he gasped for air. 
As he calmed down, he realised he had two choices; 1.) he could wait in the car for someone to drive by and persuade them to give him a lift, or 2.) he could walk up the road until he ran into someone. Neither were desirable, as he could come across some deranged backpacker/hitchhiker killer or run into wild dogs, that looked so much so like rabid cattle dogs with diseased grins that would maul someone if they had half a chance.
He turned to the dog as if it would give him an answer. It was gone. He whipped his head up and down the road in case he had somehow missed where it was. It was gone.
Category:Animals
Category:Vehicles
Category:Weird