The New Man

It rained when he left the desert.
It stopped at dawn, but clouds lingered, and wind came down from the mountains.
At dawn he stood by a narrow road which twisted up the mountains and down the canyons: the road was a river and a reaching hand.
He threw a stone at a rabbit whose nose twitched as his skull split.  He salivated, skinned and slit him, spilled his guts and devoured him, cracking bones between his teeth.
He paused where asphalt’s stench dulled all other smells, held his breath and shut his eyes as he stepped onto the hard road, then looked over his shoulder at the dull red hills of home; he was lonely and afraid.
He didn’t hear the car until it was upon him: the wind tore its sound away.  It swerved and honked.  The fat man squatting at the wheel and the skinny woman by his side gaped as they raced by.  He yearned to return, but the road led on and his feet were on it.  Clouds dissolved, cars followed cars, each full of ghosts, and heat radiated from the asphalt.
He was exhausted by noon, so he walked towards a cluster of boulders while three cars roared by.  He fought the urge to look back, to watch the eyes watching him.