Stephen King. Summer thunder (№ 461728)

Robinson accelerated and released the throttle. He gasped and let go. He gasped and let go. The rich smell of freshly burned gasoline filled the path. The world might have been a rotting corpse, that's all, but silence had been banished, at least here and now, and that was good. It was absolutely amazing. “Get the fuck out, silence,” he thought. - Get out. Get the fuck out and take with you the nag you hobbled on. This is my horse, it’s made of steel, how do you like it?”