he ran because inside christine none of these things mattered - not his mother , father , leigh , dennis , or what he had done to his back that night when everyone was gone , that night after he had taken his almost totally destroyed plymouth from the airport and back to darnell 's , and after the place was empty he had put christine 's transmission in neutral and pushed her , pushed her until she began to roll on her flat tyres , pushed her until she was out the door and he could hear the wind of november keening sharply around the wrecks and the abandonded hulks with their stellated glass and their ruptured gas tanks ; he had pushed her until the sweat ran off him in rivers and his heart thudded like a runaway horse in his chest and his back cried out for mercy ; he bad pushed her , his body pumping as if in some hellish consummation ; he had pushed her , and inside the milometer ran slowly backward , and some fifty feet beyond the door his back began to really throb , and he kept pushing , and then his back began to scream in protest , and he kept pushing , muscling it along on the flat , slashed tyres , his hands going numb , his back screaming , screaming , screaming .