Finally, we punch through, our car sailing forward, free of the truck and the wall. The tires slip and catch and spin a little until he adjusts the acceleration. We are halfway across the bridge when the truck hits the cars behind us.
Brecken does not stop.
I see an explosion of plastic and metal and unfathomable damage. My throat goes tight. A sickening certainty settles in my gut; a lot of people won’t walk away from that wreck. Fifteen seconds ago, I would have been one of them.
I watch the bridge for movement, but all is still. Calm. There is no smoke or fire. As we cross the seam where the bridge meets the highway, I see a few drivers stumble from their vehicles, moving toward the front.
There are people to help. Lots of people in the back and they don’t all look injured. I should be relieved, but instead I feel nothing but guilt.
I don’t know how we would help. I don’t know what we could possibly do. But driving away from this bridge feels like a crime. Everyone else seems unmoved. They are still worried about us getting out of here. Getting to safety. How can I fault them for that?
Brecken drives slower for the next mile than he has the entire trip. An exit sign, green and inviting, promises gas and not much else in half a mile. The snow hitting our windshield is changing, the flakes turning small and icy. It’s probably making the roads worse, but the visibility is better. In the distance, a symphony of blue and red lights flash. Help is coming. It should have come a while ago.
We round a slight bend just before the exit and more lights—cruisers and ambulances and fire engines—surround a giant wreck I hadn’t seen on both sides of the highway.
“That’s the wreck the app warned about,” Josh says softly.
“What was that one?” I ask, referring to the nightmare we just escaped.
“A new wreck,” Harper says, voice flat.
Traffic inches along, and we are just one more piece of the mess. We start and stop. Start and stop. It takes us twenty minutes to reach the exit, and, by the time we do, my insides are squirming miserably.
Brecken stops at the end of the ramp, and my stomach sloshes, a flash of heat rolling through me. Saliva gathers in my mouth. I sit up, the reality of the situation hitting me. I’m more than nauseated. I might vomit. I fist my hands, swallowing hard and trying to breathe.
It’s so hot in here. Hot air blasts from every vent, and my armpits feel damp inside my coat. My neck is on fire, and I can feel a bead of sweat drip between my shoulder blades.
“Can we turn down the heat a little?” I croak out.
Brecken complies, and then the light turns green. We lurch forward and make a left and my stomach rolls dangerously. A short moan escapes me.
“What’s wrong?” Josh asks.
“I feel sick,” I say. “Really sick.”
“Don’t puke in here,” Brecken says.
“You’re sick?” Josh asks, looking deeply concerned. “Is it bad?”
“I need to get out of this car. It’s really hot. I think that’s making it worse.”
“Are you going to puke?” Harper asks. “Do you want to stop?”
“I’m not going to puke,” I say, though the chances are reasonable I might.
Brecken slows, and I’m sure it’s a conscious effort, but really, I think it might be too late. Waves of fire are running up my neck and face. I unzip my coat, and then struggle to take it off altogether. Josh hooks a hand in the cuff of my sleeve, helping me tug my arm free.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Let’s get you some fresh air,” he says, rolling down his window a crack.
His sudden concern is a surprise, but the air that enters the car is the most delicious thing that’s ever passed my lips, so I don’t care. I drink in greedy gulps of it, my eyes closed and head throbbing in time with the misery of my stomach.
“We need to stop,” Harper says. “She needs a break.”
“I know she does. I’m watching her,” Brecken says.
“Hang in there,” Harper tells me.
I don’t answer because all of my energy is focused on not getting sick. The crisp air is helping immensely, but I still need out of this car.
“Let’s get to a gas station,” Brecken says. “We can call a tow truck.”
“Something tells me the mess on the bridge will have half the tow trucks in Pennsylvania tied up,” Josh says.
“We have to try,” Harper says. “I’m calling the car rental company.”
“What are they going to do?” Kayla asks, around a breathy laugh. “Make it stop snowing?”
“We wish,” I say.
“In normal circumstances, they’d provide an alternate vehicle,” Josh says.
Brecken snorts. “Not happening.”
“I need to report the wreck at least,” Harper says. “I’m not even sure we should drive this.”
Brecken sighs. “Unless we want to jog across the Poconos, I think we’re stuck with it.”
I don’t have anything to add, because I’m pretty sure Brecken is right. No one is going to be available, and there isn’t a magic wand that’s going to poof us onto safe, dry roads. We took our chances and now we’re paying for it.
Regardless, Harper is insistent about the call. She keeps her phone to her ear, grumbling about a twenty-minute wait for the customer service rep.
Not half a mile down from the highway, a gas station appears, but it is not the gleaming, neon-encased complex I hoped for. Four pumps line the front of a run-down service station. The building is bigger than most stations, making me wonder if there was a garage component at some point in the past. Now, the whole thing looks like a store, though I can’t be sure because most of the large front windows are cluttered with marketing posters for beer and cigarettes and signs advertising live bait and camping supplies.
My confidence in clean bathrooms isn’t high, but whatever. It’s a gas station and it’s open. It could offer an outhouse in the back of the lot, and I’d have zero complaints.
It’s also hopping. There are at least twelve cars parked in the unplowed lot and more at the pumps. There are people everywhere—travelers in puffy coats assessing cars, making calls, doling out snacks to bored-looking kids of every age. Most of the cars are sporting some kind of damage. It runs the gamut, from scraped bumpers to a Ford with the entire right side smashed in. One has lost the front and back bumpers entirely. A few fortunate travelers are dealing with more mundane issues like iced windshield wipers and empty washer fluid compartments. Gauging from the maps and phone navigation systems I see around, others are just trying to figure out how to get wherever they’re going.
I stare at a wrecked Toyota near the entrance to the lot, its side-view mirror dangling like a sad earring.
“How bad are these roads?” I ask. I try for a search on my phone, but I have zero service.
“Record-breaking,” Josh says, then he hands me his phone. “According to the news reports, there are two pileups on I-80. One is thirty-two cars, the other is twenty-one.”
I read the headline he just quoted and then hand the phone back, too sick to look at anything else. The gas station lot is crammed, so Brecken pulls back out and parks in line, waiting for a pump to open up.
“Might as well get gas while we’re here,” he says.
“Good idea,” Josh agrees.
He shifts into park and twists in his seat to face us. “That’s fifty-three cars in that wreck, and we know they aren’t counting us or the cars that spun down after.”
“The highway should have been closed,” Harper says.
“It is now,” Josh says. He’s staring out the window and pointing in the direction of the on-ramp for the highway.
Sure enough, through a thin row of bare-branched trees, I can see the curve of the exit ramp. More importantly, I can see the flares and police car parked across
it. Josh is right. They closed the on-ramp. We got off the highway thinking we’d make calls. Get a tow or maybe a new car.
But now we’re trapped in the middle of Pennsylvania with no major highway to get us out.
How the hell am I going to get home to my mom?
I check my watch. She’s going to be off work now, maybe even home in her jammies making hot tea. I take a tight breath, my throat thick with thoughts of our teakettle. The way she always serves mine with a little saucer with a spoon and three sugar cubes. I don’t know where she gets them, but ever since I got a book in third grade about proper English tea, Mom has always kept sugar cubes in the house.
I wish I was there, warm and safe and a million miles from this god-awful disaster highway. And when she checks the news, she’ll see these giant pileups and have an all-out panic attack.
Wait. Mom still thinks I’m down south on I-78. She probably still thinks I’m safe. Except that when I don’t call, she’ll start to worry. She might try to track my location, but she’ll need Dad’s help since I’m on his plan.
Shit, will she think of that? Will she call him? Would she have called already?
The questions are piling up like the cars on the bridge. I need damage control, and I need it now.
I pull up my mom on my phone, and my finger hovers over the option to place a call. I hesitate. I desperately want to talk to her. Even sad and distant, she’s my mom and hearing her voice would make this all a little easier. But I need to think this through so I don’t make things worse.
If I call and reassure her, she might worry less. If I’m lucky, she hasn’t thought about checking my location. But she knows me. If she calls, she’ll sense the weirdness in my tone. And that might make her look me up if she hasn’t already. Damn it.
“You look deep in thought,” Josh says.
“I’m trying to decide whether to lie to my mother,” I tell him honestly.
“You can lie to your mom?” Brecken laughs. “My mom could work for the FBI. I can’t keep anything from her.”
I sigh, pocketing my phone. “Me either. It’s like a mutant power.”
Harper puts her head back against the seat, her phone at her ear. “This is taking forever.”
“They’re probably getting a ton of calls,” Josh says. “All these accidents.”
“We should get snacks and use the bathroom while we’re here,” Brecken says. “Just in case we can’t find another rest stop.”
“We don’t even know if we can keep driving this thing,” Harper says.
“And with the pileups…” My eyes drift to the police car blocking the entrance ramp.
Josh’s eyes follow mine, and he frowns. “It is really bad. The back roads are probably worse, but we’ll have them to ourselves I bet.”
“Exactly,” Brecken says. “We can go as slow as we need to. This thing has incredible traction. I had no problems until we got on that downslope, and that only happened because I was on a highway and couldn’t take it really slow.”
“I don’t know,” Harper says, sounding uncertain. “But I know I can’t stay here. My signal is terrible, and I need to get home.”
“I know,” Brecken says softly. “I have no desire to stay here.”
Well, that makes several of us. My mother needs me, and my phone has crap signal too, so staying in this parking lot for the twelve hours it might take to clear up the wrecks is not an option for me. I’ll strap on cross-country skis or steal a horse or something if I have to.
“Well, I think I’d rather take my chances going slow than waiting for the highway to reopen,” I say. “That could take all night.”
“Agreed. I’m sure the hell not spending Christmas Eve night in some redneck gas station,” Brecken says. “There aren’t even card readers on the pumps. Want me to pay inside?”
“No, I’ve got it,” Harper says, waving him off.
“I’m going to hit the head,” Brecken says, stepping out.
“Good plan.” Josh reaches for his crutches and Kayla abruptly sits up, wiping drool off her cheek.
“Where are we?” she asks as Josh gets out. He slowly follows Brecken toward the gas station.
“A gas station,” I say. “They closed the highway.”
I do a double take because I can’t fathom being able to fall asleep again after the bridge. But Kayla is groggy and disoriented. She doesn’t look good. She’s pale and shaking, her forehead sweaty. She looks twice as sick as I feel.
I tilt my head, which isn’t hurting the way it was before. My stomach is settling, too. But Kayla looks much worse. Like she has a fever. Maybe the flu.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her eyes are darting nervously around the car, and she doesn’t look fine. She doesn’t look anywhere near fine.
She fumbles with the latch several times before managing to push the door open. Then she ambles toward the station, following the boys. She’s almost as slow and awkward as Josh on his crutches.
“That girl is weird,” Harper says the moment she’s out of sight. Then she turns to me, still holding the phone. Her brows scrunch in concern. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m better,” I say, still watching Kayla. “Do you think Kayla is sick?”
“Carsick like you?” she asks.
“Maybe bubonic plague sick,” I say. “She looks terrible. And she’s slept most of this trip. Do you think she has something?”
“I don’t know,” Harper says, watching her. “Maybe.”
Josh holds the door for Kayla, who shuffles into the station. He follows her in, and the door closes behind them, mostly blocking my view. It looks like they stop briefly near the register, chatting. Maybe they’re looking for the bathrooms. Or maybe Josh is asking Kayla if she has Ebola because she looks like she’s about to fall over dead.
Ugh, this is exactly what I need. I’m stuck in a car on Christmas Eve, and I’m riding shoulder to shoulder with Typhoid Mary.
“You sure you’re okay?” Harper asks. “We’ve got a lot of mountains left. That won’t be easy if you’re nauseated.”
“I know. Maybe I’ll get a bottle of water.”
“I feel responsible for you,” she says, her eyes full of sadness. “I brought you here, Mira. This was my plan, and now you’re sick and probably scared to death.”
“I’m fine, really,” I say, uncomfortable with this, with her kindness altogether. Why was she so nice to me on the plane? I’m pretty sure I’m not giving off little lost orphan vibes here.
“I’m sorry,” she says, clearly picking up on my unease. She adjusts her phone to the other ear—still waiting. “You just…you remind me of someone.”
I look back at the gas station, because I don’t really want to ask about this person. Whoever I remind her of isn’t here dealing with this mess. “Well, I chose to be here. You were really nice to let me tag along, but the choice was all mine.”
“Okay, then. No more mother-hen business,” she says with a smile. “I promise. You should see if they have some of that motion sickness medicine.”
“Okay.”
Harper’s hand flies up and she presses her phone closer to her ear. “Yes? Yes, I’m here! Hello? Can you hear me?” After a brief pause she nods. “Okay, so I rented a car with you guys from the Newark airport today…”
I slip out of the car while she’s talking, making my way past a family passing sandwiches out of a cooler and an older couple with a cell phone held between their faces. It’s like a smaller version of the Newark airport, people everywhere trapped by the stupid weather.
I pull open the glass door, bells overhead giving a dull jangle. The store smells like heat-lamp hot dogs and old coffee. The door closes behind me, and I edge past a row of plastic-wrapped snack cakes that a group of women in their twenties are eyeing. There is a
glass display case of fishing lures and knives beside a cooler marked LIVE BAIT. The bathroom doors are next to the cooler, so I head toward them, cutting through the aisle that seems most likely to carry a don’t-throw-up pill.
Brecken and I pass each other in the aisle, which offers the most bizarre mismatched inventory I’ve ever seen. I scan the options. A single box of tampons that looks like something my grandmother might have bought in high school. A travel container of diaper wipes, though I see no diapers. There’s also a dusty safety razor in plastic packing and a couple of rolls of individually wrapped toilet paper. The medicine options are limited: little packets of aspirin and ibuprofen and a bag of cough drops by a brand I’ve never seen. Nothing specific for treating nausea, but there is a packet of pink multi-stomach-symptom tablets. The price tag makes me cringe, but puking in the back of the car sounds worse, so maybe I should give it a shot.
“Doing a little shopping?” Brecken asks.
I jump, surprised by his voice and his presence. I didn’t realize he’d stopped walking. Was he just watching me browse the shelves? I shake my head. “Just looking for something for my stomach. What are you doing?”
“Keeping an eye on you,” he says, smirking. “I’m a nice guy like that. You probably sensed it.”
“Hm,” I say, instead of arguing. “Have you seen any Dramamine?”
He glances at the front counter, where endless boxes of cigarettes tower around the register. “Unless it’s a kind of fishing bait or tobacco product, you’re probably shit out of luck. Where’s Harper?”
“She got through to the rental car company,” I say, noticing she’s pulled the car forward to the pump but hasn’t actually gotten out yet. “I’m not sure what good it’s going to do.”
He shrugs. “She’s a planner. She wants to follow the rules.”
I laugh. “There are rules for things like this?”
“She sure seems to think so.” He smiles ruefully. “I’m going to go check in with her. Gas up the car so we can get out of this shithole.”
Five Total Strangers Page 7
