One of Our Own: Final Dawn: Book 11

by Darrell Maloney

  “Barely. She seems to be trying to speak, but can’t find the words. She’s very disoriented and confused.”

  “Are her clothes wet?”

  “Yes. They’re soaked from the snow and sleet.”

  “Okay. Respect her privacy, but get her wet clothes off. Do you have any warm blankets to cover her with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Do that first. Take off her wet clothes and cover her with warm blankets. Be sure to put them underneath her too. I’ll stand by while you do that.”

  He put the microphone on the trucker’s console and ducked back into the sleeper.

  “Honey, if you understand my words, don’t get mad at me. I’m not trying to be fresh with you, I promise.”

  She looked at him and appeared to be studying his face. He didn’t know if she was trying to decide whether she could trust him, or just trying to make sense of the words coming out of his mouth.

  In any event, she didn’t put up any resistance as he unbuttoned her blouse and removed it.

  He struggled with her blue jeans because, well, wet jeans tend to stick to one’s body.

  Her bra and panties were wet too but he didn’t want to harm her pride. It must have been an ordeal for her for a strange man to go as far as he’d already gone. He left the bra and panties in place and rolled her onto her side, then tucked a blanket beneath her. He covered her with the warmest blanket in the sleeper.

  He went back to the microphone and said, “Okay, Debbie. What next?”

  “You need to treat her for shock. If she’d not already in it she might be soon.”

  “Okay. How do I do that?”

  “Make sure her head is flat on the bunk. Elevate her feet about ten inches or so. The best way is to put a pillow or something under them.

  “And make sure she’s covered from chin to toe. Cover the top of her head as well, but make sure you can see her face.

  “Is she responsive yet?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is she talking to you? Or does she seem to understand what you’re doing to her?”

  “She’s not talking. But I get the sense she understands what I’m saying and doing.”

  “Okay. Is there a microwave in your rig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any bottled water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Warm up some water. Not hot but warm. Have her sip it a little at a time. At the same time you’re doing that, have Art massage her fingers and toes. Make sure his hands are warm, even if he has to take frequent breaks to warm them.”

  “Art’s not here.”

  -53-

  Debbie could have panicked.

  She could have freaked out and assumed that Art was missing in the storm. That they had yet another victim they had to search for.

  But it wasn’t her way.

  She calmly asked, “I thought he was riding with you.”

  “He is. He’s on the highway, looking for the rest of her party. She seemed to indicate there were others with her.”

  “Okay. Don’t lose track of him. We don’t need to make the situation any worse. Until he gets back, you’ll have to do both. Warm up a bottle of water and use it to warm your hands. Have her take a few sips and use your warm hands to massage her hands and feet, fingers and toes. Have you noticed the color of her extremities?”

  “Her toes are as white as the snow outside. Her fingers are almost as white. Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s bad.”

  “But I thought frostbitten skin was black.”

  “It can be either. It’s typically black in its later stages. You need to warm those fingers and toes to see if you can save them. Massage them with your warm hands to get the blood circulating in them again.”

  “Ten four.”

  “Until Art returns, go back and forth. Give her warm water and massage her extremities. Give her warm water and massage her extremities.

  “Keep trying to communicate with her. As long as she’s conscious we’re winning the battle. If she loses consciousness you’ll have to monitor her heart rate and breathing.

  “Do you know CPR in case she goes into cardiac arrest?”

  “I’ve never had to do it, but I think I know how it’s done.”

  “Okay. If her heart or breathing stops, tell me immediately and I’ll have you put the microphone down while I talk you through it. Any other questions?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Okay. Go to it. I’ll be standing by if you need me. And Marty, you can do this. I know you can.”

  Out of Debbie’s earshot he muttered, “I hope I can.”

  Marty followed her instructions, shifting back and forth between giving his patient warm water and warming her hands and feet.

  All the while he spoke to her in as calm a manner as he could muster.

  Even though he was incredibly close to panic.

  She was definitely aware of his presence. Seemed to know what he was doing, and that he was there to help her.

  She followed him with her eyes and several times made an effort to speak. But no words came out.

  He’d almost forgotten about Art until the passenger door suddenly opened and a half frozen Art crawled in.

  “Did you find anyone else?”

  “No. I went about half a mile and searched every abandoned car. Nothing. Her tracks seem to stretch on for miles, though, and there’s no way of telling how long she’s been out there.”

  “Okay, come here and relieve me so we can get moving again.”

  Charlotte seemed to panic at the sight of a second man in their midst. She seemed to trust Marty. This new man made things a bit different.

  Marty seemed to read her mind.

  “Don’t worry, honey. This is Art. He’s a friend of mine. He’s one of the good guys.”

  “Okay, watch what I’m doing. When you think you can repeat it you’ll take my place and we’ll get rolling.”

  Art, it turned out, was a good student. In no time at all he freed up his partner.

  As Marty climbed into the driver’s seat and put the big Peterbilt in gear he yelled back, “Don’t forget to keep trying to get her to talk. If she has anybody out there with her we need to know about it.”

  In the truck’s headlights Marty could plainly see the fresh footprints in the snow Art had made. He followed them, passing by the abandoned vehicles he knew Art had already peered into.

  Roughly half a mile up Art’s footprints ran out. He’d reached the point where he’d turned around and headed back.

  Now the task became a bit more complicated.

  Now, every time he reached an abandoned car or truck or bus, he had to park the rig and jump out, clearing the snow from the vehicle to determine whether there was anyone inside.

  Each time he did so, he searched the shoulder of the road for the mysterious woman’s footprints.

  Sometimes they were hard to make out, when the drifting snow had blown completely off the highway and left only hard ice behind.

  But every time he was able to make out her tracks he knew he wasn’t there yet. If she had friends or family out there somewhere they were still farther to the south.

  At one point he’d checked a Cadillac and a Ford, then climbed back in to progress a little farther.

  Before he could move though, an excited Art called him back to the sleeper.

  “Marty, she’s talking!”

  Marty wasted no time in scrambling to the back.

  Their treatment was doing them some good. She was coming around.

  “Please… please help them. They’re probably out of gas by now. Please… please help them.”

  It confirmed what Marty had already suspected.

  “We will, honey. I promise. Can you tell us what kind of vehicle they’re in?”

  She paused for a moment, as though confused. She seemed not to be able to remember.

  Then, “A van… a white van.”

  Her eyes caught Marty’s. T
hey were wet with tears. It was though she was begging him to hurry.

  “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll find them.”

  As he climbed back into the driver’s seat he yelled back to Art, “You’re doing a great job, buddy. Keep up the good work.”

  Marty immediately developed a new strategy. Instead of stopping and checking every single vehicle he came across he passed them all by while looking for a white van.

  At the same time he was mindful that it could have left the roadway. Since its color matched the snow, that might make it difficult to see.

  So he also kept his eye on his odometer.

  Every half mile he stopped his rig and jumped from it, searching for the woman’s tracks in the snow.

  As long as he was able to find them he knew he was on the right track and would move down the highway another half mile.

  If he failed to find her tracks, he would have assumed he’d gone too far. That the van had left the roadway and was in the brush somewhere. He’d have doubled back to search for it.

  Finally a few miles north of Eden he came across a large passenger van, still upright but off the shoulder in a large snow bank.

  A logo on the driver’s door read:

  SHADY REST

  EDEN-MASON, TEXAS

  Marty jumped out of the truck, but this time was gone for a considerable amount of time.

  Long enough to worry Art, who peeked through the curtain and through the truck’s windshield to see what was going on outside.

  Charlotte was doing well enough by now to sit up on the trucker’s bunk, though still shivering beneath the blanket she had wrapped around her.

  Art wrapped another blanket around her and she saw the concern on his face.

  “You stay here,” he said. “I’ll go see what’s going on.”

  Through the curtain which divided the sleeper from the cab she could see the van. She smiled in joy.

  And she said a prayer in thanks.

  Through the windshield she could see Art and Marty conversing outside the van.

  But they were too far away from her to hear their words.

  “She’s much better now,” Art said. “She’s sitting up and talking.”

  “Get back to the rig. Whatever you do, don’t let her come out here.

  “They’re all dead. Every last one of them.”

  -54-

  Marty was puzzled at first by what he saw.

  He’d opened the door to the van expecting to see joyous faces, jubilant because they’d just been rescued.

  Instead he saw bodies frozen forever in the positions they’d been in when they drew their last breaths.

  He didn’t understand at first why they weren’t all huddled together for warmth, as people who are very cold tend to do.

  One woman didn’t even have her coat on. Although they all had hats and gloves, none were wearing them.

  Instead of huddling together to share body heat, they were spread out around the van. Some had their heads leaning against the van’s windows, as though taking a nap on a long road trip. The woman in the driver’s seat had her forearms crossed on the steering wheel, her head resting upon them.

  One woman, having the rear bench seat all to herself, had laid down upon it in the fetal position. She was in her stocking feet, her shoes on the seat behind her.

  It was all so bizarre.

  Then he looked closely at the dashboard.

  The key was still turned into the run position. The radio was on, as were the headlights. Yet like the van’s passengers, everything was dead.

  He’d walked around to the back of the van to confirm his suspicions.

  When it slid off the road and plowed into a snow bank it buried its exhaust pipe in the snow.

  With the engine running and no place for the exhaust to escape, it seeped into the cabin of the vehicle.

  Carbon monoxide gas.

  The invisible and odorless gas tends to make people drowsy.

  They likely were talking and carrying on and anticipating their friend’s return with men who would pull them out of the snow and send them on their way.

  Or to drive them to a safe place.

  They likely got sleepy, one by one, and started to drift off. When seeing the others napping, they’d have thought nothing was amiss. After all, the engine was running and the van was warm and comfortable. They’d all been through a difficult ordeal and were likely exhausted. Every one of them was sorely in need of sleep.

  The way their bodies were found, all seemingly resting peacefully, was an indication no one suspected what was really happening to them.

  They’d all succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning without having any real clue to its danger.

  Once they’d all passed, the van kept running until it eventually ran out of fuel. With the key in the run position, the heater continued to blow, the lights continued to burn, the radio continued to play.

  Until they’d drained the battery completely dead and they went to sleep too.

  Marty had been a trucker for a very long time.

  The highways and byways of America were his back yard and his livelihood for many years.

  He’d seen and helped out in more accidents than he could count.

  And he’d heard of cases such as this one, although he’d never personally come upon one before.

  He’d returned to the driver’s door, peering into the carnage inside the van, when Art walked up breathlessly next to him.

  Art was there to assist the women as they made their way one by one across the slippery muck and into the sleeper cab for their journey… wherever they were going.

  It would be crowded, putting that many bodies into the six by ten foot sleeper. He hoped they all got along, because some would likely be sitting in the laps of others.

  Marty had a grim look upon his face, and Art didn’t quite understand why.

  “She’s much better now,” Art said. “She’s sitting up and talking.”

  “Get back to the rig. Whatever you do, don’t let her come out here.

  “They’re all dead. Every last one of them.”

  Art never had to do a death notification before. Never had to tell anyone a loved one had died.

  Much less seven loved ones.

  He’d wanted to stay there, to ask Marty the ludicrous question policemen and firemen get asked constantly under such circumstances.

  “Are you sure?”

  Policemen and firemen are always sure. But the families always ask anyway. It’s their last lifeline, their last ray of hope, that maybe there’s been a mistake and their loved one is still with them.

  Art wanted to ask that question of Marty.

  He wanted to ask so many more as well.

  But he was a dutiful soldier, and Marty was his leader. He’d do what Marty deemed best.

  And, to be honest, it was for the best.

  Art hadn’t seen much death in his lifetime, and it unnerved him just a bit to be in close proximity to a van where seven people had just gone to meet their maker.

  When he returned to the truck, Charlotte had moved from the sleeper to the passenger seat. She almost sat in the driver’s seat, closer to the action going on outside.

  But as a novice driver, the roar of the big diesel engine and all the lights and switches on the driver’s console terrified her. She was afraid if she touched the wrong thing the truck would take off on its own, running over and crushing her friends inside the van.

  She still had no clue it wouldn’t have mattered.

  Art tried to find the words. He tried his best. But he couldn’t find a right mix of words that would convey what had happened to Charlotte without absolutely destroying her world.

  So he took the easy way out.

  He didn’t even try.

  Instead he stood shivering in the cold, halfway between the rig and the death scene, ready to grab her and stop her if she tried to run over to see what was happening.

  Yet far enough away to pretend he didn’t hear her
pleas to tell her what was going on.

  As for Marty, he’d seen enough of the scene long before.

  He lingered not because there was any chance of him doing anything helpful, but rather because he too dreaded facing the woman they’d plucked from the highway.

  Finally he closed the driver’s door, almost tenderly, as though not to disturb those sleeping peacefully inside the van.

  He turned and trudged toward Art. Seeing her in the rig’s passenger seat he altered his course slightly, asking Art as he walked by, “Does she know?”

  Art ashamedly said, “No,” embarrassed he wasn’t strong enough to tell her.

  But she knew something. Marty could see it on her face as he got closer and closer to her.

  She’d been wondering why she hadn’t seen any movement. Why none of her friends had come scrambling out to make their way to her.

  Why Marty’s and Art’s faces had been so glum.

  If she didn’t know outright, she was starting to suspect.

  Marty opened the passenger door and stepped up on the saddle tank. He reached out a hand to her, as though that would somehow make his task easier.

  She never took her eyes off his face. She read his pain and understood why it was there.

  She furiously shook her head and burst into tears.

  “No… no… my God, no!”

  The near-naked woman, clad only in two blankets, fell into the arms of this stranger. She didn’t know him from Adam. Didn’t even know his name.

  Yet she desperately needed someone to comfort her. And as the only one available, it fell on his shoulders.

  When they got underway again Marty radioed to Debbie he was bringing the girl to her. By the time he was halfway there he knew her name and was beginning to piece together her story.

  It wasn’t easy. She was hysterical and in grief and able to share only a few words at a time with him before she broke down again.

  -55-

  The death scene was still over a hundred miles from the compound. Marty drove at a relatively safe speed of thirty miles an hour.

  Under the circumstances it was understandable that the drive seemed to take forever.

  “They took over Shady Rest,” Charlotte told them. “They seemed nice at first, but it was all a show. They said they would help take care of us. They did things with us like take us fishing and showed some of the boys how to shoot at rabbits and such.