by John Siwicki
The smiling cast changed to a petrified glare. Every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point like over-wound guitar strings, and his vision binocular—zooming in—following the animal jumping from the tall grass on the side of the road.
Harley! he yelled after seeing the animal stop, and plant itself in the center of the road, then it stood there gawking back at the driver.
In a glint of time, and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes were stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.
The driver calculated the options.
A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view. I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then he cranked the wheel and slammed the brakes down hard!
Tires screeched—the car whirled.
The scene in the windshield warped into a whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again. His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune, musical instruments. Gritting his teeth, and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out and across to the other side.
This is it, I’m a . . . dead man, he said in a voice that faded, and went silent.
Shit, was the last word from his mouth after seeing a fence-line with barbed-wire and split wooden posts.
He waited for impact.
Like baseball bats connected to barbed wire they bombarded the car. One after another the clipped posts flew in the air, twisting, flipping, and crashing into the car. The driver raised his arms to cover his face, and block broken glass, but there wasn’t any—a mysterious force kept the windshield intact. With both hands welded to the wheel, the car changed directions, snapping and cracking like a bullwhip.
The driver was breathing hard, and his heart beating like a jack-hammer, pumping his face red. Both of his hands were clenched into fists. A calm silence passed through the open windows on a gentle breeze. He caught his breath, and said, What the hell just happened?
The driver blinked, crushing his wild nerves, which generated a shiver in his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away, vanishing into the trees.
It looked just like Harley. Couldn’t have been though, there’s no way.
He closed his eyes, and passed out.
TEST
His skin tingled like he’d been injected with electricity. His breathing and pulse fast, inhaling and exhaling. Choking sounds gushed from his mouth as he closed and opened his eyes. He quivered, then leaned back, and fell unconscious.
A moment later, dizzy, and trying to focus, he thought, What is this place? Why am I here? How did I get here?
He threw his hands over his face hoping that when he looked up the car would be back on the road. He looked around confused, everything had changed, and was different.
Slowly he got his bearings, then said, Is the car upside down?
His world was off-kilter and leaning sideways. Hit with fear, panic filled his head. He looked at the car windows. They were knocked out, and broken.
Broken windshield, he thought, and remembered blocking flying glass. The car rolling down the cliff and going through the fence and trees. He replayed the accident in his mind. Then in the silence remembered the last few moments. I was looking at green fields, and rolling hills, thinking I was in a painting. How it brought back memories of when I was a kid. Then, I got an e-mail from Esther. Ate the ham and cheese sandwich she made for me.
He looked around with blurred vision. Pieces of metal, broken trees, and miscellaneous chrome bits were lying everywhere around the car. Trying to understand what had happened, he put the events in order again.
I can’t breathe, he groaned. The world spun, and he was unconscious.
After prolonged bursts of light, images of the accident flashed in his mind again.
Something is wrong.
As he looked around, the world was a huge puzzle that had been taken apart without logic and strewn everywhere in a crazy pattern. His world was torn to pieces and spread everywhere. How to put it back together? Where to begin?
Nothing made any sense, then a scene from The Wizard of Oz, and Dorothy clicking her slippers together singing “Over the Rainbow” rang in his head. When it stopped, only the sound of car-crashing echoes remained.
Did I hit my head? Am I unconscious? Is this a dream? If I tap the heels of my shoes together, will I go home? I feel my legs, but they’re numb. Is that blood?
It was exceptionally quiet, like a long goodbye after hanging up the phone, or after a power failure. He was lost in an empty void. The only sound came from within, like floating underwater, or listening to hollow clapping. An internal pulsating jackhammer streamed signals that changed into thoughts to control all spontaneous bodily functions. He squeezed his eyelids tight, then opened them wide. After blinking rapidly his blurred vision focused. He noticed the gauges in the dash. They look altered in some way. I can’t read them.
Why is the steering wheel like that? he moaned. What happened? Am I alive? What’s that smell? He couldn’t identify the familiar smell, he knew what it was, but had no word for it, or at least not one he could think of. His mind was blank as thoughts came back slowly, like the electricity returning after a black out or power cut. His body felt like a machine that had stopped. The gears were moving and whirling slowly. Bodily functions were being turned on by an invisible operator who had just pushed the on-button. He was excited as his mind allowed the receptors to connect.
Gas! he yelled. It’s gas! Got to get out of here!
Sam’s ears were ringing as the sound got clearer, the volume increased, and panic set in. Then the pain started in his foot, made its way through muscles and bone, up to his hip, and surged around to his back.
Oh God, it feels like there’s an anchor tied to my leg, and it’s dangling and swinging like a pendulum, stretching my muscles and ligaments to their limit.
His leg felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. The pressure increased and wouldn’t pause.
I can’t stand the pain. It’s like a torture chamber.
He tried to move and turn his neck, but couldn’t.
I’m tied to something. My hair’s stuck, wedged in the window of the door. He moved his right arm up behind his head, and felt his hair caught in the door. With limited movement, and his legs pinned between the dash and seats, Sam closed his eyes hoping the nightmare would go away. He wanted to be back in his car driving down the country road looking at endless green fields.
He groaned, Isn’t that what happened after swerving? Wasn’t I walking around the car checking for damage? Am I dreaming now? This is no dream, he thought.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened his eyes he was still trapped in the smashed car. Still pinned and still feeling the pain. Can I pull it out? He moaned when he tried to free his right leg. It moved a little. He coughed and spit blood up as he caught his breath.
Everything seems to work.
He felt his toes wiggle, then turned his ankle, tightened his muscles, and extended his leg without pain.
It’s okay, but what about the left one?
Then branches underneath snapped, and like the driver who groaned in pain, the car and forest creaked in agony.
Get out! he screamed in his head.
He remembered the pocket knife he always carried, the one he’d gotten a long time ago, and the one used to carve the names in the tree. Maneuvering his arm down, around, and into his front pocket he felt the knife.
Got it!
His left arm was pinned under his body, so he only had one hand to open the knife. While reaching over his head to cut the hair, he fiddled with it, then grabbed it with his teeth.
Come on! Open, open. Open—damn it!
How lon
g it took to get the knife open he didn’t know, but it was exhausting, and seemed to take forever. The blade popped out. Now if I can guide it, he thought. It feels like my hair’s caught in the door hinge. He started slicing it off. Cutting randomly without care. The last strand, he said, and his head was free. He rested again while catching his breath, and collapsed unconscious.
He opened his eyes not knowing how long he’d been out. Sam raised his head, pulled, and got his left arm free, then saw it was covered with blood, but his fingers moved easily.
No pain. The blood must be from something else. That’s good and bad because I’m the only one in the car, and my left leg is still caught and throbbing along with my heartbeat.
A constant steady beat pounding away slowly, through his entire body, like small explosions off in the distance, and getting closer and closer.
Is blood pumping out of me? Is that why I keep passing out? Will I bleed to death? Stop the bleeding, and get up!
The air was warm as the sun was up now. He heard birds and animals scurrying all around, and what sounded like the distant rumble of traffic.
Why can’t anyone see me? he thought, Doesn’t anyone know I’m here?
The gas smell is getting stronger, Sam thought, and it’ll only take a small spark for the whole car to go up. I have to get my other leg free, and crawl to the road or this will be my last sunrise.
He grabbed his leg and tried to wrench it out. It wouldn’t budge. He remembered stories he’d heard about people being trapped and cutting off a leg or arm to get free.
I don’t have anything to cut off my leg. Just a pocket knife. I can’t cut off my leg with a pocket knife.
What the hell’s wrong with me? I’m not cutting off my leg with a knife. Got to get out.
Sam looked around the now upside-down car, searching for something to use as a pry bar. Anything strong enough to help get his leg out, but there wasn’t anything nearby, nothing at all.
He passed out.
It feels warm, beautiful warm sunshine, Sam mumbled. Beautiful rays of sunshine. He opened his eyes. Reminds me of Hawaii. Too bad I’m not in Hawaii. The sun’s rays made a kaleidoscope of patterns through the broken shards of glass dangling from the frame. Outside he watched leaves flicker on a soft morning breeze. Some floated through the broken and bent metal hulk. In the quiet air, dew dripped from the trees.
What time is it? I wonder, he whispered.
He coughed and cleared his throat.
I don’t feel any pain. Am I dead? he said, then passed out once more.
Some time after, he woke with dry lips and a parched throat.
I need a drink. I had a bottle of water. Where is it?
He scanned the interior, and saw the bottle above his head peeking out from under the seat.
It’s a miracle. Why didn’t I notice it before? then stretched his arm out, and was able to claw at the bottle with his fingertips. He tried again, then watched it fall, and land on his chest.
I never thought I’d be so desperate for a drink of water.
He took a swig, put the bottle to the side, and thought about how to free his leg.
The baseball bat under the seat, he thought. Where is it? There was creaking, rattling, then the car jarred loose, and slid downward. It stopped hard, and Sam was the picture of happiness with a grin from ear to ear because he saw the bat. He grabbed it, gripped it, and jammed it under the seat, then pried and pushed. He managed to free up his leg a little, but the pain was horrible, like the flesh was being peeled from the bone. He screamed, and the howl carried out through the trees.
Someone must have heard that, he thought, and let out another wail.
He kept at it, pulling, pushing, moaning, groaning, and jamming the bat under the seat, widening the space enough to feel his leg move a little more.
I’m getting it out, he said, as blood dripped.
He struggled, and watched blood smear on the bat and his hands. This is not good. My leg feels warm, more blood pooling up. God help me, he begged, and imagined the worst. I want to stop trying, I can’t stop trying, he yelled, and passed out again.
He woke feeling feeble, and fumbled with the water bottle. He took a drink, and thought, This could be my last chance. I can’t quit. I have to get free or I’m dying in this place. No one knows I’m here. It’s going to get dark, then I’ll be dead for sure.
He pulled, tearing, ripping, and working at freeing himself from the death trap. Struggling, wrenching and yanking at the seat forced against him and crushing down on his body. He pulled on his leg. Come on, he shouted, let go. What’s holding it? Why can’t I get free? Sam grinned as his leg slid out. Free! he yelled, exhausted, excited, and breathing quickly.
Finally out of the snare.
Next get out of the car.
He looked down at his pant leg. It was torn, discolored, soaked in blood. There was blood everywhere. His heart raced like a horse running in the Kentucky Derby.
My leg looks bad, Sam muttered. I know I’m dying here alone, surrounded by a pool of blood in a smashed pile of metal, glass and plastic. I can’t move. His hand slipped as he braced on the car hitting himself on the side of the face as he tried to move. He fell, but crawled forward. I wonder what I look like. I’ll bet not so good, he grunted, there’s so much blood. He imagined his blood pumping out of his body, percolating like a coffee pot, bubbling, dripping. He saw himself drowning in his own blood, and taking his last breath. Then, looking in the rear-view mirror, he thought of the moment right after the accident. He was sitting in the car, unhurt, looking at the tree where he picked up Tom. What happened to Tom? What time is it? he mumbled. Time stopped, and there was no clock, only the sun moving across the sky to the other side of another world.
If it’s not too bad, I can fix up my leg. Stop the bleeding, like the book at the hotel said.
He had taken some first aid courses, but wasn’t looking forward to treating himself. That course was just practice, and not real. He crawled and muscled his busted and torn body over to the only way out. He dragged his body over the broken pieces of glass, then glanced up, examining the cavity before going on. The moment of the fence posts hitting the windshield flashed in his mind, and he reared back, raising his arm for protection, but nothing happened. It was quiet. He nervously lowered his arm.
That gap looks like a mouth, he thought. Sharp chunks of glass, like teeth ready to clamp down and bite me in two. It looks like a shark’s mouth.
He continued moving forward cutting his hands on the broken glass. It crackled as he crawled through the window frame, and outside the car. Then, between breaths resting on his back, looking up at the sky through the branches and leaves, said, I . . . made—it!
Now or never, Sam said, and crawled farther away from the car to a place in the shade under a tree. He took out the pocket knife and carefully cut his pant leg down to the ankle. The material was saturated, tough to cut, and stuck to his skin. After slicing the last thread he rested a few minutes, pondering what he would see after it was all removed.
What’s it going to look like? What’s it going to look like? he said in a feeble tone. He grabbed the end of the material, and tore it away like a banana peel. Off to the side it went, he cringed when he saw the raw flesh, it was dark and mashed.
That doesn’t look good, he mumbled in a dry raspy voice, and pulled off the rest of material—there was more blood. He saw a jagged laceration that started above the knee cap, ran down the leg on the posterior, around to the front, and down the shin. The leg was peppered with gashes deep into the skin, and meaty hunks of flesh and muscle were torn away. Blood flowed as he picked out the shards of glass. As he extracted the pieces, his fingers were soon covered in red. He laid back, moaning in agony. In a large piece of glass sticking out from the ground he saw his reflection, and the cut that was on the right side of his face.
What am I going to do? Come on—think—you dumb bastard. Do something! he screamed. He sat up, looked at his leg again, and close
d his eyes, hoping it was all a dream. It wasn’t. He had to stop the bleeding—it had to stop. He remembered the first aid classes again, how they practiced and drilled for injuries like this. This was like a battle injury.
I have to apply pressure to cut off and stop the bleeding. What can I use? he said worried and nervous, then scanned the car.
On the back seat in his car there was a cover that was now lying just a few feet away. He grabbed it, and wrapped it around his leg. Then he cut parts of it into strips, and securely tied it down. He felt dizzy and passed out.
His eyelids were heavy when he woke. His muscles weaker than ever, the leg was throbbing, and his throat dry. He was thirsty. He finished the wrapping where he’d left off, tying it down, then took two branches and put them on either side to immobilize his leg. After admiring his work a moment, the forest spun, and he passed out again.
FEAR
Esther had not heard anything from Sam since his last e-mail telling her about eating the sandwiches. She made herself think everything was okay, but thought the worst after sending more e-mails without a reply. Sam always answered.
He’s been in an accident? Driven off the road? He was tired when he left, she thought. I hope he’s not . . . no, he’s okay! Be strong, I have to think positive, his phone could be dead, or broken.
She checked her e-mail, again and again, but there were no messages from Sam, nothing.
Esther was doing her normal end-of-the-day routine, filing patient’s reports, and entering information for the next shift. She was sitting behind the counter typing away when Dr. Holiday appeared. He looked a little like Robert Redford, dressed casual, wore snakeskin cowboy boots. Growing up he lived with his grandmother after his father, who had been in trouble since his teenage years, was sent to prison. He had worked in the local area since becoming a dentist, and everyone called him Doc. He didn’t mind the informality. It was a way of breaking the ice when he met someone for the first time. As for questions about his father, he said he was too young to remember and didn’t know him. But people wondered why he moved back to Four Corners. Dr. Holiday made regular visits to the hospital wing that housed the retired seniors.
