A short story by Kevin Scarlett.
We got there fast. The small car had impacted the broadside of the big truck’s trailer and slid part-way underneath. Its whole front end was crushed. The roof of the car had rolled up the side of the trailer like a sardine lid. There was some smoke but no fire. I could not tell if the driver was alive. The seat was bent back 45 degrees. The rest of the car was intact. The back seats were empty--no kids at least. Still, another end-of-shift-crash with victim. More overtime filling out forms.
The driver’s door was jammed. The rear door was blocked too. I went to the passenger side. I was surprised to find that I could open it a little. I got it wide enough to get the fingers of both hands inside the door’s edge and started to pull. My partner approached from the other side, shining his flash-light through the rear window.
“No fucking way this 10-53 is still alive.”
“Can’t tell yet.” I said as I pulled. “Have you called it in?
“Oh yeah. The whole she-bang. EMS, fire, the God-damn U.S. Marines. Why does this shit always happen just before we quit?”
“See if you can get them to route a C.H.P. unit out here. We need more blue-lights. We need traffic control.”
“I set flares,” he said, gesturing to the bright-red-burning behind our cruiser.
They were placed to angle traffic out of the blocked two left lanes. Even at midnight, the Pasadena Freeway always had traffic. Now it was snarled behind us and quickly backing up into a slow-crawling monster. I could see six lanes of freeway bound by darkness and a wall of stationary headlights cutting through the haze. Some assholes were already honking their horns trying to merge. We’d been there maybe two minutes. It was a typical.
“You get a response ETA?” I asked.
“Fire has a unit less than two miles out, but they’re not going to be able to cut through these cars. You’re wasting your time Mike, this one’s DOA. You know I got a knack for this shit.”
“Fuck you Jimmy,” I grinned.
He pointed at his own head, gave me an exaggerated nod, and walked back into the flashing blue lights.
I pulled hard and the door gave with a long groan and it opened enough for me to duck my head below the edge of the trailer and start to crawl into the passenger area. It was dark. I could hear hissing sounds, but I didn’t smell gas. My knees were on concrete, only my upper body went inside. I was careful, in case I needed to get out fast. I shined my light. She tried to move and she made noises that told me she was hurt bad, but alive. Her head was turned sideways facing me. Her right arm was up around her face, trying to push the whole trailer away. She struggled.
“Hey. Take it easy. We’re here. Police. It’s okay. I got you,” I used my soft voice, like when I was talking to my kids, “try to relax. The paramedics and fire department are on their way,” her eyes opened. They were brown, tinged with blood. They fixed on me. She was terrified. Her face was covered in red cuts. There were bits of granular windshield ground into her cheek. She could not turn her head. She was pinned hard, “maybe I can get your seat to go all the way back so we can get you some room,” I said. I jammed myself into the car so I could get a better look, moving the light. The steering wheel had broken itself on her ribcage and was folded down, partly inside her stomach. The steering post had penetrated her lower abdomen. She had been impaled. It looked as if everything was at least half-way through. Her shirt and her jeans were flowing with dark red below the waist. There was more dripping off the edge of her seat and onto the floorboards. Her feet were sloshing in at least an inch of blood.
She grabbed my hand, “am I going to die?” her voice was a broken, horse-whisper.
“Just take it easy,” I said, “they’re on their way,” I had been in this situation a few times. It’s always easier to lie, to comfort the victim, to give them a little hope - string them along. Things were bad enough without panic.
“Tell me the truth. Please,” she squeezed my fingers.
Something inside me shifted. I can’t explain what it was. It was not supposed to happen this way. I felt flush and there was a tightness in my throat. I was suddenly ashamed, as if caught in the act. I swallowed. I held my breath. I found some courage.
“I’m sorry. Yes. It looks pretty bad. I think you’re bleeding out. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Okay,” she said. She shut her eyes. She breathed. She looked at me. She had a frightened smile, “stay with me?”
“I won’t leave you,” I had never done this before. I had never wanted to. I held her hand.
We were quiet together. With my free hand I stuck the flashlight into the seat cushion so that it shone straight up, illuminating our small area inside the destroyed car. She had stopped struggling, stopped making sounds full of pain. She still breathed.
I could hear the traffic outside. I could hear the wail of sirens far away, coming closer. I was on my side, squeezed in to fit within the space. We lay face to face, maybe six inches apart. I touched her arm. Whatever had changed made me cry. I let the tears run. I waited. I did not let go. My heart pounded. After a while she opened her eyes again. She saw my wet face, my eyes. She knew me somehow.
She shook my hand weakly, “it’s going to be all right,” she said, “it’s okay. I got you.”
Biography:
I am a non-traditional student at UMM, majoring in English. I am near the end of a long career in law enforcement and am now interested in improving my writing skills and simultaneously starting a second career as an ESL instructor to secondary level students in southern border areas where these skills are greatly needed.