The Big Blue Sky: Fifty-two

Doug yawned and shook the lingering sleep fogging his thoughts and weighing upon every movement. The window of the old Ford truck was down, the cold wind and errant drops of icy rain helping to revive him. Doug cried out and pulled at the wheel, doing everything he could to speed that process, and battle the confusing cascade of broken thoughts of Molly, the girls, Jane and more.

He rounded a wide bend, descending a long hill. There was something in the road ahead, but it was far away, and impossible to tell for sure. At first it appeared to be a terrible accident. The smaller of the two vehicles had taken a terrible broadside and had skidded off onto the shoulder. Parts of the vehicle lay scattered across the road: plastic and metal parts. The right front tire was missing, the rear tire flat on its side beneath the rear panel. The passenger side had clearly taken the full force of the impact, and was crush from the front fender clear to the rear bumper, all of it driven nearly to the center of what remained of the vehicle. Doug muttered a small prayer for anyone inside, until he saw someone climb from the larger vehicle, cocked at an angle, and partly on the steep slope at the side of the road, with an automatic weapon in his hands.

He hadn’t recognized the big black Suburban at first, but now knew instantly what had happened. The driver remained inside, apparently dazed from the impact, and leaning over the steering wheel. It was the man seated behind the driver with the weapon, now standing dead center in the road, leveling the gun at Doug and the on-rushing Ford, waving it back.

Doug jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator without thinking. Even as the gunman raised the weapon to his shoulder and prepared to fire, Doug could see the expression flee the man’s face, resigned fully to the realization he was about to die. Doug ducked precisely the instant bullets skipped off the hood and slapped through the windshield, burying themselves in the vinyl seat above him.

He was only vaguely aware of the initial impact, a sickly wet thump as the Ford and gunman met suddenly. The impact carried the man violently backwards, his chest already crushed, his vital organs rupturing in a spray of bright red blood from his mouth and nose. It was eclipsed by the abrupt calamity of the Ford hammering the Suburban sideways, severing the dying gunman’s legs, and mortally wounding the grizzled veteran within.

The Suburban slid sideways and tipped, tumbling down the steep embankment, where it came to a rest against a tree on one side. The tires spun impotently in air, the engine revving momentarily, as if in a final dying gasp. The riotous sound, the scrape and crash of the impact fled, echoing among the trees and night, replaced quickly by absolute silence; the aftermath of a terrific battle.

Doug sat up, looking out from the bullet riddled windshield of the old Ford to the smoking heap of the suburban, half amazed to be unhurt let alone alive. He climbed out and picked up the automatic weapon lying in the road beside the bisected gunman’s still quivering body. From the Suburban a single figure climbed from the driver’s shattered window. Doug, without a shred of emotion or remorse (both would come later) slid the bolt back to chamber a round and fired once. The figure grunted and tumbled backwards from view. Doug tossed the weapon aside and turned towards the shattered remains of the Jetta.

Molly fought for consciousness. Time came as fragmented as the bits of glass in her lap. Shards peppered her hands and face, trickling silky-warm blood. She had only the vaguest impression of what had happened, and little more of the press of a body against her. Pain, such as it was, hadn’t come yet, but still remained hidden behind a shroud of shock and bewilderment. A feeble whimper escaped her blood speckled lips.

There was someone above her, and though she sensed an urgency in some distantly familiar voice, it was still far too much far too soon to process properly. All at once, with that voice the world and an ocean of boiling hot pain came flooding in upon her.

“Come on,” Doug Springer cried. “We have to get out of here.”

Doug strained to open her door, which had jammed during the impact. The sickly sweet bite of leaking gasoline filled the air, strong enou8gh that Doug fought a growing panic, as he pressed a foot to the car for leverage and gave one last mighty heave. The door snapped open, groaning loudly on its hinges, the edge grinding into the gravel at the side of the road. Molly slid sideways from the vehicle, falling into Doug’s arms as he pulled her free and laid her gently on the grassy shoulder.

“My partner,” she moaned, tensing as Doug pulled a bit of glass imbedded in her cheek. Dark red blood gushed immediately.

“Don’t move,” said Doug. He looked back along the road, past the carnage and over the deserted highway. It wouldn’t be long before someone came along, but he was afraid to move Molly before he was certain she wasn’t seriously injured. He looked over carefully, touching her limbs, pressing gently on her stomach and lower ribs, relieved that she didn’t appear to be seriously injured, but for some cuts and bruises.

Moon,” she said blankly. Her eyes stared into the whispering rain and swiftly moving storm clouds and knew. “Is he?”

“I’m sorry, Molly.”

She looked up into his eyes. He slowly drew his hand from her forehead. The blood flowing from the wound in her cheek had slowed. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket over her hand and pressed it there. She tried to sit up, falling back with a groan. He helped her, holding her shoulders. Molly fell back against his chest, felt suddenly safe there.

“Can you stand?”

“I think so, but we’d better hurry,” she said, “before I pass out.”

Molly wished to stand, but her legs were having none of it, and Doug caught her once more. He lifted her into his arms, stepping over part of the gunman. Molly looked at him as if he was a savior or some sort of guardian angel. A moment later she passed out cold.