Keeping up with NaNoWriMo like a boss. I'm short-changing you guys on the word count tonight, on account of that hand injury last night. I'll make up for it over the weekend, promise!
Source
Things get hazy after the car accident, at least for a few minutes. I had gotten a little banged up but somehow escaped without any broken limbs or even so much as a sprained ankle. I also wasn't bleeding from any cuts or scrapes. I was filthy and disheveled, though, with my hospital gown ripped to shit.
I was stranded there on the shoulder of the road. No phone, no money, not even my driver's license, and trapped in the middle of a crowd of concerned onlookers. Some well-meaning guy in a Grateful Dead t-shirt knelt down next to me. "Hey, are you all right?" he asked me.
I shook my head. "The paramedics."
"I called 911. They're on their way." He touched my arm and I jumped.
"No, in the ambulance. They--" I looked back at the mangled ambulance I had just crawled out of. "I think they're -- oh God." I tried to get to my feet but the Deadhead pulled me back down, gently but firmly.
"Hey, you're probably in shock. What are you going to do for them?" He looked over his shoulder as a police cruiser came down the shoulder, blipping its siren to clear the way. A fire-and-rescue truck and yet another ambulance were following close behind. Any cars that hadn't pulled off to the side jockeyed to get out of the way. "See? You're gonna be okay. Just sit tight."
I shook my head and fought back a wave of sudden nausea. "No, you don't understand - the guy who hit us did it on purpose. I think he was gunning for us. It's not safe!" I struggled to back up further.
Hey, hey, it's okay, listen, there's nobody in there. Look." He pointed at the wrecked Ford pickup - the windshield was long gone, and most of the engine had ended up in the cab. There was no sign of anyone who might have been behind the wheel, though, and the remnants of the driver's side door was open.
My eyes started roving around the accident scene. By this time the place was crawling with first responders. "There's nobody in there?"
"Nope, gone." Deadhead smiled at me. "Trust me, it wasn't easy to get out of that thing without getting noticed."
My blood ran cold.
Oh god did he just say what I thought he--
"Come on, it's time to go," he said. He got to his feet, pulling me up with him effortlessly. "Can't stop to chat with the boys in blue right now." He steered me off the road completely, across the grass embankment, and into the small strip of woods that separated the 309 from the closest neighborhood. Through it all, nobody else at the accident site seemed to notice or care what was happening to me.
I wanted to yell, to pull away from his grip and run for my life, but I couldn't. I had no control over my own actions; I was banging my fists against a pane of glass on the inside of my head, trapped and unable to get out.
Deadhead steered me through the undergrowth and towards a side road. "Watch your step," he said. "I don't want you to get hurt." He put a hand in the small of my back and directed me through the last of the underbrush and down an embankment. A white panel van was waiting there.
He stopped me next to the van. "Don't move," he said, taking his hands from me. I tensed to run, but my muscles betrayed me. I opened my mouth to cry for help, but before I could, Deadhead added, "and keep your mouth shut, too, please." The words died in my throat as I clamped my mouth shut against my will.
Deadhead slid the fan door open, revealing a plain white interior. The only thing within was a ratty-looking twin size mattress. "Inside, please," he said.
I strained against the compulsion. Tears streaming from my eyes, confused and scared, I climbed into the van.
I swear the first one of you assholes who makes a "free candy" joke is getting a pencil in the eye. I'm not even fucking kidding.
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