Disclaimer: No matter how many wishbones I waste, the characters herein belong not to me but rather to the USA Network and/or Matt Nix.
He opened his eyes a slit as footsteps crunched over the shattered safety glass, squinting against the harsh light that didn't help the driving pain in his head. The thought that the black-booted Bible thief had come back to finish off the job gave him the strength to thrash his way farther out of the wrecked Escalade, but the struggle only lasted a few seconds before the increased wetness under his hand warned him to stop.
The footsteps slowed and stopped by his right side, revealing not a pair of combat boots but some rather grungy Adidas athletic shoes. Michael looked up, but the figure was only a dark shape against the sun's glare. Crouching down, the visitor silently assessed the scene, taking in the head laceration, the obvious gunshot wound, and the pool of blood spreading slowly out from Michael's left side. A hand reached in to the front pocket of a well-worn gray hoodie sweatshirt and removed a cell phone, punching in 911.
"There's been a car accident at..." a low voice started, but it stopped as Michael's bloody right hand latched onto the phone and shut it.
"No!" he gasped. "No police...no hospital." The few words were enough to sap the rest of his strength, and his hand fell back to the ground. He sensed the surprise and indecision emanating from the hooded figure and added, "Please...they'll find me if you call anyone. Just...get me up."
The person rose and stood looking down at him hesitatingly before coming to a decision. The hooded head scanned the area, looking for observers, and then a hand reached down to grab Michael's forearm to get him off the ground.
On his feet, Michael reviewed his condition and didn't like what he found. The two holes, front and back, were running freely, soaking his shirt and waistband, but he was more concerned about his head, which felt as though it was about to split open. He swayed, leaning on the shorter person beside him and fighting the nausea that rose up. This was not good.
He heard a sigh, and then his arm was pulled over the shoulder beside him. Like a pair of drunks, they stumbled toward a nearby parking area. The support helped him move, but without his hand providing pressure on the wound, the blood leaked out ever faster. Michael's vision greyed, and he found himself leaning harder and harder on the person as they approached a blue sedan. Propping him momentarily against the side of the car, the hooded figure thumbed a remote and then opened the rear door. Michael fell, rather than climbed into the back seat, gasping at the agony it elicted. His unknown assistant opened the driver door and came back with a towel and shirt, tucking one under his side and pressing the other against his chest to try to slow the blood loss.
The pressure on the ragged tears was too much, and the ex-spy's head fell back against the seat.
How often do you get to see a rollover happen right in front of you? Well, it was my lucky day. A sport utility (gas guzzler galore) came roaring around the corner and accelerated down the street toward me. I was just in the middle of my "What an asshole!" comment when it swerved suddenly and began a slow-motion tumble. (Right in my direction, of course. This was the last time I was going to drive outside my neighborhood to take a walk.) As it rolled over, I had hours to think about all the things I hadn't accomplished in my life, all the people I hadn't said I love you to, all the Ben and Jerry's flavors I hadn't tried yet... And then, boom!, it came to rest teetering on its roof just fifty yards away.
As I stood there with my jaw dragging on the ground, a hand reached out of the passenger side and a body followed, halfway.
Just like that, a pleasant walk spoiled. As I dithered, wondering what to do, another blacked-out Escalade screeched to a stop by the first one. Out hopped a guy dressed to match his ride, combat boots and all. It was starting to look like a Blackwater convention here. He walked calmly over to the accident scene, bent down and grabbed a suitcase, and then ...went to help? Nope. Called the authorities? Uh uh. Too busy scavenging, I guess. He sauntered back to the Caddy, and turning the beast around, sped back the way he'd come.
Well, that was cold. My hesitation over, I sprinted over as fast as I could (not as fast as 20 years ago, of course. A shame, that.), slowing down as I neared the wreck, which was now steaming and starting to smell a little...burny. I spared a moment's thought for all the exploding cars I'd seen over the years on TV shows, firmly reminding myself that cars rarely blew up in real life. I hoped.
It was not a pretty sight. The guy half out of the vehicle lay on a comfy bed of shattered safety glass and broken plastic, but worse was yet to come. Inside, I noticed as I bent to look, the driver hung from the steering wheel, his eyes staring blankly over the blood trickling from his nose and mouth. Ulp. That looked like a broken neck, in my amateur opinion.
As I approached, stepping gingerly over the leaking gasoline and glassy minefield, the passenger watched me, painfully squinting against the light. Or maybe because of the gash on his forehead. His rather nice dress shirt (more money than my whole summer wardrobe, for sure) was rapidly turning a nice Merlot color, a small puddle collecting under him. Was that...? Yes, definitely a gunshot wound, left shoulder. Hmm.
I could hear my mother's voice in my ear, saying, "Don't get involved, dear. It'll always end in heartache." Good ol' Mom. I flipped open my Nokia and hit 911 (the first time I had ever had occasion to dial it, so I have to admit it was pretty exciting).
The operator answered immediately, which was a relief. The smell of leaking fluids-both engine and body-was freaking me out. "Yeah, there's been a car accident at..." And that was all I managed to get out before a bloody hand reached up and shut the connection. Ewww, sticky phone!
"No! No police...no hospital." That was about all Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hemorrhaging could choke out, but his eyes reinforced his message loud and clear.
Now, I've seen enough crappy TV shows to know that a request like that means nothing good for anyone involved. In fact, this whole First Responder moment was feeling more and more like a bad episode of Starsky and Hutch (I dated myself there, didn't I?). Anyone hurt that badly who's willing to risk more pain has got to be either a prison escapee or someone else wanted equally badly by the law. In any case, this business was way out of my league. I hesitated (Who wouldn't? I'm not exactly a card-carrying Good Samaritan, you know) and then decided it couldn't hurt at least to get the guy on his feet. I checked to make sure no one else was watching and then reached down to pull him up out of his glassy, gassy nest on the asphalt. Jesus! He looked pretty average, but he weighed a ton, and I'm not exactly tiny.
On his feet, he was taller than I was by a few inches; it was hard to tell with him hunched over like that. As I was preparing to step away and run screaming from the accident scene, his knees buckled, and I decided I could postpone my flight for a couple of seconds. He managed to recover enough to stop weaving around, although his greenish tinge made me a little leery of getting within projectile range. It was obvious to me that-convict or no convict-he was going to need some help. And that meant me, I supposed.
I sighed at the inevitability, and pulling his right arm over my shoulders, I propped him up as best I could before turning toward my Civic (Midnight Blue Metallic) in the parking lot a block away.
Uff-da. I was a teensy bit out of shape to be hauling a dead weight like this for too long. A vision of Danny Glover's prophetic Lethal Weapon line, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit" floated through my mind, and I had to bite down on the urge to giggle hysterically. But then again, I've always had that response to stressful situations (funerals, break-ups...you get the idea).
We made it-barely. It's hard to say who was feeling more pain when we finally reached the car. I leaned my new friend against the car while I fumbled to unlock the doors, and then he pretty much collapsed into the bad seat. He groaned loudly. I echoed it, but not sympathetically: those blood stains were NEVER going to come out of light gray upholstery! I have to admit I stuffed his legs in the car a leetle harder than I had to, but come on, I'd never even sat in the back. It was pristine until that moment!
Luckily, I still had my gym bag in the front seat, so I grabbed it and packed a towel and spare t-shirt in around my passenger, front and back, to try to sop up some of the pints pouring out of him. Despite my tender efforts, his eyes rolled back in his head, and, mercifully, he passed out.
For a brief second, I contemplated doing the exact same thing. It was looking pretty good right about now. On the other hand, this guy seemed to think someone would be coming for him, so who was I to give in to a little fainting impulse?
Getting in the front, I paused a moment, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. My first instinct was to drive to the nearest emergency room and dump a bloody package on their doorstep. However, the thought of security cameras capturing my license plate didn't thrill me. There was really only one thing to do. I headed for home. I needed a beer; the sooner, the better.