Chapter Twenty-Three: The Wreck

He awakens when he's dragged from the van by a leg and dropped onto hot, unforgiving pavement. Coughing, he squints in an attempt to clear the fog obscuring his vision. He's used to seeing things sideways by now. The tires of the van are behind two sets of shoes that move about in front of him, and he's fairly certain that the soprano and baritone murmurings that he's hearing are some sort of conversation.

"Did you disable the safety release?"

"Of course I did."

"Good. Get him in."

Greg's bad arm is grasped again and he can't hold in the pained groan as he is hauled in the direction of a new vehicle: a low-profile, desert-aged sedan. Whitney is opening the trunk and Greg finds that he has some fight left in him after all. As Harris lifts him higher to deposit him into the trunk, Greg begins to claw, kick, and flail. He finally braces himself against the back of the car with his legs and right arm, but he's only delaying the inevitable.

And, annoying his captors. He freezes when sharp, cold steel presses against his throat. Harris is still holding him up by his arm, but Whitney has positioned herself behind him and has an arm over his shoulder and knife to his flesh. Greg's breaths are shallow and erratic and he nearly sobs in frustration at the unfairness of all of this.

"I'm trying to be pleasant to you. Do you want to be restrained? Blind-folded? Gagged?" Her voice is low, and she applies more pressure with the tip of the knife, smiling when her captive whimpers quietly and trembles under her touch. "So, will you be good?"

As much as Greg wants to avoid being shoved into the trunk, he wants to avoid being tied up again even more. He nods carefully and the edge of the knife scrapes against his stubble. As soon as Whitney pulls away from Greg, Harris follows up her threat with an elbow to his chin. The hit sends him sideways into the trunk, and after roughly tucking his legs in after him, Harris slams it shut.

Both passenger and driver's doors open then close and the radio blares up front as the vehicle's engine roars to life. It reverses then takes off, and the motion of the car as it navigates over the rough terrain jolts Greg's broken bones and bruised body.

He doesn't know how he avoids passing out from Harris's latest hit, but he almost wishes that he had. Everything hurts. His sole hope is Sara, but she no longer knows where to find him. He tries to concentrate, to use his training and his brain to figure a way out of here.

Greg coughs and lets the metallic, bitter liquid that it brings up trickle onto the trunk lining. He is beginning to feel very claustrophobic as the barely seen walls surrounding him seem to press closer. He can't straighten his legs or his arms; can't even straighten his back or neck. The cramped space is hot and humid and the air is thick and stale. The heat of the day is trapped in this space. He hyperventilates, takes in air greedily but it isn't easing his panic.

After what feels like hours, he can't stand it anymore. He isn't getting enough air and his throat is closing tighter than ever. He can't even think. Panting raggedly, Greg begins to pat blindly at the rear of the vehicle. He feels what he's searching for—the emergency trunk release—but it's been broken and rendered useless. So, opening the trunk itself and jumping out when, and if, the vehicle slows is not an option. He rests briefly but forces himself into action again when he feels his world begin to spin. He can't lose consciousness again, not now.

He grasps along the edge of the roof of the trunk and the back of the rear seats, nearly giving up before he finally locates the hanging strap. Harris may have broken the trunk release, but he forgot the strap that lowers the rear seats. He pulls it downward and the back seat releases with a loud thump that he hopes went unnoticed by the vehicle's other occupants. Greg pauses only momentarily, long enough to listen and hope that this one small bit of luck isn't his last. Carefully pushing it forward only a couple of inches, Greg contorts himself in the tiny space so that his face is closer to the opening and desperately inhales the much cooler air of the cab.

His mind clears slightly with the cleaner air, but the edges of his vision are still fuzzy and black spots dance in front of what he can see in the dim light filtering in from the front of the car. It's speeding along what feels like a rarely-used, unpaved road. It occasionally slows but never completely comes to a stop. Harris and Whitney have paused in their bickering, and seem to be distracted enough with the loud radio to allow Greg to peak up front. He lowers the back of the seat a few more inches; just enough to take in the positions of his captors.

Whitney is driving. Her hand rests on the middle console, and an inch or two from her fingers glimmers the knife. Merely the sight of the cool steel, free of its sheath and ready to utilize at a moment's notice, sends chills down Greg's spine. Harris sits in the passenger seat, and he doesn't look good: his face is bright red and his skin drips with sweat. He appears to be asleep or passed out, which explains the lull in conversation. The scorpion's poison is working its way throughout his bloodstream. This particular arachnid's sting must be stronger than Greg imagined.

If the large man is feeling as weak as he looks, Greg may finally have a slight advantage…or at least a level playing field.

The vehicle begins to slow, and Greg hurriedly pulls back the seat again but is cautious not to latch it in place. After pausing briefly, the car veers right and proceeds onto a much smoother road.

He delays another few minutes, during which he formulates a shaky plan. He huddles against the rear of the seat and focuses on quieting his nerves. His body—which minutes ago was ready to surrender—now functions on determination alone. Greg knows that if he doesn't act soon, he may never get another chance. He also knows his plan is hazardous and that he may not be thinking logically. There are too many things that are could go wrong, but he decides he is willing to risk it if it means a chance at rescue and survival…and at seeing Sara again.

He slowly lowers the back of the seat once more. Whitney is still facing forward, peering through the twilight at the road ahead, and Harris's eyes are still closed, his head slumped to the side. The Beatles' 'I Want You (She's So Heavy)' is blasting on the radio, and thankfully helps to covers any noise Greg makes as he drags himself from the trunk. Pain radiates throughout each muscle and every bone aches from the inside out. He bites his tongue to keep from crying out, drawing blood. He's holding his breath and his heart is hammering against his sternum. If either captor happens to check behind them, or even glances into the rearview mirror, he will be discovered immediately.

As soon as he is all the way into the backseat, feet on the floor of the car and positioned behind Harris, he makes his move. He snags the handle of the knife with his right hand and in the same motion brings it around the back of the seat near the door. He presses it firmly to Harris's throat, who awakens but doesn't move.

"Pull the car over," Greg growls at Whitney, just loudly enough to be heard over the music and the engine. He doesn't mean to so ominous, but it's how the words come out and he's okay with it.

Whitney looks over and realizes what has transpired while she has been zoning out, cruising and daydreaming about new games to play with her captive. A flicker of surprise crosses her face before she tucks it away behind a nonchalant smile. Her eyes return to the road ahead and she starts to move her hand.

"Stop! Don't move!" Greg shouts hoarsely, tightening his hold on Harris.

"Whoa there, slugger." She laughs at his jitteriness and slowly reaches to power off the radio. "I thought you were smarter than this, Greg."

"I guess I'm not," he admits shakily. Harris still isn't budging under his arm and the knife, although if the larger man does try to move for any reason, he certainly could. Greg has a meager hold on him at best. He assumes that Harris isn't moving because doing so would be tricky without getting cut.

"It's too bad that I couldn't get through to you," Whitney continues. "No matter what she says, Sara doesn't care about you. Even if she makes it out of the desert, you think she's going to waste her time trying to save you? Of course not. She'll never look back. I bet she's relieved to be rid of you."

"Shut up and stop the car!" Greg cries. The strong, commanding tone that he aims for is diminished in potency due to the shudders are rattling him.

Whitney's shoe presses down harder on the accelerator. The odometer is fast approaching eighty miles-per-hour, but she continues to talk; her casual tone suggesting they are simply on a leisurely car ride through the desert. "Sara's not right for you, Greg. Only I can really make you feel alive."

"I said shut up!"

The engine strains and roars. The vehicle itself begins to shudder as the pedal is pressed even further.

"Do you want to know the mistake you made? Well, the most recent one, anyway?"

"Pull over or I'll kill him!"

"See, that's it right there. You think that I actually care about Liam here."

The accelerator touches the floor, then several events happen at once. Harris leans forward, and Greg loses his grip on him but knows the larger man had to have been cut in the process because his own hand is suddenly very warm and wet with red. A large bang resonates beneath the car as the front passenger side tire explodes. Whitney overcompensates for the sudden pull to the right by jerking the wheel to the left. The vehicle veers sharply, and a horrible screeching from the contact of steel on blacktop is heard. At this point, Whitney slams on the brakes to attempt to stop the slide, which only succeeds in causing the entire car to lean clockwise.

It's too late for Greg to buckle himself in, but Harris is still leaning forward so he does the only thing he can think to do: he lets the knife fall from his hand and hugs the back of the passenger seat with all his might.

Shit shit shit shit shit

Their fate is sealed when the front tires meet the soft sand next to the road. Time continues in slow-motion as the vehicle flips several times before coming to rest on its roof a distance from the road, leaving the scent of burnt rubber and a billowing dust cloud of disturbed sand in its wake. The first flip sends jolts of agony throughout his entire body but especially his legs. Somehow, he continues to cling to the seat: his anchor. On the second flip, broken glass sprays across him and he tucks his face into his shoulder and tightly closes his eyes. The third flip brings a crack from his right leg that Greg feels but also hears, and he finally loses his grip on both the seat and consciousness.

But not for long. When Greg comes around, he decides that he must be dead. How else can he explain the clarity in his mind for the first time in days—maybe even weeks? He remembers everything, knows that he's never been worse off, but he feels almost refreshed as if he just woke up from an eight-hour sleep and is about to sip on some Blue Hawaiian.

Ah, yes. If heaven exists, it will contain all the Blue Hawaiian.

Then, he groggily opens his eyes and immediately amends his initial presumption. If heaven involves dangling by one leg, crushed in between the rear and passenger seats of a crumpled, upside-down sedan, he'd rather be elsewhere.

Greg is dangling far enough for the tops of his shoulders to just barely touch the roof of the car, and the back of his head rests awkwardly on the hard surface. It doesn't surprise him that he can't feel his right leg. After all, the forces pressing against it must be cutting off blood supply. What does surprise him is the fact that nothing hurts. Greg counts all his recent injuries and knows that he's been knocked around quite a bit as the car flipped. He should be in agony. There is discomfort, yes, but that's all it is.

That can't be a good sign.

There is a loud hissing sound, and Greg sees the carbon dioxide cannister laying by his head. He pushes it from him hastily and is thankful that it hasn't exploded and that all of the windows are broken so the fumes can't build up in the car. He looks around, assessing where the nearest danger is now, because doing so has become habit and necessity. Harris is nowhere in sight, but Whitney is rotated but somehow still held in the drivers' seat by her safety belt. Her face and hair are coated in blood, which seems to be streaming from a head injury.

She is staring blankly at him—through him—eyes glazed and unfocused.

Dead. Good riddance.

She blinks.

Damnit.

As Whitney groggily takes in her surroundings, her gaze begins to clear slightly. Her eyes narrow.

Greg grasps at the parts of the seats that are crushing his leg. He tries to pry them apart but only succeeds in intensifying the head rush he's already experiencing from being upside down. He then braces his left foot against the passenger seat, grips his right knee, and pulls. Sometimes snaps, and a blinding pain erupts throughout the leg that he recently believed to be numb. He yells inarticulately in pain and frustration. Whitney is alive; this isn't over yet, and he can't move an inch to get away.

Finally, she seems to really see Greg, and her expression morphs from dazed and confused to livid and bloodthirsty.

"You…asshole…" she mutters, and blindly reaches to her side to unbuckle her seatbelt. As soon as it is released, she topples to the roof of the sedan with a grunt.

Greg accepts that he is in definite trouble when Whitney begins to drag herself toward the back of the car. She is reaching for him, and he starts to hyperventilate again. He changes tactics and grabs at the window frame of the rear window, only to find out that his right hand isn't working right and his forearm has an angle that shouldn't be there. Still, he grips the frame as tightly as possible and pulls. If he can free his leg, he can escape out the window and into the desert.

He pulls with all of his strength and finally hears another crack as his knee dislodges from where it was trapped. His body falls and hits the roof hard. The wind is knocked out of him but still there is no pain.

Greg doesn't take the chance of checking on Whitney's progress before he drags himself through the opening where the rear window once was. He's halfway out when a hand grips his ankle. He kicks at her but she continues to climb onto him and hinder his progress.

She is now on top of him, sharp knees pressing into his back, and he feels her arm snake around the front of his neck. She hooks her wrist with the crook of her opposite elbow and squeezes. He lets out a wheeze that is cut off when her hold tightens. Greg's hands instantly halt in their quest to drag himself out of the car and instead grapple at Whitney's arm.

"You…you ruined everything," she murmurs to him, and her lips brush against his ear. "Everything would have been perfect. I would have kept you forever, Greg. I was going to kill Sara, as well as every other person that testified against Lacey and me or tried to get in between us. And then I would help Lacey escape from prison, and we'd be together again. The three of us…the fun we'd have."

His already tormented neck is throbbing, his ears ringing, and his lungs burning as they yearn for air. If Whitney had been effectively trained in hand-to-hand combat, she would know to put more pressure on the sides of his neck, restricting the blood flow to his brain and causing him to pass out in seconds. Instead, she applies the most pressure at the front of his neck, cutting off his air, and so he is still conscious and battling hard to stay that way.

More than likely, it isn't lack of training that causes Whitney to do the things she does, the way she does them; it's for the pure entertainment. She knows she has the time to waste, so she's playing one last game with him.

Greg lets one hand drop and he grasps at the sand around them until he feels what he's looking for. He grips the shard of glass tightly in his hand, nearly brings it back to stab at her arm before realizing he could cut his own throat. Instead, he swings it up and back, over his own shoulder. He's unable to get much momentum and it merely grazes Whitney's shoulder. He thinks he did more damage to his own hand.

Still, Whitney snarls angrily and the tension on his neck eases slightly. He is able to take in only a few partial breaths of sweet air as she grabs the back of his wrist and slams his hand into the ground until he's forced to drop the glass. Too soon, she reapplies the unrelenting squeeze.

There's no way I've come this far to die now.

Not for the first time—or the last—Greg wishes to hear the voices that have both disturbed and comforted him for this past week. Scorpion-Nick, Kid-Greg. Even if all they do is mock him, that's alright. He needs to hear anything but Whitney's voice.

But the voices don't come. At least, not the ones he wants to hear.

"This is why you were going to be the one, Greg." She's talking, again. "You've got this fight in you that I've honestly never witnessed before. Lacey and I would have had so much fun with you!"

His vision is blurring, flickering, and blackening around the edges, but Greg reaches and claws behind his back. She is now lying fully on his back, forcing his front flat against the desert sand. The shards of what remained of the window dig into his chest and stomach. Whitney's own breaths are harsh as she continues her attack, and Greg can feel her blood dripping onto him.

As her grip tightens impossibly further, Greg's eyes widen and he is forced to abandon his ineffective attack on her. His hands move down to her arm, try to pull it away. His air is entirely cut off and he can't get his fingers under her arm.

He claws her skin, knowing he's scratching himself as well since his movements are becoming increasingly uncoordinated. A humming sound slowly fills the night sky, and as it becomes deafening, Greg can see a beam of light travelling closer making its way around the area.

'Aliens,' he thinks deliriously before his hands drop back to the sand and his world goes black.

A/N: Almost done with this one! Please review! :)