Falling Under (Falling 3)
Page 54Then it happens so fast. So f**king fast. I’m on the freeway, passing beneath an overpass, approaching an on-ramp. A semi rumbles beside me, blocking my path to the left. He’s seen me, I know that much, but it’s not him I’m suddenly worried about. It’s the sleek red Corvette roaring onto the freeway from the on-ramp. He doesn’t see me. My heart is hammering suddenly. I brake hard, but it’s not enough. He’s in my space, I’m caught in his blind spot, he’s not even looking. I can see him texting with one hand, the detail burning into my panicked brain. I can see the glow of the screen on his face, a hint of red and black leather seat, a profile of a face, the instrument panel, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his phone, not paying attention, not seeing me. Not seeing us. Kylie’s gripping me with clawed fingers, and I know she’s starting to realize the danger now. The semi doesn’t move, not realizing the problem.
Seconds split and fracture, splintering into moments, into individual pumps of my heart. Breathe—breathe—breathe. What do I do? Gun it? Try to squeeze past them both? Not enough room. I’m trying not to panic, but I am. I hit the brakes, praying with all my non-believing heart that I can hold it steady. The semi roars past, and the Corvette slips ahead of me. I’m in the clear, I think. I sigh in relief. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.
Only, another semi is behind me, loud and huge, horn blaring, tires squealing, groaning as it tries to slip to the left of me, but there’s a car there and he can’t, and I’m already braking, close to losing it. I have no choice but to swerve away, onto the shoulder. My heart is about to vomit out of my throat, adrenaline crashing like thunder, fear slamming like tribal drums.
Kylie is screaming. My back tire is skipping, sliding, bouncing. I’m losing it. I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna put it down. Thank god I’d brought the bike down to less than forty, but it’s going to be bad. I remember the training from the class: go limp. Don’t tense. But Kylie. Kylie. Shitfuckgoddammit, no, Kylie…
I feel the back tire going out from beneath us. The bike is sliding sideways. I let it drop, let it go, let it slide away sideways. No time for anything else, no choice, nothing but this happening in slow tragic awful motion, entirely too fast to stop.
fuckohfuckohfuck
Moments shred, and then time stops.
I feel the ground hit, force myself to stay limp, loose. I’m on my ass, sliding, and the bike is skidding away, and I feel Kylie, hear her screaming. Momentum starts to roll me. As I twist, I see Kylie. Instinct rather than choice causes me to grab her. Crush her to my chest as hard as I can. Cradle my arms around her body, tense them like bars around her fragile form.
I can’t breathe, can’t move, but I have to get to her.
Someone is screaming: “KYLIE! KYLIE!” It’s me—I’m screaming. Hoarse, raw, desperate.
“Oz…” I hear her, barely audible, breathless. But I hear her.
I crawl. I can’t get my legs to work, and my arms won’t cooperate, either. All is pain. Something hot and sharp is slicing at my elbow, my upper arm. My knees. But I have to get to her. I crawl anyway and refuse to look at my body, refuse to acknowledge the damage. Grit is bitter in my mouth. I spit, taste blood, salty and tangy and slippery and warm. I’m gasping, and sand and dirt spray away from my mouth and nose, settle on my tongue and in my nostrils. Scrabble on the asphalt, feel fingernails ripping, tearing, toes pushing and knees sliding. A foot. Two. Four.
There she is. Thank god I made her put on her leather jacket. It’s a thin thing, expensive, soft leather, but it protected her skin. Her jeans are shredded and red, but she’s writhing, and I don’t think her legs are broken. “Kylie…Kylie. I’m—I’m here.” I reach her, blink, blink against the sweat. Or maybe it’s blood in my eyes. I don’t know. She’s gasping, dragging in shuddering breaths. “Kylie. Breathe. Please, breathe.”
She’s got the helmet on still, a full-coverage cheap black helmet. I fumble at it, and she helps me tug it off. Her hands are bleeding, knuckles red and scraped and raw. “Oz?” The helmet rolls away, crunching in the road grit on the shoulder. Sweat pastes her hair to her face. Her eyes frantic, searching, seize on mine. “Oz?”
I reach out, brush at her hair, lying on my stomach, one elbow braced beneath me. My fingers, as they touch her face, are dripping blood, the nails ripped off. “Where are you hurt, Kylie? Talk to me, talk to me, baby.”
“I don’t care. I’m fine.” I rake my eyes over her body, hunting for breaks, blood. “Are you okay? Are you injured?”
“I can’t—can’t catch my—my breath.” She’s opening her mouth, sucking in short, desperate breaths. “Chest, hurts. Ribs.”
“Don’t move, okay? Just try to breathe, little breaths.” I flop onto my back, groaning as the impact sends spears of agony through me. I dig in my hip pocket for my phone. It comes out in pieces, smashed. “You—you have your phone?”
“Jack—jacket…ins—inside pocket.” She’s shaking, blinking, fighting for breath, and I don’t f**king know what to do.
I unzip her coat, gingerly. Find the phone in the inside pocket, intact. Lift her shirt, see bruises already forming on her ribs, something looking out of place. Broken, maybe. Jesus f**k. Don’t let her lungs be punctured. Please. Please. Let her be okay. I don’t even know who I’m pleading with, but the thoughts ramble through my head, unstoppable. It all falls apart into pleasepleaseplease.
I dial 911.
“Nine-one-one what’s your emergency?” A calm male voice, neutral.
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Yeah. My girlfriend. I think—I think she broke her ribs. I don’t know. She’s having trouble breathing.”
“And you, sir? Are you okay?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t f**king care. Just get someone here. Help her. Please. Help us.”
“Units are en route to your location, sir. Can you tell me your name?”