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Kristina
What should’ve been a half-hour drive has turned into a complete and utter nightmare. I’ve been on the damn road for almost an hour and I’m still at least ten more minutes from home. It’s raining cats and dogs tonight. I can barely make out the road in front of me. What’s more, my old, beat-up truck isn’t helping matters.
The windshield wipers get stuck every two minutes, which requires me to punch the dashboard to get them going again. The engine makes a hell of a lot of noise, but barely keeps the pickup moving. The back wheel may be out of air, too.
I picked one hell of a day to take my truck out of its resting place. I should’ve listened to Grandma and let the old thing expire by the barn. I should have bid my farewells and moved on. Instead, I continue insisting my truck is still in working order. Thus, here I am, driving down a road I can barely see, in a truck that’s barely moving.
Grandma warned me it was going to rain. I figured I’d be okay. But this isn’t a little rain. No. It looks like the sky opened up and a river found a way through the crevices and it’s now pouring down on me.
I sigh and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
It’s been a long day and I’m worn out. The only thing I want is to get home, take a shower, and have a piece of Grandma’s home-baked apple pie with a cold glass of milk by the fireplace. Even though fall has just started, it’s already brought with it a drop in temperatures I care nothing for.
After volunteering to help repaint my best friend’s house all day today, working in a tank top, a pair of shorts, and running shoes, I’m a little chilled and in a bad mood. I should’ve brought a change of clothes, but I rushed out of the house so fast in the morning I forgot.
I’m paying the price for that now.
My truck has no heat so I’m stuck with the cold, wet air blowing in from the driver’s-side window, which does not roll up all the way. Forget the clothes; I should have brought a towel with me. Or a blanket for that matter. The way things are going I’m not going to need a shower when I get home.
I tend to make the dumbest of decisions. Taking the truck out for one last ride is right up that alley, but I can’t help feeling attached to it. My truck, which belonged to my grandfather, has sentimental value to me. It’s a relic, I know that, but I love it. I learned how to drive in it. So did Dad, and Grandpa.
I scrunch up my face. Maybe I really should let the old thing rest in peace—if only out of respect. It has taken me an hour to drive from Amy’s house and I’m not even home yet.
I punch the dashboard to get the wipers going again and they start swishing side to side right away. If I’m not careful, I’m going to crash into something.
There’s has to be a faulty wire somewhere. Too bad mechanic is not among my list of talents. Otherwise I would fix them myself. I’m not afraid of getting down and dirty if need be. However, working with vehicles is not one of my fortés.
I shake my head and scowl. Thinking about my poor old truck has only put me in a sour mood.
I reach over to my right and turn on the old, outdated radio to listen to the only working station, which is local, of course. There’s no music on. There’s a weather bulletin on instead. The meteorologist is ranting on about how there’s potential for flooding, to avoid overflowing rivers and not to attempt to cross them, to seek shelter if needed, providing the necessary information for where to go and what to do in case of emergency, for those who can benefit from it.
I am in no need of help so I reach over again to turn the radio off. I hit the wrong button and static blares through the single working speaker. I wince and glance down. Finding the right button this time, I press it and the radio turns off.
I focus on the road again only to realize I’m about to experience a head-on collision. I’m so shocked by what’s in front of me my first instinct is to scream before I even step on the brakes. My truck skids forward. I try to veer to the right to avoid crashing into him but it’s too late. I both feel and hear the impact—the loud thud confirming I’ve hit something. The truck comes to an abrupt halt and my mind instantly recoils. I see no sign of him anywhere. I’ve run him over. Oh, Jesus. I’ve killed him.
A thousand thoughts cross my mind. What’s a man doing in the middle of the road? Where did he come from? He wasn’t on the road moments before. My visibility was limited by the heavy rain, but I’m positive he wasn’t standing there a minute ago.
Shaking from head to toe, I open the door and scramble out of the truck. My legs are wobbly as I run to the front. Rain seeps into my already wet clothing. I’m drenched almost immediately, but that’s the least of my concerns. I’m expecting to find a dead body splayed in front of my truck—a poor soul, broken and lifeless.
Is he dead? Did I kill him? Oh, God. I’m shaking so badly I can hardly stand. I rush over to where I think his body should be sprawled on the hard, wet pavement but I’m taken off guard by what I find instead. I gasp.
There’s a body all right, but it’s not dead. A man kneels in between the truck’s headlights. His hands rest on the grille, as if he had stopped it himself. It’s impossible, but the way he’s positioned forces the thought to cross my mind, nonetheless. What the hell?
There’s a river of red running down his broad back, a lot of which has turned the top portion of his pajama-style pants a deep crimson color. He has no shirt, shoes, or even socks on.
He looks like trouble. That gives me reason for pause. Is that what he is? Some potentially crazed escapee from a mental institution somewhere? And I happened to bump into him, literally. While I’m happy he’s alive, since that means I have not killed anyone, I’m now worried he might be a convict, a nut job, a serial killer.
Should I run? The thought of getting back into my truck and hitting the road again appeals to me, but something else nags at my brain. What am I going to do? Can I leave him here? Should I? Now would be a good time to call for help, but I don’t have my cell phone with me. I hardly ever use it so it’s in my bedroom on top of the dresser where I left it this morning. It won’t do me any good there, that’s for damn sure. Now what?
I debate what to do.
He’s doesn’t look at me. Long, brown locks cover his eyes. His face is only visible from the nose down. The rapid movements of his shoulders tell me he is breathing hard and fast—a sign of exhaustion.
“Um...are you okay?” I approach cautiously. “Sir? Are you all right?”
He looks up suddenly and I jump back a step in surprise. There’s a huge bruise on the side of his face—one that looks as if it’s recent. Golden brown eyes gaze at me with fear. He’s afraid? Of me?
“I...need...help,” he says. His voice is barely audible. “Please.”
Regardless of whether his apparent fear is a ruse or not, he’s in desperate need of medical attention, but the only help I can provide is a ride to the hospital.
Right now I’m seriously regretting leaving my phone behind.
I observe him for a moment longer. He’s pale, and his breathing is harsh. I think he’s going to faint, but I don’t know for sure. I’m trying my best to hold it together, but I have no clue what my next step should be. I’m scared both of and for him.
“I...need...help,” he repeats, chest rising with much effort.
I hesitate. My feelings are conflicted. What if he turns out to be my worst nightmare? What if I don’t help him and he dies on the side of the road? God! I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. I’m too afraid to offer him the assistance he obviously needs.
I scan the road to the left and then to the right. There are no cars coming or going. I’m the only one present. It’s getting dark and the rain keeps pouring down. The probability of another car approaching within the next five to ten minutes is low. I’ve lived in this area for years. In this kind of weather not many venture out. Plus, I haven’t encountered another car in fifteen minutes. If I leave him here, it will be a while before someone else stumbles upon him.
Might being the operative word. Looking at his condition, anyone would think more about scurrying away rather than getting involved. Anyone but me, that is. I can’t leave him to die. The danger factor is there, but I’d never be able to live with myself if I abandon him here. It’s not in me to turn away a person in need. Frightened as I am, I can’t turn him down.
I take a step closer, eying him warily as I place one hand on his shoulder. He pulls away as if I’ve burned him. This unnerves me even more. “Let me take you to the hospital,” I offer. The rain is showing no sign of letting up, and the hospital is another thirty minutes away, but I have to get him there. “I can give you a ride.”
The man uses the truck’s grille to help himself up, but once he stands he stumbles a bit. I grab hold of his arm to steady him and this time he doesn’t recoil from my touch. But I take notice of his size. He’s so much taller than me and that alone is intimidating.
“You need a doctor.” I spare a glance behind him, needing to see where the blood is originating from, but what I find is anything short of appalling. Long gashes crisscross his back. I cover my mouth with one hand to hold in a startled gasp. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“You need medical attention.” I try not to let the tremor in my voice be obvious, but it’s a losing battle. I’m scared out of my mind.
When he doesn’t reply I tug on his arm to get him to move. He follows quietly to the passenger-side door, stumbling a bit as he goes. I hold on to his arm firmly to keep him from toppling over. Thankfully, he manages to walk the short distance to the door without falling.
“I...need...help,” he repeats with much more urgency now.
“I’m going to get you help,” I assure him. “But I need to get you out of the rain. You’re drenched.” I point to the seat. “Sit.”
The stranger stares at it and winces. I don’t know what he’s thinking but I’m compelled to say, “Don’t worry about getting the seat wet.” He’s a bruised, battered, bloody mess and I’m thinking he’s concerned about causing water damage?
His eyebrows pull together as he regards me in silence for what seems like an eternity. I swallow, not really sure what to make of his confused expression. He’s hesitant. I find this odd. What’s he afraid of? Me? He is a good foot and a half taller and outweighs me by eighty pounds. He’d probably kill me with one punch to the side of my head. At the very least, he’d suck all sense out of me.
Far from obliging me by climbing inside the truck, he turns his attention to the road behind us. He surveys the area briefly, as if looking for something. He stands there, cocking his head to the side, eyes lost in thought. I’m not sure what to make of his behavior. For all I know, he might be looking for potential witnesses.
Or any sign he’s been followed.
“Go on in,” I insist. I’m afraid he’s going to die on me. He’s so pale. I can’t help but wonder what happened to him. What’s he been through? Who did this? And why?
The stranger glances from the seat to me. I read indecision in his eyes and something else. Distrust, maybe? The irony isn’t lost on me, though. A minute ago I thought he might pose a threat. Now he’s the one looking as if he’s getting ready to bolt in the opposite direction. “You’ll get me help?” he turns to me and asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
He slips into the seat slowly, without another word. I assume he’s decided to trust me so I give him the benefit of the doubt, too. When his skin grazes the upholstered leather seat, he groans and leans forward with his head almost between his knees. I can no longer see his face—his brown hair covers most of it.
“Are you okay?” I touch his arm to make sure he’s still conscious. He doesn’t move.
“No,” he replies without picking his head up.
“Okay.” I shove the door closed and rush to the driver’s side. I climb in, yank the door closed, and turn to him. “I’m going to get you to the hospital. Just hold on. Please don’t die on me.” I pull out as cautiously as possible and continue in the same direction I had been originally. The road goes for another three miles without hitting any obvious landmarks and from there, I need to drive another twenty-seven miles to get to the nearest hospital. Whether the man sitting next to me will make it another ten minutes is questionable, but I have to try. The windshield wipers stop again. I punch the dashboard to get them going. The stranger jerks.
“Sorry,” I say. “Hang on, okay? I’m going to get you medical attention.”
A hand snakes out and grabs my right wrist. I turn a startled gaze to the stranger. He’s looking down, but his fingers wrap around my wrist and squeeze.
“I can’t go to the hospital,” he says.
“Why not?” What kind of help is he expecting me to provide? Hospital is as good as I can do.
“Don’t take me to the hospital,” he insists.
I turn my gaze to the road. I’m afraid to look away, but more concerned over losing control of the truck and careening into a nearby tree or worse, another car.
“I’m not a doctor.” I chance a glance at him. “You need to see a professional.”
He shakes his head; his wet hair showers me with tiny drips of water. “No doctor.”
“Listen, mister, that’s the best I can do.” I want to wiggle out of his grasp but I’m afraid of enraging or setting him off. “They’ll take good care of you.”
He looks up at last, his gaze focuses on me. “I can’t go there.”
“Why?”
“They’ll find me there.”
My heart sinks into my stomach.
“They?” I gawk at him, wide-eyed. “Who are they?”
“The guards,” he replies but it sounds more like a groan than actual words. “The hospital is dangerous.”
Okay, I think I’ve established guards are looking for him. But what kind of guards are they? Police? Hospital security?
“Did you escape from the sheriff’s department?”
He lets go of my hand, and digs his fingers into the cushiony seat instead. “No.”
“Who’s chasing you?” Whoever is responsible for his injuries wanted to make sure he didn’t get away. People like that could mean serious trouble.
“They.” He rests his head against the seat. A cut on the side of his neck catches my eye. It’s red, swollen, and about three inches long.
“Please,” he whispers. “No hospital.” He closes his eyes. I’m not sure if he’s awake, but I can see he’s still breathing, therefore hasn’t died in the front seat.
“Okay, okay. I won’t take you to the hospital.” Why did I pick him up? This man could be a psychopath. Not taking him to the hospital is like agreeing to house a criminal.
“No...hospital,” he manages to croak out. Something about his persistence tells me not to take his warning lightly. My gut instincts tell me to listen to him. I gaze forward, needing a moment to gather my thoughts.
There’s something off about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I don’t like to judge, but this man creeps me out something fierce, which is why I can’t make sense of why I’d risk my life to help him.
Regardless of how I feel, there’s no denying his condition is serious. He’s hardly able to keep himself sitting upright. His breathing has turned shallow. I think he’s unconscious, but I’m too afraid to reach out and touch him to make sure. Who is he running from? What kind of trouble is he in?
I don’t think I want to find out. I may have already implicated myself in something bad by picking him up. There’s nothing else for me to do but drive. He doesn’t want me to take him to the hospital and although I’m inclined to follow my instincts, that little annoying voice in my head insists I take him somewhere else. Somewhere safer. As if that’s possible. What’s safer than a medical facility full of professionals?
Well, according to the hitcher, it’s not inconspicuous enough. If there’s one person who can help, it’s Grandma Rose. She’ll know what to do. If she tells me to drop him off at a medical facility, I won’t question it—that is, if he makes it home alive.