2012 Ford Mustang

An unrevised short story that I wrote.

An accident is usually preceded by the loud, high pitched squeal of locking brakes, but that wasn’t the case this time. The squeal came after.  The first sound was the sickening thud of her small body when the front end of his 2012 Ford Mustang came in contact. She made a quick, short squeak at the time of impact, but that was the only sound that she made. He jerked his wheel to the left in fit of confusion, closing his eyes and tensing his muscles as the wall moved toward him, seemingly in slowed motion. The crunch echoed through the city, setting off nearby car alarms and the busy sounds of the city otherwise seemed to hush. Steam let out a dense whistle as it escaped through the mangled hood of the car. It turned black and began surrounding the car, seeping into the cabin. Sirens howled in the distance and he could hear the hum of people’s voices all around him before everything turned black.

A metallic taste welled up in the back of his throat; the choking gurgles flinging him into consciousness. Spurts of blood shot out of his mouth and landed on the crease of his chapped lips. The warm, crimson liquid stained his cheek as it slowly crept down toward the nape of his neck, making a path in the soot left behind from the suffocating smoke. The tingling sensation as it pushed through the fine hairs gave him goose-bumps and the air smelled like the fumes of a classic car and burnt rubber.

“What happened?” He stumbled over the words, stifling the short coughs caused by his lungs trying to expel liquid. Before he had spoke, he could hear the people all around him, but now the air was thick with a sudden hush and no one answered him. Time stood still while he waited for a response. In the movies, the paramedics always tell you not to move, he thought to himself as he raised his head slightly to try to look around. He could feel every muscle in his body as they ached against his movements.  

A man approached him briskly with a black bag of medical gadgets. “Try to stay calm. Try not to move,” a stern, paternal voice broke through the silence like a hammer. He let out a quick chuckle, thinking about how the movies had it right for once and dropped his head back into the seat. The paramedic quickly shot him a look of such disgust that it made him instantly ashamed with himself. “How much have you had to drink?” The man’s piercing eyes were dark and judgmental as they looked over his face.

He hesitated, and regaining his composure said, “I haven’t had anything to drink.” The paramedic’s angry gaze did not waiver.

 “Stay still. They’re going to cut you out,” the man said with no comfort in his voice.  

The entire car vibrated as the “jaws of life” cut through the metal frame like butter. The machine looked like a hungry animal, taking huge bites into its meal. The movement sent repeated shooting pains through his right side. His hand made its way to the spot, gripping in order to sooth the pain. Something was wrong, he thought, slowly gathering the courage to look down at his side. He began to take short panicked breaths as he viewed the blood soaked hole in his stomach.  “Oh god, oh god,” he murmured repeatedly. The sound of the cutting was so loud that he couldn’t hear the words escape his mouth. The paramedic that was by his window shouted to raise his voice higher than the crunching of the machine-beast, “You’ll be fine.” The slight bit of sympathy from the man did little to assuage his fear.

The top of the car lifted off as the hungry monster got its fill, and paramedics surrounded him inside of the cabin. They all busied themselves doing something to free him, but all he could think about what the pain rushing through his body as he was moved. He was being lifted up by two large men, holding him under his arms. Their strong fingers dug into his flesh for grip, bruising him. Momentary relief from the pain came when they lowered him onto the gurney. Two men worked as a team, one on each side, strapping him down. One man would buckle a strap and the other would toss the next strap over him and check that the last was taut. One of the men stuck him with a needle, attaching it to drip bag which the man held in his hand, squeezing rhythmically as they began walking him away from the wreckage. The paramedics walked him toward the ambulance and moved around his car. The front end of the green sports car was caved in completely, and the hood had dark red stains burning into the paint from the heat of the escaping steam. The front end was the least of his worries, considering the entire top half of the car had been eaten by the machine-beast. “My poor baby,” he whispered.  

There were people everywhere, crowded on the street, held back by police tape. Cop cars blocked off the intersection, except for one lane each direction where a lone cop directed traffic. The cars inched along, heads turned and eyes searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever disaster had occurred. The policeman’s frustration was evident in his movements as he jerked his arms signaling the stalled line to move forward. Lights were flashing in every direction. The cop cars had their lights moving slowly. The street lights flashed, he must have hit the pole, he thought to himself. The fire truck’s lights flickered, where as the two ambulances had no lights on at all.

They made their way through the intersection toward the ambulance and time slowed as a small pink backpack with blue polka dots came into view. Its strap had been broken, and a black shadow could be seen creeping up the bottom of it from the asphalt dirt. There was a large stuffed monkey keychain that hung on the handle at the top. It looked like it had seen better days, and now it was missing an eye. A small pink and white Sketchers brand ballet flat sat alone in the street.

Snap. The other gurney rose on its legs and locked in place. There was a sheet lying over the top of a person underneath. It was a small, slight body. Her feet didn’t reach the end of the platform. A tiny hand that was stained black and red from the mixture of road dust, bruising, and blood hung limp over the edge of the gurney. He couldn’t look away as the hand bounced with every uneven bump in the road, and each bounce made him sicker and sicker. The nausea crept up his throat and the clenching of his gut sent out a shooting pain. He turned his head as far as the straps would let him and tried to throw up over the side, some of it just running down his face. He looked back quickly, eyes searching frantically for the small person. He couldn’t let her out of his sight. The legs of her gurney snapped and two men were sliding her into the other ambulance. One paramedic took her tiny hand into his, hesitating for a moment, and then tucking it underneath the white blanket.  The doors of the ambulance were shut, and no one stayed in the back with her. She was alone. She wasn’t going to be ok. She was dead, he thought to himself. “She’s dead…” he murmured aloud. The deep, disapproving voice of the paramedic simply groaned, “Mm.”