attempt to move it brought failure. And fear.
“Please God, don’t let me paralyzed…” he whispered through dry, cracked lips.
Tap . . . tap . . . tap. The drumming clatter rang softly again. It was
accompanied by the metallic, vinegary scent of cold, wet campfire ashes. The
sound was coming from his right, out of his vision range with his head at this
angle. Forcing down the mounting panic, he began to test his extremities. Legs
. . . no . The icy cold, gnawing spark of dread appeared in his stomach. Left
arm again . . . still nothing . Sending out tendrils of alarm, the spark
grew and reached. Right arm . . . empty, void, nothing . There was
nothing. He couldn’t even connect with them. The frozen horror of his condition
took hold and rooted around his now racing heart.
TAP . . . . TAP . . . . TAP. Louder, slower—that sound again. His eyes shifted
right, but the source of the taping was beyond the angle of his peripheral
vision. Choking against the fear, he tried to move his neck. Contact .
The momentary flash of relief with the connection was rapidly washed away by
the heavy, vague pressure he now felt in his head. Worse was the muted
“feel-sound” of gravel crunching underwater as his neck slowly turned.
Sluggishly responding to his command, his head began to rotate against the pull
of injury and gravity. Approaching the pinnacle of its arc, the forces began to
shift. Push became pull, resistance became acceleration—and with a slow,
grating twist, his head came to rest against his right shoulder.
Eyes looking downward, Eric almost laughed at the
unreal sight. In college, his vertebrate zoology professor had posed a question
to the class on day one. “ What would a chair look like if your knees bent
the other way? ”
Well now he knew. His right leg was folded in half.
Backwards. The dim light magnified his mental haziness, and with a slight lift
of his eyes, he almost casually noted the severe, compound fracture in his
right forearm.
TAP . . . . TAP . . . . TAP. The thuds against the glass shook his awareness
again. He could hear his own irregular, agonal gasping as his body struggled to
function. He could taste the sharp, coppery flavor of blood in his mouth. And
with each ragged, involuntary muscle contraction that signified another breath,
he could feel the terrifying, malevolent specter of decades that would now be
spent trapped in a useless body.
Tap . . . . . . . . . . tap . . . . . . . . . . tap . The drumming slowed; focused . . . became almost
sinister. Another salty tear gathered traces of dried blood and sweat as it
descended through the maze of stubble on his unshaved face.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap . Bursting with rapid-fire quickness, the tapping rang
out again, this time just above where his head now hung limp. Eric closed his
eyes and focused. With a monumental effort, still accompanied by the shocking awareness
of shifting bones, his head began to rise. Up, up . . . and up. The feeling was
not unlike trying to balance a basketball on a pencil, and his head finally came
to a slow, unsteady stop in a vaguely upright position.
Tap . . .
Lubricating tears settled in the creases of his
swollen, gritty eyes.
Tap . . .
Tiny muscles and nerves searched for missed
connections, finally reaching a tentative agreement as Eric’s eyelids began to
rise.
Tap . . .
Eyelids now up, he peered unsteadily through the
fractured lines of the passenger side window. Michelle stood there. Beautiful, dark
strawberry blonde hair silhouetted by the final golden-violet rays of the
setting sun. Her head was tilted slightly down, veiling her face in the
deepening shadows. Her fingers rested near the juncture of a lightning bolt
shaped crack in the glass.
Tap . . .
A single cardinal red, manicured and filed fingernail
descended with the authority of an iron gavel.
“ You left me Eric. I loved you and you left me .”
Each word she
Ilona Andrews, Gordon Andrews