Page 37 of On Ice

Then we’re falling, tumbling, and I let out a cry of terror. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like a horrible dream. The car rolls once, twice. I’m weightless, then crushed against the seat, then weightless again. Rain and mud pour in through the broken windows. We at last stop with a final bone-jarring crash, the car wedged against something I can’t see in the darkness. The engine dies. Rain hammers the crumpled roof. Somewhere above, the mountain is still moving.

Water is pooling around my feet, mixed with mud and rocks. My shoulders scream from being wrenched against the ropes, but the wetness has made my wrists slick. I’m able to twist and wiggle out of the ropes tied around my wrists. Once my hands are free, I’m able to unhook my seatbelt.

There’s a groan from upfront, and a flash of lightning shows a fleeting glimpse of Marco slumped over the steering wheel. I reach up and flick on the dome light. It’s not much but better than pitch black. I take in the wreckage that is the front seat. The windshield is completely gone, and the steering wheel column has been pushed back toward Marco by the impact. He seems trapped between the wheel and his seat. One of his legs appearsto be pinned beneath the dashboard, the angle all wrong. His hands are scratched and bloody, and his breathing jagged.

“Are you okay?” I don’t even know why I ask him that. He was going to murder me. I owe him literally nothing. Yet, I can’t not ask.

He gives another groan when the car shifts slightly, settling deeper into whatever is holding us in place on the side of the mountain. Through the missing windshield, I can see only rain and darkness. I’m afraid to move, but also know I can’t stay where I am. The car might slip down the mountain any second.

I inch up the wet leather seat to the car door. My hands shake as I shove on the crumpled door with all my strength. It takes a few hard shoves, but then, with a horrific scraping shriek, the door hinges give way. A fresh torrent of mud pours through the open door, filling my shoes. I half crawl and half fall out onto the muddy slope.

It’s freezing as the rain pelts me. I can see my breaths hanging in the frigid night air, illuminated by the dim interior light of the car. Marco gives another pitiful groan, and I don’t know what to do. My survival instincts scream to leave him, and try to make my way back up the mountain to the road. I owe Marco nothing. He’s a horrible thug who was going to kill me without a thought. Who would blame me for leaving him here?

I inch around the car and peer into the front seat. Marco’s eyes are open. He looks dazed. Scared. I think that’s what gets to me; his obvious fear. Not that he’d have had any mercy for me. I know in my soul, he wouldn’t have had even a drop of pity for me. But, I’m not Marco. I’m notlikeMarco. I’m not an unfeeling crook who can take another person’s life without feeling guilt. I’m a regular person who is moved by another person’s terror and pain.

I grab the driver’s door handle and yank. By some miracle, his door opens easier than mine did. The hinges still makes a horrendously awful sound, but the door does open. I can see better now what we’re dealing with. One of his legs is free, between the side of the dash and the door. But the other leg is under the crumpled steering column. Marco gives me a confused glance, and I suspect he forgot I was even in the car.

“Can you move your leg, or is it pinned?” I ask breathlessly. I can’t even call for help because my phone is back in my locker at the arena.

He looks down at his legs. I guess he doesn’t feel good about what he sees because he mumbles, “You should just go.”

He’s not wrong. I should just go. I should leave him to deal with this situation all on his own. But I can’t. I just can’t seem to do it. When the car shifts a tiny bit, we both curse. I grab hold of his arm, but when I tug, trying to pull him out of the car, he howls in pain.

“What are you doing?” he rasps, his eyes glittering with confusion.

“I’m trying to get you out of the car.” My voice is exasperated. “You can’t stay where you are. The car is probably going to fall down the mountain any minute. I have no idea what’s even holding it up.”

He scowls. “Well, you can’t just pull me out. I’m stuck.”

I exhale roughly. “Can you move your legs at all?”

He slaps the leg that’s free. “This one is okay.” He sighs. “The other one is broken.”

Fuck.

“Are you sure?” I don’t know if I can help him even if his leg isn’t broken. But a broken leg definitely lowers the odds of a successful outcome.

His expression is grim. “Yeah. I’ve had a lot of broken bones in my time.”

“Why do I not doubt that?” I mutter, scowling up at the dark sky as the rain starts up again. “Well, even if it is broken, you can’t stay where you are.”

Marco’s answer is a strangled grunt as he tries to move. He shoves against the steering wheel, and I wiggle the seat adjustment. The mechanism is broken, but it does move just enough that his seat slides back a few inches. Gritting his teeth, Marco grabs hold of the thigh of his broken leg and lifts.

I push against the back of his seat, trying to make more room for him to maybe slide his torso out. He wiggles and again lifts his damaged leg, making a sound I’ve never heard another human make. His face is covered with mud, and his bared teeth are white against his grungy face. The car shifts again. A sound like gravel in a garbage disposal comes from somewhere underneath us.

“Shit. We’re running out of time,” I hiss. I wedge myself lower, ignoring the glass digging into my knees. The muddy water and debris is nearly up to Marco’s knee, making it hard to see what I’m doing. My fingers find something solid under his leg, part of the crushed frame has bent up into the space behind his knee.

Between the two of us, we’re able to move his broken leg free. He’s breathing hard and shuddering with agony, but his leg is free of the wreckage. We both fall onto the soaked earth, heends up face first in the mud. He looks pitiful, lying in the mud, his broken leg at an awkward angle.

A few minutes later, the car makes a horrendous groaning sound and slides further down the mountain. It’s so black, I can’t see where it ends up, but the sounds coming from the darkness below aren’t reassuring. If we were still in that car, we’d probably be dead or as good as.

I stare up toward the top of the mountain. I don’t know how we’re ever going to make it up there. There’s no way Marco can walk with that broken leg. I stand, and the mud sucks at my feet. Trying to walk up that slope with two good legs would be a struggle. No way he can do it.

Marco rolls his body so that he’s half on his back. His breaths are steamy in the wet night. He reaches into his jacket, and for one awful moment, I think maybe he’s going to finish the job of murdering me before he dies. But what he pulls out isn’t a gun, it’s his phone.

He holds it out to me. “See if there’s a signal,” he mumbles, his face a canvas of agony.

I take the phone from him. It’s miraculously intact. The screen casts a pale blue glow over my trembling hands. My heart drops when I see there’s no signal. “I’m going to climb up higher and see if I can get a signal,” I say.

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