Page 52 of Velvet and Valor
His fancy move gives us some ground, but not much. Maybe fifty feet. The road dips into a deep valley, then shoots back upthe side of a steep foothill. The SUV’s engine grumbles angrily as Axel jams on the shifter, trying to find the right gear.
“Come on, come on,” he growls. “Who in the hell makes you cross over to fourth, then third, THEN fifth just to?—”
A sharp, wrenching sound accompanies a hard bang beneath the truck. Smoke billows out of the exhaust and steams from the radiator grill. I can feel the truck lose power as our acceleration slows.
“You broke it,” I groan.
“I didn’t break it…okay, I broke it.”
“So now what? Should I get out and push?”
“It might help–”
I’m thrown against my seatbelt so hard it digs into my torso. The airbags explode, keeping my face from shattering but knocking me silly all the same. All of a sudden, I’m tossed about in my seat belt, my already-sore head bouncing off the window glass so hard it shatters. My head and the glass, I think.
Only when the SUV skids across a steep, grassy slope on its roof do I realize we’ve been knocked off the road. I get the briefest glimpse of an approaching river before the truck slides right into the water.
Water gushes through my broken window, filling the cabin. The truck sinks, putting my head below the surface. Upside down, I struggle to find the latch to my seat belt. I can’t see anything! The water is so cold, my hands are already going numb. I don’t know if I can work the release even if I manage to find it.
The air inside my lungs burns, screaming to escape. It’s not lack of air that makes you feel like you’re suffocating. It’s the inability to expel carbon dioxide. I learned that from a movie script.
I have enough time to ponder the irony of that before the air explodes from my agonized lungs at last, water rushing inquickly to replace it. My hands scrabble at the seatbelt release. I’m fading. I can feel myself fading.
Is this how it ends?
14
AXEL
I’m jolted out of pitch blackness by the ineffable cold of freezing water. There’s nothing quite like that kind of cold. My limbs flail about on instinct, until my feet scrape on the rocky bottom of the river.
I shove myself for the surface, bursting out and vomiting water and probably some of my breakfast.
The water only comes up to my waist, but the current is strong. I struggle against it as I desperately search for June. Where is she? Was she thrown from the wreck when we rolled down the riverbank?
I need to get out of the river. The current is sapping my strength, not to mention the cold sucking warmth from me like a greedy leech. I stagger toward the shore, but something catches my eye.
The SUV, upside down in the water. I can only see the tires, jutting up into the air. The slick rubber reflects the sunlight filtering through the pine boughs as I surge toward the wreck.
I call June’s name over and over again, even when my throat turns raw. I try the passenger side door, but it’s stuck. Thewindow is broken. I take a deep breath and plunge beneath the water.
God bless the clear mountain water, because I spot June immediately. Her arms float out to the sides, her eyes closed, mouth open. I have to move fast, have to get air back in her lungs…
I try the seat belt release, but it holds fast. My hands tear and pry at the belt itself, but it doesn’t give. In a flash of inspiration, I grab a survival knife out of the glove box. A quick jerk with the serrated edge, and she’s free.
Getting her out of the truck proves harder than I thought. She keeps getting tangled up on parts of the vehicle. I kick and fight and realize I don’t need to free her completely--I just need to get her head above water.
With her lower half still partly wedged inside the truck, I pull June’s head above the water. But she’s not breathing. I can’t pull off a back slap. I try for a reverse Heimlich maneuver, clasping my hands around her back and squeezing her body like a balloon.
It works, and I’m so happy to get that water out of her lungs I don’t even care that she barfs it all over me. She’s still not breathing. Don’t tell me she’s dead. She can’t be.
I press my mouth onto hers. June’s lips are cold, so cold. I breathe into her lungs, careful not to push too hard. My soldier’s discipline kicks in. My fingers find a thin but steady pulse. June hasn’t checked out yet. Her heart is still beating. But she has to breathe.
“Come on, baby,” I gasp, filling my lungs before filling hers. “Come on, breathe, you can do it.”
I’m getting light-headed but I can’t stop. The freezing water already has my arms weakening. Soon I won’t be strong enough to hold her head above water. What happens then? The idea ofabandoning her to save myself makes me want to vomit. No, I will save her, or we will die together. I can’t quit on her. I can’t.
I breathe into her with the last of my strength. Her nostrils flare, and her head lifts up suddenly. June’s eyes snap open and she sucks in a deep, ragged gasp of air.
