Page 26 of A Me and You Thing
I hate not having a body. I mean, I’m not sure I could ever look at it, but at least it would be absolute proof. Not having a body fills me with so much false hope.
Could she have somehow survived? Was she thrown from the bus and her body is out there somewhere in the brush? Maybe she’s hanging onto life, just waiting for me to find her. The Voice said they already searched the mountainside for survivors. The odds of finding her are low, but I don’t care. Miracles happen every day. Why not today?
She’d been gone for three days when they called me. Just three lousy days. Her trip ended before it had even begun.
Shouldn’t I have felt something the moment it happened? Some kind of tug at my heart? Some kind of sensation that the woman who is a part of me—just as much as I am a part of me—was gone? I should’ve felt her slip away, felt her leave this earth.
I should’ve and I didn’t. There’s a loathing deep inside, filling me with guilt as it tells me I ought to have known. Quinn and I were connected on a level that defied logic. I always felt it. She did too.
I feel it now. I feel compelled to search for her. I can’t explain my compulsion, but it’s there, pushing me to act.
I can’t ignore it.
I glance down at the first steep cliff. If I can make it down to the next plateau, I’ll be able to handle the rest of the mountainside, no problem. If animals can pasture down there, I can hike down there.
I look around and find myself utterly alone out here on this mountain. There’s no yellow crime scene tape in sight, no one guarding the spot as if it’s off limits. It’s a free for all, reminding me that I’m not in the USA anymore.
I pull out the coil of rope and the gloves from my duffel. I tie it to the traffic barrier and make my way down the vertical drop. Once on an area where the land plateaus, it’s easy to hike around, as long as I watch my step. There’s a great deal of broken glass on the ground, along with a side mirror and part of a bumper. I’m surprised it hasn’t been cleaned up.
I slowly approach the first break in the farm fencing and I look back up at the sheer cliff above me. The sight sends a chill up and down my spine—a chill of horror.
I’d say the bus made some serious air before it crash landed hard and fast. The force at which they landed must’ve been so abrupt, so sudden. I wonder if any of the passengers survived that first hard hit. It’s highly doubtful. The thought slays me like a dagger to my heart.
Fire and water were simply the clean-up crew of a grisly scene. All at once, I’m thankful there’s nothing left to see.
Even though I want Quinn to be alive, I can’t stand the thought of her suffering. More than anything, I hope it was fast and painless.
I close my eyes as though I’ll telepathically be able to see and understand the final moments before the crash.
But I see and feel nothing. I only feel a strong desire to have been there, if only to stop this from happening, to somehow have been able to protect Quinn.
I turn and face the downhill slope. It’s obvious the bus hit and then rolled down the mountain top, destroying everything in its path. I see several small trees lying flat, their broken roots exposed as their trunks are squished into the earth, back where they came from.
I peruse the mass of land around me. Could Quinn really have been thrown from the bus? The possibility is there. The Voice said they searched the mountainside, but I trust no one. If there’s the slightest chance she’s here somewhere, I’ll find her.
I dread what I might find—and yet, I have to do it.
Anything’s possible. People have been known to survive the most grueling of accidents, making the world marvel at the fluke.
I’m hoping for a fluke.
I begin to search the area, walking slowly and methodically as I zigzag, remembering where I’ve been and what land I still have to cover. It’s tedious work. My eyes begin to throb from the intense examination. I’m looking for anything, any personal effect, any sign of a clue. But most of all, I just want to find Quinn. I imagine she’s here somewhere, curled up amongst the foliage as though she’s simply taking a nap. I’ll awaken her with a kiss and steal her away.
Reality is a hard pill to swallow.
I finally make it to the water’s edge, discouraged and mad at the world. With the rainy season in full swing, the river is fast moving, as if it’s been given a free pass to speed. There are a few small boats to the left of the destroyed dock, forlornly grounded on land.
On the shore, I notice the black contorted container that was once a gas can.
That’s when the question that has been nagging at me floats to the surface. If the heavy rains caused the crash, why didn’t they quickly put out the fire?
My mind ticks ahead. Boats need gas and oil and a place to refuel. What better place to store the gas and oil than on the small dock? Was this dock a refueling point of sorts?
Is that why the bus crashed into the dock and burst into flames? Flames that were so fierce the rain couldn’t contain them. That makes more sense. Once the dock succumbed to the fire and collapsed, the bus followed and found its watery grave.
I don’t have investigative skills when it comes to accidents or crime, but it seems like a no brainer to me. I could be totally wrong. Although, from where I’m standing the entire scenario seems blaringly obvious.
I take a deep breath. The bus was doomed. A series of unfortunate events resulted in total disaster.
