Chapter 13: Lenna

On August 1st, they continued south on Hwy 64, leaving the Grand Canyon behind and enjoying the memories of the three days spent exploring one of the world’s seven wonders. The temperature exceeded 110 degrees, and the pavement seemed to waver as they intersected with I-40 and turned East, hoping to reach Flagstaff by evening.

“Babe, we’re overheating again,” Kathy commented as the engine temperature slowly approached the red. They had owned the Fleetwood for a month but accrued over 5,000 miles, and the engine showed wear. After an oil change in Salt Lake, they asked the mechanics to check the radiator and coolant. They first noticed the temperature fluctuations while climbing the steeper mountain passes. After the oil change, things seemed to work smoothly until it got hotter outside. The higher altitude, with its thinner air, seemed to strain the F-350’s engine.

“Alright, turn off the AC, crank the heater, and let’s open the windows,” he grumbled. It was miserable driving with the cabin heat on, but the temperature gauge dropped significantly by diverting the hot air out of the engine compartment. He grabbed their Rand-McNally and studied their course. 36 miles to Flagstaff. He wiped the sweat from his face sourly.

“We’re holding steady as long as I don’t exceed 45 mph,” she noted. At least the sun was barely behind them.

“We can stop in Bellemont if we have to,” he replied, speaking up to be heard over the hot wind shrieking past the open windows.

“Guess what?” she asked him with a bright smile, reaching for his hand. He couldn’t see her eyes behind her aviators, but judging by her tone, it was an innocent query.

“Chicken butt?” he replied, taking her hand and holding it loosely.

“We’re traveling down old Route 66!” she answered, humming the Bobby Troup classic,

“Get your kicks ... on Route 66.”

“Are we really?” he asked, glancing back at the atlas in his lap.

“Yeppers,” she replied, swinging his hand to the tune in her head. “From Chicago, all the way to Santa Monica. We’re rolling over pure American nostalgia, my love.”

“We should do that sometime,” he suggested. He had to shield his eyes suddenly when the windshield of an oncoming car reflected the bright sun. It was a tall tour bus heading southwest.

“That Greyhound is swerving, don’t you think?” she mentioned seriously, taking her hand back to steer with both hands.

The passenger coach overcorrected after drifting toward the median less than a quarter mile ahead. Peter sat forward as Kathy braked. “Babe, he’s really hauling!” he stated as it fishtailed back into its lane before—

“Holy Shit!” she cried as the huge bus swerved toward them again. This time, it crossed into its left line and struck the divider, careening further out of control. Kathy screamed and veered to the right, sending the Fleetwood onto the shoulder and beyond. Even at 20 miles an hour, they left the asphalt and careened onto the hard-packed sandy ground, bouncing and jolting violently. Despite the gentle slope, it felt as if they were tilting precariously—on the verge of rolling over, as she skidded them to a halt in a large cloud of yellow-orange dust.

The Greyhound loomed massively as it skidded past them within yards of their motorhome. They saw the horrified expression on the driver’s face as it continued to slide out of control. It was perpendicular to the road, with the front end scraping the metal barrier and the entire left side lifting off the asphalt.

“Oh Fuck!” he yelled. “It’s gonna—”

With their windows down, the sound was deafening as the screaming engine competed with the squealing tires, losing grip on the asphalt. They gazed in horror as the 13-foot-tall motorcoach tipped away from them and rolled onto the passenger side. Bursting glass and shrieking metal added to the chaos as the bus continued sliding away. The large black tires were still spinning.

“Oh my God!” Kathy cried. The 45-foot bus slid to a stop less than a hundred feet away.

“Can you get us back on the road?” Peter asked, gazing at the smoking wreck in disbelief.

Kathy straightened the wheel and slowly moved forward until she could steer them back onto the shoulder before turning around and pulling onto the opposite shoulder. Peter was fumbling with his cell phone.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a female voice answered.

“Hi! A huge Greyhound bus just swerved out of control and rolled right in front of us!” he yelled as he fumbled with his seat belt. “It’s on its side in the middle of the highway!”

“What is your location?” the operator asked.

He shook his head as his mind went blank. “I ... I don’t know,” he stammered. “Wait! We were heading East on I-40, towards Flagstaff! We just left Highway 64. And I think we are seven or eight miles west of Bellemont. Hurry up and send help! There are gonna be a lot of hurt people in there!”

“Standby,” he heard and shook his head as he opened his door and jumped out. Kathy followed and stared at the stricken motorcoach. “Babe, grab the fire extinguisher!” he called to her.

“Do you see a nearby mile marker post?” the woman asked calmly.

He spun around as he jogged toward the bus. “No, I don’t! Fuck! Just send them west from Flagstaff,” he yelled back. “You can’t miss it!”

“I’ve dispatched Fire and Aid. State Patrol is responding too,” she informed him. “I need you to stay on the line—”

He ran to the bus’s rear and looked inside but couldn’t see through the dark-tinted glass. He slapped the window. “Hey!” he yelled. “Is anyone in there? Can you hear me?” The air reeked of burnt rubber, diesel, and hot motor oil. Kathy joined him and beat against the tempered glass with the extinguisher.

“Hey!” she cried. “Can anybody hear me?”

“I hear crying!” he yelled. “Here!” he tossed her the phone and took the extinguisher from her. Bracing himself, he began hammering on the glass. With every strike, it fractured into a spiderweb pattern but refused to break out. After a dozen hits, he noticed it buckling inward and stepped back to kick it with his titanium leg. The rubber gasket around the metal frame began to peel away, and after more blows, he forced the shattered window aside. The sound of terrified screams and moans assaulted his ears, and he was knocked backward as a male passenger burst out, tripping and falling onto the asphalt.

“STOP!” Peter roared at the remaining passengers. “Take it easy! Help each other out!” He dropped the extinguisher and entered the toppled bus to help a woman who had fallen from the driver’s side onto the right seats. She was bleeding heavily from her head. Another passenger tried to shove him back, but he punched out, striking the man in the face and knocking him backward. “I SAID STOP!” he screamed angrily, bending over to help the woman back to her feet. She couldn’t stand, but a younger boy helped pull her up and assist her to the window where Kathy had taken her arm. After handing the woman off, he turned back and glared at the panic-stricken passengers. “Let’s work together!”

“Momma!” a nearby child shrieked, distracting everyone near the back.

He grabbed the man he had struck and pulled him back towards the window so he could step further into the coach. He had to step over an elderly passenger moaning across a pair of seats. The child’s cries were beyond the next row. He saw a dozen passengers struggling to climb over the seats below them. At the front, he saw the driver hanging motionless from his safety belt.

“Somebody, check on the driver!” he demanded, crawling forward to look over the next seat. He found a girl lying on her mother, who was pressed against the shattered glass and asphalt.

He heard Kathy yelling behind him for help to lift the unconscious woman and pull her from the bus.

“Hey!” he called softly to the child below him. “Baby girl! Up here!” He reached down as he lay across the seats and grabbed the child by one arm. “Come here, sweetheart,” he crooned as he lifted her carefully. “I got you, baby.” He looked back and found the youth who had helped him with the bleeding woman. “Here!” he called and handed the child to him. The boy took the girl and crawled back towards the rear as two other passengers crawled past, bumping and kicking him as they scrambled to escape.

“Ow!” he yelled as a knee struck his head. “Goddamnit, people take it easy! We’ll all get out of this!”

“Get off him, Fucker!” Kathy screamed angrily behind him, and he felt a weight lift off his back. He turned to look back at the stricken woman below him and found her looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“Hey,” he smiled at her. “You’re okay. We’re gonna get you out of here, alright?”

“Jacali?” the woman cried as she lifted a bloody arm towards him.

“Pardon?” he scooched forward to lean over the seat back toward her. She had Hispanic features, and he wondered if she spoke English.

“Babe, I’m right behind you,” Kathy said, and he felt her shimmying up beside him.

“My baby,” the woman cried. “Jacali.”

“We got her out,” he replied encouragingly. “She is okay. Now, let’s get you out of here, okay?”

Suddenly, the woman’s face went pale, and she emitted a strangled cry of pain and anguish. Her eyes closed, and she grimaced as her bloody arm fell back to her belly.

“Oh God!” Kathy cried fearfully beside him.

“What?” he asked, trying to tune out the chaos as other passengers scrambled to help each other crawl over them to get out.

“Baby, she’s pregnant!” his girlfriend screeched. “She’s gone into labor!”

“Oh fuck!”

“Let me by,” she grunted, and he felt her crawl over him until she could lower herself over the woman.

He looked up to see frightened faces gazing at him. “Can anyone open a top window to climb out?”

“It’s okay, momma,” Kathy called soothingly, crouching over the injured woman. “Breathe through it!”

The woman gritted her teeth and howled in dismay as the contraction wracked her body.

“I hear sirens!” someone shouted.

“Jacali!” the woman cried out again as the spasm eased.

“She’s safe!” Peter assured her again. “Elle este a salvo,” he repeated, recalling high school Spanish. “Habla ustedes ingles?” he tried.

He was shocked when she rewarded him with a withering glare. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she snapped. “Do I look like a fucking ‘beaner’?”

Kathy glanced back at him incredulously with her mouth hanging open.

“Um,” he stammered. “Alrighty then,” he studied her lying position and pulled a large duffle bag away, revealing her legs and feet. “What’s your name?”

“Lenna,” she replied with a painful hiss. “Get me out of here!”

“Working on it,” he muttered. “Can you move your legs?” She wore a light cotton dress, and he tapped her bare feet. “Feel that?”

Someone was calling from outside the bus, and voices drowned out her reply as they all started yelling.

“QUIET!” a loud voice boomed. The voices quieted.

Peter looked back to see a uniformed cop gazing into the rear of the Greyhound. He made eye contact with the man and waved.