Chapter 3

Zeke merged onto Hwy 71 East. He needed to find a truck stop and settle in for the night. He stared at the sedan in front of him. Suddenly, the car fish-tailed, it spun a full three-sixty and crossed two lanes. He slowed his car and eased over to the shoulder. As the sedan careened into the soft shoulder it began to flip end over end and skid on its side through the grass and weeds. It slid into a water-filled ditch and rolled over onto its top as it disappeared into the black, murky water.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Zeke shouted as he jumped from his car.

Circular waves radiated from where the car had landed. He blinked against the acrid stench at the water’s edge and waited. Where was the driver? No bubbles. Nobody broke the surface. Nothing.

“OH MY GOD!” He had to go in that God-awful water. He had to help. He wasn’t licensed. He wasn’t legally obligated and yet—he was. He gingerly stepped into the water. His Doc Martens were fine for greasy floors. Not so great in slimy mud. He slipped and fell backward. Black mud oozed between his fingers as he fought for purchase. When he tried to stand up, he slid down to his thighs. Putrid water soaked into his clothes and splashed up toward his face. Nothing in clinicals had ever smelled this bad. Maneuvering himself best he could toward the center of the ditch, he reached for the car. When his hand touched metal, he took a deep breath and sunk underwater.

Submerged in the green-black water, he could not see. It was disorienting. He found a door handle and pulled it open. Reaching inside, he felt the steering wheel. He concentrated on finding the driver. When his hand reached a potential body, he dug into whatever material he could and pulled with all his might. Something held it tightly in place. The seat belt.

Zeke’s lungs felt ready to burst. He pushed back away from the car and rose to the surface. After he sucked in a deep breath, he returned to the open door. With his fingers, he found the seatbelt latch, and pushed and squeezed until it finally released. Once again, he dug fingers into a shirt and pulled with all his might. This time the guy came with him. The bottom of his shoes slipped against the slimy ditch wall. He fell back against the sedan.

Oh, Jesus. Please help me. He shoved himself away from the car. Somehow his shoes took hold and he pulled the limp body along with him. One step at a time, he dragged himself and the guy until they were both on the grass.

The man lay motionless. Zeke scanned the darkening highway. No cars. No headlights. He pressed two fingers on the guy’s carotid artery. No pulse. He put his ear on the guy’s chest. No heartbeat. And he definitely wasn’t breathing.

“I’ve only done this on Sim-Sam—but I know what I’m doing.” He intertwined his fingers, one hand over the other, and started pumping the chest while counting. “One-one thousand, Two-one thousand, Three-one thousand, Four-one thousand...”

Dusk faded to night. Where was everybody? Why wasn’t somebody coming? “God, please, help me.”

Why he was even saying that at all? Desperate times, desperate measures. Nonetheless, he kept counting and hoping.

Shimmering lights appeared on the horizon. He squinted and prayed they’d stop.

The car stopped a few feet from the Suzuki. The driver jumped out and ran up to Zeke. “Oh my God. Did you call 911?”

“No, I’ve been here.”

“I’ll call now.” The man pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. “Oh, no. There’s no signal. I’ll go back toward Austin until I get a signal.”

“No, don’t leave...” Zeke started, but thought better of it, “No, you’re right. Go ahead. Thank you.”

“Sure,” the man called over his shoulder as he ran back to his car. His tires threw gravel when he made the U-turn.

Zeke kept counting and pumping the victim’s heart. His hands were going numb, but he kept pumping and counting. His headlights cast harsh shadows across the man’s face. He alternately glanced at his patient and down the ever darker highway. How long would it take the emergency vehicle?

One thing kept nagging him. His patient looked familiar. Who was he?

Stop it! Count.

“One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three...” A rock bore into his knee so he repositioned. Pump—one thousand. Pump—one thousand.

“Ow. One thousand.” A vise-grip cramp locked down on his calf. He tried to extend his leg but still pump the chest. Oh, good grief. This looked so much easier on TV.

In the distance a siren wailed its approach.

“Thank God—one thousand.” He sighed. “It’s about time—one thousand. Keep pumping—one thousand. Hurry up—one thousand.”

He gritted his teeth and kept pumping until the emergency crew pushed him off the man’s chest.

“What happened?” a female paramedic asked while the other two worked on the limp man’s body.

“I ... I don’t know. This guy lost control and fishtailed—”

Zeke squatted next to the rescue team, answering the rapid-fire questions from the paramedic. She asked, “Do you know him?”

He didn’t know what to say. The guy looked familiar?

“I—No.” He looked past the medic to glimpse the man’s face.

“How long ago did this happen?” Her questions continued although she had turned her attentions to the victim and the team working on him.

“I don’t know. Maybe thirty minutes? What time is it?” He patted his pants pocket. Empty. Where was his phone? He rocked forward to get up.

“Are you hurt?” She glanced back at him.

“No.”

“Were you in the car with him?”

“No, that’s my car, there.” Zeke pointed as he stood up. His driver’s door stood open. His phone was on the floor board. He picked it up and activated the window. 8:27. He glanced back at the EMT team.

Three blue-suited medics encircled the man’s body. A neck brace had been put in place. He lay on a board. Defibrillator wires were attached to his exposed chest.

“Clear,” one of the medics announced.

The man’s body arched upward as electric current riveted through his chest. Zeke cringed.

“We have sinus rhythm,” the husky blond woman announced.

Zeke strained to see past the blue jumpers. The man was alive. Wow! He saved a life. Well, they saved the life. But he did his part so there was something to save. He rubbed his knees.

“You okay?” a short, clean-cut man asked.

“Yeah. I was just on rocks. My knee hurts, but I’m fine.” He waved the guy off. His neck and cheeks grew hot. He had not had the accident, or drowned—or died.

“I have a wallet,” the husky blond announced.

“Gotta name?” a man with salt-and-pepper hair asked, apparently the supervisor.

“Yeah. Just a minute.” She pushed black slime from the plastic window. “Looks like, John Michael Martin, Age: 23. Got DOB and address.” She handed the wallet to the fourth team member who was filling out paperwork on a clip board.

“What?” Zeke approached the clip-board guy. “What’s his name?”

“Looks like, John Michael Martin.”

“John Martin?” Zeke’s eyes bore down into the clip-board guy’s. “John Martin!”

He wiped his hand across the day-old growth of his shaved scalp and whispered. “I knew he looked familiar.”

“Yeah, you know him, or what?” the clip-board guy asked.

“No, but I know who you need to contact.” Zeke lifted his phone and activated the window, touched contacts and “A.” Angela’s name appeared. He turned his phone around and showed clip-board guy. The technician wrote the name and number down.