Lee Goldberg: The Walk

And that’s when something did, grabbing him by the ankle.

He screamed and instinctively tried to jump away, tripping himself and hitting the ground hard, provoking another scream, only this one wasn’t his own. It was a scream of agony from inside the car.

Marty scrambled away, looking back to see a dirt-caked arm sticking out of the Volvo, clutching desperately at the air. It was like a hand shooting out of a grave.

“Help me, please,” a woman’s voice pleaded from inside the crumpled Volvo.

He could run. Just keep going. No one would ever know.

“I can’t breathe,” she whimpered.

Marty was crawling to the car before he was even aware he’d made a decision, taking her hand and peering into the opening it came from. It was as if he were staring in the mouth of some metal monster, a great white Volvo that was chewing this poor young woman alive. The lower half of her body was completely consumed by jagged metal, her upper body nearly buried in potting soil. Her other arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, ragged splinters of bone ripping through the skin.

“Hold on,” Marty said, “I’m right here.”

He reached in and scooped the dirt away, clearing her head so she could breathe. She had hair almost as dark as the soil, and green eyes that blazed with terrified intensity. She took in the air with shallow, raspy breaths.

“I thought you were going to leave me.” Her voice was tinged with a slight Texas twang. He guessed she was about thirty.

Marty took off his glasses and pulled his dust mask down from his face, leaving it hanging around his neck. “You startled me. That’s all.”

He almost asked if she was all right before he caught himself. The question was a stupid reflex. She was obviously in deep, deep trouble. Even though her blouse was covered with dirt, he could see it was drenched with blood, oozing where the car was gnashing her.

“Is there anybody else with you?” he asked.

“No, thank God,” she licked the blood from her lips and looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Can you get me out of here?”

Her body and the metal were meshed tightly together. There was no way he could do anything, not with just his hands and a tiny tire-iron. It would take a team of firemen, the jaws-of-life, and some paramedics. And even then, he had his doubts.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “And I’m afraid of what would happen if I tried.”

She nodded slightly. “It’s okay. I think I already knew the answer anyway. Can you do anything for the truck driver?”

“I don’t know,” Marty glanced away, surprised by the sudden stab of guilt he felt. When he glanced back, she was looking at him strangely.

“Maybe you should check.”

The way she said it, without being overtly judgmental or scornful, somehow made it sound even more damning. He started to get up and she grabbed him again, gently this time.

“You’ll come back, right?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “Of course I will.”

Marty got to his feet and went to the truck. Fifteen minutes into his journey and already he was breaking the rules. If he were smart, he would keep on walking. There was nothing he could do for her.

As he neared the truck, he kept his eye on the fallen live wire, undulating on the pavement, hissing and crackling. The puddle of gasoline was still far away from the sparks, but that could change.

He climbed up the side of the cab and looked down through the driver’s side window. At first, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. The driver was slumped against the passenger door, but his head was in his lap. How could that be?

An instant later, his mind registered what he saw. A sheet of corrugated metal, ripped from the warehouse wall on impact, had chopped through the windshield like an ax, lopping off the driver’s head.

Marty scrambled off the cab as if decapitation was infectious, backing away without taking his eyes off the wreckage, just waiting for some new horror to pop up.

When Marty was eight years old, he stepped on a nail and it went right through his foot. Up until now, that was the worst physical injury he’d ever witnessed, if he didn’t count Irving Steinberg and Clarissa Blake.

He backed right into the Volvo, causing it to rock, the woman’s cry of pain snapping him out of it. The woman, somehow he had to help the woman. Who was he kidding? There wasn’t a damn thing he could do for her. This was a job for professionals.

Marty reached inside his jacket for his cell phone and tried to dial 911. Once again, he couldn’t get a signal. But even if he could, what were the chances anybody would come for her with a city in ruins? She’d be the very last priority.

There was only him. And Marty didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. He fought back the urge to run, shoved the phone back into his jacket, and crouched beside the car again.

“How is he?” she asked, but interrupted him before he could speak. “Never mind, I can see it on your face.”

She shuddered, grimacing in agony. He had never seen anyone go through such pain before and he didn’t want to see it now. He looked away. Blood trickled from her nose and escaped from the corners of her mouth.

“My name is Molly,” she whispered. “Molly Hobart.”

“Marty Slack.” He took a Kleenex from his pocket and wiped the blood off her face, then wondered what to do with the tissue afterward. What if she had AIDS? He dropped the tissue and hoped none of the blood got on his hands. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

There was a first aid kit in his gym bag, but he doubted a squirt of Bactine and an ouch-less Band-Aid were going to make her feel any better.

“Just hold my hand and talk to me,” Molly said, “until help gets here.”

That could be days, if it ever came at all.

Marty couldn’t stay and wait. He was on his way home. If he didn’t get into the valley by nightfall, he could be in real danger. She’d understand that. All he had to do was tell her and she’d let him go.

“Sure,” he said.

“Could I have some water?”

He took one of the bottles out of his pocket, twisted off the cap, and poured a little Evian slowly into her mouth. She was having a hard time swallowing.

After a moment, she said softly: “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“I know what you mean,” he said.

“No, really. It’s wrong. There’s a body shop near my house I could have gone there. But the bastard insurance company said I had to get the car fixed at this place downtown, or they wouldn’t pay for it. That’s not right, is it?”

“What happened?”

“My daughter spilled grape juice on the seat. I reached back to grab the box of Kleenex before it got all over everything and sideswiped a parked car,” Molly squeezed his hand, tentatively, like she was checking if it was still there. “Two accidents in one month. They’re really going to jack up my rates now.”

“No one’s going to blame you for this.”

“You haven’t met my insurance company,” she said. “Has anyone called 911 yet?”

“I tried, but I can’t get a signal.”

“I’m sure someone has called.”

In that instant, he had a sickening realization. Molly had no idea what happened to her, what really caused her accident. And if he told her, she’d know just how little her predicament mattered to anyone right now.

Anyone but him.

He should have gone under the bridge, cracked or not. He should have just said a prayer and run as fast as he could.

“You’re from Texas,” Marty said.

“Thalia,” she replied. “It’s a real small town.”

“What brought you to LA?”

“Another accident,” Molly smiled, her teeth smeared with blood. “Clara’s five years old now.” She let go of his hand and pointed to the sun visor. “Pull that down.”