Oblation: A Spine-Tingling Crime Thriller set in Small-Town California, page 5
The pool of saliva made him acutely aware of his own mouth and how dry it felt. He was thirsty, and his mouth tasted like tin. He reached around the wheelchair and undid the clasp that secured his bookbag just below the handle. He had done this so often before that he did not even have to think about it anymore. The movement was usually easy and effortless, but today he struggled. He supposed it was because of the “medicine” the man had given him. Eventually, however, the clasp gave way, and while the bookbag felt heavier than usual, he was able to pull it around in front of his legs and use both hands to bring it up and onto his lap.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath but started to feel himself fade, and his eyes start to close. No, I can’t sleep. He hit his right leg with his fist. Once, twice, and then a third time. The pain and aggression brought him back to the moment, and he mouthed a short prayer of thanks that only the muscles in his legs were damaged and not the nerves.
Calming himself, he unzipped the bookbag and reached inside for the bottle of water he knew his mother had put there. To his surprise, it still felt cool. It must not be too late in the morning. On a normal day, the water would be lukewarm after sitting inside the bag until lunch. He still felt the refreshing coolness of the refrigerator from home. The thought of home reminded him of Alex and Amanda. Where had the man taken them, and why? And what did he mean when he said I was supposed to be the one?
The cool water helped clear his mind and removed some of the metallic taste in his mouth. I’ve got to do something. But what? I’m stuck here in this wheelchair. I can’t do anything. Looking down at the wheels of his chair secured to the floor, he confirmed what he already knew. He would not be able to move the chair without releasing the clamps and straps. And, even if he could somehow get the straps loose, the man said the lift was disabled, so he would not be able to get the chair off the bus anyway.
But he knew he had to do something. I can’t just sit here. Michael took another sip of water while thinking and looking around the bus. He could hear another soft breath coming from somewhere behind him. Well, at least three of us are alive. But for how long?
He realized that he would have to get himself off the bus, but how? The door, of course, you idiot! His thoughts were still cloudy but were slowly starting to coalesce. The first thing he needed to do was get out of his chair. One step at a time, he thought. That was what his first physical therapist had said: “One step at a time.” At the time, they had hoped that he might walk again, and they talked about him taking steps. It was only over the long months of rehab that he, and the people around him, started to realize that walking was not a realistic hope. But “one step at a time” had remained a mantra for him. This mantra and Michael’s stubbornness were why his dad said Michael had been able to accomplish all the things he had.
So, the first step is to get out of this chair. That was not going to be a problem. He knew how to do that. He had been getting himself in and out of the chair by himself since almost the start of his injuries. That was one of the first things his doctors and his parents had insisted upon. They wanted him to have a sense of independence, and getting himself out of the chair was the first step.
Michael leaned over and set the bookbag and the water bottle on the floor next to his chair. The bottle landed awkwardly on the strap of the bookbag and tipped over, spilling the water. I should have put the cap back on. Come on, Michael, think through these things before you do them. He watched the water flow under the seat where Amanda had sat, and Michael felt another wave of panic for Amanda and his brother. Again, the thought came uninvited into his head: Where are they, and what did that guy want with them? The water flowed across the black rubberized flooring. He was still thirsty, and if he was thirsty, the other kids sleeping on the bus were probably thirsty as well but just did not realize it. They would need water. Assuming they are alive. Another uninvited thought. He had to get busy doing something, or he was going to drive himself crazy just sitting here thinking.
Bracing himself with his left arm against the base of his chair, he reached down to his waist and started to release the buckle around his lap that held him securely in the chair with the other arm. The belt was the only restraint holding him in the chair, so he prepared himself for what he knew was coming next. His legs could not hold him in the chair, so when the buckle snapped open, he started to slip forward and out of the chair. He quickly moved his right arm to the armrest and used both arms to push himself back into the seat. While most of his weight was on his butt, it was his arms that kept him securely in the chair. Then, using his left arm, he grabbed his jeans just above the left knee and, jerking, lifted his left foot off the footrest. He repeated the same operation for his other leg. Even with his feet flat against the floor of the bus, he knew everything had to be done with his arms.
Reaching forward with his right hand, he grabbed the top of the seatback in front of him and started to pull himself forward on the seat. Thankfully, the chair was strapped securely to the floor of the bus and did not move. With his butt on the front edge of the seat, he pushed on the armrest with his left arm and pulled himself off the seat with his right. For one second, he felt suspended in mid-air with one hand on the seatback in front of him and the other on his wheelchair.
Then he began to slowly lower himself toward the floor, hoping for a soft landing. When his butt was about six inches off the floor, his hand slipped off the seatback in front of him, and Michael came down hard, hitting his left elbow on the footrest of the wheelchair. Landing on his funny bone, he started to laugh that ridiculous laugh that accompanied such pain. He rolled side to side, alternating between laughing and crying while he held his elbow. As his laughter and crying subsided, his eyes focused on the witch’s hat that Amanda had been wearing lying under her seat. He stopped laughing. What had happened to them? He had to get moving.
He looked up the center aisle and started crawling toward the front, but then remembered that the man said the front door was locked. He looked back toward the rear of the bus and the emergency exit. This is definitely an emergency, so turning himself around, he lifted himself into a pushup position and hand-walked toward the emergency exit dragging his legs behind him.
He stopped at the seat where Alex had been sitting with his friend. Jerry lay across the seat with his hands under his head, mouth open, and a soft snore coming from the open mouth. Michael reached up and hit Jerry’s hand. The hand jerked back, and his head rolled slightly forward. His snoring ceased, but his chest continued rising and falling ever so slightly. That’s another one alive.
Resuming his crawl, he noticed cell phones scattered across the floor. Picking one up, he saw that it had been smashed. No help there, he thought as he kept moving toward the exit. One step at a time.
When he arrived at the emergency exit door, he looked up at the handle and grabbed it to pull it down. Rather than the handle releasing and coming down as he expected, he felt his body being lifted off the floor of the bus. Letting go, he settled back onto the floor and leaned back to take a closer look at the door and the handle. Reading the instructions above the handle, he realized, to his dismay, that the handle was intended to go up, not down. What a stupid design! Now, what am I supposed to do?
One step at a time. Gathering his strength, he reached up with his right hand and braced himself against the door with his left, and started to push the handle upward. The handle shifted ever so slightly but would not lift high enough to disengage the latch. He slumped back onto the floor, looked up, and examined the door once more. Now what?
He heard the words echo through his head: one step at a time. “Oh, shut up, ‘one step at a time!’” he said in frustration. One step at a time.
If he hoped to lift the handle far enough to release the latch, he would have to get taller. So how do I get taller? No problem, I’ll just wait a year or so, and I’ll grow. No problem at all.
The black lettering above the door mocked him, announcing “Emergency Exit.” He slapped at the hard metal of the door that was blocking his every effort to escape.
Then, with a ray of hope, he realized he could kneel. It would be a challenge. But he had made himself do it in church. However, in church, he had the advantage of being able to support his body weight by resting his elbows on top of the pew in front of him. He could hold himself in a kneeling position for almost two minutes. But he had also come to another realization during his kneeling experiment. There was some muscle strength still left in his upper thighs. He had felt them as they started to shake and strain in their attempt to support his body. What if I knelt and pushed the handle up? That might work. Examining the door, he looked for something, anything, that could help him support his body. He saw nothing on or around the door that might help. The seats were too far away, and the inside hinges of the door were too small. The only thing that might help to lift him and hold him in place was the handle, but he needed to be able to push that up.
But what if…? Yeah, that might work. He reached up and grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled himself up as he allowed the weight of his body to rest against the door rather than on his legs. He felt his legs following him and becoming vertical as he pulled himself higher along the door. Carefully shifting his hand positions on the handle, he went from pulling his body weight up to pushing his body up using the handle like the top of the pew. When he felt his knees make contact with the door, he stopped. Then he lowered himself back down, careful to keep his body as close to the door as possible. Finally, he was sitting back on his haunches with his knees right up against the door. He let out a deep breath, feeling the sweat running down his back, and looked once more at the door. After a minute, he took a deep breath. I can do this.
He reached up and once more grabbed the handle, but this time he did not want to stand; all he needed to do was kneel. He strained to pull himself into a kneeling position and allowed all his body weight to rest against the door. Then, using both hands, he started pushing up on the handle. He could feel his body starting to slip away from the door, but he willed his legs to stay steady and leaned further into the door for support.
He felt the handle release and start to move. Michael took a deep breath and pushed straight up, pushing up against the handle even harder. He could feel the final resistance from the latch attempting to release. He let out a scream and, giving one final push, he felt the latch release fully, and the handle fly upward out of his hands.
He was falling. All his weight had been against the door. When the latch gave way, the door opened. Now he was falling forward out of the bus. His hands instinctively went out in front of him to stop his fall, but there was nothing there. His hands and his head painfully made contact with the concrete parking area.
Rolling over, Michael looked up at the open door and placed his hands on his forehead. He felt the blood and the pain from what was most likely a nasty cut above his left eye. He brushed his hands across the front of his shirt and felt small stones embedded under the skin of his palms. Dizziness and nausea set in, and he instinctively rolled over with his face against the pavement. No. He swallowed hard. Blood was one thing. Vomit was something else. He was not going to get sick. Not here, not now. He was not sure how it happened, but after a minute, the feeling subsided, and his head cleared. He looked around to figure out his next move. One step at a time.
He was on the concrete. That was obvious. His head and hands attested to that. The bus had been pulled underneath an open metal shed. How did I not notice that before? He wondered. The roof was attached on one side to a gray metal building that looked just like another metal building across the driving area. Michael judged the drive to be about as wide as the distance from home plate to second base. Sitting up straighter and bracing himself with his left hand, he picked up a loose piece of concrete and threw it at the opposite building. He was rewarded with a sharp clang of concrete against metal and congratulated himself on his mental calculations. The action, which was so normal and so natural, reminded him that this was anything but a normal day.
There were no signs of any people. And given the amount of grass growing through the cracks in the concrete, as well as the dipping and cracking of the concrete, it looked like the area had been abandoned for a while. Okay, I’m going to have to find someone because someone is most likely not going to find me… or us, he added.
Michael looked in the direction he had seen the van go. Since the van was obviously heading somewhere, he figured he might as well go the same way. But how far am I going to have to go? He answered his own question. It doesn’t matter. I have to do it.
He looked at the spots of blood on his hands. Nothing can be done about that. At least not now. He would have given anything at the moment for a bit of peroxide and a kiss from his mom to make it better.
He shifted his weight and rolled into a pushup position again. He took in a long deep breath and, just as he had done on the bus, started to hand-walk across the concrete, dragging his legs behind him.
During rehab, Michael had gotten into the habit of counting hand steps every day, trying to beat the count from the day before. The most he had ever done was 626, which the therapist estimated was about a quarter mile. How far he would have to go today, he did not know. He knew 626 steps had been really hard, and he hoped he would not have to go that far today. But as he started to crawl, he subconsciously started to count 1, 2, 3, 4…
By the time he reached the corner of the building where he had seen the van turn, he was at 240 steps. Panting in the building heat, he felt the sweat drip across his back, causing the jersey to stick to his skin. He sat up and looked around. The concrete pad he was on gave way to a large rock parking area. He could just make out the tire tracks the van had left in the loose gravel continuing around another corner of the building. Looking back toward the bus and then at the far corner of the building where the tracks disappeared, Michael estimated the two distances were roughly equal. Okay, another 240 steps, he thought with a sigh and a grimace. Better get going.
The concrete had been difficult, but the gravel scraping against his palms was even more painful, and each step resulted in a new cut or scrape on his already bruised and injured hands. Adding to this, the concrete had torn a hole in his jeans at the left knee, and he could feel blood trickling along his leg as the gravel took advantage of the exposed skin.
About halfway across the drive, Michael stopped. What was that? He thought he heard a familiar sound. He lifted himself and twisted his head, trying to pick up the sound again. He waited. Nothing. Lowering himself back down, he prepared to start moving. There it is again! He knew that sound. It was the sound of a car driving down a street. But where? I’m close to a road. I can get help! The sound of the car gave him renewed energy, and he reached the corner of the building, barely noticing the increased number of cuts on his hands and the ever-increasing tear in his jeans.
At the second corner, he stopped again. Michael saw a torn canvas canopy over a door at the center of the building identifying its front entrance. But more importantly, he could see the road running diagonally across the front of the building, and he knew where he was. The school bus passed by this group of abandoned buildings every day. The buildings were a marker for the students because when the bus got to this spot, they knew they were about two minutes from school. The building was a signal that it was time to start picking up bookbags and other things in anticipation of getting off the bus.
Michael needed to get to the road, but he also remembered that a fence with a gate ran alongside the road and separated the buildings from the road. If he could get to the gate, a passing car might see him, or he might be able to flag one down. He rolled onto his stomach and headed diagonally across the open parking area where he knew he would find the gate.
Between the excitement of his realization of where he was as well as his pain, Michael had lost track of the number of hand steps he had taken, but at this point, he did not care. He just wanted to reach the gate. Had he been paying attention, he would have realized that he had just passed 626.
There was the gate. 1, 2, 3, 4… why had he started counting again? He did not know, and he really didn’t care. 52, 53… a little more… 86, 87, 88… stop the counting… 95.
He stopped to catch his breath and examined the gate that was about a hundred feet away. Now what? Michael had hoped that the gate would be open, but now that he was closer, he could see that it wasn’t. Surely, the van had gone through it. But it was closed. Not only that, he could see a locked chain across the gate. Even if he had the strength and the ability to open the gate, the lock now made that impossible.
Michael collapsed onto his face, feeling the rocks from the parking lot pressing against his cheek. He was breathing so hard from the exertion of the crawl that rock dust floated around the front of his mouth with each breath, and he started breathing the dust in and coughed convulsively.
Pushing himself up off the ground, he sat back up, panting and coughing. Absent-mindedly, he started fingering the hole in his jeans. It can’t be for nothing? I’ve come too far. Hearing the sound of a car, he looked up and spied a pickup coming down the road. Michael took a deep breath, fighting the urge to cough, and started screaming. “Hey, over here! Look! Help! Here!” He waved his arms and screamed as loud as he could, watching in frustration as the truck passed the gate and disappeared down the road toward the school.
When the truck was out of sight, he stopped screaming. What am I going to do? He heard another vehicle coming down the road but did not even bother trying to get its attention. He knew it would not do any good to yell and scream. In frustration, he picked up a rock and threw it as hard as he could toward the fence, watching it ricochet off the fencing and land by the side of the road.
