The Wendigo

2

Smoke and burnt rubber choked the air. Clay ran from the car, driver's side door hanging open, and caught stinging lungfuls with each desperate breath as he ran toward the rising smoke and commotion on the edge of the highway. The blacktop of the highway slapped the bottoms of his shoes and made his heels ache. Still, he the flickering red and blue lights stationed on the edge of the road and made silent prayers that there was still hope.

Up ahead, the ambulances, squad cars, and tow truck formed a semi-circle around the spot where the black tire marks scarred the ground and two patches of trampled tall grass denoted the vehicle's path off the road and into the ditch below.

"Keep back!"

The call came from a hulking cop. His voice deepened for effect.

But Clay kept running.

The hulking cop was suddenly flanked by two more. They collided with the young man and wrestled him back. The impact forced air from his chest. His feet went limp as they held him.

"No please is anybody alive in there please—"

Clay just managed a look over the edge. Lying just below the grass line, some ten feet below, was the crumpled and battered bus. Tires shredded, lights out, windows broken in intricate and violent spiderwebbing, smoke pouring from the back and front. The smell of burning. The windows were stained with blood.

Clay's legs went limp as the officers wrestled him back. His head swam. If he hadn't been propped up against the car, he might have passed out on the road.

For the first time, he was able to get a look at the full scope of it. Three or four squad cars and two fire trucks and some tow trucks. Ambulances, at least four, were stationed on the road. More were coming. Two cops stood out on the edge of the road to guide oncoming traffic around the accident. But it was 1:30 AM, and no traffic came.

An authoritative, middle-aged officer with a handlebar mustache straight out of a 70s porno stepped out of the fray: "Sir, we need you to stay back!"

"No, please I have someone on that bus," Clay pled, "Please, you have to let me see..."

He felt the cops' grip ease up on his chest. A solemn and meaningful pity passed between them.

"You should stand back here," the superior officer said, "It's not a pretty sight."

Clay's panic faded and despair took root as he watched and listened. This was no rescue operation. The time for hope had passed. The initial adrenaline of the accident subsided. They had gone from first responders to curious onlookers.

"Somebody get me a saw..."

"Blood all over..."

"Never seen anything like that..."

"What do you think could..."

"Crash couldn't do that... could it?"

"We got one!"

The voice came echoing over the road and froze the entire scene into a ghoulish tableau.

Handlebar Mustache made the first move. "Alive?" he called and bounded for the bus.

The EMTs followed, flooding into the ditch to help. The rest of the uniformed responders on the scene swarmed if only to get a look at who could have possibly survived this.