It was the heat that penetrated the red haze in her brain. Her skinfelt seared, heat penetrated through her jeans, her chest, her vest, and mostlyher face. She felt like she was being cooked alive. Even without openingher eyes, that thought managed to cut through. Lying out in the open in the desert on a day like today was deadly. She had to move. Despite the agonizing clamoring in her brain, she managed to open her eyes, squinting into the killer sun. She tried to take a mental tally of her body, but she ached all over. Nothing hurt any more than anything else. Everything hurt like hell. She pushed herself up on one elbow. The movement made her gasp in pain as she realized that something did indeed hurt more than the rest, her right shoulder sent a nauseating jolt of pain through her body.
It didn’t matter, she couldn’t stay here. She struggled to her feetand stood swaying, dizzy with pain and heat. Her eyes searched for her bike.There it was, a mere fifteen feet away, handlebars dug into the softgravel, head first in the ditch. She doubted she’d be able to get the thing backon its wheels. But she had to try. She stumbled through the soft dirt,trying to push the reality of her situation from her mind. She needed to focus.
“Okay,” she breathed, psyching herself up as much as possible.
With her back to the bike, she crouched alongside it, her left handgrabbing the edge of the seat, her right hand closing around the center ofthe handle bars as best she could. Using her legs she lifted with all thestrength she could muster. Her feet dug into the sand as she pushedupwards, a grunt forced itself from her lips. She found herself growling as she put her all into righting the heavy machine. The pain pulsing in her shoulderalmost made her drop the bike, but she had it nearly vertical now. Thesand shifted beneath the big Dunlops and the bike began to slide, tippinguncontrollably toward her. She fought to regain control, but her injuredshoulder refused to cooperate and the soft ground beneath her gave her nostability. She went down, trying to roll away from the bike, but themassive Harley came down hard, pinning her from the knees down.
She could feel the heat of the engine burning into her calves. Sheclenched her teeth against the pain and found her mouth was full of sand.She tried to spit, but couldn’t muster enough saliva. Tears of pain andfrustration burned her eyes. She was face down in the desert, trapped byher best friend and doomed to die under the blistering heat if she couldn’tmanage to get her ass out of this sling. Panic began to rise in her chest,inexorably and beyond control. She pushed herself up and fought to freeher legs. She writhed and tugged, raising a cloud of dust. She thrashed andwriggled, trying to worm from beneath the hot iron. Her breath was comingin short, barking gasps. She choked on the sandstorm she was creating, butcontinued to fight. She could feel her left leg slipping free, but theright had yet to budge. Pulling her foot free from its boot, her left leg wasfree. She braced her foot against the tank and pushed with every ounce ofstrength she could muster, pulling her right leg with equal force. Thesharp pain in her shin alerted her to the fact that there had to be a rocklurking beneath the soft sands.
In despair, she collapsed onto the ground, cradling her face againsther arms as sobs wracked her body. Finally choking back the unproductive tearsshe mumbled to herself, “C’mon, get a grip. You can do this. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Why me? Fuck!”
Clenching her teeth, she tried to roll over, hoping she could gether hands on the bike and somehow pry it up enough to free her leg. Shecouldn’t get even halfway around before the strain on her knee joint proved tooexcruciating to go any further. She was back on her face, exhausted fromher struggles. How long had she been fighting this? She looked at the handsof her dusty watch. It hadn’t even been fifteen minutes? How could that be?Her watch must have broken on impact.
The heat had moved beyond merely unbearable to suffocating. Sherealized with dread that she had stopped sweating, the first sign of heatstroke. She needed to get calm and try to think of something to get herout of this situation before she found herself suddenly and irreversibly dead.There was a water bottle in her left saddlebag. If she could reachit, wet herself down and have a drink, that would help.
Pivoting as best she could, and by pushing with her foot andscrabbling for a grip in the soft soil, she managed to contort her body into ahorseshoe shape. She could just get her fingers on the first buckle, but the pain in her shoulder was making her fingers less than cooperative. She fumbledwith the leather strap, unable to maneuver it through the buckle.
“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, “give me a fuckin’ break.”
She was beginning to feel weak and light headed. She was afraid theheat was frying her brain, quite literally. She had to get to the water orshe was dead. In a last ditch effort she twisted her body until she felt apainful pop in her knee and felt a sharp jolt run up her spine as it tooprotested violently. Her fingers were on the buckle, but she couldn’tmanage the stiff leather with one hand. She roared her frustration and collapsedback into the sand.
This time there were no tears. Her head rested on her arm and shestared apathetically along the barren ground, thinking that it was anabysmal vision for her last glimpse of the earth. She watched a line of antscrossing the ditch, coming and going from nothing to nowhere. She watched,and waited. In what was left of her rational mind, she decided that if shecould just rest for a brief moment she could gather her strength and tryagain to free her leg. She just needed a little rest. Her eyes flutteredclosed, shutting off the blinding glare of the summer sun on thebleached, dead earth.
His eyes scanned the empty road to the horizon, always keeping vigil.Not that he had ever had to do much other than rescue the occasionalinjured animal, but even that broke the monotony of his shift along the deserthighway. He glanced at the driver?s license clipped to his onboard laptop andchided himself for forgetting to return it to the tall redhead. He smiledand shook his head, his brother would have accused him of a feeble attemptto get a date. Well, maybe so. Not too often that he met a woman who didn’tseem to have the stature of a twelve year old, as well as one that rode anice bike with obvious skill.
Asphalt rolling black beneath her. Hot sun above changing to thesilver of a cold moon. Scent of sage and dust and hot tar. Riding. Herdestination unclear. Yellow center line passing in a series of rhythmicdots, hypnotic, keeping time with her pulse and the beat of the engine. Herheart, beating slower. The lines passing slower. Her speed lowering until shecould see every detail of the sleek black road. Time to stop. The Deuce wastired.
He saw the sun glint off of something in the ditch about a mileahead. Probably just a hub cap. But as he neared he could see it was far too bigto be anything unintentionally dropped in the ditch. He sped ahead, the bigV8 grumbling and eating up the road easily. What he saw made his heartstutter briefly. A purple Deuce and a motionless woman. He skidded to a stop andleapt from the car, leaving the engine idling. He was on his knees,feeling for a pulse at the hot, dry throat. It was thready and weak, but still beating. His eyes traveled down her body to the pinned leg. It wasn’t too hard for him to lift the bike, adrenaline lending additional strength to his alreadyformidable power. He set the bike on its stand and returned to the woman.
He carefully rolled her onto her back. Her face was covered with thepale dust of the desert, her lips darkened with grit. “Sarah, Sarah. Openyour eyes. C’mon Sarah, open your eyes.”
There was no flicker of a response from the limp, hot body. He knewshe would die if he didn’t get her cool. Overriding any thought of keeping herstill to prevent possible further injury, he scooped her into his arms andcarried her to his patrol car. He managed to open the passenger door andslid her into the seat. He closed the door and scooted around to hisside. Once inside he cranked the air conditioning and grabbed the waterbottle from beneath his seat. He poured the tepid water over her face andchest. He dribbled a little against her lips, washing away the accumulateddirt. After soaking her down good, he tried again to rouse her.
“Sarah. Damn it, open your eyes,” he ordered, shaking her shouldergently. “C’mon girl, look at me.”
Still no response. He began to feel a touch of panic gnaw at hisprofessional detachment. He put the car in gear and left a cloud of bluesmoke.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, grabbing the mic. “Dispatch, this isNathan 8. I have an accident victim, female, 38, suffering from what appearsto be heat stroke. I’m taking her directly to Southwest Memorial. My ETA is15 minutes.”
To keep himself calm and businesslike he read her license informationback to dispatch, hoping too that some family could be notified. Peopledied quickly from heat, he had seen it more than once. But this was the firsttime it could happen to someone he had actually spoken to.
During the agonizingly long ride, he continued to talk to theunconscious woman, holding her hand, squeezing it gently, calling her nameand cajoling her to open her eyes. The long straight road allowed him topush the cruiser up to speed, easily clipping along at 120 mph. He slowedonly when he knew he was nearing his destination, but he ran with lightsand siren, cursing the inattentive drivers who seemed to think his warningswere for anyone but themselves. He radioed dispatch, alerting them to hisimminent arrival at the hospital. He wanted the ER team standing by and ready.He skidded under the breezeway outside the ER and leaped from his seat. Ahuddle of medical staff was at his side as he yanked open the door andcaught the woman as she slid into his arms. He lifted her onto the waiting gurney and she was whisked through the double doors. He followed, jaw clenchedand brows glowering.
He grabbed an attending nurse and tersely explained the circumstancesin which he’d found the woman. She made brief notes then turned away. Hefelt summarily dismissed. He reluctantly returned to his car and headed back tothe desert. The rest of his shift was tediously uneventful, except forcalling the truck to pick up the scraped purple Deuce. He had to fight theurge to repeatedly call dispatch for updates on the woman’s condition. Butas his 12-hour shift neared its end, he knew he would not be going home rightaway.
Her head felt too large for her neck, as if her brain had swollen anddistorted the skull. And everything hurt. The bike. She had parked herbike. Hadn’t she? She wanted to open her eyes and see the bike, but herlids felt glued together. Her dry throat reminded her. She hadn’t parked herDeuce, she had wrecked her beloved bike. The thought brought needed tearsto her eyes, loosening the glue that kept them closed. But still she did notopen her eyes. She did not want to be returned to the grim reality of herdeath in the desert. They would say, “At least she died doing what sheloved.” Bullshit. She didn’t want to die at all.
It was the smells that permeated the pondering of her death. Notsage and hot dust but antiseptics and disinfectants. The unmistakable smellof a hospital. That forced her eyes open. The room was dimly lit but therewas no doubt of where she was. She looked to her right and was startled bythe sight of a giant of a man sprawled in a chair a few feet from the bed.
Her gasp alerted him. His eyes opened and he smiled, “Decided torejoin the living?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words could pass the parchedtissue.
“Need a drink?” he asked as he reached for a glass.
She sucked greedily on the straw, re-hydrating her mouth and rinsingthe last of the grit from between her teeth. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“No problem, I live to serve,” he teased.
“My bike?”
“In my garage. Hope you don’t mind, but it was that or the countylot. It’s sitting happily next to my scooter, only a little worse for wear.”
“Thanks.”
“Like I said, I live to serve,” he smiled again. “I’m just glad I gotto you when I did or we might not be having this conversation.”
She looked at him for a long moment, realizing the truth in the wordsand was briefly overwhelmed by a wave of mortality. But it passed asquickly as it came and she grinned back. “Guess I almost rode faster than my guardian angel can fly.”
