ONE
Cold andice-pick painbored into Kit Garrido’s temples.
Her limbs were leaden, her body a deadweight in the driver’s seat of her big rig. Grit coated her tongue and teeth. She tasted blood. Try as she might, she couldn’t reach out to unbuckle her seat belt. Panic bubbled up inside her.
She felt movement. Someone yanked hard on the passenger door, unleashing pulses of pain.
“Ma’am?” A low baritone, rough.
A big hand skimmed her temple, calloused fingers hard like talons. Through her slitted eyelids, a male torso materialized, a large man in a heavy jacket. Warm ash drifted from his baseball cap and settled on her cheek, featherlight.
“What ... happened?” Her voice was a croak.
“You crashed.” His voice held the trace of a Southern accent. “Volcano’s unsettled everything. Not safe to stay here.”
Not safe? Crashed? Why wouldn’t her mouth work fast enough to spit out the questions? Fear lapped at her insides as he fumbled for her seat belt.
“You’ve got to wake up. Now.”
She forced her eyes farther open, grabbed the wheel. Cold wind raked her cheek. Wind? She lurched into full consciousness so fast her brain rocked in her skull. Green. Everywhere green mixed with brown, the trees of northern Washington all around, the rattling pine needles oddly muted by their coating of volcanic ash. A pine cone dropped on her lap through the gaping hole in the windshield. It left a sooty stain on her knee before it bounced off. She stared at it.
How ...
He was talking, but she couldn’t follow.
She touched her brown ski cap, then the flannel of her favorite long-haul driving jacket, the feel of the fabrics proving to herself she was alive. Somehow. A hiss of escaping steam commanded her to acknowledge what she desperately didn’t want to see.
Her beautiful Freightliner truck was wedged cab first, jammed in a crevice between two crooked trees. In the side-view mirror she observed an enormous trench of gouged earth that marked her journey from the road above to the place of impact. The shiny yellow cab with its cozy sleeping unit, her home for three-hundred-plus days a year, was squashed like the face of a Pekinese. The pristine white trailer she’d washed that morning was no doubt damaged as well. She closed her eyes and pictured the bold font she’d painstakingly chosen for the Garrido Trucking logo. How absurdly proud she’d felt the day the lettering was applied. Her truck. Her business. Her life. Finally.
Muscles in her throat tightened, and tears started down her face.
Crashed. She’d crashed. Everything she’d worked for, gone. The pain in her head intensified. She stared around wildly. “But what happened? How did I wreck?”
The man shrugged. “Dunno. I’m not sure why you’d even be on Pine Hollow Road in the first place. Pretty ridiculous, considering.”
Ridiculous? She bridled as the location sank in. Pine Hollow? Why there? Deep breaths. One, two, three, then she unbuckled and levered herself from the driver’s seat. Pain lanced her left wrist. Broken or sprained? Her shirt was splattered with blood, though she couldn’t feel any cuts.
“Easy,” the man said, arms outstretched as if to catch her.
Why couldn’t she remember what happened? She must have rolled out of her small office solo that morning, like she always did before picking up her load, the last load she dared haul out of a region under an evacuation advisory. She wouldn’t have chosen Pine Hollow, a twisty route that would take her nearer the volatile Mount Ember. Everything she’d learned, the geologic facts she’d devoured, left her itching to escape. Had she lost control? Maybe she’d been knocked out by a falling boulder. Had the noxious gasses venting from the volcano’s bulging side overwhelmed her? But why here?
The cold infiltrated her torn jacket, numbing her arms. Faraway, she heard the distant rumble of thunder or maybe another earthquake from the mountain preparing to blow. No sounds of vehicles, sirens, people. Eerie. Terrifying.
Her thoughts were muddy, slow.Get help.She patted her pockets in a futile search for her cell. Gone somewhere.The satellite radio was her next choice until she realized it had been pierced by the branch that neatly skewered the windshield. Her throat went dry. A few inches to the left and it would have impaled her too. Ruined also was the precious old-school CB she’d rebuilt, which would have instantly connected her with a fellow trucker.
The man was still staring at her. He straightened and leaned closer. “Are you hurt badly? I can carry you.”
She couldn’t make herself answer, so he went on.
“Your radio’s crushed, I see. My cell phone has no bars down here. Where’s your phone?”
She jammed her knit cap on tighter. Hurt or not, she wouldn’t let any stranger control the conversation, especially not in her rig. “I’ll find it.”
He shook his head. “You rest a minute. I’m gonna hop out and make sure your truck’s not on fire or anything.” He muscled his way back out the passenger door, the metal protesting with a bloodcurdling shriek.
She didn’t see any sign of his vehicle through the filthy glass. Where had he come from? There were no helpful locals out and about under the present circumstances. Nerves tightened in her stomach. A trucker alone with cargo was vulnerable, a female trucker even more so.
Protectyourself.She fumbled for the crowbar, but the seat was collapsed on top of it. Instead she yanked the fire extinguisher loose, which made her head feel like it was going to detonate. Best she could do. She eased closer to the fractured passenger window.
