As she pulled the wooden board with handles from its place in the back, Claire flashed on how times had changed. Ten years ago, passing through a windshield would have meant cuts and lacerations; now windshields were a sheet of glass between two sheets of plastic. Human impact now meant punching a hole, with the trapped glass forming teeth like shards that shred and rip.
When she first got sight of the sisters and the Chevy Nova she realized how lucky they were. “How they doing?” she asked.
“Not bad, really. Apparently when the Chevy stopped they kept moving. The older of the two,” Rye indicated the young woman directly in front of the crumpled grill of the Chevy, “struck the windshield lengthwise instead of head first, popping out the entire sheet of plastic and glass. Looks like the speed of her body was slowed by the impact so that she came down on the hood.”
Claire picked up the narrative as she moved to the young woman who lay crumpled at the foot of the BMW. “Not so lucky, her younger companion here. She looks to have sailed through the space once occupied by the windshield doing nearly sixty I’d say, until the BMW stopped her.”
Claire knelt over the young woman and began the process of locating injury, slicing away clothes as she found various breaks and fractures.
Twenty minutes later the second ambulance arrived and was transporting the sisters as the fire and rescue team applied the jaws-of-life to the driver’s door of the Chevy Nova.
They moved on to the SUV, lying on its side. Rye climbed up and extended a hand for Claire, opened the driver’s side door like a hatch and propped it open with his jump kit.
The driver was conscious, though hardly moving, and seemed to be straining at the seatbelt.
“Sir, my partner and I are here to help you, please hold still. I’ll get you out,” Rye said, lowering himself down so he was just behind the driver’s seat. Claire lowered herself down, hanging for a minute by her arms then dropping less then a foot. “Can you tell me your name, sir?” Rye said.
“George Shepard. Marge, where’s Marge?”
“Is that your wife, sir?”
George didn’t reply. “Sir, your belt release is jammed so I’m going to cut the belt to get you out, OK? Is that OK?” Rye said, getting the retractable razor from his holster. Still there was no reply. Rye looked over at Claire. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s in shock.
“OK, George, on the count of three I’m going to cut the seat belt that’s holding you in place, I’ll keep you from falling. All you have to do is relax.”
Still no response.
Claire reached up and grabbed the edge of the passenger door. “I’m going to climb out and see if I can spot Jake and get him to open the back hatch.”
Rye gave Claire a thumbs-up.
Looking around from her vantage point on the side of the overturned SUV, Claire spotted Jake interviewing the driver of the big rig.
“Jake!” Claire yelled, waving so he could spot her. “Need some assist with a shock victim, bring a friend.”
Jake and another firefighter jogged over, peeled off their heavy jackets and climbed up next to her.
“Looks like you’ve got a pretty big boy down there,” Jake said. Rye looked up at the beefy fire and rescue team leader. “Driver here is deep in shock, his wife is curled up in the back. I’d like to go for her first.”
“Sounds good. Let’s leave him be, and clear the way to the rear hatch. You and Claire work on the wife, we’ll get the hatch open.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Rye said, as he watched Claire gracefully come back down into the van.
The crumpled form of Marge Shepard lay behind the front passenger seat; the rear seats apparently laid flat for the trip. Because the SUV had rolled, objects had become projectiles. Rye gingerly stepped around water bottles and books to crouch next to Marge’s body. Claire was watching from the front of the van. He looked back at her, understanding her reluctance to join him.
“Mrs. Shepard, can you hear me? Marge?” No response.
He placed two fingers high up on the side of her neck and found a strong pulse, then looked over at Claire and yelled, “She’s got a healthy pulse and I don’t see any blood.” The entire SUV shook as the two firemen tugged on the rear hatch. Marge Shepard rolled from her side onto her back. Rye danced out of the way just in time. When he looked back at Claire she was still up front and pale as a ghost. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah fine,” Claire said. “It’s just a little tight down here.”
Looking back at Marge’s stretched out body, he figured she must have weighed at least 400 pounds. While one breast was draped on her side, the other was standing up like a high school boys’ dream. Something metallic was poking out of the top. Rye sliced away the dress, then Marge’s bra. The nipple of her left breast was pierced, about an inch of metal sticking out. Rye couldn’t figure out what he was looking at.
“Claire I need you over here.”
She took a deep breath then duck-walked next to him.
The muffled voice of Jake came through the back hatch.
“We’re going to need you to push.”
Rye got up and stepped over to the hatch, leaning against it with his shoulder.
“I’m at the hatch, let’s do this together.”
“On the count of three, we’ll pry and you push,” Jake said. “One, two, three.”
Without a sound, the rear hatch on the SUV popped open, but as it did, the huge vehicle lost its square shape, sagging as if about to flatten out. Rye whirled around at the sound of a gasp.
Claire was down on her knees with her hands over her head. He could hear her rapid breathing. He turned back to Jake who was already jogging back toward the big rig, returning to his interview with the trucker. He moved quickly to Claire’s side.
“I’m going to need your help. You alright?”
“I think so, with the side door and hatch open I should be fine.”
When he knelt down next to Claire, he took her by the arm. “Just watch your breathing.” He removed a cloth from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Ready?”
Claire smiled and nodded.
Rye pointed at Marge’s erect breast. “What’s that?”
Claire had been in too much of a panic to note Marge’s condition. She bent down for a close-up of the protrusion from the nipple.
The object was metal, round with a rounded end and light colored. She didn’t answer at first, but straightened up and began looking around the inside of the SUV for anything that might give her a hint. Then she spotted Marge’s crocheting and the tangled skein of yarn.
“I think it’s a knitting needle,” Claire said. “There isn’t much blood. Judging from the size of her breast, I doubt that the needle reached the muscle, but I think that there’s a hook at the end. Extraction?” Claire said, and looked up at Rye.
“I think so. If it gets bumped in transit, aside from tearing up her breast it could pierce the chest muscle. But if you don’t mind, I’d like you to stabilize her breast and I’ll do the extraction.”
Claire kept her thumbs against the nipple, hands wrapped around the girth while Rye began to manipulate the crocheting needle.
“I’m going to bring the needle up the same path it made in penetration, and snag as little tissue as possible with the hook.” He managed to remove the needle without much problem, and then stem the blood flow.
“I think she’s bigger than George. Slide in the backboard and see if you can get Jake back here with another person to help move her out,” Rye said.
Forty minutes and three beefy firemen later, with Rye and Claire doing the directing, George and Marge Shepard were transported. Although neither had suffered any life threatening injuries, Claire figured Marge’s excessive weight had probably been responsible for numerous muscle tears.