No time for cleverness — instinctively stamped on brakes, threw hand up to brace Terry, stiffened other arm on steering wheel to brace me, gritted teeth, awaited outcome.
Trans Am driver did react, somehow: Sensed, rather than saw, front wheels twitch outward; heard engine’s thunder falter, almost gasp, then redouble. Hurtling vehicle’s sideways approach around corner abruptly changed radius, momentarily flattening curve, missing van’s left front corner by merest fraction of flinch.
Progress thereafter less clear: Observation limited to what could make out in mirrors.
Trans Am apparently completed slide around corner (and own frail self) by slapping right rear wheel into curb, with front wheels still pointed sharply to right. Sliced immediately across sidewalk into storefront.
Vehicle, building, both erupted in shower of fragments, dust, sudden plume of flame. Remnant of car ricocheted from impact cloud, spinning like dervish, shedding parts en route, to recross street. Smote that building tail first with horrendous thump, triggering yet another debris explosion, considerably more flame; from which emerged still spinning, appreciably smaller, still shedding parts, now gushing fire in earnest; recrossing street to crash again. And still again. And — oh, never mind.
Would be nice to report own reaction at this point cool, efficient, intelligent. Can’t. Wasn’t. Intellect momentarily shut down completely. Forgot existence of large, fully charged CO2 extinguisher; forgot about Gel-Coat (flame-retardant, wet-chemical-soaked blanket with whose protection could have bathed in burning gasoline for five minutes without discomfort); forgot about Hurst gasoline-engine-hydraulic rescue equipment (capable of ripping open any door, shearing off roof posts, unpeeling vehicle crumpled like ball of foil to extract occupants); crowbar, sledge — all languishing in lockers in rear of van. Even forgot to set brake, shift transmission to neutral before taking action. (Didn’t matter; had killed engine again in heat of moment.)
Only knew had finally found somebody — possibly very last other soul on Earth — and might be dying before own disbelieving eyes.
Sprang from driver’s seat while accident still unwinding (seemed to take forever). Landed in dead run. Forced to hurdle several gasoline trails left burning as careening wreckage crossed, recrossed street between impacts.
Overtook accident at Trans Am’s ultimate resting place, half-buried in display window some hundred yards beyond van. Arrived as building-material cascade tapered off; rubble piling high on roof, hood, trunk, littering nearby pavement.
And since kamikaze slide’s final yards were backward, vehicle now resting on own gasoline track; flame pond spreading slowly about wreckage, storefront, as contents gurgled from ruptured fuel tank (rescue growing more complicated even as stood there, shielding face from heat [painful even at ten yards], squinting through inferno for glimpse of occupant).
But not last-desperate-second, screaming-crisis emergency; merely grim. No flames yet visible in interior; reasonable to assume passenger compartment intact (underneath, at least; topsides a mess: Glass gone, along with bumpers, fenders; front windshield posts both torn loose; roof at angle never contemplated by styling engineers).
Cooked occupant inevitable but not imminent; had time to secure from van equipment appropriate for crossing gasoline lake safely, forcing probably jammed door, extracting victim, retreating in good order.
(Never mind exploding gas tanks — exist only in fevered imaginations of sensation-oriented, irresponsible Hollywood screenwriters: Fire Marshal Hathaway [Daddy’s friend, neighbor; lived just down street] said so. Claimed endless fueling of myth fostered needless widespread explosion-fear. Marshal Hathaway considered filmmakers’ behavior quasi-criminal — certainly reckless negligence: Public saw so many crashes-followed-by-explosions on TV, in films, believed it; and more peoples’ injuries compounded when unprofessionally dragged from wrecked cars — burning or not — by Good Samaritans fearing explosions following accidents than recordable. Liquid gasoline doesn’t explode; only gasoline vapor, correctly mixed with oxygen, explodes — and only if ignition delayed until precise moment ideal mixture achieved. Burning cars don’t explode.)
None of which rambling bears on fact driver in fair way to roast if not gotten out promptly — gasoline fires hot!
Therefore steeled heart, clamped down emotions, blocked from mind distracting awareness of real stakes at issue; concentrated dispassionately on tactical evaluation, selected tools, commenced organized rescue effort…
Well, not exactly. (Mind still shut off.)
Took short run, dived headfirst. Passage through flames too brief for more than hint of real heat. Felt only momentary, intolerable ovenlike sensation; had barely time to be startled as breath sucked from lungs in reaction. More startling was incredible roar as flames licked at face, hair, clothing: From distance imperceptible; at heart of conflagration sounded like freight train.
Sailed through left front side window, fetching up in disarray on far side against door. Raised head to look around, discovered was gasping for breath: Already pretty warm inside.
Untangled limbs, crawled to driver — sprawled under dash. Examined gently as commensurate with haste, thoroughly as possible under conditions; determined no condition apparent taking precedence over fire: Bleeding from various lacerations ranged from inconsequential to serious, but no fracture grossly evident — though spine distinctly separate question, not determinable under present conditions. Would have to cross fingers.
(Of course qualified to render opinion: Fair-haired only baby girl of best doctor in whole world! Thoroughly, properly instructed in advanced first aid; more knowledgeable in emergency medicine than paramedic.)
Once assured rescue itself probably wouldn’t kill him (him? — HIM…!) turned attention to getting us out: Really getting hot in there.
Especially floorboard, now that had moment to notice; not ideal storage environment for victim while figuring out next step. Braced self, hauled limp body up one end at a time, dumped on seat.
Cast about interior for inspiration. At first found little cause for optimism. Then attention fixed on rear seat cushion: Ripped from moorings, lay skewed across interior, one end almost protruding from rear window. Recognized possible solution.
Tried left door. Not surprised when refused to budge. (But disappointed.) Didn’t bother with right door; solidly wedged against wall in which vehicle embedded.
Indulged in moment’s worry: Required little imagination to visualize consequences of attempting to push cushion through window, positioning to bridge pooled gasoline; climb through window dragging victim — amidst 20-foot-high flames…!
Options (few at outset) evaporated as gasoline lake outside spread, temperature inside mounted. In fact, as practical matter, single avenue remained. But regarded with disquiet: somewhat risky.
No — damned risky. For self (until now personal safety never at issue; could have aborted, exiting same way arrived, exposure limited to possible superficial scorching, crisping around edges) as well as for rescuee: If failed, both dog meat. (Well done.)
Indeed might faiclass="underline" Strength required far beyond that usually at command. Plus considerable endurance.