And In Summer Fire by David LaGraff
Chapter 3
The car was upright. But the tires weren't touching ground. Because the car was suspended in space by reason of there being a tree branch jammed through a hole where the front windshield had once been. The branch protruded all the way to the back of the car. It was like a puzzle at first. One which took her awhile to solve. But finally Donica understood that this natural skewer, courtesy of a very large mountain laurel tree, one which had probably been there since the time of such luminaries as W.C. Fields and Mae West, yes, this natural skewer was what held the car in place about five feet away from and below the lip of the road, and had prevented the further plunge of the Pinto down the side of the mountain into what would most certainly have been the back reaches of some wealthy producer's estate. Or worse, the secluded pad of some other, more exotic denizen of the entertainment scene, some of whom, in particular those who were famous for captivating large audiences of young girls with implausible musical excretions, were known to have roaming upon the grounds of their domains completely illegal and wild animals. No, not the rank and file pit bulls of corporate cocaine importers, but actual wild animals of the exotic and endangered sort, up to and including lions, leopards, and fang-rich hyenas, which might look with savage disfavor at the sudden, noisy arrival of a primer gray Pinto and its cargo of a dazed and battered woman in a red pants suit.
It was not unthinkable that she had narrowly avoided being eaten, or swallowed at the bottom of the gorge. Only the week before, Entertainment Tonight had chronicled the story of an L.A. Godfather whose Beverly Hills ranchette had been found to be the site of a hippopotamus wallow. The discovery of the wallow had come after the totally illegal hippo had escaped and been found hiding at the bottom of the guitar shaped pool of a famous country western star several blocks east of the ranchette.
So the tree branch had saved her from a number of possible fates. It had, however, splintered at the tip upon impact with the Pinto and rammed itself straight through the back and into the gas tank. Which was now pouring a fine stream of the stuff along the branch and straight onto Donica, who was no longer perched at the edge of the broken front seat, but stretched instead between the two front seats, her legs poking out through the open passenger side window and her torso twisted slightly, allowing the rest of her to be face down on the rear floor, which contained among other things, a great many empty shells from a recent feast of Pistachio nuts. Which were now, along with her, becoming increasingly soaked in gasoline.
The door fell off the car. She heard it fall. For a good few seconds before crashing into the brush at the bottom of the tree. Her legs, no longer poking out through the open passenger side window, hung free in space. All reference points were gone. North. South. East. West. Up. Down. Reference points which had served her in a previous life, now no longer applicable. A new bearing was needed, something to account for her current situation, which was a state of suspended animation in a world so different it had no name, no rules. It occurred to her that it would be nice to know the exact details of the moment which had led up to what was possibly going to end in her death. The details were somehow important. Perhaps they would be recounted later to other dead people who would guffaw knowingly. It would be their funny little secret. How fragile life really was. A secret apparently hidden from those who still placed great value on adding to their earthly treasures. The ignorant ones who had set aside, for the moment, the notion that they would one day leave the earth in exactly the same way they entered it. Roughly attended by strangers using unfamiliar tools and insider knowledge reserved to those who prepared the body for its final destination--Worm City. Strangers who placed them in boxes lined with silk or rayon. Where they lay naked and leaking residual bodily fluids all over the place. Unable to lift even one finger to clean any of it up. Unable to even know they were making such a mess.
Before that happened, before she departed for Worm City, she needed the details. So she pulled her legs in and heaved herself upright. Without serious pain. A miracle. Nothing broken. Managed to come to a kneeling position on the front seat. Which was when she realized just how bad it was. The roadway was a good ten feet from where she knelt. A sheer drop-off, where somebody'd poured a wall of concrete to keep the thing from washing away. A ten foot gap impossible for her to traverse, now that she had taken measure of her exact height up the trunk of the tree, which she estimated to be a good fifty feet. It was just a dad-gum big tree. Another problem: the Jag sat in the roadway with the top crushed flat. And another car, what once had been a silver Suburban. Also badly crushed. They must have been parallel to the Pinto when the Pinto rolled sideways after careering off the roadway and up the hill. She'd rolled over them both, on her way to the appointment with the tree branch, crushing both their tops flat.
The horns weren't honking anymore, and the collective wasn't angry. They'd moved from anger to gawking stupefaction. A hundred eyes gaped from fifty heads in her direction. Her fifteen minutes of fame. They were an audience. Many were on cell phones, phoning in the big event. Hoping for uniformed, muscle-bound men to come from out of nowhere with their flashing lights and ladders and rehearsed plans and common sense. Hoping for somebody else to get their hands dirty. Because it sure wasn't going to be anybody from the collective. Nope. The world view had shifted. Personal responsibility was dead. The opinion was, rely on experts. They raised you in school. Counseled you when the other kids got shot. Laughed knowingly at your parents’ outdated religion. Evaluated you for your promotion using tests you couldn't comprehend. Told you what car to buy to fit in. Rescued you when you got in trouble. And when the bill came due for a life you never lived, the bill that told you exactly what it cost to fit in, well, of course you couldn't pay it. It didn't matter. That's what the insurance was for. So you stood out on Laurel Canyon to watch the blonde die.
The man inside the Jag. What had become of him? Was he dead? Had she crushed him when she'd rolled across the roof of her vehicle? There was a movement. No. He wasn't dead. He peered at her through a space between the crushed roof and the door frame. Not dead. Merely trapped inside. His head disappeared and there was a shaking. A loud creak and the crimped door of the Jag popped open, kicked free by the heavy steel-toed boots. To some applause from various people standing around, the giant stood up, shook himself, and started towards her. Apparently a man who didn't rely on specialists to get things done. As a result, did a lot of things badly, but at least did them himself. Ran to the edge of Laurel Canyon, and leaped, like a tiger, straight for the Pinto impaled on the branch. Not the best possible move. He cleared the distance from the road to the car, landing on the rear hatchback like an ape. She still couldn't read his eyes. He crawled out sight. She could hear him scrabbling across the roof of the car, then the hood. The vehicle swayed precariously. The gas dripped.
The mind can wander under pressure. At the exact moment when it should be paying close attention. She thought about her mother. Mother, I've finally met somebody. You know, you always meet Mr. Right when you finally quit looking. But I should warn you. He's not like anyone you could ever imagine. He's like this big, huge ape. He loves Jesus and fixing old cars. He makes me feel positively petite. He says he doesn't care if I gain 50 pounds when I'm pregnant. Yes, you heard me--he wants children and all the right things. Mother, you're crying.
The big ape called her name. Sounding just like God. At the exact moment when the rear of the Pinto exploded. And the tree branch gave way with a magnificent ripping sound. There was a whumping burst of audible energy, and a rush of heat like nothing she'd ever felt before, a rush which reverse flushed all the air from her lungs. As though some errant Angel had accidentally picked the scab off the skin of Hell. And something else. Powerful hands grabbing her ankles, pulling her from the car as though she was nothing more than a rag doll. There was a sensation of falling. Whether up or down, she wasn't sure. Blackness and a g