shot on the truck. You can see blood on the bottom of the cab and we don't need that.”
“10-4.”
Eric pushed the button down again. “How bad does it look from up there?”
“It looks bad, real bad.”
The blood. The twisted metal bent around the trees. It was like technology invaded the forest and the forest won. The driver was dead. The man I spoke to was dead, DRT, dead right there. Was the last thought through his head about me? Was his last thought that the guy on the phone never mentioned this disabled vehicle that I am so desperately trying to avoid? Was that what he was thinking as he died, either impaled or crushed or concussed or injured so severely that his blood, all of it, was now running down the carpet, the metal, the rubber, the glass, the upholstery, and into the glistening pool that was rapidly collecting under the cab of the truck.
The camera was still tight focused. I couldn't take my eyes off the blood that stained the cab. That blood, only a couple of hours ago, was in a person, a person who was living and breathing and healthy, going about its business, carrying oxygen from one place to the next like it always had, inside of a person, a real person, who I talked to, it had traveled through someone’s heart, a real person, a person with plans and errands and dreams for the future, but now the person and the blood had come to the same conclusion, and they were dripping out on the shoulder of the highway in a thick thatch of trees, together entwined with the metal, rubber, and glass that surrounded them, the manufactured cave that the driver worked in had been twisted and now was part of him, his body destroyed by four familiar walls that were now filled with the blood that he had taken for granted until only minutes ago.
I forced myself to stop before someone noticed I was sweating. Nothing could be done. I had forgotten to warn the driver of the danger ahead, and now I had to sit and watch the results of my sin of omission. I could have saved a life, maybe two. I could have said something. The guilt built up inside of me. It would be buried with all the other guilt that had come before it.
My mother’s disembodied voice echoed in my brain, “It’s all your fault Greg. Being good at nothing has led to this. You’re not just driving people away, now you’re actually killing them.”
The words hung true for me at that moment. I was staring at the screen but there was a layer of blur that separated me from the images while I thought about the words that had formed in my Mom’s disapproving, bitter tones. If the blood could talk, it would most likely agree with her.
A female voice above me called my name, “Greg?”
“Mom?”
The voice belonged to Jackie, one of the female morning TV anchors, who wore an extremely disturbed look that I am certain had just formed on her face. “Um…the outer loop is open. You can go home now.”
The information took a moment to sink in. “Oh. Well I might just sit here for-”
“Well, either way I need the chair you are sitting in please.” The smile she now had was much less genuine than the look from moments ago.
“Oh.”
Her hand was already on the armrest of the chair when I started getting up and Jackie whisked it out from under me. She rolled the chair to her terminal and set her purse on it. She sat back down in her own chair, popped in her in-ear monitor and stared at the camera with the fake smile.
“I guess I am gonna get going, then,” I said to the room. No one turned to acknowledge the noise. I walked to the garage, got in the car and pointed it toward the Beltway. Most of the sky was still dominated by twilight but the stars had disappeared, dawn was not far off. The faintest of blue and pink was spilling out from the horizon and staining the rest of the sky. The streetlights were still on for the moment.
I started to see brake lights right before the split for I-270. This was to be expected. The
“10-4.”
Eric pushed the button down again. “How bad does it look from up there?”
“It looks bad, real bad.”
The blood. The twisted metal bent around the trees. It was like technology invaded the forest and the forest won. The driver was dead. The man I spoke to was dead, DRT, dead right there. Was the last thought through his head about me? Was his last thought that the guy on the phone never mentioned this disabled vehicle that I am so desperately trying to avoid? Was that what he was thinking as he died, either impaled or crushed or concussed or injured so severely that his blood, all of it, was now running down the carpet, the metal, the rubber, the glass, the upholstery, and into the glistening pool that was rapidly collecting under the cab of the truck.
The camera was still tight focused. I couldn't take my eyes off the blood that stained the cab. That blood, only a couple of hours ago, was in a person, a person who was living and breathing and healthy, going about its business, carrying oxygen from one place to the next like it always had, inside of a person, a real person, who I talked to, it had traveled through someone’s heart, a real person, a person with plans and errands and dreams for the future, but now the person and the blood had come to the same conclusion, and they were dripping out on the shoulder of the highway in a thick thatch of trees, together entwined with the metal, rubber, and glass that surrounded them, the manufactured cave that the driver worked in had been twisted and now was part of him, his body destroyed by four familiar walls that were now filled with the blood that he had taken for granted until only minutes ago.
I forced myself to stop before someone noticed I was sweating. Nothing could be done. I had forgotten to warn the driver of the danger ahead, and now I had to sit and watch the results of my sin of omission. I could have saved a life, maybe two. I could have said something. The guilt built up inside of me. It would be buried with all the other guilt that had come before it.
My mother’s disembodied voice echoed in my brain, “It’s all your fault Greg. Being good at nothing has led to this. You’re not just driving people away, now you’re actually killing them.”
The words hung true for me at that moment. I was staring at the screen but there was a layer of blur that separated me from the images while I thought about the words that had formed in my Mom’s disapproving, bitter tones. If the blood could talk, it would most likely agree with her.
A female voice above me called my name, “Greg?”
“Mom?”
The voice belonged to Jackie, one of the female morning TV anchors, who wore an extremely disturbed look that I am certain had just formed on her face. “Um…the outer loop is open. You can go home now.”
The information took a moment to sink in. “Oh. Well I might just sit here for-”
“Well, either way I need the chair you are sitting in please.” The smile she now had was much less genuine than the look from moments ago.
“Oh.”
Her hand was already on the armrest of the chair when I started getting up and Jackie whisked it out from under me. She rolled the chair to her terminal and set her purse on it. She sat back down in her own chair, popped in her in-ear monitor and stared at the camera with the fake smile.
“I guess I am gonna get going, then,” I said to the room. No one turned to acknowledge the noise. I walked to the garage, got in the car and pointed it toward the Beltway. Most of the sky was still dominated by twilight but the stars had disappeared, dawn was not far off. The faintest of blue and pink was spilling out from the horizon and staining the rest of the sky. The streetlights were still on for the moment.
I started to see brake lights right before the split for I-270. This was to be expected. The