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by isafos on Sun Oct 19, 2008 8:08 pm
He woke up to the sound of an engine ticking itself slowly cool. He smelt smoke and tasted blood. His face was resting on his wrists, which were handcuffed to a headrest in front of him. There was a throbbing in his head, and he was dizzy, but he concluded that nothing was broken or seriously strained. He lifted his head from his wrists and tried to look around. A seatbelt was holding him into his chair, but he couldn't move his hands from the headrests to unclip it. He looked to his right. He was sitting in the rear left passenger seat of a sedan, black leather upholstery. The front of the vehicle was wrapped around a telephone pole. Looking through the gap below the headrest and above the seat he could see the back of a man's head. It was bent at an awkard angle, just within the reach of his fingers. He reached his index and middle finger for the man's neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing. The man had broken his neck, and his head had been smashed into his side window. Fresh blood was trickling from his ear. He knew they can't have been there for a long time. On his right, a man, also visibly dead was compressed into the footspace of his seat, his chest was on his knees. Broken spine, he presumed. In the drivers seat a man was slumped forward, his head buried through the wheel. There was no horn though. The pole must have destroyed the battery. He himself was fine, but he had no idea why he was there, who the dead men in black blood-stained suits around him were, or, he realised with a dry throat, who he was. 'Oh shit' He croaked. His own voice was unfamiliar to him. He coughed to clear his throat and swallowed spittle to whet it slightly. Experimentally he repeated: 'Oh shit.' His voice was clear now, but still unfamiliar. He gathered that he was American, but his accent he couldn't recognise. He couldn't remember who he was, but he knew what America was? He looked around for something, anything to recognise, now more than a little panicked. The gun on the seat was a Glock 17c, semi/automatic 9x19, issued by FBI on overseas operations, used by somewhere around 40% of the World's law enforcement, popular civilian weapon also. How he knew that, he had no idea.
He rammed his fists once more up into the headrest, to no avail. It wasn't budging. He was stuck. He called for help multiple times, but he would have thought people would have already heard the crash and come running, it can't have happened more than an hour ago. He had to hope that someone was coming for him. 'Help!' He called again. He didn't know who he was, he didn't know where he was, and he was stuck in a smoking sedan with three dead men. He tried not to look at them, not because of their violent death positions, but because of what his mind was doing. He glanced quickly at each of the two visible men and his eyes were instantly drawn to small bulges, then his mind was working out their approximate size, determining that the one in the driver's seat had a gun in his inside coat pocket, and two magazines, and the crumpled man on his right must have been holding the gun during the crash, as he had no gun in his pocket, but one magazine. Then he was scanning the car for where the magazine spare might have fallen, on the ground? Under a seat? Out the window? He had determined somehow that the man in front of him had died of grievous head trauma, which was then followed immediately by a breaking neck. He visualised the situation, the car slamming into the post, the front crumpling, the man's head slamming into the dashboard as it crumpled inwards, snapping his neck backwards and pushing him back into his left hand window. He shuddered. It didn't take a Doctor to know that the man on his right had died of a broken spine, lifted from his seat, perhaps not wearing a seatbelt as he held a gun, perhaps they were involved in a shootout? Perhaps they had been pointing the gun at him? Or another man in the car? Anyway, he had been lifted out of his seat by the impact and thrown into the small gap back wards, as the car crumpled inwards this pushed his spine beyond his legs and broke it. And the man in the Driver's seat had also died of head trauma, there was no visible bruising around his neck. A moan finally snapped his thoughts away from these gruesome images and back into reality. He looked around in case someone else in the car had in fact survived. No, they were all dead. The source was coming from in front of the car. He frowned, looking as best he could through the windscreen, which, under the trauma had been turned from transparent to the blue shards holding on to each other and keeping together like a carpet of broken glass. He looked through a small hole at the pole in front of them and was disgusted by what he saw. Someone was trapped between the bonnet and the pole, and yet they were still alive, when they should have bled to death from being cut in half. He stared, puzzled. The man looked dead, his skin was blue-grey and there were many visible wounds, each finger pointed in a different direction and his neck was flat against his shoulder, and yet his eyes were open and staring at him, his mouth was opening and closing, gnashing his teeth and moaning. He knew he can't have been possibly alive when he smelt the rot however. He looked away, outside his own passenger window, and then jumped and cursed to see another one, less broken but equally rotten and, like the other one, gnashing it's teeth and moaning, scraping it's fingers along his window, trying to get in. This was just wrong, like a lucid dream, a corpse was trying to break into his car. 'Help!' He shouted again and began the process again of slamming his fists into the headrest, upwards, in an attempt to rip it free. Why was he handcuffed?! He slammed his fists up again and pain shot up through his wrists, then he repeated. He needed to get free, it looked like the thing wanted to EAT him! He slammed his fists into the headrest with all his might and it slammed up into the roof and bounced onto the seat next to him. He couldn't do anything about the handcuffs though. His seatbelt was jammed as well. He swore and tugged at the seatbelt, and then, grabbed the handgun and, without stopping, fired two shots, one out the front window, and swinging it against his chest, firing again out his passenger window. The first bullet went through the throat of the gnashing corpse, banging it's head against the telephone pole and ripping a large hole in it's throat, which didn't ooze blood. It was dead, damnit! The corpse on his left had been shot in the forehead and had fallen. He turned the gun on the seatbelt clip then, and with a bang the seatbelt drew back into the roof, releasing him. He looked at the gun in his hand. He didn't know how he knew to use it, and accurately, but he could. He leaned over and pulled a magazine from the crumpled man, and then two from the man in the Driver's seat, and another two from the man in front of him, stuffing them all into his Jacket's pockets. He kicked his crumpled door open and pulled himself out, and then, in a second, he was standing in the middle of the road, gun lowered but ready, looking around for targets. He caught himself, how was he doing this? It was all instinctive reaction, he knew nothing about any of this! He didn't know who he was! He didn't know...Who he was... The adrenaline which had kept him through that encounter had just worn off, he had just realised fully that he was a man with no memory, and then he fainted, falling to the tarmac.
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