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He was tired. And it happened so suddenly.
Martin had not slept in two days. He’d gone straight back from a flight to Berlin (where their client did not bother showing up) and onto his slightly more lucrative job driving his moving van. Helping to move a retiring professor who had box after box (27 in all) of heavy textbooks did not help Martin’s physical state or his mood. By the end of the day, when all books had been moved into a dusty house, Martin was congested, ready to fall onto the nearest bed, sofa, chair or floor, and he had managed to pull a muscle in his back. Unable to afford even the dingiest motel in Sutton, he chose to press on, driving back in the dark to his attic flat, which seemed more and more luxurious with every mile he drove. He bought a £1 coffee from a motorway service area and drove into the night.
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His head was filled with stabbing pains. He shuddered from the cold, liquid beading on his face and running down his neck. He could smell blood and motor oil. He must have moaned, because he heard someone make an awfully pathetic sound.
Martin blinked, daring to look up at the situation he found himself in. Light shone through a spindly web, making him squeeze his eyes shut as another flare of pain exploded in his head. He didn’t hear his moan this time, as his ears felt stuffed with cotton, but he could feel the vibrations rumbling through his throat.
He cracked his eyes open again, and shifted so he could put his hand up to shield his eyes. He noticed with detachment that his sleeve was torn and his arm was covered in scratches. Tabling that for the moment, he looked up once more and saw that the web was actually cracked glass on his windshield.
Splintering pain pierced his face and his hands as the glass of his side window broke and showered over him. He was shouting and trying to hold onto something as his van flipped over on its side and slid out of control down the steep embankment.
Martin swallowed, leaving a taste of copper on his tongue. He was injured, cold, and at the bottom of a very steep, muddy-looking hill. His breathing stuttered for a moment as he tried to keep himself under control.
The next logical move was to get out of his now hazardous van, with sharp metal crushed in towards him and glass shattered everywhere. Martin put his hands above him, grabbing onto the edges of the broken window for leverage to pull himself out. He had moved about a fifth of an inch when his entire lower body burst into horrible pain. He froze, his muscles clenching, nearly losing consciousness from the amount of pain. He could now recall noticing a dull, lifeless sort of pain coming from his leg, but he’d had no idea that simply moving would cause it to burn and stab so badly.
“Oh…God,” he whimpered, his eyes shutting against a wave of dizziness and blackness clouding him. He tried to focus on not throwing up, nausea churning in his stomach.
The pain ebbed enough that he didn’t feel like passing out anymore. He didn’t want to look at his legs, didn’t want to know what kind of shape they were in. His mind came up with terrible images of his leg cut in half at the knee, or it being shredded to pieces and chunks.
Finally, he took a deep breath and glanced downward. It was a little dark and therefore hard to make out exactly how much damage there was, but his right leg was definitely pinned under the crushed metal of the van. Judging by the fierceness of his pain, Martin knew it was probably broken, in at least one place, possibly even fractured complexly. He tried not to think of it. Tried not to think of the bone cracked and damaged irreparably. Tried not to think of the dirt and filth that was seeping into his wounds. Tried not to think of dying here, alone.
He shivered again. It was chilly out and a few drops of rain were hitting the side of his face. He looked into the back of the van where he usually kept a blanket. That’s when he saw his mobile phone. His breathing quickened and his heart pounded within him as he saw that it was barely in reach.
Martin stretched out his left arm over his head, fingertips brushing the edge of the phone.
“Please, please…” he whispered, begging for something to go right for him, just once, when he could actually die if it didn’t.
His arm aching from the stretch and his leg throbbing whenever he accidentally jarred it, Martin finally managed to pull his phone closer to himself. He had tears in his eyes as he breathed in and out shakily, his relief overwhelming.
“Thank you, thank you…” he said aloud. He turned on the phone, relieved that he still had half a battery. He was getting ready to call emergency services--where the hell was he, anyway?--when he read something that made his heart fall.
No service.
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Lightning had crackled and split the skies while thunder rolled over the trees and gave him goose flesh at its intensity. It was threatening to rain, but no droplets had found their way onto his windshield yet. Martin had swallowed the rest of his truly awful cup of coffee and was fighting to keep awake. He glanced at the dash. 12:34 am. In his student days, this would have been an early start to a night of...well, studying, let’s be honest, but with the way things had been going, Martin knew he needed rest.
He had been in the middle of this thought when lightning had struck ground on the countryside very near to him and startled him. The sky had illuminated to nearly the intensity of daylight as he drove around a sharp curve. The sky blackened just as quickly and as Martin squinted to readjust to the poor lighting of his van’s old headlights, he misjudged the width of the curve.
Metal struck metal, the sound surpassing that of the booming thunder.
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Martin held his mobile as high as he could, pleading with it out loud to get a signal, to God’s sakes, help him!, but it wasn’t working. He tried holding it out his smashed window, but stopped soon after, not wanting to waterlog it due to the rain. It wasn’t helping anyway.
He tucked it into his shirt pocket, instead, wanting it to be nearby and safe in case it did get struck by pity at his bleak situation.
Next, came the shouting. Martin screamed and cried for help, his voice echoing around him, reminding him of how pathetic he sounded and how alone he was. He must have shouted for at least an hour, stopping at intervals of five minutes to listen for sounds of movement, voices, anything. The only thing he could hear over the rain was the noise of cars speeding past the curve, unaware of his pain, uncaring of his fear, his discomfort, no one stopping to question the likely jagged mangling of the guard rails.
He stopped shouting when his voice cracked and the back of his throat burned with strain. Martin flopped against the seat, regretting it when it made the knives in his head stab at him again. Why did this have to happen to him? Why was his luck in every facet of life so unfailingly bad? Feeling hopeless, he began to cry, just a few warm tears mixed in with the cold rain.
Eventually, he was lulled to sleep by the sound of rain pattering on the side (which was now the functional roof) of his van.
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Martin was flying. In good dreams, he always was. He was soaring over hills and treetops, looking at the people and cars on the ground like they were tiny, little ants. At first he was piloting the plane, wearing his captain’s hat and uniform, Douglas at his side. Then, he was the plane, or perhaps just himself flying and twirling, going upside down and doing loop-de-loops.
The sky in the distance darkened. A storm was coming and he was headed right towards it, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t steer around it, he couldn’t find a place to safely land or to divert. Lightning struck him, the plane, them both, and he was plummeting into a nosedive, warning noises going off in his ears, lights flashing as the plane--as he--went haywire.
“Mayday! Mayday!” someone who wasn’t Martin shouted.
He hit the ground hard enough to crack it open. He feel so deep into the earth that it swallowed him. There was no light, no flying, no plane, and no Martin.
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There was moisture on his face when he opened his eyes again. His heart was still pounding in terror over the dream he’d managed to escape from. He reached up to touch the wetness on his cheeks. It was the rain, still dripping down the side of the window and onto him. His thin shirt was soaked through by this time. He turned around to look for the blanket again, a task he’d been thoroughly distracted from by his traitorous phone, and saw that the blanket had wound up at the very far end of the van.
Alright. That was fine. He could withstand a little cold.
The lighting outside had changed slightly, allowing him to see the state of his leg a little better. It was covered in blood and the fabric of his trousers was shredded apart at the thigh. He carefully, carefully shifted his leg to see if there was a chance he could free it, but it only served to send shooting waves of pain up and down his spine. Martin whimpered.
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“Martin! Martin, are you--well of course you’re not alright, but can you hear me?” A familiar, cherished voice was talking to him, as if from a distance. Martin struggled to respond to the man, who sounded more afraid than he’d ever heard him.
What he managed was a groan and a flutter of eyelids. It seemed like it was enough, because he was being touched carefully on the shoulder, as the older man knelt in the mud next to him.
“Martin, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Martin’s eyes finally cracked open, exhaustion evident. “Doug…las…” he mused, his mouth curving into a tiny smirk, or so he imagined.
Douglas nodded. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Martin reached for the large, comforting hand on his shoulder. “D-don’t…please don’t leave me,” he whispered, half-hoping that Douglas wouldn’t hear him.
He did. “I promise I won’t leave, Martin. I’m going to take you home and get you well,” Douglas said.
Martin nodded, although thinking he probably needed a hospital.
“I’ll be right back. Need to get something out of my car,” said Douglas.
Martin didn’t want him to go and tried to hold onto the man’s hand as long as possible. He watched him trudging up the slippery hill.
Douglas never came back.
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Martin woke up crying. He looked to his right, just in case there were footprints or knee-prints to prove Douglas had been there. Of course there weren’t. For some reason that didn’t make him cry harder. It would have been far worse if Douglas had been there and left him, than if he’d never been there at all…right?
He began shouting again, his voice slightly renewed by his sleep. He cried out for Douglas, for his mum, for any random, kind person who could hear him. He broke into a fit of coughing, and was unable to continue, trembling from the cold.
He sobbed quietly. Why was his blanket so far away? Where was his jacket? Didn’t he have one with him when he crashed? His wet shirt stuck to his skin like an extra layer of cells. His hair was drenched as well and the clouds didn’t show any sign of letting up anytime soon. Come to think of it, he was quite lucky he hadn’t drowned in his sleep. He laughed at himself. Lucky indeed.
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The cold had gotten colder. Hadn’t it? Or was that his body playing a trick on him? Could it be the wind? God, he was sweating. It was a fever. He had a fever and he was probably getting an infection from being in the mud and rain, and he was going to die out here. No one would find him, no one would mourn him. It would just be one of those cases in which someone stops showing up to pay their bills.
Oh God… Martin was like a lonely old lady who died in her house and no one noticed until the mailman came by to give her a package and there was an odd smell. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Martin was beyond the point of forcing himself to take deep breaths. He was now at the point of reacting like a rabid animal, gnawing at its own leg to get free from a trap. He didn’t want to die alone. He wanted to die as an old man with children and grandchildren and a partner who loved him and told him everyday how glad they were to have him in their life!
He twisted his body, railing wildly against the metal holding his leg in place. He screamed, louder than he should have been able to, jerking to get free of his van, the one thing of financial value he owned, but that he would pay thousands of pounds to be rid of at this moment.
He held onto the top of the window for leverage again, his fingers being cut and torn by the glass that remained staggered there. It was nothing, not even a consideration at this point. He pulled. He pulled and he screamed and tears and stars were bursting in his eyes! He attempted to twist his ankle to the side, hoping that that would free him from the trap, but he found that he couldn’t even tell where his ankle was, never mind moving it.
His arms were giving out. His lungs were giving out. He was giving up.
“Please,” he whispered into the air, closing weary eyes. “Please, I don’t want to die.”
His body crumpled, energy leaving him, breaths coming in gasps. Martin didn't see a way out of this. He was too weak and too alone and this was truly the end.
He heard the quiet crunch of leaves nearby. “It’s alright, lad. You aren’t going to die.”
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Divisional Officer Kelly Fahnes was on the site of the accident. The road was infrequently traveled, and so there was no fair way of guessing how long ago the crash had occurred. He peered over the embankment, trying to judge whether or not there could be survivors. The crash looked nasty.
One of the crew announced that they were ready to rappel into the valley. Fahnes nodded and went down the side of the hill first. It was slippery and muddy, but he managed.
He walked around the front of the sideways van, taking in the shattered windows and splintered windshield. The van looked like it could take a second tumble down the hill with little help, as it was slanted against the rough part of a mound. Fahnes took careful note of this and endeavored to stay out of the probable path the van would take if it slid further.
His precaution suddenly went to the back of his mind when he heard a soft voice. The fireman ran around to the side in time to hear a man whisper, “I don’t want to die.”
Fahnes felt his heart ache for the poor soul who’d been trapped in here for the better part of the day--at least. “It’s alright, lad,” he promised. He didn’t know if it was going to be alright, actually. He could barely see the man in the wreckage from his distance. He came closer and knelt down. “You’re not going to die.” Another promise on something he had no way of ensuring.
The man’s lips and eyes trembled.
Fahnes put his hands to the man--who looked more like a boy than anything, really--one hand to his shoulder, to try comforting him, and another to his throat to check his pulse. Fahnes kept an eye on his watch and counted the beats for 6 seconds. Pulse is slow, shock is likely.
“It’s alright son,” said Fahnes firmly. “We’re going to get you out of here.”
The sound of more footsteps coming down the hill reassured Fahnes.
“Wh-who…” the man in the wreckage whispered, his voice rasping. His eyes barely opened and he seemed to be confused at the sight of Fahnes.
“Fire brigade, lad. You’re okay. Try to relax,” Fahnes instructed. “Can you tell me your name?”
The man groaned, hands reaching up towards his head. Fahnes gently redirected them back to his sides. “Easy, son. Easy. What’s your name?”
Eyelids fluttered, eyes looking about wildly at the crew setting up on the ground. “M-Martin,” he managed at last.
“Martin,” Fahnes repeated. “Okay, Martin, my friends there and I are going to get you out of here and on your way to hospital. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”
Martin wheezed. “L-leg,” he murmured. “Broken. Please, p-please help me.”
“Help is here, don’t worry,” Fahnes assured him. He manoeuvered to get a better look at the man’s legs, taking in the state of them. The right was definitely broken. Pinned as well.
“Hold on Martin.” Fahnes turned to the side to give an update to one of his sub officers.
Martin gasped and cried out, “No! No, p-please, please don’t leave! Y-you can’t…you…c-can’t…” He whimpered and became still.
“Alright, Martin, stay with me now,” said Fahnes. He assured his staff that they would need to put Martin under for the next part. It would have been cruel otherwise.
Martin was mumbling to himself and his face was twitching. Fahnes knew the look of infection in his leg and took action at once. “I need equipment down here, STAT!” He moved aside to led one of the medics sedate the unfortunate man. They would need to pry the wrecked metal off of him with serious equipment. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too late.
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The van was sinking. The van was sinking.
Martin’s fingers scraped the mud as he tried to dig his way out, but it was no use. His leg was still pinned and now it was covered in thick, squishy mud. God. God. He was going to drown in mud, his van for a coffin.
“HELP!” he screamed, trying to push the slop out of the broken window. It kept coming in from the windshield, from the back, pouring over him, weighing him down with the van. “NO!” He didn’t want to drown. He didn’t want to drown!
He wanted to crash.
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Martin…Martin…I’m sorry…informal of me…Captain?
He felt like a living, breathing bruise. Especially the breathing part, because that simply hurt. His throat was bone dry, and he had tiny pinpricks of pain from head to foot. The first movement he attempted--intending to push mud away from the window--was thwarted by a gentle pair of hands followed by a boyish yell.
He may not quite be up for your special calibre of cheer at the moment, Arthur. He’s had a bit of a tumble and you haven’t even given him the chance to wake up yet.
That voice was irritating. No. No, not irritating. Soothing, actually. Deep and crisp and distinguished. And familiar. That was the most important thing. Where was he?
Martin? His eyes opened. Martin?
Had Martin’s eyes opened? He hadn’t seen anything.
Martin, I will give you a pay increase if you open your eyes.
He blinked, and moaned a string of syllables akin to the sound a newborn calf might make.
“I told you that would work.”
“Yes. Enjoy your fiver.” Douglas was the first person his eyes focused on. “Martin…hey.”
Martin almost laughed. Almost said Really? The great Douglas Richardson rendered speechless and awkward?, only he couldn’t get his mouth to work.
“I made you some ice cream!” said another familiar voice. Arthur’s head came bobbing into his field of vision. “Only it kind-of-exploded. But that’s okay because mum says that the hospital will have the kind that is safe to eat.”
Martin managed a smile for Arthur, who in turn looked thrilled beyond words.
Except, of course there were words.
“Skip, you really look like you’ve gotten into a fight with a sackful of cats. Maybe even two sacksful of cats! Except for this…” Arthur went out of range for a moment. “That looks like you fell off a mountain in your van.”
“So which was it, Martin? Sacks full of cats who hate movers or falling off a mountain?” Douglas. Trying to make light and failing.
Martin mumbled something.
Carolyn leaned in close. Were those…? No. Surely not tear stains on the strict school marm of aviation.
“What did you say, Martin?” She put her face close to his.
“How did you know I was here?” he managed to croak.
Carolyn gave him a smile, kissing his forehead softly before she stood up again. “Apparently,” she said, “when they woke you and asked you how to reach your family, you gave them my phone number.”
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The van was unsalvageable, of course. Martin told the insurance he didn’t really care what they did with it, so long as they replaced it with a sportier, safer model. Perhaps with a posher van he could attract single mothers.
No, no. That was the morphine thinking.
Caitlin, Simon, and his mum had each been in to see him at least twice. They fussed too much and Simon picked on him in a manner that rubbed him the wrong way, and so Martin was usually glad to see the back of them.
His leg, tibia shattered, was in traction with a rod going through it. Everytime he looked at it or accidentally moved it or thought about it, he felt uncomfortably ill.
Carolyn supplied him with baked and boiled treats, swearing that Arthur had in no way been a part of the production. She held his hand and talked to him about GERTI and about the boring trip to Dallas they’d done with a boring temporary pilot named Joe.
“Your job is safe, Martin,” she had insisted. “Don’t fret. And you can expect that pay increase I promised you.”
Arthur, for his part, brought his Skipper piles upon piles of comic books. Batman, Superman, the Fantastic Four, and he even offered to let Martin quiz him on super hero trivia. Martin had smiled and told him that he was a bit tired for trivia, so Arthur had brightened and started to read one of the books cover to cover to entertain him.
Douglas was able to restrict himself to one joke about the “tumble” per visit. Martin gave him a weak glare whenever he brought it up, but underneath his stern expression, he was very pleased to give the event a lighter tone.
He would fly again, and soon, if he kept to his physio and took things slowly. He continued to have nightmares, even after he was moved into Douglas’ spare bedroom. The advantage there, of course, being that Douglas could hear him and wake him, or soothe him, or sit near and wait.
When the nightmares stopped, Martin started to dream of flying again.