He awoke from a dream of nightmarish shrieking to the red spray of molten sparks flooding the darkened cabin of a sedan, his skull flying apart at the seams. He found pale, soft hands upon the wheel, not fully understanding whose they were, or where his sense of dangerous velocity originated from. The acrid smell of burning metal stung his nostrils along with a deafening screeching of metal on metal. The faint odor of roasting flesh and hair hung about him, embers stinging his right cheek beyond tolerance.
He glanced right, seeing the spray of sparks founting into the open passenger car window, slowly, faintly becoming aware that it was that side of the car laid against a highway guardrail. He reached for the left side of his head, convinced it had caught fire, resisting the urge to pat it roughly to extinguish any flame there. A psychedelic kaleidoscope of colors rippled over his brain, bursting behind his closed eyes in painful ecstasy, almost robbing him of consciousness once again. He fought the urge, hanging desperately onto lucidity, head pounding, heart thudding achingly in his chest.
He dare not contemplate what the soft, wet membrane beneath a small dig of jagged, broken bone was just above and behind his left ear, drawing his hand away, glancing at the speedometer: 193 kilometers per hour.
“Motherfucker!” Screamed someone in a strange accent from a short distance off to his left, demanding his attention beyond the roar of metal on metal.
A young Asian man brandishing a large handgun, hanging from the passenger window of a Lexus less than a meter away screamed at him, spittle flying in the wind. The Asian kid leveled the gun at him. He ducked instinctively, slamming on the breaks. A sound like a thick branch snapping was followed by an explosion of fire just past his seat rest, and a blood curdling scream.
He raised just in time to see the Asian boy’s arm dangling backwards at the elbow from the car window, sans the hand gun as the Lexus careened away, crossing traffic, causing havoc with the other motorists. The boy’s screams faded away with distance and the blaring of horns.
A distal humerus compound fracture with complete tare of the transverse ligament, he thought. He’ll die from shock sooner than blood loss from the catastrophic injury crossing his mind. He glanced down at where the driver’s side rear view mirror used to be, understanding that his breaking (the irony not lost on him) caused the possibly fatal injury as the boy‘s arm encountered it during his deceleration. A faint urge to help the poor, careless sonofabitch fleetingly crossed his consciousness.
Then realization struck like a thunderbolt. Peter, Paul, and Mary, he was a doctor. No. A surgeon. A trauma surgeon and not just anyone. The best. He navigated the BMW away from the showering array of the side guardrail, extinguishing the fount of molten sparks.
Hundred dollar bills fluttered about him like butterflies in the surreal windstorm of the aired cabin, swirling out of the open windows. He calmly found the automatic passenger window switch, raising it. He tried the driver one to stem the flow of cash out of that side, only hearing a protesting whine. He quickly realized that there was no longer a driver window.
That was it: he’d been shot in the head. The projectile passed through it, deflected as it shattered the glass, only grazing him. He gingerly touched the spot where the side of his head stung so badly, feeling glass embedded just above his ear. He pulled his hand away, finding bloodied fingertips. The swarm of bills subsided once the passenger window closed.
An exit from the highway came into view. He decelerated yet again, the rear of the sedan sliding out of control as he mounted it. He compensated by spinning the wheel in the same direction as the slide. The sedan slid the opposite way. He compensated again in kind. The sedan traversed the exit curve sideways, tires screaming in protest. He regained control, merging with thinner traffic and tall streetlights now raking the darkness of the sedan cabin.
