The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [69]
Its engine was smoking badly, and fluid was leaking steadily onto the Honda beneath, spreading a shiny veneer over the hood.
When Mitch saw Taylor, he came rushing forward to fill Taylor in, getting straight to business.
“The driver of the truck’s all right, but there’s still someone in the car. Man or woman, we can’t tell yet—whoever it is is slumped over.”
“What about the tanks on that truck?”
“Three-quarters full.”
Smoking engine . . . leaking over the car . . .
“If that cab explodes, will the tanks go with it?”
“The driver says that it shouldn’t if the lining wasn’t damaged in the accident. I didn’t see a leak, but I can’t be sure.”
Taylor looked around, adrenaline coursing through his system. “We gotta get these people out of here.”
“I know, but they’re bumper to bumper right now, and I just got here a couple of minutes ago myself. I haven’t had a chance.”
Two fire trucks arrived—the pumper and the hook and ladder, their red lights circling the area, and seven men jumped out before they’d come to a complete stop. Already in their fire-retardant suits, they took one look at the situation, started barking orders, and went for the hoses. Having come to the scene without going by the firehouse first, Mitch and Taylor scrambled for the suits that had been brought for them. They slipped them over their clothing with practiced ease.
Carl Huddle had arrived; so did an additional two police officers from the town of Edenton. After a quick consultation they turned their attention to the cars on the bridge. A bullhorn was retrieved from the trunk; gawkers were ordered to get back behind the wheel to vacate the area. The two other officers—in Edenton it was one officer per car—went in opposite directions, toward the end of the lines of the cars backed up on the highway. The final car in the line got the first order:
“You’ve got to back up or turn around now. We’ve got a serious situation on the bridge.”
“How far?”
“Half a mile.”
The first driver spoken to hesitated, as if trying to decide if it really was necessary.
“Now!” the officer barked.
Taylor speculated that half a mile was just about enough distance to create a zone of safety, but even so, it would take a while for every car to move far enough away.
Meanwhile the truck was smoking more heavily.
Ordinarily the fire department would hook up hoses to the nearest fire hydrant in order to draw all the water they need. On the bridge, however, there were no hydrants. Thus the pumper truck would provide the only water available. It was plenty for the cab of the truck, but nowhere near enough to control the fire if the tanker exploded.
Controlling the fire would be critical; helping the trapped passenger, however, was foremost in people’s minds.
But how to reach the passenger? Ideas were shouted as everyone prepared for the inevitable.
Climb out over the cab to reach the person? Use a ladder and crawl out? Run a cable somehow and swing in?
No matter what course of action they chose, the problem remained the same—all were fearful of putting any extra weight on the car itself. It was a wonder that it was still there at all, and jostling the car or adding weight might be enough to cause it to tip. When a blast of water from the hose was aimed toward the cab, their fears—everyone suddenly realized—were justified.
The water gushed violently toward the engine in the cab of the truck, then cascaded inside the shattered back windshield of the Honda at the rate of five hundred gallons per minute, partially filling the car’s interior. It then flowed with gravity toward the engine, out of the passenger area. Within moments water began to rush out from the front grill. The nose of the car dipped slightly, raising the cab of the truck—then rose again. The firemen manning the hose saw the ravaged car teetering in the balance and without a second to spare turned the hose away, toward the open air, before shutting it down.
To a man, their faces