Like bits of shredded paper struck to wet glass, the heavy snow continued to clog the wiper blades slowing the tiny electric motor to an unhealthy groan. The streaked windshield became impossible to see oncoming traffic, and both side-mirrors of the school bus were so caked, Jeff Morrison had to open the driver's side window every couple of minutes just to brush that side clear.
The weather was beginning to worry him. He glanced at his watch. They'd not met anyone coming or going in thirty minutes of crawling up the mountain. Thank heaven the highschool teenagers had been delivered to their parents, all except one. The senior's car waited at the bus terminal and he wondered if she'd be able to drive out of there. Would be good to have this trip over and the bus back in the barn. He reminded himself of the warmth of the terminal, had just turned off the AM radio, which was all about the freak storm they traveled through, and he was more than enough aware of that.
"What the fuck."
A thick crunch, and the tearing of metal, the buses' objection from running off pavement to rugged stone and gravel, ground through the interior of the bus. The passenger added a high-pitched screech to Jeff's already over-stimulated eardrums. The speedometer bounced into his sight showing thirty-five miles-per-hour, the nose of the bus suddenly jerked down, all in less than a second, and he hung weightless.
"Hang on," he yelled.
The wheel spun from his hands, both hands flew, at the same time he attempted a downshift, and instantly couldn't think of why he'd do such a thing. Jeff's foot slammed down the brakes. The tires bounced and slid. The bull of a steering wheel whipped left and right, as if it wanted to rid itself of driver and passenger. They were going to die.
* * *
He awoke to black so dark a cave met his eyes, only colder. At first, he couldn't remember where he was, then the fire alarm of reality met him head on. He was blind.
"Carla?" The sound was that of a frog, he wet his lips, tried again, "Carla Phelps, you alright?" This time he recognized his voice, and a picture of the emergency flashlight popped to mind. If he couldn't see, at least the girl would have light. Jeff's hands searched under the dash.
"Shit, that hurt."
The sting in his knuckles subsided as he worked the fingers. Pain is unsympathetic, but did increase his thoughts of their plight. With more diligence than he felt, his searching fingers found the kit all school buses by law were required to carry. The cold metal of the electric lamp was encouraging. A strong beam filled the inside of the bus. That would teach him for being so pessimistic, not blind after all. Jeff played the light around searching for his passenger, noting quickly that the bus had flipped, lay upside down at a crazy angle. Swift barb's of memory jabbed his foggy brain, and he shivered at the replay of the drive off the cliff. A movement of air chilled his neck, but the windows that he could see remained intact, which was good, but the whiteness that registered beyond the safety glass showed they must be under snow.
"Mr. Morrison, is that you?"
The light spun toward the voice as if it had a mind. The blonde figure in the beam hunched sideways, winter legs drawn up. A thin, brown jacket gapped open, ripped by something, dangled in tatters off one shoulder. The sleeve still clung to the wrist, held by a single, large, pearl like button. Before he jerked the light away, one full, naked breast jutted dangerously from a pink, torn blouse. The girl seemed unaware of her condition. Dazed, he figured, and that single defining moment would be the one picture to keep alive the impact of the accident, and the danger they faced.
"It's me," he said. "You alright?"
"Seem to be banged up, but yeah . . . what happened?"
"Off the road . . . remember hitting something. The storm. . . Do you have a cell?"
"Got smashed."
He chuckled to himself by almost correcting the girl's faulty grammar. 'It was smashed,' instead he said, "Okay then, we'll be alright," then quickly added, "They'll send someone out, when we don't arrive." At least that's what he hoped would take place. No sense making the girl worry any more than necessary.
"When will that be?"
"Soon," he said. "We're only six or seven miles out."
He looked in the emergency kit, drew out a couple space-age foil blanket packs, tossed one in her direction. "Wrap yourself up, keep warm." He heard the stripping of foil as she tore into it, and he opened one for himself. This way, he wouldn't have to draw attention to her nakedness by asking her to cover up.
"There's plenty of water," he said, remembering the plastic bottles in back, "and we can melt snow if we need. The biggest thing is to keep warm until we're rescued."
"I heard the radio," she said, her tone admonishing."Said the storm would last days." Carla was quiet then, seemed to be thinking, made up her mind and added in a calm voice, "Dad made sure we all had survival training, so I'm not particularly worried. As good a time as any to test it. Luckily neither of us is hurt. That could have complicated things."
"Indeed."
In a few hours even the foil blanket he'd wrapped tight around himself didn't keep out the cold. The windows were filling with Jack Frost scribbling. Moisture from breathing became invisible crayons, painting the windows with feather ice. Jeff wondered if they were going to have to open a window for air. He shined the light in Carla's direction to reveal that the cold had already overreached the limits of her body to provide heat. Her teeth chattered across the short distance.
"You that cold?"
"Mm-m-more," she said. "I learned that we will survive better if we share body heat . . . that is if you don't mind." Without waiting for an answer she scooted right up to him, pulled her blanket over both of them.
"Wait, my blanket can help."
After that, he began to warm. Her shivering hadn't lessened, and adding that her little body snuggled so tight to him, the mental picture of her full breasts pressed to his chest was a permanent tattoo. His mind ran in all directions . . . the girl is only eighteen, for shit sake.
"Is there needle and thread in the survival kit?" Carla asked, her voice soft and quivering.
"I believe so."
"I can sew together two of these blankets, make a tent to cover us."
He thought for a moment. "I might be able to get a couple of these seat backs off. Make it easier to sit, instead of this hard roof. Warmer on our butts too."
"Metal's hard."
He was thinking about being human and something else becoming stiff with her clinging to him, and that didn't make him happy. Embarrassing himself was not something he did regularly. In an hour by his watch, he had several seat backs off, lining them up. It was then he noticed several of the windows were cracked and one was completely broken. The packed snow didn't allow wind to enter, but convection cold seeped into the bus like a frost bitten worm.
"Here we go," Carla said. "Help me ti-ti-tie this to the seats." It was large enough to cover about six foot, and drape down to stop any errand cold from the sides. They'd still need their blankets, but it would help.
He lay his head on a seat back, stretched out full length and pulled the extra blankets over them. He switched off the light to save the batteries. Darkness swept over them like a cloud filled night without city lights to reflect upon them.
"The lights right here, if you need it," he said.
"Need heat more than light," she said, "and we'll have more if we take off our clothes." She said it so matter-of-fact that it startled him. Heat rushed to his face. He felt her moving, knew she was removing her pants. Before he could say anything, he heard fabric rustle. Envisioned every move as the ripped jacket came off, top over her head. "Come on, hurry it up,"she said, "it's cold out here."
She was again snuggled to him, her head on his chest, legs covering his.
"Ah, warmth," she whispered, her body nestling in with his.
He didn't know if true or not, but in his mind he felt the hair covering the 'vee' between her legs tickle his skin. He thought her a little damp when she threw a leg over his stomach, but that was probably his imagination.
