Cody's Varsity Rush (9 page)

He was running east, about two miles out of town, he guessed. Two more miles, he told himself, and I'll head back. He ran facing traffic along Highway 7, although there really
wasn
'
t
any traffic. He had seen only one car zoom by him since he left the Grant city limits behind.

Just as Cody took a swig from his water bottle, he stumbled on the chewed-up asphalt along the road's narrow shoulder. He managed to keep his feet, but he also managed to snort water up his nose. He felt his nostrils burn and tried to suppress a sneeze.

Well
, he sighed inwardly,
this
was
a perfect run.
Man, this shoulder is really ragged over here. Think
I
'
ll cross to the other side.

Drew Phelps had warned Cody about running with traffic, but Cody wasn't worried. Traffic had been less than sparse, and he figured he would have plenty of time to move off the right shoulder, or even cross back across the road, if he heard a vehicle coming.

He angled across the asphalt. It felt surprisingly soft under his feet in the late-September heat. Once on the other side of the road, he settled into a smooth pace again. The running felt almost effortless. He let his mind drift. He wondered if he would be able to run a sub-five-minute mile when track season rolled around. He thought about basketball season too. Mr. Clayton, his eighth-grade coach, had moved up to the high school, where he was coaching basketball and track as well as teaching PE. Clayton had been the first coach to truly show confidence in him. He was eager to have another shot at rewarding that confidence.

He reminded himself that he should tell Coach Clayton about Gabe Weitz's unwelcome visit. When Cody finally cornered his dad and told him about it, Luke Martin assured his son that he would “look into it.” But Cody wasn't sure there had been any follow-through until this morning. His dad delivered the news—an officer would come to the Martin house to take a statement later that evening.

Cody wondered what the experience would be like—and if his dad would show up on time as promised—or whether the commitment would get lost among the wedding plans. He wondered if he would be able to tell his story clearly to a stern-faced officer in blue, who would then find Weitz and lock him up. “Can't wait to see that loser in handcuffs,” Cody muttered.

Most of all Cody thought about football.
I wonder
if I
'
ll see some varsity action next week
.
I have to
admit I
'
m a little disappointed that I didn
'
t get in the
game today. I thought I
'
d be relieved, but
—

Cody sensed trouble when he heard the vehicle behind him gun its engine. He whipped his head around just as the battle-scarred old Nissan pickup veered onto the shoulder, spitting gravel and devouring the distance between them.

He recognized the truck immediately. It had been parked across the street the day Weitz invaded the Martin home. Cody half whispered his favorite prayer—“Help!”—and looked for an escape route. Beyond the shoulder of the road lurked a sharp drop-off into high wild grass. The grass partially camouflaged a makeshift barbed wire fence that guarded a field of some sort that had roundish green plants about knee high—and fat as medicine balls.

The truck was only about fifty yards from him now, closing fast. Cody leaped from the road, wondering where—and how—he would land.
On my feet,
someplace soft would be nice
, he thought as he flew through the air. The roar of the truck engine filled his ears, his chest.

He felt the outside of his right foot touch down—and slide on the slick grass. He tucked and rolled, half expecting to either be flattened by Weitz's truck or shredded by the barbed wire. He risked a glance back toward the road.

The truck whizzed by him fish-tailing wildly. Cody heard a succession of click-click-clicks as Weitz snapped a series of reflector poles as if they were matchsticks.

Then Weitz must have lost control. The truck lunged off the shoulder and tumbled and rolled, three, maybe four times. Cody lost count.

Cody was on his feet now, so close to the barbed wire fence that he could use the top strand to steady himself. He watched the truck come to rest on its wheels. “This is real,” he heard himself whisper, as he slowly stepped his way back up to the shoulder. “This is really real.”

He trotted slowly, warily, toward the truck.
If Weitz
pops out of that truck and comes after me,
he thought,
I
'
m going the other way—fast. And I think
I have enough adrenaline rushing through me to run
a four-minute mile right now!

As he picked up his speed, he noticed a sharp twinge in his left ankle. It wasn't much more painful than a bee sting. It wouldn't slow him down. He'd run on lots worse.

He studied the truck carefully. It had rumbled through the fence, taking down a whole section before it finally stopped. There was no movement from inside and no smoke from under the hood. He wondered if it would suddenly explode in flames, like in the movies. The truck seemed lifeless, but he couldn't be sure.

When he pulled even with the truck, he stopped running. Carefully, he stepped down from the shoulder and began making his way toward Weitz. He lifted his knees high; he didn't want to trip at a time like this.

He drew within ten yards of the truck and stopped. He could see that Weitz was slumped over the steering wheel—he wasn't moving. Cody listened. The engine wasn't running, and there was no hissing or gurgling.

Stepping warily again, Cody had to remind himself to breathe. His heart was doing a drum solo in his chest. In the truck he saw blood spattered everywhere. He sniffed. He smelled beer, but no gasoline.

“Weitz,” he said, poking his head into the truck. His voice sounded loud and foreign. “Can you hear me?”

Weitz didn't respond. Cody wanted to pull him off the steering wheel, but he remembered something he'd heard about not moving an accident victim in case of a neck injury. He couldn't remember where he'd heard the advice—probably a TV show.

He studied Weitz's massive torso for a minute, looking for signs of breathing. But with the big man hunched over, Cody could discern nothing. Tentatively, he moved his left hand toward Weitz's chest.

If he wakes up and grabs me or something
, Cody thought,
I
'
m gonna need some new running shorts.

He slid his hand between the steering wheel and Weitz's chest, placing it where he thought his attacker's heart would be. He paused. He felt a faint, rhythmic beat.

He
'
s alive
, Cody thought.
The guy who just tried
to kill me is alive
.

He turned and studied the road to the north and south. He thought he might have heard a car whip by moments ago, but he wasn't sure.
If there was a car
, he wondered,
they must have seen the accident, right
?

He turned his attention to Weitz again. Still no movement. Cody raised his eyes to the sky. He felt a tug-of-war in his head over what to do next. Stay with Weitz and try to administer some type of first aid? Maybe try to drag him out of the truck, just in case it caught fire? Or sprint like mad back toward town? Nick Baker's gas station and convenience store was only about a mile back.

God
, he prayed earnestly,
I just don
'
t know what to
do. I don
'
t really know any first aid, so I
'
m thinkin
'
I should run for help. But I don
'
t know if I can just
leave Weitz here. If you could send somebody to help
me
—
please.

He looked back to the road. It was empty in both directions. He exhaled shakily and tried the driver's-side door to see if it would open. It resisted at first but then gave way with a metallic creak that sent a shiver shooting down his spine. He half expected Weitz to tumble out at his feet, but there was no movement.

Cody dropped to his knees, trying to get a better look at Weitz from underneath. Most of the blood appeared to be coming from his nose, which Cody figured he had smashed on the steering wheel, or maybe the windshield, which was now a spiderweb of cracks.

“Weitz,” he said again, trying to fill his voice with authority, assurance. “I hope you can hear me. Look, I'm going to run for help. I'm running to Baker's to call an ambulance—maybe I'll be able to flag down a car on the way. So if you can hear me, hang on, okay? I'm gonna get help. I'm gonna pray for you. You should pray too.”

Cody placed a hand on Weitz's shoulder for just a moment, then turned and bounded toward the road.

“Okay, God,” Cody gasped as he struggled to find a fast pace that he could sustain for a while, “I guess I'm doing the right thing, but this is trippy. Help Weitz—hang on. After all that's happened, it would be cool if he could survive this and turn his life around.”

Cody did a half turn, running backward for a few steps so he could look back at the crash site. Still no truck in flames.

I wish Pork Chop could see this
, he thought.
Not so
he
'
d think I was a hero or anything, but so he
'
d learn
that God does make a difference in a person
'
s life.
Because if it weren
'
t for God, I
'
d be really tempted
to leave Weitz
'
s sorry carcass out there
.

Cody quieted his thoughts for a moment. He thought he heard the distant hum of tires on asphalt. He strained his eyes, studying the ribbon of highway ahead of him.

Then he saw it. A gray dot, coming his way. “All right,” he panted. “Help at last!”

The dot drew closer. It was a small sedan. Maybe a Civic or a Corolla.

He began waving his hands above his head—as if doing jumping jacks. The car was only a football field away now but not slowing down. Cody waved even more frantically.

The car gave two short bursts on the horn—“hello honks,” his mom had called them, as it sped by. Then he heard a fading female voice, “Yeah, we see ya, little hottieeeeee!”

Cody wagged his head in frustration. “Never thought I'd be bummed to hear something like that,” he gasped.

When he saw another car approaching, he knew he would have to be more assertive. He moved from the shoulder to the middle of the oncoming traffic lane.
Please
,
God
, he pleaded,
don
'
t let me get flattened by
a car while trying to save Weitz
'
s life. That would be
just too weird and sad. I
'
m trying to do the right
thing, but I don
'
t wanna become roadkill on that
guy
'
s account!

As the vehicle drew closer, Cody realized it wasn't a car. It was a motorcycle—a big one. He went into waving mode again, whipping his arms around like a crazed aerobics instructor.

“Thank God,” he panted, as he heard the driver gearing down.

The Harley-Davidson was as big as a horse. Cody marveled at its size as the driver maneuvered his hog to the shoulder.

Cody waited till the driver killed the engine before gasping, “Accident—Call 911.”

The driver, clean-shaven and thinner than Cody's stereotype of Harley men, slid a pair of dark sunglasses up to his slightly receding hairline. “Accident?” he said calmly. “Where?”

Cody turned and stabbed his right forefinger to the east. “Back there.”

He wanted to say more but found it hard to link more than a few words at a time. He wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or panic. “About a half mile.”

The driver nodded and angled his Harley toward town. He slid forward on his seat. “Hop on,” he said. It sounded like a command, not a suggestion.

Cody slid off the bike as soon as it rolled and crunched to a stop in Baker's gravel parking lot. Nick Baker was at the counter. Cody pushed past a mother and two pudgy, waist-high twins to get to him.

“Mr. Baker,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Call police. Ambulance. There's a wreck!”

Mr. Baker kept his eyes on Cody as he reached under the counter and produced a cell phone. “How many cars?” he mouthed to Cody.

Cody looked at him helplessly. “Huh?” he said.

“In the wreck,” Mr. Baker said, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Idiot,” Cody mumbled, labeling himself, not Mr. Baker. “One,” he said. “Just one. It's Gabe Weitz.”

Cody gripped the counter with both hands. He listened as Mr. Baker reported the accident. Occasionally, the store owner looked to Cody to confirm something or to provide missing information. Finally, he pushed a button on the cell phone and returned it to its place.

He looked at Cody and nodded. “Help is on the way,” he said.