passenger-side window and was gone a second later.
A moment or two of eerily quiet free fall and then a jarring impact.
First Dean was tossed up against the steering wheel, banging his already bruised ribs. Then he came down hard against the driver’s seat. With one leg hanging outside the van, the door slammed painfully against his knee, but provided enough resistance to prevent him from hurtling through the interior of the van. He kicked the door with his other leg to free himself, and promptly sprawled across the front seats. Twisting around, he peered down.
Fortunately, the three-year-old boy was buckled into a child safety seat strapped to the passenger side captain’s chair in the second row. Terrified, his cheeks streaked with tears, the boy stared at Dean as if he were an alien life form. The sudden drop and impact must have stunned the crying jag right out of him.
“It’s okay, kid,” Dean said trying to sound calm. “I’m gonna get you outta here.”
“Where’s Momma?”
“Your mom’s fine. She’s up—back in the store.”
“I want Momma.”
“I’m gonna take you to her. Okay?”
The boy nodded. “Want Momma.”
“We’ve established that,” Dean said. “But I need you to work with me. Okay?”
Another nod. This time the kid gave him an expectant look.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Hunter.”
Dean smiled. “No kidding?”
The boy nodded solemnly. “Hunter Riley Fields.”
Gravel and chunks of blacktop pelted the exterior of the van like hailstones with biblical aspirations. One particularly large chunk stuck and starred the windshield. A few more plinked and plunked against the hood. Dean tried not to think about what might happen if a big enough rock—or even another car—came through the windshield at that moment. Or what would happen if a fuel tank ruptured and something sparked. No, he wouldn’t think about that at all.
“Okay, Hunter,” Dean said with a serious nod of his own. “Let’s do this.”
He reached between the front seats and stretched his arm to the far seat in the second row, pushing the release button on the kid’s safety seat. Accustomed to the seat routine, the boy pulled the V-straps up over his head without any prompting. Dean smiled reassuringly.
“Great job, Hunter. Now, let’s get out of here.”
The boy started to climb out of the seat.
“Whoa!” Dean said. “Careful, now. Give me your hand.”
Dean stretched to meet the kid’s small hand but adjusted his position to get a better grip on his arm.
“One, two... three !”
With one quick tug, Dean pulled the boy up to the front— top—row of seats.
Dean backed out of the door, propping it open with his back as he stood in the dirt and gravel slope of the sinkhole. The van rested against the side of the hole at a sixty degree angle. With one arm wrapped around Hunter, he moved away from the van and let the door slam shut. The back end of the van rested against a beige Camry that was almost completely submerged. Even as Dean watched, the van’s tires were sinking into the dirt and crumbled blacktop.
“Dean!” Sam called from above.
Dean spotted his brother braced against the chainlink fence in front of where the van had been parked, his forearms hooked over the fence so he could clutch it while leaning forward for a better view. Sam was almost twentyfive feet above.
“We’re fine,” Dean said.
“Hunter!”
“Momma!” Hunter said, waving at his mother who stood beside the store clerk. The bollard nearest the pair tilted at a forty-five degree angle. The sidewalk wouldn’t last much longer. But they had a more immediate problem.
A banana-yellow Mini Cooper that had been parked one space closer to the store’s entrance was inching backward and leaning at a precarious angle. Clumps of dirt and chunks of blacktop broke away from beneath its back tires. With a scrape of metal on asphalt, the Mini Cooper pitched backward, listing to the left as it hurtled toward Dean
A moment or two of eerily quiet free fall and then a jarring impact.
First Dean was tossed up against the steering wheel, banging his already bruised ribs. Then he came down hard against the driver’s seat. With one leg hanging outside the van, the door slammed painfully against his knee, but provided enough resistance to prevent him from hurtling through the interior of the van. He kicked the door with his other leg to free himself, and promptly sprawled across the front seats. Twisting around, he peered down.
Fortunately, the three-year-old boy was buckled into a child safety seat strapped to the passenger side captain’s chair in the second row. Terrified, his cheeks streaked with tears, the boy stared at Dean as if he were an alien life form. The sudden drop and impact must have stunned the crying jag right out of him.
“It’s okay, kid,” Dean said trying to sound calm. “I’m gonna get you outta here.”
“Where’s Momma?”
“Your mom’s fine. She’s up—back in the store.”
“I want Momma.”
“I’m gonna take you to her. Okay?”
The boy nodded. “Want Momma.”
“We’ve established that,” Dean said. “But I need you to work with me. Okay?”
Another nod. This time the kid gave him an expectant look.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Hunter.”
Dean smiled. “No kidding?”
The boy nodded solemnly. “Hunter Riley Fields.”
Gravel and chunks of blacktop pelted the exterior of the van like hailstones with biblical aspirations. One particularly large chunk stuck and starred the windshield. A few more plinked and plunked against the hood. Dean tried not to think about what might happen if a big enough rock—or even another car—came through the windshield at that moment. Or what would happen if a fuel tank ruptured and something sparked. No, he wouldn’t think about that at all.
“Okay, Hunter,” Dean said with a serious nod of his own. “Let’s do this.”
He reached between the front seats and stretched his arm to the far seat in the second row, pushing the release button on the kid’s safety seat. Accustomed to the seat routine, the boy pulled the V-straps up over his head without any prompting. Dean smiled reassuringly.
“Great job, Hunter. Now, let’s get out of here.”
The boy started to climb out of the seat.
“Whoa!” Dean said. “Careful, now. Give me your hand.”
Dean stretched to meet the kid’s small hand but adjusted his position to get a better grip on his arm.
“One, two... three !”
With one quick tug, Dean pulled the boy up to the front— top—row of seats.
Dean backed out of the door, propping it open with his back as he stood in the dirt and gravel slope of the sinkhole. The van rested against the side of the hole at a sixty degree angle. With one arm wrapped around Hunter, he moved away from the van and let the door slam shut. The back end of the van rested against a beige Camry that was almost completely submerged. Even as Dean watched, the van’s tires were sinking into the dirt and crumbled blacktop.
“Dean!” Sam called from above.
Dean spotted his brother braced against the chainlink fence in front of where the van had been parked, his forearms hooked over the fence so he could clutch it while leaning forward for a better view. Sam was almost twentyfive feet above.
“We’re fine,” Dean said.
“Hunter!”
“Momma!” Hunter said, waving at his mother who stood beside the store clerk. The bollard nearest the pair tilted at a forty-five degree angle. The sidewalk wouldn’t last much longer. But they had a more immediate problem.
A banana-yellow Mini Cooper that had been parked one space closer to the store’s entrance was inching backward and leaning at a precarious angle. Clumps of dirt and chunks of blacktop broke away from beneath its back tires. With a scrape of metal on asphalt, the Mini Cooper pitched backward, listing to the left as it hurtled toward Dean
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