By Dimmer
Perfect Tommy wrestled with the steering wheel as the car careened toward the guardrail. Lack of power steering hadn't been an issue until some moron decided to camp on the center line. He was sure he had hit something, but he could only hope the tent was empty. The guard rail performed it's job, scratching a nasty gouge in the driver's door, but keeping the whole '57 Camaro on the road, and out of the ravine.
Now that his direction of travel had been determined, Tommy was able to engage the brakes effectively, and he came to a stop on the shoulder on the wrong side of the road, just past the bridge. Now he could take the time to curse, and he did so in several languages. He couldn't even ask for a bathroom in most of them, but cursing was another story entirely.
The tent lay in the middle of the road, crumpled and lumpy. He pulled a couple of flares out of the trunk at the same time as his first aid kit, and tossed them as far down the road as he could, in both directions. He approached the mess carefully; wary of robots, Lectroids, ghosts, and anything else that might have decided to take out a certain Hong Kong Cavalier.
Nothing leaped out at him, so he started cutting away the fabric. Thoughts winged their way like prayers through his mind, hoping the occupant wasn't hurt, hoping the occupant was dead so they'd stop contaminating the gene pool, hoping he wouldn't get any blood on his new fuchsia silk shirt.
Inside the tent was a sleeping bag, containing a person. Tommy worked quickly, cutting into that as well, trying desperately not to move the occupant, not wanting to make anything worse.
It was too late. The young woman's neck had been broken, quite obviously, and her legs had been crushed. Perfect Tommy sat back on the road, and stared at her, trying to decide if he was relieved or depressed. He covered her back up with the tent, and turned to his Go-Phone.
With the Sheriff and an ambulance on the way, Tommy took the time to set the flares properly, and put his kit away. He thought about moving the tent out of the road, but the law would want to see everything exactly the way he found it.
He was putting more flares next to the tent when he heard a sigh and a rustle. He turned around, gun in hand, but no one was evident. "Great, now I'm hearing things," he mumbled to himself, but he stayed on guard until the sirens came.
The local cop was understanding. After all, this was Perfect Tommy, stuff like this happened in the comics all the time. He took down all the details and started fishing for an autograph. The ambulance finally came, and they started picking apart what was left of the tent.
Tommy and the Deputy tried not to watch the crew extracting the lifeless girl, so they didn't notice the behavior of the driver. Her curse brought their attention back to the grisly scene, and they walked over.
"What's wrong, Alice?" the Deputy asked?
Alice was bent over the tattered sleeping bag, and the now-exposed corpse, "She's not dead!" Her astonished cry hung in the air for a moment.
"Not dead?" the Cavalier and the Deputy both cried. Tommy knelt down by the ambulance driver and checked for himself. The young woman with the neck twisted the wrong way and the flattened legs was whole, and snoring slightly.
Tommy shook her, calling out, "Wake up!" He looked at Alice, imploring her belief, "She was all twisted and squashed! I've seen dead, and she was, I swear!" Alice shrugged, she'd never seen anyone be resurrected after that much trauma, and she told him so. Tommy didn't hear her; he was busy trying to wake the girl, who remained fast asleep.
The other EMT bent down, and took him by the shoulders, "Sir, we should take her to the hospital. Sir?" Tommy sat back on the road for the second time that night, and stared at the girl who had ruined his new car, and tried again to sort out his feelings.
