With a mournful effort, Mr. Gash rolled himself over. He reached out both arms, dug his fingers into the sodden grit and pulled himself forward until his chin touched his knuckles. Total linear progress: Two feet, max.
Mr. Gash thought: This sucks. He felt the tickle of an insect on his buttocks and flogged at it awkwardly. From the other side of the man-made hill came the chug-chugging of an engine, too rackety to be a car. Steadily it got louder. Mr. Gash craned his neck, squinting into the gloom. Of course he knew what he was hearing. He’d driven one of the damn things himself, the night he took care of that troublemaker Brinkman. Now the rig loomed directly above him, on the crest of the slope. Mr. Gash recognized the blocky square-edged outline. He could smell the acrid exhaust. A tall figure emerged from the cab, then reached back inside—undoubtedly to release the brake.
“Fuugghh me,” Mr. Gash groaned.
The bulldozer jolted clangorously downhill. Rabidly, Mr. Gash tried to drag himself out of its path, and he almost made it. Only half of him got pinned under the track; the lower half.
So his lungs still worked, which was encouraging. Another positive sign was the surprising lack of pain below his waist. Mr. Gash concluded that the bulldozer had not crushed his torso so much as embedded it in the spongy turf. His immediate concern were the diesel fumes being belched into his face. His eyes burned and his stomach roiled—obviously the dozer’s exhaust pipes had been damaged in the descent. Eventually the machine would run out of fuel and its engine would cut off, but Mr. Gash wondered if he could stay conscious until then, inhaling from a noxious cloud. He felt simultaneously sleepy and convulsive.
A pair of dirt-caked hiking boots appeared before him. Then the bulldozer hiccuped once and went silent. As the smoke dissipated, Mr. Gash raised up on his forearms and drank in the fresh breeze. Crouched beside him was the bum, his glass eye gleaming like a polished ruby in the starlight.
“You’re gonna die out here,” he said to Mr. Gash.
“Ungh-ungh.”
“Yeah, you are, Iggy. It’s all over.”
‘Iggy’? Now the fucker’s making fun of my hair! Mr. Gash boiled.
“You’re dying even as we speak,” the bum said. “Trust me. I know a thing or two about roadkill. You qualify.”
“Ungh-ungh!”
“In case you haven’t noticed, your ass is lying under a Cat D6. That’s twenty tons of serious steel,” said the bum. “I don’t know about making peace with God, but it might be a good time to tell the young lady you’re sorry for trying to hurt her. Want me to go get her?”
Mr. Gash said, “Fuugghh oooh, popff.”
The bum stood up. “That’s a mighty poor attitude,” he said, “for a man who’s bleeding out of both ears. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Iggy, I’ve gotta go track down some fool dog.”
“FUUGGHH OOOOH!”
Mr. Gash’s head sagged. Soon he heard the crunch of the bum’s heavy footsteps fading into the woods.
What an idiot, thought Mr. Gash. He should’ve shot me! I’ll be out of here by dawn!
Hastily he began trying to dig himself out from beneath the track of the bulldozer. The task was arduous. Being pinned on his tummy, Mr. Gash was forced to reach behind himself and work his arms like turtle flippers. After twenty grueling minutes Mr. Gash quit in exhaustion. He fell asleep with a centipede skittling across his shoulder blade. He was too weary to slap it away.
Hours later a helicopter awakened him. It was daylight; a high rose-tinged sky. Mr. Gash couldn’t see the chopper but he could hear the eggbeater percussion of the rotors as it landed nearby. He lifted his head and gave an unholy wail; pain had found him. Horrible, nerve-shearing, bone-snapping pain. He observed, despairingly, that all his frantic digging had accomplished little. A pitiable few handfuls of dirt had been scalloped around each leg, upon which the Caterpillar D6 remained steadfastly parked. Mr. Gash could not drag himself a single millimeter out from under it. After a third attempt, he gave up.