In the Face of Death

Brian asked about one of the items on my 25 Random Things list. It was item #5: "In a surreal moment of terror, I was once absolutely positive that I was about to be murdered..."

I was 16 or 17 at the time, and I was "cruising 6th Street" one night with Paul--one of the few weekend pastimes in a sleepy little town. When we got bored, we decided to follow 6th Street all the way out of town. In just a few blocks, we had left the crowds behind and, in another few blocks, were at the western edges of civilization. There, you pass a final cross street where the last street light stands, and the road curves out through pitch black fields of towering crops. (At least, that's how it is in my memory.)

That night, in the bend of the road, at the farthest reaches of the street light's glow, we saw a car sitting half in the irrigation ditch that flanked the road. It was facing toward us on OUR side of the road, with its left-hand wheels in the ditch and its nose resting against a sturdy farm-fence post. Its lights were off, there was no sign of anyone anywhere, and there was no indication of any damage to the car--it looked as if someone had simply eased the car down into the ditch and up against the post.

We drove past the car and snaked around the gentle bends in the road until we were out of sight. But then we turned around to go back and check out the situation--curious as to why someone would ease their car down into the ditch like that.

That's when everything turned into a horror movie.

Just as we pulled to a stop and I began opening my car door, the passenger door of the other car popped open and a dark figure emerged. Suddenly, I knew EXACTLY why someone would ease their car down into a ditch like that--to create a facade of distress that would lure a Good Samaritan close enough for unspeakable acts of violence. The creepy horror-movie violins began playing in my head, and I hesitated in my seat, allowing my door to swing shut.

I rolled down my window instead and called, "Are you okay?" to the stranger.

There was no response, but the figure began zombie-shuffling toward me, waving unsteadily back and forth (as all good zombies do).

After a nearly eternal pause, I tried again, my voice rising in pitch. "Are you OKAY???"

Again, there was no response, but the figure was drawing closer and closer. Its face was turned away from the distant street lamp, and my headlights were pointed in the wrong direction, so I couldn't see its features. But I could see dark patches smudged across its face--had it smeared mud across itself? Or blood???

The figure continued to stumble toward me, until it was only a few feet away--and, still, it hadn't made a sound.

Paul muttered nervously to my right, and I really began to panic. I rolled the window nearly up and started the car's engine, so we could escape when the thing attacked us and tried to add our corpses to the oozing carnage clearly dripping from its face.

I managed one final offer of help, this time in a tiny crack of a voice, through the tiny crack left open at the top of my window.

Again, no response.

My pulse was now racing. The figure was in reach of our car, towering above me in the darkness. It then slowly reached into a bag that was half-hidden in the shadows of its clothing. My blood felt suddenly cold, and I couldn't move--we could almost hear the cannibal's skeletal hands close around the but of a gun.

"LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!" Paul shouted!

The sound yanked me from my terrified stupor and threw me headlong into an equally-terrified frenzy. Before the words were fully out of his mouth, I had punched my foot down on the gas pedal, and the car squeeled away, careening madly away from Death's clutching grip.

It was quite awhile before my pulse settled down. Even after it did, our minds were racing with the residual terror of the experience and the last-minute escape from certain dismemberment. Still shaking, we went to find a phone so we could call the police. They could go arrest the killer, and our sleepy little town could be free from the nightmare.

I still can't remember where we went to call the police--the attack had happened on the west side of town, 20-25 minutes from home (which was east of town), so I think we went to a nearby friend's house to borrow the phone. My mind wasn't yet functioning, so the details are hazy. I just remember that my friend Tracy was there (or showed up there later) and, as the night unfolded, it turned out that the "zombie" was...

...Tracy's mom.

Mrs. Mills (whom I had never before met) had legitimately been in an accident, and we must have arrived on the scene moments later. With her car tilted down in the ditch, she probably couldn't open her driver's side door, so she had to climb uphill to get the passenger's side door open and to clamber out of the car. She was probably too shell-shocked from the accident to say anything as she stumbled across the street toward us. We must have really seemed like punks--stopping and offering help to a person who was clearly in distress, and then yanking that help, almost literally, out of her grasp and abandoning her in the darkness.

I hope she's forgiven us.

I learned some important lessons from it all:

• First, most people are not psychotic, cannibalistic murderers.
• Second, if you're going to crash your car, make sure you do it in a well lit area, so you don't terrify the passersby.
• Third, when Good Samaritans stop to help, let them know you're harmless. You can do this by (a) answering them when they ask if you're okay and/or (b) wearing your "I'M NOT A ZOMBIE" t-shirt. (You might want to keep it in your glove box, just so it's handy when you need it.)

I hope those lessons are as helpful to you as they have been to me.

MOJ