The Ticking Clock - Russ Bedord

George was driving five  teenagers down a a country road on a cold, snowy, night. I was on the left side of the back seat and couldn't see because the windows were fogged—probably because the bodily heat from five condensed on the cold windows.

Apparently George couldn't see, either. He lost control and the car spun 'round and 'round on the icy road. It finally stopped spinning and slowly edged forward. Visibility was probably still bad because the front end of the car began to drop, and soon pointed downward, sinking into a pond beside the road.

As we sank, I shouted: “In the front—when we are underwater, open the window or door and swim to the surface! There is a pocket of air back here. We can last longer.”

We sank, and they probably escaped that way. Rich, on my right, panicked. I told him to take a breath and hold it, grabbed him by his collar and belt, forced him underwater, over the front seat and out the front window.

I filled my lungs from the pocket of air and followed, then swam for what might be the surface. The water was so cold, it compressed my chest, creating a strong desire to breathe, but I dared not. Finally, after a few seconds, air! But the bank was so step, there was no way to climb out.

Fortunately, George was there, hanging on to the broken post of the barbed wire fence that had been pulled into the water by the car. Though the fence was broken, up above it was still anchored. The only way up was to climb that barbed wire. George went up first. Bloody hands were a fair trade for survival. I followed.

We sat on the edge of the road, wet clothes freezing. I was not saying anything, but numbly thinking death by drowning was escaped only to face death from freezing. I imagine George was feeling the same.

We spied a building alongside the pond and sought its shelter. It was a hay barn. Pulling hay down around ourselves to stop from freezing, it absorbed the cold water and slowed the heat leaking from our bodies.

I don't know if I had drowsed, or how much time had passed. I became aware of sounds, voices, and lights flashing through the cracks of the board walls of the barn.

I exited the barn door. I saw he flashing lights of a police car and an officer flashing a light down into the water.

“There seem to be no survivors,” he said.

“We survived,” I said.

George and I were quickly retrieved from the barn, stripped, and wrapped in warmth. On the way to the hospital, we finally talked.

“Why only us?” George asked.

“Why hadn't the clock stopped ticking for us? I don't know,” I said. “Maybe because we weren't afraid to die.”

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