He saw what was happening before it happened. He had no time to get to his feet—and he threw himself sideways, driving his coiled body in a tremendous lateral spring, as far away as he might from the rearmost car. But he was not far enough: the main bulk of the car was far from him as it came to an end of its drunken rolling, but the surrounding air was filled with flying debris from its wrenched and shattered frame. A great bruising weight struck him behind the shoulders. It drove all the air from his lungs and he rolled convulsively upon his back, fighting for power to breathe. Another weight, heavy and crushing and violent, fell across both legs, below the knees, and he felt the crunching of smashed bones and a searing, enveloping pain which flashed up his spine and into his head and exploded there and left him in unknowing darkness.
He struggled up out of the dark cone of insensibility. The noises had ended and there was no sound now except inside his head. His vision seemed blurred but his mind was clear. He knew everything, and his right hand still gripped the rough cloth of the coat which he must destroy. He tried to move and a flaming tongue of pain lashed up his legs and he felt the weight still upon them.
He rested, and a cold film of sweat ran into his eyes and stung them. With infinite care, he raised his body until he was sitting upright. With every movement the pain flamed in his legs but he gauged the flashes so that never would they get into his head again and deprive him of consciousness.
He laid the coat aside and got one hand to the thing upon his legs and felt it and tried its weight. It was jagged and irregular and metallic. And it was very heavy.
But he had to go away from here. And his shoulders and arms and back were inordinately strong. He braced himself upon the ground with his left hand—and with his right pulled up the metal mass and rolled from beneath it.
A wave of agony slid over him—but he ground his teeth and clenched his hands and rested, his lungs heaving. After a while breathing became easy—and he grew conscious that the monotonous, incessant noise, so lonely in the surrounding silence, was not inside his head. It was a low-pitched, human voice, repeating something over and over again, at absolutely regular intervals. He thought the sounds were words, but could not be sure.
He tied the coat around his neck, by its sleeves. The main bulk of the hindmost car, upturned and sprawling and surrounded by disordered heaps of its own wreckage, was to his left and further down the hill. The nearest pile was blazing with a happy, crackling flame—and the sight of it showed him what he must do. He must first destroy the coat in the fire and then try to drag himself away.
He began to move, pulling himself along by his hands. The droning, rhythmic voice grew louder, but he still could not distinguish words. He reached the little pile of burning timber and pulled the coat from his neck as he lay and thrust it into the flame. It was dry and the cloth was old and it caught at once and flared smokily while he watched.
He began to move again, dragging himself downhill towards the trees. The trend of the slope was carrying him through the wreckage but he did not care: this way was the easiest. He made agonized but fairly rapid progress until his right leg scraped against a piece of steel debris. The pain was so intense that he was forced to halt progress and struggle to master it.
The voice was close now, and me words it was making stamped themselves into his mind. It was a woman’s voice, and it was saying:
“I’m all right, Bob: are you all right, darling? . . . Come and help me, Bob: are you all right, darling? . . .”
It went on saying that, at exactly the same intervals. It never varied the spacing or the tone.
Otto lifted his head. He thrust his arms out before him and clutched at the glass and began to drag himself forward again.
“I’m all right, Bob,” said the voice. “Are you all right, darling? . . . Come and help me, Bob: are you all right, darling?”
He writhed on his slow and tortuous way. He traversed another yard or two, now close to the weird, tangled shapes of the wreckage, before he saw the two children.
They loomed right in his path, so that he would have to make a detour to get around them. They were quite small children, a boy and a girl. The boy seemed to be asleep. He was lying on his side, his cheek pillowed on his hand, but where his legs in their gaily striped pyjama trousers should have been was a viscous, semi-liquid pool. The little girl, her plump thighs rigid, seemed to be trying to stand upon her head—only, as became instantly plain to Otto’s wide and staring gaze, she had no head.
“I’m all right, Bob.” The voice was quite close to him now: it came from beneath a twisted, tent-like cluster of debris. “Are you all right, darling? . . . Come and help me, Bob: are you all right, darling?”