Jane was very confused. She panted heavily but wasn’t tired. And knew from her breath and her tremble that it was cold, but she felt warm. Though not for long when she looked down at herself. There was blood on her hands. Cuts all over her too. Even on her bare arms. And it was then that she realised she wasn’t wearing a coat. In fact, just a white camisole, and black jeans. And both garments were ripped and torn. From the crash? she wondered.
She tucked the gun into her waistband, and ran over to the pickup for shelter, for a jacket; warmth of some kind. Knife in hand. She thought perhaps in there she could find some indication of who she was.
As near as she could tell it was a Ram, but she couldn’t remember much else about that truck, or any truck for that matter. After rolling off the road, perhaps three or four times— who knows what it crashed into— it stopped in the snow bank while three of its passengers were flung from its interior. The truck was black but it was mostly dented now, all of the windows were smashed. Yet, the headlights were still shining, a light inside was aglow, and the familiar chime to alert the driver that a door was ajar.
Indeed, the front door on the drivers’-side looked like it had fallen off, and was likely adrift in the snow. Jane attempted to crawled in on her hands and knees, but cut herself instantly. Ow, she winced, and peered inside for something to put on her hands. Mittens? Gloves? A scarf?
Crouching further inside without using her hands to aid her, she climbed to the passenger side, and reached up to the glove compartment. Remarkably it had stayed shut in the wreck. And when Jane opened it, its contents fell on top of her. Among the papers, and pens, there was yet another gun. Leather gloves too. Bingo.
Now, can I get a coat? Jane rooted around, and found an uncharged mobile, and stuffed it into her pocket. While she was at it, she did the same with the other gun she found, though in the opposite pocket. But still there was no coat.
Finally she looked in the backseat, and saw another man there. Upside-down; restrained by his seatbelt. Dead? In her surprise she loudly gasped, and the noise made the man stir. Only unconscious after all, thought Jane.
But he was still quite dazed. There was a huge gash on his forehead, dripping. And as far as she could tell, his leg was broken the way it twisted. Unnaturally out of shape.
The man groaned, seemingly coming around. Jane prepared herself, and already had the knife outstretched. But she drew the gun from her pocket, and pointed that at the man as well.
Quite forcefully and in English, Jane asked “Who are you?”