Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
The porch is rotted, the wood giving way in places. One big section is soft under my feet. I hurry my steps in search of more solid ground.
"Be careful," I call back to Atlas. "The porch isn't holding up well."
"At least the cabin didn't fall down around us," he mutters as if that were a real possibility.
I step onto solid ground, breathing a sigh of relief. I didn't even consider the possibility that the structure could collapse. I'm kind of glad I didn't consider it. That would have kept me up all night.
An ominous groaning sound comes from behind me as I stretch my arms over my head. I whip around just in time to see Atlas crossing through the weakest area of the porch.
"You should hurr…"
One minute, he's walking across the porch. The next, the rotted wood gives way beneath his feet.
"Shit!" he curses, wobbling as an entire section of wood splinters apart beneath his feet. He jolts forward, trying to get out of there, but the porch isn't done collapsing. The plank where he intended to land cracks in half, the floor of the porch becoming little more than a gaping maw of splintered wood and rusty nails.
He plummets through the broken floorboards as others come loose around him. I cry out, stumbling forward, only to immediately jump back as the entire right side of the porch shudders and then collapses. It pulls away from the cabin with a loud roar of sound that sends chills racing up my spine.
I watch in horror as the wood topples, landing directly on top of Atlas.
It's over as quickly as it began. The loud echoes fade, leaving an eerie, terrifying silence in its wake. I hold my breath for a moment, terrified the cabin is going to come down too. But it stands firm, whatever wood rot took the porch not having worked deeply enough through the cabin to topple it.
"Atlas!" I drop everything in my hands and race forward, flinging splintered boards aside in a frantic search. "Atlas!"
He doesn't answer me. He doesn't make a sound.
I sob his name, grabbing wood as fast as I can, trying to get him out. Rusty nails scrape my palms. Splinters gouge into my flesh. I don't care. He's under there, and he isn't answering me.
He's hurt.
Please, God, only let him be hurt. Don't let him be dead. Don't let him be dead. I repeat it like a mantra, tears dripping down my face, blood running down my hands from cuts.
"Atlas!" Oh, thank you Jesus. I can see him. He's at the edge of the collapsed structure, face down. I don't know if he's breathing, but he isn't moving. Another sob bursts from my lips, as I drop to my knees beside him, reaching for his hand.
I hold my breath, terror clogging my throat as I check for his pulse.
"Thank you. Oh, God, thank you," I sob, nearly collapsing when I find it. His heart is still beating. He isn't dead. I've never been so afraid in my life. "Atlas, wake up."
Despite shaking him, he doesn't move or make a sound. Relief turns to alarm and then another wave of panic rolls in. It's been at least five minutes since the porch collapsed. If he got knocked out, he should be waking up by now.
The fact that he isn't even moving is seriously concerning.
But I can't even assess him until he's out of harm's way. If the rest of the porch collapses, there's a good possibility it'll land right on top of him. He's still wedged beneath it, only a few feet of clear space above him.
I use clothes from my bag and a couple of small pieces of wood to face a brace for his neck to keep him immobile while I'm moving him. There isn't a lot of space to work with and I don't have time to make it perfect, but I do what I can and pray it's enough.
I grab his arm and slowly start dragging him out.
On a good day, he's a lot of man to move. On a day like today, when he's dead weight, he seems even bigger. And somehow so much more vulnerable at the same time.
I end up on my butt, with him partially draped across my lap so I can help stabilize his neck. I use my feet to propel us backward, ignoring the small rocks and weeds jabbing me. By the time I have him out of immediately danger, I'm sweating and crying, trying not to give into hysteria.
If I can't take care of the man I love when he's completely reliant on me to get him out of this alive, I have no business taking care of anyone. But he didn't even move through the entire ordeal, and that's not a good sign.