The media types, at first transfixed by Lisa Carver’s fate, now were focused on the scene down on the road. Not only were the official camerapersons capturing the event, everyone else had their phones out, getting video. There was a palpable sense of excitement coming from them. Sure, this was scary as shit, but what a story.

Albert Ruskin had given up trying to rescue his boss and was now standing several feet away from Sandra, shoulders slumped, head down, hand to his forehead. In his other hand, hanging by his side, was a cell phone.

Sandra approached cautiously from behind. “Mr. Ruskin?”

He raised his head and turned his head slowly. “Yes? Oh, Ms. Montrose.” The sharp, accusatory tone was gone from his voice. He spoke as though in shock.

“I’m so sorry,” Sandra said.

“I tried . . . to get the door open . . . tried to hold it.”

“I know.”

“Look,” he said, pointing to something several feet away. “Should I save it? In case they can . . . but it may be too late. Is there ice? Can we find some ice and . . . and . . . keep it cool?”

Sandra didn’t know, at first, what he was pointing at. But then she realized he was indicating Lisa’s severed leg. She swallowed, hard, to keep the bile from rising. Instead of walking over to the bloody limb, she walked over to the car, tentatively, worried that at any moment it might start moving. She got right to the window and peered in through the bloodied glass.

Red, smeared handprints.

Once her leg had been cut off, Lisa had no longer been held in position. She must have first reached down and, perhaps in panic, touched the wound. Then, her verbal commands ignored, she’d tapped away at the dashboard screen, trying to get the door to reopen. There were bloody fingerprints smeared across it.

Lisa lay sprawled across the seat, mouth open, her skin white as chalk. Half of her blood-soaked purse was visible beneath her. Sandra peered down into the footwell, saw the pool of blood down there. No wonder she was so pale. The blood had pretty much drained out of her. Perhaps most disturbing of all were her now open, lifeless eyes.

Walking back to where Ruskin was standing, she glanced over to the road, where one of the wooden roadside utility poles was starting to catch on fire, thanks to that flaming wire.

She said to Ruskin, “I wouldn’t worry about trying to preserve her . . . you know . . . her leg. She’s dead, Mr. Ruskin. Again, I’m so sorry.”

He looked at the blazing fire truck. “Even if she were alive, help’s not coming.”

“Not yet,” Sandra said. “They’ll figure it out.”

“They?”

“Don’t you have, like, Arrival tech support? Somewhere? Like Silicon Valley, or India? Can’t they stop this?”

Ruskin shook his head slowly. “They’re saying . . . we’re getting messages. Ransomware.”

“What?” Sandra said. “Some hackers caused this?”