The bottle fell from Cole’s hand. He swept rain from his eyes and looked upriver again.

It had all happened so fast—the shotgun blast, the roar of the pickup, the crash.

For a moment he had thought everything might be okay. By some miracle the bus had managed to stop before going over the side of the bridge.

Then, in the next instant, it was gone.

“Holy fucking shit!”

He leaned out over the cliff. The bus had hit the water front-end first, then righted itself, wheels down. It was moving downriver now, toward him, pitching back and forth against the rocks like driftwood.

Cole jumped onto the bike. If he hurried down to the main road, he could head off the bus farther downriver. Then he could … what? He’d have to figure it out when he got there.

He kicked the starter. The engine fired up immediately … then gurgled and died. He kicked it again to no effect.

“Shit!”

He ran back to the cliff. The screams were clearer now, closer. The bus was almost even with him.

There was no time to think.

He took three steps back, sprinted forward, and leaped off the edge.

His legs buckled like twigs when he hit the water. Liquid filled his lungs as he plunged deeper and deeper. He finally made it back to open air coughing and sputtering. He thrashed his limbs to keep his head above the surface, catching only intermittent glimpses of the bus, fast approaching. Fighting the current, he swam toward midstream, trying to reach it before it passed.

The current changed direction and rammed him against the blunt edge of a boulder. When he came back up, the bus was right over him. He lunged away to avoid being plowed over. A wall of water blocked his view as the vehicle moved past. He reached out blindly and took hold of an open window. He held on as the bus dragged him along.

A hand shot out of the window and seized Cole’s arm. Then a face appeared, the eyes wide with terror.

“Help me, Logan! Oh, God, help me!”

It was O’Dell Lamar. Cole recognized the shaven head, now spilling blood from a deep gash at the crown.

Behind O’Dell was a scattering of black-uniformed men, trapped under bus seats that had been ripped from their bolts. The players were twisted into impossible positions. Their limbs flailed as they fought to keep their heads above the rising water. Their cries were relentless. Helmets, gloves, towels, sweatbands, bandages, tape rolls, and play charts floated all around.

Looking down the length of the bus, Cole saw other players, like O’Dell, whose shoulder pads hindered their escape through the windows. Only their heads fit through the small openings. Coach Tucker, at the front of the bus, was prevented escape by his girth alone.