by Sam Subity
We fishtailed as he punched the gas. The tires struggled to find a grip on the snow-covered freeway. Finally, they caught and we lurched forward, steadily picking up speed.
I watched the needle on the speedometer climb, but the motorcycle guy was right there with us the whole time. Pacing us. Snow flying from his enormous tires like he was cutting through water. He regarded me with chill malevolence, or what I guessed would have looked something like that if he’d had any eyes. Was this the same guy who had been in our home last night? I had the sudden sensation that all the snow from outside had coalesced into an icy ball inside my gut.
“He’s still there!” I shouted.
“I know!” Dad’s voice was tight. “Give me a minute. I’m trying to lose him.”
“Who … what is he … it anyway?”
At first I thought Dad didn’t hear me. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost too quiet to hear. Somehow the deathly calm in his voice freaked me out even more. “I’m not sure. But they warned me someone might try to stop us from reaching Vale.”
Stop us? Why would someone want to stop us? My quick, shallow breaths started to fog up the window. I wiped the glass with my coat sleeve, which seemed like a mistake as soon as I’d done it. Did I really want to see my own death in full high-def?
As if he’d heard our conversation, the corner of the biker’s mouth curled up in a wicked side grin. I slowly reached down and locked my door. Not that it would do any good if he decided he wanted to come in. He looked like he could tear the door right off.
That’s when he started inching closer. I noticed nasty-looking spiky things protruding from the hubs of both his tires. Our little Honda was built for fuel economy, not demolition derbies. It was only marginally safer than a tin can on wheels. So I was pretty sure we were toast if he got anywhere near us with those.
“Spiky things! Spiky thinggggsss!” I whined. In my blind panic, my mental state had basically reverted to a kindergarten level.
Dad glanced away from the road briefly, then gritted his teeth. “Grab on to something!” But I was already so tightly wedged into all our stuff that I wasn’t going anywhere.
A second before Big and Ugly turned us into a kebab, Dad jerked the wheel to the left, skidded through the snow spray tailing a big rig, and tucked in beside the rig’s trailer. He hugged the side of the trailer, trying to keep it between us and the giant motorcycle. From my vantage point, I could just make out the motorcycle’s tires from underneath the other side of the rig.
The giant rider leaned forward so his head was below the trailer and stared right at me, then wiggled his fingers at me with a terrifying grin. Then he slowed and disappeared behind the back of the truck.
“He’s coming around from the back!” I shouted. “I don’t think we’re gonna be able to lose him!”
“So close. We’re so close to Vale,” Dad said, banging the steering wheel with the heel of his hand at each syllable.
Then he glanced toward the back of the car before his gaze found mine. By the look in his eyes, I could tell he was trying to make a decision.
Finally he said calmly, “I need you to take the wheel.”
“Whoa! What?!” I exploded. “Why? Where are you going? I don’t even know how to drive. I …” I trailed off, close to hyperventilating.
He reached back and took my hand, the way he used to do when I fell and hurt my knee or had a bad day at school. His eyes flicked from the road to the rearview mirror, catching mine.
“Abby,” he said in a calm voice. “I really need your help right now.”
“But—”
“I know. I know. Your training hasn’t covered anything like this. But it was as much about handling yourself in danger as it was about any specific combat skills. This is what you trained for. You can do it.”
I took a deep breath. Nodded my head. I couldn’t let him down.
“Here’s all you need to know,” he said. “Steering wheel. Gas on the right. Brake on the left. No big deal.” He smiled at me reassuringly.
Normally he would never dream of even letting me back the car out of the driveway. And believe me, I’ve tried. But this time we weren’t just cruising the neighborhood to pick up milk and eggs either.
“Where will you be?” I asked again.
“Just keep us on the road. I have an idea.”
I leaned forward and grabbed the wheel with both hands. He slid under my arms toward the passenger seat while keeping his foot on the gas, and I awkwardly catapulted my body into the driver’s seat. It reminded me of a game of Twister, except we were doing eighty and the consequence of losing was a fiery death.
I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel. Keep us on the road. That didn’t seem so …
The car wobbled nauseatingly on the icy asphalt like an oversized, out-of-control snowboard as I jammed my foot on the gas pedal. Dad disappeared over the back seat. His head and arms came back into view as he reached forward and yanked open a box in the front seat. The familiar smell of old books filled the car.
“What are you gonna do?” I asked. “Hit him with the Oxford Shakespeare?”
He grunted and dug through the box, scooping things out haphazardly into the footwell like he was trying to get to something on the bottom. Finally, with a cry of triumph, he sat back, hauling out something that I couldn’t see from the corner of my eye.
I flicked my eyes to the rearview mirror to see what he was doing. At the same moment, the motorcycle’s headlight blazed through our rear window as it rounded the back of the tractor trailer, silhouetting Dad holding what looked like a giant crossbow.
“Where did you get that?” I cried out in surprise. Sure, I’d practiced with crossbows before, but those were toys compared to this one. “Is that a—”
“Deathsinger?” he finished for me. “Yeah. Used to be your mom’s. It’s just a little insurance policy I keep around.”
This day was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. I was sure I’d wake up soon to the smell of bacon frying and find out it was all a super-intense dream.
The smash of glass brought me back to reality. A frigid wind suddenly swirled and clawed through the cabin of the car. Surprised, I swerved and skidded before regaining control of the wheel. The semi next to us blared its horn. I thought we’d been hit. But when I jerked my head to look, I saw that Dad had smashed out the back window of the car.
“What are you doing?” I yelled over the noise of the wind.
“Trying to get a clear shot.”
“Yeah, well, maybe warn me next time! Or open a window!”
“Sorry!”
Darth’s voice again: “In one mile, use the right lane to take the exit ramp to Eleventh Street.”
That was going to be a slight problem. Somehow I had to get over three lanes. In a snowstorm. And through a semitruck. I couldn’t go around from behind with the biker back there, so that left somehow getting past it in front.
“Hold on! I’m gonna see if I can get around this thing,” I shouted to him.
“Okay, wait a minute till I get this shot off!” he yelled back. I glanced at the rearview again. Dad was crouched over the back seat with a sharp black arrow notched in the crossbow. The motorcycle was almost on us.
Thwack! The arrow erupted from the rear of the car. But the wind caught it, sending it arcing harmlessly away. Still, the motorcycle slowed a bit, keeping a more respectful distance.
Then the rider reached behind his back and slung what looked like a small cannon over his shoulder. I didn’t need any more encouragement. My foot crushed the gas pedal to the floor, and we leapt forward, the little engine whining like a speeding lawn mower.
Finally we cleared the front of the semi. Right as I cut the wheel sharply to change lanes, I heard the boom of the gun. The cab of the big rig was vaporized where we’d been not two seconds before. The whole speeding mass pitched forward, the rear of the trailer swinging out in a wide arc right toward us.
I vaguely heard Darth’s vo
ice intone, “Take the exit on the right.” But my eyes were transfixed on the approaching steel death that was about to pulverize us. I couldn’t get any more speed out of the car. The giant hunk of sparking metal screeched toward us in slow motion. We’re dead. We’re dead ran through my mind. Then, following some deep instinct, I cut the wheel at the last minute and, miraculously, the semi missed us, screaming by within inches of our rear bumper.
On the GPS, Darth complained, “Recalculating.” I reached out and backhanded it off the dashboard.
In my side mirror, I saw the motorcycle had somehow avoided the mess too. It was only us and him out here now, with the semi sprawled across the lanes, blocking the flow of traffic behind us.
Dad patiently worked to nock another arrow in the crossbow. I doubted the giant would miss again, so this one had to count. He took aim as the motorcycle closed the distance between us. Closer. Closer. I wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.
Then the crossbow twanged again. I cringed, waiting for something to happen. I was sure he’d missed again. But the single headlight wavered slightly, then wobbled and careened off toward the shoulder and disappeared in the swirling snow.
“Got him!” Dad shouted. “Not bad for an English major, eh?”
And none too soon.
“Take the exit on the right,” Darth commanded again from the darkness of the footwell.
I jerked the wheel to catch the off-ramp. We tore through the dark, snowy streets of Minneapolis. I’m pretty sure I broke about every traffic rule in the book, but I didn’t let my foot off the gas until we skidded to a halt in front of a huge stone building with windows glowing welcomingly against the frozen night.
For a moment I sat there in stunned silence, “The Imperial March” playing tinnily from the GPS in celebration of our arrival. That’s when I noticed I hadn’t heard from Dad since the freeway.
I turned to the back seat. He looked like he was asleep amid the pile of stuff. Then I noticed a red stain seeping out against the mustard-yellow upholstery.
“DAD!” I shouted.
I threw the car door open and staggered out into the snowy night. With fingers half-frozen, I fumbled to open the back door. Finally I managed to yank it wide and stood there staring down at the unconscious form of my dad slumped in the back seat. He looked strangely gray in the dome light of the car. I knelt in the snow and took his hand in mine.
He stirred, half opening his eyes.
“Dad!” I cried, tears choking in my throat. “Stay with me. I’m right here. Just focus on my face. We’ll get you some help.”
He smiled groggily up at me as snowflakes swirled into the car and settled onto his face and hair. “You did it. You got us here. That’s my girl. My girl …”
Then his eyes drifted closed.
Words formed in my brain. Help … help … But they fell uselessly from my lips in a hoarse whisper.
I spun around and studied the dark night, but it was an empty, pitiless void. The snow that had looked so soft and magical earlier now felt like a swarm of tiny insects stinging icily against my face. “HELP! HELP!” I screamed, at last finding my voice, but the storm seemed to swallow up the words almost as soon as they left my mouth.
I turned back to my dad, trying to see where he was injured. Should I move him? No, they always say not to do that, right? That moving him could hurt him more? I squeezed his hand tightly, not sure if it was more for my comfort or his. Tears of frustration started to run down my cheeks. “I don’t know what to do, Dad,” I cried. “I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …”
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. With a yelp of surprise, I whirled around. It was a girl about my age. Her dark eyes studied me briefly and then looked past me into the car.
“May I?” she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she knelt beside me in the snow.
She lightly pressed two fingers against Dad’s neck and looked down at her wristwatch. In the middle of the watch’s white dial, a white unicorn’s hooves pointed to the minute and hour. It matched her rainbow-striped unicorn backpack. I was transfixed by the stark contrast of the white snowflakes as they fell and melted against her long black hair. The strands of hair were tinted different colors at the tips like they’d been dipped in a rainbow. More snow falling. Melting.
I startled like I was waking from a daydream and glanced toward the frozen darkness, wondering where she’d come from. She’d seemingly materialized out of nowhere. When I looked back at her, she was lifting Dad’s jacket to get a better look at the wound.
“Should I … ?” I started to ask, but she seemed to anticipate the question.
“Ambulance is on its way,” she said without looking at me. “Help should be here soon.”
As if on cue, the wail of a siren split the night air, and soon flashing red lights pushed back against the darkness as an ambulance and fire truck screeched to a stop behind us. Soon they had my dad on a stretcher with a thick wool blanket tucked tightly around him and an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.
I was still holding his hand when I felt someone throw a blanket over my shoulders and try to lead me gently away. But I angrily shrugged them off and climbed into the back of the ambulance as the paramedics loaded him in. No other option was possible. I had to keep holding his hand. If I let go, I felt somehow that he’d slip away into the darkness and never return. And I’d be alone. All alone.
I studied the small crowd that had gathered through the rear windows of the ambulance as we pulled away, but the girl was gone.
“Abby?”
My head jerked upward as I startled awake, sending a pile of magazines sliding from my lap to the floor. I blinked and looked around at the room. In the soft light cast by a pair of squat table lamps, a dozen unoccupied armchairs lined two walls. On another wall, a gentle cascade of water trickled into a pool while soothing piano music filtered in from overhead.
“Abby Beckett?”
I turned my head and saw a woman in a white lab coat standing in the entrance to the room wearing red-framed glasses. Her silvery, curly hair was tucked neatly behind her ears.
Oh, right. The hospital waiting room. A clock on the wall read 4:13 a.m.
“Yes, I’m Abby Beckett,” I said, sitting up a little straighter in my chair and jamming a rogue wisp of hair back under my baseball cap.
“Hello, Abby, I’m Dr. Swenson. I’ve been taking care of your father.”
I grasped the arms of my chair and half rose in anxious anticipation. “How is he? Will he be okay?”
She held up her hands reassuringly. “Yes, not to worry. He’s just come out of surgery, and all his vital signs are stable.”
“Oh wow, that’s”—I slowly exhaled and sank back into my chair, thinking of all the worst-case scenarios that had played through my brain over the past several hours—“such a relief. Can I go see him?”
“In a little bit, yes. We’re still running some tests, but those should be done soon.”
I frowned. “Tests? What kinds of tests?”
She took the seat next to me and put her hand on my arm comfortingly. “Nothing to be concerned about. Your father hasn’t regained consciousness since you arrived at the hospital, so we want to make certain we’re covering all our bases.”
My hands tightened around the armrests of my chair. Was there something she wasn’t telling me? “And in the meantime?”
“We wait.”
And so we waited. Tests followed more tests with no conclusive results. The morning slowly blurred into afternoon and finally dinnertime with no change in his condition. But I held on tenaciously to one thing: He was still alive. That’s what mattered. He was still alive.
The hospital administration tried to put me up for the night in a separate room for family members, but I quickly nixed that. Dad liked to say my superpower was stubbornness, and I employed it fully in wearing them down until they threw up their hands and let me camp out in the chair at his bedside. Where I finally fell asleep. And dream
ed of fire.
After my mom’s death I’d been plagued for months by strange dreams of flames. Intense heat. Burning. Sometimes even the voice of a child crying. Those dreams had finally subsided, but now they returned as dark and terrifying as ever. When I finally gave up on sleep the next morning after a fitful night, the bedside clock read just past six a.m. I dismissed the nightmares as fever dreams produced by my exhausted brain and opted to focus instead on helping my dad get better.
As I unfolded from the chair and stood up, I took in Dad’s still form. For the first time ever, he looked human—vulnerable—amid the tangle of tubes and wires. I watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, not completely trusting the heart monitor. The doctors had assured me he was stable and would be okay, but right now I was only trusting what I could see with my own two eyes.
His hand felt cold when I took it in mine and studied his face. “Daddy?” I said softly, resurrecting a name I hadn’t used in a long time. He’d been strictly “Dad” for as long as I could remember. “Daddy, can you hear me?”
There was no stirring or change to his steady breathing. I’d never noticed the slight graying of the hair at his temples. Or the wrinkle of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Not that I normally sat by his bedside and studied his face while he slept. That would be, well, creepy. But this evidence of age caused my breath to hitch for a second. I’d only ever seen him as young. Vibrant. Full of life.
As I stood there quietly, I was suddenly overcome with a sense of wrongness. In the way that dreams evaporate like smoke when you wake up, I had a faint inkling of something not right, but the more I focused on the feeling, the more it slipped away.
“Bryn?” I called, thinking maybe Dad’s nurse was nearby out in the hall. No reply. Then I felt it: the sensation of a presence nearby, just like on the night we’d left home. My blood turning to ice, I quickly spun and surveyed the room. But it was empty. Only the two of us.
Then why were the hairs on my arms standing up?
Suddenly there was movement at the edge of my vision. I jerked my head in that direction. There was only the wall with its large double window, the shade pulled down against the night. But something was off about the window. Its shade was outlined in the faintest red. Almost like something behind it was glowing. As I watched with morbid fascination, the red glow seemed to shift and move. Almost like flickering flames.
