by William Oday
Brother Ryan fell forward with his mouth at Elio’s ear. “I’m going to make you bleed on the inside. You’re going to wish you were dead.”
He no doubt would if this demented madman had his way.
Elio used his tongue to line up the sharpened end of the stick to the side. He bit down hard. With every ounce of strength in his failing body, he jerked his head and torso around.
The sharp point of the stick punched into the soft skin of Brother Ryan’s cheek. He howled and jerked back with it lodged there.
Elio spun underneath as Brother Ryan held the protruding stick. He kicked hard and caught the monk in the chest sending him sprawling backwards.
After a few minutes of fumbling with the ties around his wrists, he got free. He turned to see Brother Ryan whimpering in the corner holding his cheek where the jaws connected. The stick poked out from between his fingers. Blood spilled down his brown robe soaking it a darker hue.
“Help,” he said with gurgled words.
Elio gathered himself and then grabbed the lantern and the whip. He stared at Brother Ryan wondering what he should do.
He considered what this man had almost done to him. His eyes narrowed. “You’re bleeding. A lot. You may die. Good luck with that.”
He shouldered the shed’s metal door open and disappeared into the night.
33
The escape from the monastery turned out to be easier than Elio expected. For all the emphasis on discipline and treating people like property, they were terrible at basic security.
One of the work trucks at the central compound had keys left in the ignition. He’d fired it up and roared off before anyone was the wiser.
Another reason it was easier than expected was that Brother Ryan had chosen the dead of night for his surprise visit. A couple of Brothers at the entrance gate had waved at the approaching truck thinking it was one of the Brothers.
They dove out of the way when Elio almost ran them over.
He’d followed the winding roads out and then driven south on the 101 using the parking lights all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. He rounded the last bend and rolled to a stop. His eyes traced along the vast expanse of darkness that surely hid the bridge. He saw a faint glow emanating from the far side.
The last security checkpoint he’d passed through on the trip north.
They weren’t going to greet him with smiles and hugs. Bullets and fists were a better bet.
So, what did that leave?
He wasn’t going to swim across. Not in the middle of the night and not as beat up as he was. Probably not even in the noon day sun in the best shape of his life.
Plus, there were sharks in that water!
And he was a terrible swimmer.
Call it the curse of the city boy.
So, what then?
He could try to find a boat somewhere. How long would that take? And what happened when he found one? He’d never driven a boat before. He didn’t have the first clue how to start it, steer it, or drive it around the ocean.
The truck’s engine coughed and sputtered.
He gave it some gas to keep the old beater from dying.
This thing was a serious antique. A heavy lumbering beast made way back when engineers had never heard of the concept of peak oil.
It was a tank.
A tank.
An idea sprang into his mind.
A ridiculous idea.
A crazy idea.
But, it was better than swimming in freezing cold water with sharks. And he didn’t have time to come up with anything better. He had to get to Theresa’s house before the sun came up.
He could hide there and figure out what to do next.
But first, he had to survive the ridiculously crazy part of the plan.
He turned off the parking lights and hit the gas. The engine roared like a cranky hippo and slowly picked up speed.
He steered around the bend and drifted into the center of the road leading onto the bridge. He couldn’t go too fast because he could barely see a thing. He couldn’t go too slow because he might change his mind.
Cresting the slight hump in the bridge, the truck now started on the downhill half with the glow of the checkpoint ahead slowly growing brighter.
He got within a hundred yards before there was any response.
And then there was quite a response.
Lights flicked on all around the checkpoint. Two soldiers piled out of a guardhouse beside the road. They took up positions behind a couple of police cars that blocked the road. Black rifles in their arms pointed in his direction.
“Stop the vehicle!” a loudspeaker shouted.
Elio slammed his foot down until the floor stopped the gas pedal from skidding off the street.
The truck howled and continued to pick up speed.
Now fifty yards away.
“Stop the vehicle or we’ll open fire!”
The soldiers leaned into their rifles and sighted the truck.
Elio slumped down into the seat until he could barely see over the dash. He prayed that the truck was as strong and thick as advertised.
Now thirty yards away.
“Stop!”
A brilliant white light blinded Elio. He pinched his eyes shut and turned away from the painful glare.
But he kept his foot on the gas and his hand steady on the wheel.
PING.
PING. PING. PING.
Bullets hit the grill and ricocheted off.
The truck tore through the parked cars like a plow through soil. It flung them back and to the sides and barely slowed as it passed.
The light beyond Elio’s eyelids went dark and he blinked the world into focus just in time to follow the road left instead of drive off into the face of a rock wall.
Flickering stars and black holes filled his vision. He slammed on the brakes to avoid killing himself.
PING. PING.
PING. PING.
Perfect eyesight would have to wait. It wasn’t going to get better with a bullet in the back of his head.
He hit the gas and blinked through the contradictory images routing to his brain. His sight cleared as he followed the road into the city.
Another checkpoint ahead. The one at the perimeter fence where he’d picked up that damn briefcase.
And apparently they’d gotten the news.
Half a dozen soldiers stood across the road with their rifles raised at him. Behind them, another ran toward a Greyhound bus parked at an opening in the concrete barriers that lined both sides of the road.
Elio rammed through police cars but trying to smash through a bus was another matter.
He glanced to the left. Nothing but the dark water of the bay. He glanced to the right. The perimeter fence with loops of razor wire at the top and the concrete barrier at the base.
He’d hit that barrier head on and then do his best impersonation of the guy at the circus that gets shot out of a cannon.
He was too close to stop and try to lose them on foot.
He exhaled. That left one option.
Forward.
He stomped on the gas and watched the soldier at the bus climb up into the driver seat.
PING. PING. PING. PING.
He ducked as bullets hit metal.
The windshield shattered and jagged bits of glass avalanched over his head.
He peeked under the arm covering his face.
The Greyhound’s lights flicked on.
He was too far away. He wasn’t going to make it.
Ahead of the line of soldiers, two others threw strips of something across the road.
The bus pulled onto the road.
He definitely wasn’t going to make it.
The truck’s tires rolled over the strips and exploded. The steering wheel jerked to the side and he wrenched it back straight. He struggled to steer as it yanked back and forth.
The bus continued forward now blocking half the road.
PING. PING. PING.
The line of soldiers jumped out of the way as he crashed through the gate.
The bus blocked three of the four lanes.
Elio jerked the steering wheel left. The truck fishtailed toward the narrowing opening as the bus continued forward.
They arrived at the same time.
The bus smashed into the right bumper slamming the truck into the barrier and the steering wheel into his chest.
SCREEEEECH.
Sparks flew as the truck scraped through and broke free on the other side. He stayed on the gas until he got to the first street corner.
He steered right and the metal rims lost traction. The truck spun around and ground to a stop with him facing back toward the checkpoint and the bus blocking the road.
Elio wiped at the cold sweat gathering on his brow. He noticed his hand vibrating like a can of paint in a mixer.
Lights flashed as several soldiers climbed over the barrier next to the bus. They pointed at him and shouted.
Elio kicked the door open and eased out of the truck.
He had to make it to Theresa’s house.
He took a deep breath.
Did he have it in him to keep going?
He wasn’t sure. All he could do was try.
He pushed into a staggering jog and cut around the corner.
The sweeping lights behind fell away as the shouting voices grew louder.
34
MASON did his level best to maintain a calm and professional demeanor. He knew it was only half-successful.
“Sir, I’m telling you I know this kid. He didn’t do it. Not knowingly.”
The President’s eyebrows furrowed together. “What he did or did not know will be determined in due course. Now, focus your attention on your job!”
The last part came out as a yelled whisper because they weren’t far removed from the audience that had been waiting when they arrived a few minutes ago.
The sun peeked between two buildings, burning through a dissipating morning fog.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Mason replied. “It’s just that I made a promise to his father to protect him and now I have no clue where he is or even if he’s still alive.”
The President’s gaze hardened. “Do you think I would send him to his death?”
Mason wished that he had an easy answer to that.
“No, Sir. Of course not.”
“Then let me remind you that the Vice-President was killed in the attack. The people of this nation rightfully want the party responsible brought to justice. A lot of them want that kid dead. And they’re not opposed to making it happen themselves. You saw what happened at the Capitol! You barely saved him from a mob!”
Mason glanced at the ground.
Elio did need to be kept safe while the truth was sorted out. But whisking him off to parts unknown wasn’t a reassuring alternative.
The President gripped Mason’s shoulder and leaned in close. “A northerner broke into the Green Zone last night and vanished. Another attack could happen any second. You need to understand that this country’s problems are bigger than yours or mine. Get your mind on your job, or get a new job.”
The snarl on his face melted away as he turned to face the small crowd.
He smiled and nodded as he ascended the steps to the stage.
Mason’s job was starting to feel like one PR event after another.
A garbage truck was backed up to the side of the stage. A podium and a microphone were on the opposite end of the stage. Enough distance, Mason supposed, to keep the smell to a tasteful minimum for the leader of the free world.
Midas stepped behind the podium and thanked everyone for showing up on such short notice.
“How many of you are tired of wheeling your trash cans several blocks each week to a central collection point?”
Numerous voices mumbled agreement.
“Me, too!”
The crowd chortled at the thought of the President doing such a menial task. One that every one of them did but yet couldn’t imagine a President doing.
“Today, I’m pleased to announce yet another brick laid in the rebuilding of this great nation. We have hot water. We have electricity. We have phones.” He gestured at the garbage truck. “And now we again have garbage service.”
What good was garbage service without essential liberty?
The small crowd roared their approval.
Good enough, apparently.
The applause echoed off the buildings of the narrow street and raced away down the hill in front of the truck. The President had chosen this specific spot, without consultation with Mason, because of the amazing view.
Several people in the crowd held their newly acquired phones in the air snapping pictures that would’ve been pasted across social networks if there’d been any to paste them on.
That was one modern brick yet to be laid, and Mason wasn’t convinced it ever needed to be.
A woman stepped forward carrying a digital camera with a large lens hanging off the front in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other. She wore a badge that indicated she was a photographer from the Daily News Report. “Mr. President, can I get a pic with you next to the truck?”
A flash of a grimace flitted across the President’s face before the studied smile returned. He knew a good PR pic when he saw one. “Of course, young lady.”
He moseyed over to the back of the garbage truck and stopped a few feet away.
The woman tried to hold the camera up but the weight required both hands. She held up the cup. “This one’s done. Think you can toss it for me?”
The President’s nostrils flared and the muscles in his jaw rippled. “Anything for a colleague of the former Mr. Hurst.”
A shadow darkened the woman’s face.
Mason edged closer, ready to intervene if she got any bad ideas.
The President bent down and accepted the empty cup. He marched over and tossed it into the open compactor. He flashed a thumbs up. “Let’s keep this city clean.”
The woman snapped several pics, along with a number of phones doing the same behind her.
“Does that thing work?” she asked.
“Of course, it does.”
The photographer shrugged. “Looks like you dug it up out of a junk yard.”
She had a point. It didn’t sport the usual polished sheen associated with anything the President let get within a hundred feet of him.
The President snapped his fingers. He pointed to one of his support staff. “Start the compactor!”
The clueless guy looked like a bug stuck on a pin. “The sanitation guy left. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The President pointed at the compactor. “Now.”
The tone didn’t invite dissent.
The poor guy shuffled over to the cab of the truck and climbed inside. A few seconds later, the truck shuddered and coughed to life.
“Start the compactor!” the President shouted above the engine.
The staff worker leaned out of the cab and shook his head. “I don’t know how to start it!”
“Do it!”
The guy disappeared back into the cab.
The President snarled in anger. He stomped over to the controls on the back of the truck. He leaned out and stepped onto the bumper as he pounded on a large button.
The compactor revved up.
The guy in front leaned out. “I think I found it!”
The truck lurched forward and he fell out onto the pavement.
Midas slipped and fell into the compactor as the truck jumped forward again and began to roll downhill.
The mouth of the compactor started to close as the truck rolled away.
35
Mason raced across the stage and leapt through the air reaching for the hold bar on the back deck. His fingers started to close around it when the truck lurched forward again. The bar jerked loose and his foot slipped off the bumper.
His shin smacked metal and he tumbled to the street. He crashed to a stop and then
was up again. He whipped his arms back and forth, running all out to catch up before the truck left him behind.
Another dozen loping strides and he leapt onto the back and managed to grab the bar this time.
“Help!” the President screamed from inside the compactor. “Shut down the compactor!”
Mason mashed the red emergency stop button but it didn’t stop. The whirring grinding noise continued as the compactor continued to close, now with less than three feet before it sealed shut.
Sealed shut and crushed the life out of the President.
“Get on top of it!” Mason shouted.
“I’m trying!”
Mason hammered the cut-off again but it didn’t work.
The truck bounced over something in the road and nearly flung Mason off.
He hung on to the support bar and leaned down into the compactor. A reek of hot puke mixed with sweet funk washed over him. His stomach clenched tight and his eyes burned. He swallowed hard to keep from adding his own vomit to the mess. He shoved his arm into the pile of decomposing stink and bumped into an arm.
He latched on and pulled as hard as he could. The thick sludge and plastic bags slurped and burped as the President’s body slowly broke free.
Mason had him halfway out when the truck slammed into the side of a car and came to a jarring stop.
The impact wrenched Midas’ arm from his grasp and threw him backward onto the street.
Mason landed hard on his hips and elbows, gritting his teeth as pain shot through his body. He staggered up and watched in horror as the mouth of the compactor continued to bite shut. Less than a foot of space before it closed completely.
“Shut it down!” a voice echoed from inside.
Mason’s eyes darted around.
He was about to be responsible for letting the President of the United States of America get killed by a garbage truck.
The tragic comedy would’ve flattened him like Jupiter’s gravity if he’d had half a second to acknowledge it.
Instead, he spotted the car they’d slammed into. The collision had ripped the door off.
It was that or nothing.
He ran for it, grabbed the frame, ignoring the shards of glass slicing into his fingers, lined up the throw and let it fly.
