by Carson, Gary
The fence was like fifteen feet high, topped with barbed wire, and the door to the shack was locked with a dead bolt. We headed back towards the burning warehouse, keeping to the shadows and scanning the buildings for an exit. The cold rain woke me up a little and I could feel the panic squirming in my gut like a slimy tapeworm. We were blocked in on both sides. The patrol cars and fire engine were going to roll through in a couple minutes and the first cops had already reached the warehouse. If we went back there, they'd catch us for sure.
Arn yelled something and we huddled in the shadows, bumping heads to hear each other over the rain.
"We're screwed." He coughed into his fist, his hair plastered all over his face. "The rest of them must be in front of the warehouse – in the parking lot or something. Off to the sides."
"They're all over the place."
"So what now?" He dragged a sleeve across his mouth. "We're dead if we stay here."
"Whatever we do," Brown said, "we better do it fast. We've got to get at least a hundred miles away before we're safe."
"Shut the hell up!" Arn yelled. "Just shut up about it!"
We splashed through a puddle under a streetlight and stopped by a row of garage doors – all of them locked. Brown lurked by my side, but he never said a thing. When I looked at him, he stared back like a drowned zombie. He was dead on his feet and I wasn't much better.
"Take this," he said, handing me the suitcase full of cash. "I can't carry it anymore and the bills are probably marked. Maybe you can use it if we get out of this."
The suitcase was bulky and heavy, the last thing I needed. I figured I'd never get a chance to spend any of the money and lugging the thing around would just slow me down, but I couldn't bring myself to ditch it.
"Get out of the light!" Arn yelled.
We moved into the shadows, looking back at the headlights working their way towards us in the rain. The cops were taking their time, slowed by debris in the alley, flashing a spotlight on doors and windows. Sirens passed a couple blocks away and I could hear a bunch of them converging in front of the warehouse. We were almost back to the place now, maybe fifty yards from the fire. The lunatics were still blasting at each other inside, trapped in their bloody freakout, but it sounded like the shooting was starting to die down. Then a stray round smashed through a window near the roof of the bulding, blasting glass across the alley. Arn and Brown ducked. My head was so scrambled I hardly noticed.
"Over here," Arn called, walking over to some dumpsters and pointing at a dark, vertical slot in the wall. "Maybe we can get through here."
We crowded around him to check it out. A narrow space ran between the garage and the building next door, but it was only a couple feet wide and filled with all kinds of junk: iron rods, trash, sheets of rusted metal. Twenty or thirty feet away, framed by the dripping walls, the rain fell past a streetlight on the other side of a boxcar.
"The tracks run back there," Arn said. "Maybe we can follow them to West Grand or something. Pick up a car."
"You've got to be kidding."
The space reeked of mold and ooze, dead rats and oily water. I caught a whiff of raw sewage and pulled back with my stomach in my throat.
"No way," I said.
"Can we even fit through there?" Brown asked.
"Not a chance." Arn checked the alley in both directions. "Come on. Keep looking."
We spread out again, sticking to the shadows and hoping that the cops moving up behind us couldn't see us through the rain. I walked over to the next building, tried a door, then peered through a window covered with security mesh. Inside, an exit sign glowed behind stacks of boxes, reflecting on a rolltop desk and a row of file cabinets along a wall. The room looked warm and dry: if we could get in there, maybe we could find a way out before they secured the alley. I tugged at the window mesh, cutting my fingers, but it was screwed to the frame and I couldn't yank it loose. I was hunting around for something to use as a crowbar when a light flashed to my right – in the direction of the warehouse. I heard a popping noise, but it didn't register.
Sparks struck off a dumpster.
Something buzzed past my ear.
Brown was standing beside me and he suddenly ducked, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the light in the window. He yelled something, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. The rain was coming down hard now. It battered the pavement, drumming on a pile of sheet metal leaning against the building.
"Get down!" he yelled in my face. "Get down!"
Arn ran by, heading in the wrong direction, shouting and pointing at the warehouse. Brown stumbled after him, tripping over a pot hole, still carrying his precious briefcase. Something had spooked them, but I couldn't tell what. The squad cars and fire engine were still about a block away, a cluster of red and white lights throbbing like a submerged volcano. I looked back at the fire behind the warehouse, but there was so much smoke down there I couldn't see crap for a minute. Then the wind shifted, clearing the smoke away, and I saw somebody in the alley.
It was Baldy.
The bastard was still alive. He'd found a way out somehow and now he was standing by the wrecked Lexus – I could see him clearly by the glare of the flames. He had a gun in his hand and the muzzle flashed a couple times when he fired again, trying to pick me off. A slug smacked into a trash can. The window shattered beside me.
I grabbed the suitcase and took off running.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
That rat-infested space between the buildings was our only way out. Arn went in first, ducking under a board and squeezing through the junk with his back against one of the walls. A stack of pipes clattered in the dark. Something squealed and brushed past my feet. I waved Brown in and checked the alley while he tried to squirm into the slot, fumbling with his briefcase and stumbling over a pile of boxes. A couple shots rang out from the direction of the warehouse.
"Move it!" I gave Brown a shove.
The wind had shifted again, spreading a cloud of ashes and smoke through the alley. At first, I couldn't see Baldy anywhere, then I spotted him crouching behind a dumpster next to a row of garages about thirty feet away. He had his back to me and he was peering around the edge of the dumpster, looking back at the warehouse where the column of flames licked at the rain and pulsing Mars lights. I couldn't tell what he was looking at – the alley was still deserted. Then I saw a uniformed cop and some guy in a trench coat run through the glare of the fire and duck down beside the Lexus. Somebody else had escaped from the warehouse.
Baldy let off a couple shots when they broke cover and the cop fired back, tripping over his feet and tumbling across the pavement. The shooting roused the squad cars moving in from the other direction; a spotlight kicked on to my right and a hazy beam swept past me through the smoke and rain. Baldy just ignored it. He stood up and sighted along the dumpster, then he fired again and the Lexus exploded, the gas tank going up in a ball of flames that lifted the rear wheels off the pavement and scattered parts across the alley.
I ducked against the wall, my heart pounding.
Brown had vanished into the space between the buildings. I squeezed in behind him and pressed against the wall, holding the suitcase in one hand and trying to feel my way along with the other. It was hard going in the dark – slippery and cramped, water trickling down the moldy walls. I had to shuffle sideways, pushing junk out of the way, ducking under two-by-fours, climbing over piles of rotting boxes that broke under my weight. The others were just in front of me, two shadows squirming in a rectangle of rainy light. I'd gone ten feet, maybe, when a siren kicked on behind me and almost gave me a stroke. Red and white lights flashed across the wall and a squad car rolled by in the alley, cherries throbbing, a cop hunched over the wheel in the glow of the dash. I waited until they'd passed, then I started moving again, rats scurrying through the trash at my feet.
#
We came out by a row of boxcars on a siding.
It was dark back there. Weeds rustled behind the buildings – a row of grain e
levators, loading docks and factories with night lights in their windows. The rain banged on a tin roof and runoff splashed from a broken drain pipe, flooding a ditch that ran beside the tracks. I could hear freeway traffic and the sound of metal crashing to the north: cranes loading a container ship in the harbor. We ran around the boxcars, stumbled across some ballast and came out on a main line running for miles in both directions. A green semaphore winked in the distance.
"What happened?" Arn yelled while we blundered along the tracks. "Where is he?"
"I don't know." I tripped over a tie, the suitcase banging my leg. "A couple guys got out of the warehouse and he started shooting at them. The cops just went by."
"Is he still after us?"
"I think they trapped him in the alley."
Nothing happened for a couple minutes and we slowed to a walk, panting and coughing, hunched against the wind. A bell clanged up ahead. The rails were humming.
"Where the hell are we?" Arn kept his voice down, but I don't think anybody could've heard us over the rain and sirens. "You ever see this place before?"
"I can't tell." I pointed at a glare on the horizon. "That looks like the Port, so West Grand's back there someplace – off to the left a couple blocks." I pointed at the semaphore. "It's down that way, I think, but what do we do when we get there?"
"Find a car, dumbass. We got to find a car."
"That's West Oakland," Brown said.
"You got a better idea?" Arn hesitated. "Shit. There's more of them."
He pointed down the tracks to the south. I turned around and saw a group of flashing lights go by in the distance – squad cars crossing the line on their way to the warehouse. The fire glowed over the rooftops and I could hear yelling and gunshots when the wind dropped off for a couple seconds. We huddled in a circle on the tracks and tried to figure out what to do.
"They're everywhere," I said. "We better try for West Grand before they get their act together."
"Can't we go some other way?" Brown pointed at a jumble of damp lights to the east. "Emeryville's a couple miles in that direction – on the other side of the cloverleaf."
"We'd never make it." I coughed up some gunk. "Too many canals and rail yards and crap. The waste plant's back there somewhere and the whole area's fenced off. Besides, we'd never make it across the highway."
"We'd end up by the toll plaza," Arn said. "Cops all over the place. Fifteen lanes of traffic."
"What time is it?" Brown asked. "If we can find a pay phone, I could call the NewsWire and get somebody to pick us up."
"They took my watch," Arn said. "Anybody got change for a call?"
"Nothing." I dug through my pockets. I had plenty of cash in the suitcase, but I couldn't use a hundred-dollar bill in a pay phone. "We don't even know where we are."
"Jesus." Arn shook his head. "Better hope we can find a car or something. Maybe there's a parking lot down by those lights."
"What about the bomb?" I asked, but nobody answered. Sirens howled to the east. Reinforcements. Fire engines. Meat wagons for the dumb and dead.
"What about the goddamn bomb?" I thought I was losing my mind. This was never going to end. We were never going to get out of there.
"I don't know." Brown looked around nervously. "Oliver's controllers must've heard by now. Something must've gone wrong or they would've set it off already. Unless they're waiting for some reason. Trying to make up their minds." He shook his head. "If they sent the signal and it didn't work, they're going to be all over the place. Running damage control. We can't let them get these files."
"Screw the files!" I yelled at him. "Who cares about your goddamn files?"
"Shut up!" Arn walked along the tracks, looking off to the north. "You hear that?"
A train moaned in the bottoms.
#
We scrambled down the embankment, slipping on the wet ballast, then hid behind some bushes next to a ditch. I looked back the way we'd come – towards the row of boxcars and the space between the buildings – but I couldn't see anybody lurking in the shadows or creeping up on us through the storm. The skyline flickered with Mars lights and I could see the glow of the burning warehouse through a smear of black smoke drifting over the rooftops. Baldy was either busted, dead or pinned down in the alley.
"Get ready," Arn said. "Let the engine go by."
A train was coming – I could hear it rumbling through the industrial district a couple blocks away. A minute passed, then the engine turned a corner and a dazzling headlight glared on the other side of the green semaphore a hundred yards to the north, the powerful beam sweeping across the tracks and buildings, reflecting on grain elevators and factory windows. A crossing bell started to clang, then the engine blew its horn again, two short blasts, and I could hear its diesels pounding on the grade.
"It's going the wrong way." Pain flashed off my ribs. I must've cracked them when we crashed. "Back towards the warehouse."
"You want to hoof it?" Arn crouched beside me, watching the train approach. "We got no chance on the streets."
He glanced at the suitcase at my feet. I was holding it in a death grip, my fingers welded to the handle.
"The cops might stop the train," Brown said, looking back towards the south. "If they do, we're screwed."
"We got to risk it."
"What's that?" Brown yelped. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" My heart squirmed up my throat.
"Somebody's back there." He pointed back the way we'd come, his face tense, the rain shining on his burns. I clenched up, scanning the docks and boxcars, expecting to see Baldy or a pack of grunting cops charging down the line.
"I don't see anything."
"Somebody's back there. I'm sure of it."
"Get ready," Arn said. "Here it comes."
The train got closer, its light steaming in the rain, the beat of its diesels getting louder and louder. Then a couple of switch engines rolled by, hauling a string of boxcars and flatbeds loaded with containers. Tons of dead weight rattled the ties and ballast, the iron wheels ticking over joins in the rails, the cars swaying from side to side with a clatter of couplers and squealing metal. The train was only going about five miles per hour, struggling up the long grade from the harbor.
"Let's go!" Arn yelled. "Look for an open car!"
We scrambled up the embankment and ran along beside the train, falling back a little as a string of gondolas and hoppers went by, noisy as a rolling junk yard. I tripped on the ballast and Brown grabbed my arm, yanking me up again. The mist off the train was freezing.
"Back here!" Arn shouted.
I saw him running beside a boxcar with an open door and I yelled at Brown to hurry up, but I couldn't tell if he heard me. Arn jumped inside as I reached the door and I handed him the suitcase, stumbling on a tie and catching the door stop at the last minute. Squirming for a handhold with my shoes dragging on the ballast, I managed to pull myself in part of the way, yelling at Arn to help me. He hesitated for a second, then grabbed my arm and yanked me into the car, falling over backwards in the process. I fell down beside him, rolling across the metal floor and banging my head on a crate. Both of the doors were open, rain gusting through the rocking boxcar.
"Come on! Come on!"
Arn knelt in the doorway, yelling at Brown. The reporter was running beside the car with his briefcase, reaching for the door stop and gaping at us through a cloud of spray kicked up by the wheels. He was shouting something, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.
"Grab the edge!" Arn yelled.
Brown hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, then he tossed Arn the briefcase, grabbed the sliding channel and hauled himself inside with a grunt.
"Mitchell!" he shouted. "He's right behind me!"
Baldy. He was talking about Baldy.
The boxcar lurched while I was standing up and I almost fell down again, but I grabbed a wall strut and picked up the suitcase Arn had left on the floor. Brown stumbled into the shadows, yelling at Arn to hide the bri
efcase, ditch it, toss it out the other side of the car. Confused and dizzy, I was trying to figure out what to do when I saw a hand scrabble at the door stop, then another hand gripped the sliding channel and Baldy pulled himself into the boxcar, staggering in the doorway before he caught his balance.
It was Baldy, all right. His trench coat was scorched and tattered, one sleeve ripped off at the shoulder, his slacks covered with grime. Blood mixed with dirt and ashes glistened on his scraped-up face and he looked completely demented. Grabbing a strut for support, he pulled out a revolver with his free hand, looked around, then flashed some teeth when he saw Arn standing there with the briefcase.
"Pain in the ass," he sneered at me, then turned the gun on Arn. "I'll take that, Willis. The rest of you – get back from the doors! Do it now!"
The train moaned through a crossing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Brown freaked out. Snapped. I don't know.
He lunged out of the shadows with his head down and knocked Baldy to one side, grabbing him in a clumsy bear hug and trying to push him off his feet. That was easier said than done, though. Baldy outweighed him by a ton of gristled muscle.
"Help me!" Brown yelled. "Help!"
We just gaped at them, too stunned to react. Brown had guts for a writer geek, but he was a heavy smoker and a scrawny drunk and he never had a chance. They struggled for a minute in the light from the doors, then Baldy broke his hold, got him in a headlock, kneed him in the face and shoved him into a stack of crates that toppled with a crash, spilling bolts, pipes and faucets across the metal floor. Plumbing crap. It made a racket.
Brown folded, grabbing his face.
"Over against the wall!" Baldy yelled. "Now! Get away from the doors!"
He stepped back, swinging his gun from me to Arn to Brown, but he couldn't cover us all at once. I was on his left, Brown at his feet, Arn by the other door.
"The briefcase!" Baldy edged to one side, trying to keep us all in view. "Put it on the floor!"
Arn set it down and started to back away, his hands raised at his sides. Rain flurried through the boxcar.
