by Nathan Brown
Joseph did what he could to stay clear of all the craziness, cruising through back alleys and side streets. He knew 635 and I-20 would be choked with people trying to get to work without risking the riot. He figured chancing the riot would probably be safer and, most likely, faster than trying to use the freeways for anything.
The cops had their hands full, and were entirely too busy containing the riots to take much notice of his little Honda darting across main avenues for the cover of alleyways. They had bigger fish to fry. Joseph managed to arrive at Ryan’s apartment without attracting any attention.
Joseph parked his car poorly, leaving nearly a third of the tail end sticking out in the street. He shut off the engine but left the driver’s side unlocked as he ran up the stairs and down the breezeway to Ryan’s second floor apartment door. He knocked loudly and waited impatiently for Ryan to answer. He kept a close eye on the street and his car, making sure no one got too close. A faint smell on the light morning breeze made the hair on his neck stand. A shiver ran up his spine, though he wasn’t sure why.
He knocked again, harder this time, before putting his ear to the door. He could hear someone shuffling across the floor, but the sound was muted and distant. He figured Ryan was just getting up to answer the door … but after a few minutes passed, he still hadn’t come.
“Hey, Ryan,” Joseph yelled, pounding on the door again. “You going to work today or you want me to tell ‘em you’re still under the weather?”
The unmistakable sound of glass breaking reached Joseph’s ears. He tried the doorknob … it turned easily.
“Ryan, you ok in there?” he asked, opening the door and stepping inside. Being indoors, for some reason, wasn’t making him feel any safer.
The main room looked like a disaster area. A large, heavy blanket lay in tatters throughout the room, as though it had been thrown around by a rabid animal. The 32-inch TV had been knocked to the floor, the screen now a pile of thick, glass shards. A lamp lay on the floor at the foot of the table it once sat upon.
Joseph jerked as a jar shattered on the floor of the kitchen. Joseph instinctively turned to face the noise and saw Ryan, standing awkwardly off balance, in the center of his kitchen. The hard, white fluorescent light cast an eerie aura over his skin, which now seemed to have almost no color. The white undershirt that stuck tightly to his torso was transparent with sweat, reddened in spots with blood. The bandage Ryan wrapped over his hand the previous evening had obviously not staunched the blood flow for long, and had either fallen or been ripped off.
Ryan suddenly realized he wasn’t alone in the apartment. He looked up sharply with a predatory expression that made Joseph’s stomach turn.
Joseph barely had time to register Ryan’s blood shot eyes before the sick young man was too close for comfort. Without provocation, the rabid figure that had once been Ryan Sheller lunged at Joseph, wrapping him in a bear-trap grip, his mouth agape as though trying to bite off his face. Joseph wedged his left forearm into Ryan’s throat, pushing his chin up. He managed to get an arm’s distance between them, and gripped Ryan’s throat with his hand before being pushed back by the unexpected strength with which Ryan advanced. It took less than a second for Joseph to find himself being forced out the door, his back against the breezeway railing. As he struggled to keep Ryan’s gnashing teeth at bay, he managed to work his right hand down into his jean pocket. His fingers felt cool metal, and he pulled one of the expensive chrome pens that he kept with him at all times. Without thinking, he reared back with the pen in his fist and jammed it as hard as he could into Ryan’s left ear.
Ryan reared back growling in pain and rage. Joseph took advantage of his assailant relaxed grip, rolling to the right like a boxer coming out of a corner before shoving the back of Ryan’s head.
Joseph felt his attacker’s weight pitch forward. Ryan twisted as his body went over the rail. He reached out at Joseph as though trying to catch himself. Joseph saw that he was close enough to stop him from falling … and he took a step back. He was well aware that were he to act in that instant, Ryan would not fall. A part of him, the civilized place in his mind, screamed at him to help. But, in that split second, the instinct to survive won.
As Ryan flipped over the balcony, Joseph saw that his angle of descent would certainly hurt him badly if it didn’t kill him outright. He watched Ryan disappear and heard the dull, wet thud as the careening body’s head slammed into a car windshield below.
Joseph felt as though he might throw up. He had never intentionally done anything to hurt anyone, not since a childhood day long ago when he nearly killed his friend by pushing him out of a tree house. The sound of Ryan’s impact now ripped open the memory of that day.
Joseph’s mind and body were on edge as his survival instincts kicked into high gear.
He flew down the stairs three at a time and into his waiting car. He wasn’t hanging around this city one second longer than necessary.
He pushed the boundaries of safety, going as fast as 60 mph at times through alleys and down side streets, not caring if there was a cop or a cliff ahead of him. For ten minutes, he wound his way through downtown Dallas until he finally reached I-35. He was doing 75 as he hit the top of the onramp, heading north.
On the verge of absolute panic, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and speed dialed the office. He was surprised when someone answered the phone.
“Pegasus Solutions, this is Cathy,” The woman’s voice was tired and haggard.
“This is Joseph Rohmenn. I hate to do this, since I know this is only my second day, but that riot is practically on my doorstep. I don’t think I’m going to make it in,” he said, trying not to sound too panicked.
The secretary assured him that his supervisors had informed her that they completely understood and that they hoped he faired well until the riot was over.
“Oh, and one last thing,” she said. “We haven’t been able to contact Ryan Sheller. Could you pass that message along if you speak to him?”
“Um,” he choked. “Um … okay. I’ll do that.”
He flipped his phone shut and dropped it in the cup holder at his side.
“Holy hell … What the fuck is going on?” he yelled turning on the radio hoping for more than the generic crap he had heard in the shower. Joseph listened to the radio for about ten minutes before it said something he didn’t already know.
—police now report that rioting has spread throughout the city far more quickly than could have been predicted. An anonymous source said he believes a series of separate riots, not one large riot as police officials insist, are sporadically breaking out throughout the downtown and Metroplex regions and connecting as they grow. Further supporting this case, reports continue to pour in of people being attacked by unprovoked assailants in areas originally reported to be clear of the riot zones now cordoned off by police. At this time emergency officials say the safest place is inside your homes or workplaces with all doors and windows secured. Please, stay tuned for further updates and instructions as they become available.
Joseph eased off the accelerator to coast down to the speed limit. His instincts were still stuck in high gear. His instincts were screaming one thing—RUN. He had every intention of doing just that, but there was no point being stupid about it. Making a panicked mistake wasn’t going to help matters any.
Driving like a bat-out-of-Hell was only going to get him pulled over or worse cause him to have an accident. Neither scenario was going to help. Right now, he needed to treat his car as though his life depended on it … because it did. Dragging out the engine might cause it to overheat or breakdown, which would only serve to make him just one more stranded motorist, like the ones he continued to pass every few moments.
Traffic started picking up around Lewisville. He turned up the radio again and started watching the road and paying more attention than usual to escape paths—he did not want to be caught sitting still on a highway.
Joseph’s ears caught the high-pitche
d screech of locking brakes and the wail of rubber skidding across tarmac, followed by the nerve-bending groan of protesting metal and the chiming of shattering glass. He reached up with his right hand to adjust his rearview mirror, checking out the situation behind him. Two mangled, now unidentifiable, cars threw billows of gray smoke into the air as an SUV lay belly up in front of them, blocking the onramp he’d just passed.
“I have to get off this road before things bottleneck and I get stuck. It won’t be long before I wind up behind something like that … or worse … in it,” he said, carefully reaching for the rear floorboard, blindly groping around for his AAA Road Atlas.
Gambling with his life, Joseph took his eyes off the road for no more than two seconds at a time in order to see what options were ahead of him. He knew Denton well enough because he’d attended a few semesters at UNT. North Denton specifically was going to be choked off by accidents soon enough, if it hadn’t been already. By his third glance at the map, Joseph knew Highway 380, which ran across to Decatur, was going to be his best chance at avoiding any heavy traffic. He just wasn’t sure if his nerves could handle being caught at a standstill. At this point, his thoughts were consumed by one simple and instinctual urge—RUN NORTH.
If the riot kept growing like it had, in another few hours all of DFW would be a riot zone. Joseph figured the Army would be landing any minute. Running north would get him out of the major cities faster than going east or west, and out of the city was away from immediate danger.
Each passing minute, more cars materialized on the road, all heading north. A convoy of emergency vehicles blitzed along the empty southbound lanes heading into Dallas to help. Joseph found it increasingly difficult to maintain a two-second interval and an escape route. A black Mazda pick-up truck cut across three lanes of traffic nearly taking off Joseph’s front end and trading paint with another car trying to take an exit.
Joseph kept calm and pressed on. He moved into the right hand lane so he would be ready to take his exit. As he came over the last hill before his exit, he saw the one thing he hoped to avoid, a parking lot on the highway.
“So it’s already too late,” he mused.
He left himself just enough room between his front end and the car in front of him to pull onto the shoulder if he needed to. Every few minutes, traffic inched forward. Joseph tried to look normal, but kept looking at all the cars around him. He couldn’t help but imagine everyone in every car was calling 911 to report a guilty looking young man trapped in traffic.
He forced himself to scan the radio to see if there was any news about traffic accidents. All of the coverage was focused on the riots and what emergency steps were about to be taken. The media seemed to be completely ignoring the dozens car accidents that started plaguing the city as people fled the riots.
It took almost three hours to get close enough to the ramp to safely jump on the shoulder and slide past the standing traffic to the exit.
He flew down the exit ramp, slowed down just enough to make the left turn, ran the stop sign, and started toward Decatur.
Once Denton was beyond sight, the road was eerily quiet. Joseph drove for about 15 minutes before he realized he hadn’t seen another person or car since he got off I-35. He pulled over on the shoulder and threw his hazard lights on out of habit. He started to pick up the map to figure out where to go once he got to Decatur. The situation finally caught up with him.
I killed Ryan. I fled the scene of an accident. I broke half a dozen traffic laws. Fuck me … I killed Ryan!
He let his head bump into the steering wheel. He tried to think about what he should do, if it would be better to go to the police or keep following his instincts.
I killed him.
He tried not thinking, and concentrated on just getting the car back on the road.
I killed him.
“God Forgive me! I KILLED him!” he finally yelled out. “I killed him! I chose not to save him!”
Police and National Guardsmen are ordering people to remain indoors. Should you hear gunshots, immediately take cover by lying on the floor of an interior room or sitting in a bathtub. Police have just received permission to fire on anyone involved in the riot.
Joseph grabbed the map and traced north from Decatur. He ignored the handful of small towns listed and looked for a good, medium sized city.
“Wichita Falls is it between here and Oklahoma. Wichita Falls, here I come. Anything is better than here in Dallas,” he said. He threw the map back into the passenger seat and continued toward Decatur.
* * *
The puddle jumper landed at a small, unmanned airstrip in Bowie, Texas. Mike felt as though he was going to puke. The situation at Love Field had been, for lack of a better word, a total clusterfuck. First, Or had landed his chopper right next to the taxi lanes to the runways without clearance from the tower, and they had to sit through a very proper ass-chewing with airport security before finally being released. Actually, the rent-a-cops decided to let them loose after they called for a police unit and were quite literally told to “piss off” by the police dispatcher.
Lucky for us the cops had bigger fish to fry just then, or that nutty Israeli woulda gotten my ass thrown in a cell for that stunt of his. I’d still be locked up and never woulda gotten to the plane in time.
On top of the delays with security, it appeared that every Tom, Dick, and Harry who owned a private plane in the greater Metroplex area had decided to cut and run. Mike was forced to suffer through hours of taxiing while Jimbo (if that was even the guy’s real name), the pilot, told him his life story.
Much to Mike’s happiness, the flight itself was rather short. They landed on a small and ill-maintained strip Mike doubted was even legal. He unbuckled his seatbelt and grabbed his sea-bag from the back of the small, one-prop plane as Jimbo removed his headphones.
“Hey,” Jimbo hollered over the roar of the engine. “That’s your vehicle over there. Boss said to tell you the keys are in it.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Mike said, opening the door and stepping down.
“Wait,” Jimbo hollered. “You got a weapon?”
“Just a pocketknife,” Mike replied, patting his right pants pocket. He’d dug it out of his sea-bag during the trip.
“Then you might wanna go through the bag in the passenger seat before you head out. Should be a piece in there for you. ”
“Got it,” Mike secured the door behind him. Jimbo had the plane back in the air before he even got to the vehicle.
He probably feels a lot safer in the sky.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mike caught the outline of a person. He turned and saw a young man, probably in his late teens, staring into the sky with wide eyes at the ascending airplane. His mouth was agape, reminding Mike of a kid watching a fireworks display on the Fourth of July. At first, he suspected that the kid might be mentally retarded, judging by the blank expression on his face. All in all, the guy didn’t look like much of a threat and seemed more interested in the plane anyway.
Mike opened up the back hatch of the black Blazer and tossed his sea-bag inside before heading to the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition, just like Jimbo said they’d be, and he turned them. The engine roared to life … and the young man who’d been ogling the plane turned his head in Mike’s direction. He began to walk over in a stumbling fashion that further confirmed Mike’s initial suspicion that the boy was mentally retarded.
Kid must have a thing for engines. Wonder whether I should drop him off in town on my way out? Somebody might be looking for him. I doubt a town this small would have more than one “special needs” kid.
Mike pondered this for a moment before stepping out of the vehicle to ask the young man if he needed help.
“Hey, kid. You lost?” Mike asked as the boy continued to stagger towards him. His only reply was a gurgle. His steps were still awkward, but began to quicken.
“Look, if you need me to, I don’t mind dropping you off in town on my way out. Th
ere must be someone looking … for …” Mike dropped his jaw along with the end of his sentence when he realized that the boy was missing his right hand. In its place was nothing more than a bloody stump.
“JEEZus, kid, are you all right?” Mike called out as he rushed to unbuckle the black leather belt around his waist, planning to make a tourniquet. “What in the hell happened to you?”
He approached the boy with the belt.
Must’ve been screwin’ around with an engine and got his hand caught up. Shit, I wonder how long he’s been standin’ out here?
“We gotta get you to a hospital right now! Let me get this thing around your arm before you bleed to—.” Without warning, the boy lunged at Mike’s shoulders with a savage wail. The bloody stump bumped against Mike’s chest.
The former Marine reacted, snatching the one good wrist in a loop with the belt. He put some torque on the arm by dropping his shoulders, locking out his elbows, and stepping back. He was trying to take the boy to the ground easily, before he could hurt Mike or himself.
Mike had done this maneuver plenty of times, and usually a person felt the pain in their joints and followed the pressure down without putting up much of a fight. Well … that didn’t happen this time. The boy stood his ground as though the pain wasn’t registering. Mike heard a bone in the kid’s remaining good arm SNAP. This took Mike aback. In shock, Mike released his grip on the belt and took a few steps away. The boy kept on coming at him, gnashing his teeth and gurgling. Saliva dribbled down his chin. Mike kept his distance and tried his best to talk the kid down.
