by Lyle Howard
“There’s no time to explain. You’ve got to trust me on this.”
Waxman had his back pressed against the chrome railing; to either side, the dark water of the Intracoastal hissed by below. “What have you done with Tyler Kennedy?”
Gabe grabbed the ex-mayor by the shoulders and spun him around. “Your friend’s safe. Now, I’m gonna need you to climb over the railing.”
“Are you crazy?” Waxman cried, looking down at the 25-foot drop and turbulent water. “I’ll be crushed.”
“You’re going die for sure if you stay here,” Gabe warned. “We’ve only got one chance and that way,” he said, pointing down at the waves crashing against the hull, “is it.”
The cold wind was cutting right through both men as they argued the logic of abandoning Mystique by such a perilous method.
“Please tell me why you’re doing this,” Waxman pleaded as he lifted his leg over the starboard railing. “I told you, if it’s money you’re after…”
Gabe glanced back at the belt dangling from the wobbling antenna. He wasn’t sure he was that good a marksman, especially in his weakened condition. “I’m not going to say it again. I don’t have time to explain. You’ve got to do this. I’m going to give you to the count of three.”
“I can’t do it,” Waxman stammered. “I’ve got a young daughter to think about.”
Gabe put the barrel of Kennedy’s pistol against the side of the ex-mayor’s neck. “And I’ve got a boy of my own, now jump!”
Waxman’s hands were gripping the railing like they were welded to it. “I can’t do it, I’m telling you.”
“Do you want me to shoot you right here? I swear to Christ I will, unless you jump on three.”
The sounds of the port were becoming more discernable. Baritone horns sounded from a fleet of tugboats heading out to sea. A train whistled its arrival at a concrete plant, as it prepared to load another boxcar full of gravel.
“Then go ahead and shoot me. I’d rather die that way than drown.”
Gabe cursed under his breath and climbed over the railing. He took hold of Waxman’s forearm and twisted it halfway around. Even for a great shot standing on steady ground and facing flush to the target this would have been a tough target, but then why should anything in his life be that easy?
The concussion hit them like a sledgehammer.
The blast warped the air around them, sending a sonic shockwave slamming into their defenseless bodies. There was no oxygen to breath. Their lungs had compressed and were temporarily incapable of inhalation. The heat was unbridled, but they were propelled so fast they couldn’t feel a degree of it. They somersaulted through the night sky, riding an invisible wave of air, their eyeballs bulging out of their skulls from the momentum. Both men were catapulted toward the shore like they’d been shot out of a circus cannon. Their ears only rang once. It was a high-pitched, deafening screech, followed by muffled silence. Behind them, Mystique, once breathtakingly majestic, simply vaporized in a towering gold, black and orange hell storm.
Gabe hit the water with all the grace of a hippopotamus doing a swan dive. He missed the hard, rocky shore by less than a few yards, but colliding with the water at the speed he was falling was still like landing on a sheet of plywood.
I pulled us onto the shore … the ground was unsteady and full of rocks … he was unconscious … my arms … my entire body was spent … fell flat on my face and couldn’t move … wasn’t there long … two new sounds … dogs yelping and then a deafening rumble … never heard anything like that before … like a buffalo stampede … closing in from behind…
The gargantuan wave rose out of the depths, snuffing out and devouring what little was left of the smoldering hull of Mystique. In slow motion, it crawled toward the shoreline, dredging up 1,000-pound boulders from the riverbed and relocating them effortlessly, the way a person might toss a gum wrapper.
What about Waxman? Is he still alive? Too spent … can’t think anymore…
Gabe was too exhausted to run. Every cell in his body had just about given up. The shore was muddy and felt so cool and refreshing against his skin.
Nothing could make him move now…
The wall of water tore them from their earthen cradles. Unsympathetic to their fatigue, the wave flipped them onto their backs, sending them crashing through the dilapidated wooden fence. It carried them 50 feet inland as it swallowed up old cars and howling Dobermans whole. White foam and seaweed boiled into the junkyard, tearing free anything that wasn’t nailed down.
Miraculously, Gabe found himself tumbling head over heels atop the crest of the wave, like a surfer thrown from his board while riding the Banzai Pipeline. Twice he hit something with a jolting impact, but his body was too battered and bruised to register the pain. The wave lifted him over the tree line, enveloping both the tallest pines and tearing loose the shallower-rooted queen palms. With a thunderous roar, the wave reached its apex and then broke, leaving scores of fish and crustaceans gasping for air or scrambling back toward the river.
As the torrent of water began to recede, Gabe was lowered, almost lovingly, back to the mucky ground. He laid there for what seemed like an eternity as a catfish squirmed in the mud mere inches from his face, contorting in an excruciating dance of death. It sounded like a gentle rain as gravity drained the water back, slicing rivulets into the soft ground to facilitate the river’s reclamation. Gabe lifted his head out of the silt and coughed out a mixture of mud and seawater. His eyes were swollen and felt like they were on fire as he tried to focus in on his surroundings.
I’d trade my right arm for a fistful of aspirins right about now…
As Gabe pulled himself to his knees, everything was shrouded in a gauzy haze. Junkyards might be considered pretty spooky places even during the day, but cloaked only in moonlight, the odd contours and jagged shapes created an even more ominous impression. The whiskered catfish lying by his side had slowed its wriggling, its gills panting for its last few breaths. Gabe closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side as the vertebrae in his neck crackled in protest. A breeze hit him from behind. It was a caustic smell filled with fire and gasoline fumes. It made Gabe lightheaded and he fell forward, his brain suddenly taking a nausea-inducing rollercoaster ride. He put his hand over his mouth and tried to hold his breath, but cutting off his oxygen only made the situation worse.
Can’t stay here…
Like a man who had just been shot in both legs, Gabe began to drag himself away from the river—away from the toxic smoke. His hands groped at the soggy earth, pulling away chunks of top soil peppered with rusted bolts and discarded screws. With every muscle in his body screaming for him to stop—to just roll over and let the inevitable finally happen—Gabe strained on. Incredible willpower or sheer stupidity, he refused to be found like this, face down in the mud, surrounded by dead fish, crabs nipping the flesh off his bones.
Sirens…
They came from some distant place, growing louder with each passing second. He pulled himself along on his elbows, like a soldier at boot camp shimmying beneath a stretch of barbed wire. He had no clue where he was headed, but instinctively knew he didn’t want to be found. Another 20 feet may as well have been a mile. Elbow … knee … elbow … knee. The ground smelled disgusting too.
Onward another 10 feet, and his hand hit something soft … he jumped back.
A groan…
Gabe reached out into the darkness and felt a face. A silhouette stretched out before him. “Mr. Mayor?”
Gabe scurried forward. Nathan Waxman was lying on his back, his face blackened with mud like the master of ceremonies at a minstrel show. Gabe crawled up beside him and tried to clear the dirt from his airways to ease his breathing. He was unconscious, but alive … barely.
As if hauling himself through the muck wasn’t enough of a superhuman endeavor, now Gabe found himself towing an extra 200 pounds of dead weight.
Dear God, why don’t I just roll over and die?
Call
it self-preservation, or a cop’s intuition, but as clouded as his mind was, some fervent voice in the back of his mind urged him to seek cover.
The veins in Gabe’s neck protruded like drinking straws as he struggled onward. He had Waxman by the lapel of his waterlogged jacket, his fingers feeling as though they would snap off at any second. He had to find some shelter.
Like a mirage appearing in the middle of the Gobi, a large shape loomed out of the darkness.
Is that yellow?
One of the most recognizable things in the world: a public school bus. The tires were missing, and it was pitched to one side, its hinged front door torn loose.
Oh momma! What a beautiful sight!
Out on the street that fronted the junkyard, a fire engine raced by with its shrill horn warning traffic out of its path. It was quickly followed by another siren, probably a police car or an ambulance in hot pursuit.
Gabe hoisted himself up the three metal steps that led into the bus while still holding onto the back of Waxman’s collar. Bracing his feet against the bottom step, he groaned in agony as he lugged the motionless ex-mayor up the stairs and inside the bus.
Got to rest … just want to close my eyes for a minute or two, that’s all…
Thankful his memory had returned, Gabe tried to move his feet again. This time they budged, and he realized his paralysis wasn’t internal. Nathan Waxman’s torso was draped across his legs. Gabe leaned back against the rear door and laughed to himself.
If this situation wasn’t so tragic, it would almost be funny.
Where would he go now? He had to get some medical attention for the ex-mayor, but…
Wait a damned minute now … everyone is going to assume we’ve both been killed in the blast. Hold on now … this could work to my advantage … if Bock believes I’ve gone through with the assassination, there should be no more threat to Casey’s life.
Gabe thought long and hard about this new twist of events. Any military leader worth his salt knows that the element of surprise is a formidable ally.
So why not stay dead?
Who knew how much time he had left? But now that his son was no longer in danger, why not find a way to throw a monkey wrench into August Bock’s plans? It would be tough not contacting his son—he wanted to see him, to hold him, more than anything—but he couldn’t take that risk.
So, who can I trust?
Gabe bent forward and checked the pulse on Waxman’s throat. It was weak, but discernable. If he didn’t get him out of this drafty rust bucket soon, he would be responsible for his death. Another helicopter hovered overhead, temporarily turning night into day.
If I just had some loose change, there’s got to be a pay phone around here … I can call a taxi … but where can we go that’s safe?
Gabe patted down his pockets and came up empty, except for a slip of paper that was drenched and barely legible, which he tossed haphazardly onto the floor. Thinking that perhaps Waxman might have something of use, he carefully rolled the ex-mayor onto his back and began scouring his pockets. Like a blessing from above, he found Waxman’s eel-skin wallet intact, although his family pictures were beyond salvation. Rifling through the billfold, Gabe found nearly $200 and enough plastic money to clog an ATM.
There’s got to be a pay phone nearby. But who to call? There’s no one I can trust…
The blazing beacon from the police search helicopter once again flooded the bus with its intrusive white light. Out of the corner of his eye, the discarded slip of paper glistened on the wet floor like a well-polished jewel. Gabe tilted his head to read the name and phone number that had been scribbled in bleeding red marker, and, like lightning striking from above, he suddenly knew exactly who to call.
35
He soared like an eagle, a billow of woolly white and silver clouds passing beneath him. He gazed down on the earth, his arms spread out in joyous flight. The ground was green and brown beneath his makeshift wings, and the water passing below shimmered like a sheet of aluminum foil in the bright afternoon sun. No one was here to bother him, and the only sounds he heard were the envious rustling of the earthbound trees, and the wind’s serenade singing in his ears.
He banked to the left and then back to the right. Floating aimlessly on the thermal currents, dodging the fluffy clouds like they were pylons in an air race. Just ahead, he spotted a v-shaped formation of migrating birds and accelerated to join up with them. Performing an effortless barrel roll, he slid into the center of the wedge and flew along with them for a while, smiling politely whenever one would turn its head and squawk at the outsider in their midst.
This was where he truly belonged—not down below with the dead and the dying. Up here he was free! Up here, he could go wherever he pleased, whenever he pleased. Up here, there were no enlarged prostates, no throwing up from chemotherapy, no one telling him what he could or couldn’t eat or what his body was capable of. Up here, there were no restrictions.
With a courteous wave of his hand, he let the birds continue on their journey and soared upward, bending over backwards, letting the warmth of the sun caress his face. He flew that way for a while, over on his back, staring up at nothing but the pale blue canopy drifting peacefully overhead. He flew that way until he heard the banging…
Five times, then five times more. Impatient … unrelenting in its urgency.
Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang…
He began to tumble, falling out of the sky as though the invisible strings supporting his body had suddenly been snipped. He fell through the gauzy clouds end over end, the hard brown earth rushing up at him. His arms and legs instinctively flapped as he tried desperately to regain lift. A rugged cluster of trees waited like a bed of jagged spines to impale him. The cool blue water beside the forest began to swirl in a fierce vortex waiting to swallow him up at his point of impact.
He screamed, but the sound choked off in his throat. It looked like a water landing was inevitable, and so the whirlpool began to froth and widen, nothing but pure darkness at its core. He put his arms over his eyes to brace for the collision, but none ever came. He plummeted past sea level, continuing to fall headlong into the center of the cataract, his entire body getting soaking wet, but yet, miraculously, not drowning.
Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang…
Something had his legs. He started kicking, his feet becoming entangled in whatever it was. His heart was pounding like the pistons in a World War II spitfire, as the faceless creature wrapped its tentacles around his lower torso. He reached down and grabbed it, tearing at it, pulling it off himself.
Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang…
Bennett Chase sat bolt upright in his bed. His body coated with nervous perspiration, his bed sheets twisted around his legs. His mouth hung open gasping for breath as his eyes slowly orientated themselves to the darkness. He reached over to the nightstand and turned the alarm clock so he could read the time. In big, bright, LED numbers, the clock read 4:18.
Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang…
Someone was at the front porch, but who the hell, would be pounding on his door in the middle of the night? He threw off his blanket and ran his fingers through his thick silver hair like a makeshift comb. He sat for a long moment on the edge of his bed collecting his thoughts. He wasn’t as sharp as he used to be, and nowadays it always took him a few quarts of coffee to reach his potential first thing when he woke up. He slipped his feet into a pair of fur-lined leather slippers and grabbed his terrycloth bathrobe that was hanging off a hook on the back of the bedroom door.
Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang…
“Hang on,” he muttered, as he felt for the light switch at the top of the stairs. “Keep your shirt on.”
He trudged down the stairs, wiping the crust out of his eyes as he descended. He had lived in this old two-story wooden house his entire adult life, having bought it some forty years earlier when he first flew for the Air Force. Now the stairs and floorboards
, like him, creaked under his weight.
Reaching the first floor, he avoided the front door and opted to make a left, heading instead into the living room where he always kept a loaded shotgun behind the curio cabinet that was filled with old aviation memorabilia. An ounce of prevention … his daddy always said.
Bennett Chase looked very peculiar toting the double-barreled shotgun toward the front door, kind of like Santa Claus gone bad.
Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang…
He peered through the fisheye peephole, but it was too dark to make anything out. Resting the barrel of the gun on his shoulder, but with his finger still on the trigger, he flipped on the outside light and looked out again. A distorted face stared back at him. It belonged to someone he never thought he’d see again…
The front door flew open and Gabe Mitchell practically collapsed into his arms.
“Gabe! What the hell happened to you?” he asked, leading Gabe over to his couch.
Gabe pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder. “One more.”
Chase put a throw pillow behind Gabe’s head. “One more what?”
“Someone … outside … bring him in.”
“There’s someone else with you?”
Gabe managed to nod.
Chase set the shotgun down on the floor behind the couch and waddled back to the porch. There was someone else there, a crumpled heap of a man. Chase tried to lift him to his feet, but it was dead weight. After many failed efforts to stand the man upright, Chase ended up having to grab the limp man by the collar of his scorched windbreaker and haul him into the house like a sack of potatoes. He dragged him through the living room, huffing and puffing like an old steam engine. When he finally made it into the guest bedroom, he boosted him up onto the queen sized bed, never realizing he was now boarding a local celebrity. The room was dark, and Chase couldn’t have cared less who the stranger was. He was more worried about Gabe.
Out of breath, but too energized to notice, Chase shuffled back into the living room and knelt beside the couch. “Jeez, Gabe,” he said, feeling Gabe’s forehead for signs of a fever. “What the hell happened to you? You look like a zombie!”
