by Jeff Olah
As he calculated how the next few seconds would play out, Ethan cut his eyes to the left and looked for an opening. Time slowed as the last assailant, moving more quickly than he expected, lunged forward and slammed face-first into his chest.
His elbows made contact with the unforgiving roadway first, taking the full weight of both bodies and sending shockwaves up through Ethan’s arms. His upper back touched down next, followed almost immediately by his head.
Sliding backward as the distressed individual clawed at his stomach, Ethan felt an all-too-familiar stitch. Originating deep within his right shoulder, it had been more than a decade since the last occurrence. Even though today’s events forced an extra swell of adrenaline through every fragment of his six-foot, two-inch frame, he knew two things.
His shoulder joint had once again become separated, and there was nothing he could do with one hand that would keep the animal at his waist from ripping him apart.
20
She had questions, but at present there were things much more pressing than the exact details of how this all happened. Griffin grabbed the two lifeless men by the ankles and dragged them the short distance through the smooth snow, to the edge of the two-hundred foot descent.
Cora held both weapons and stayed at his side, watching their backs and scanning the slope above. “Why are you—”
“Hold on, let me do this first.”
Checking the contour of the land below, Griffin charted the most likely route the bus driver’s body would take as it plummeted down the steep ridge. Both flanks of the hillside seemed to funnel into one another, leaving only a few places where the bodies would come to rest at the completion of their unnatural journey.
Glancing back into the driving storm, Griffin paused and closed his eyes. “They’re coming this way.”
Tilting her head to the side and mimicking his movement, Cora said, “Who, who is coming?”
Sliding the bus driver’s body to the edge, Griffin gave it a final shove and then watched as it began to cartwheel head over heels down the quiet snow-crusted embankment. “More like these guys. I’m guessing that your bus was carrying something other than guards and men in biohazard suits.”
“Then let’s go. Why are we wasting our time with this?”
Before sending Joe off to meet the bus driver, Griffin removed the man’s jacket and slipped it over his damn near frost-bitten arms. “We are going. I’m just not going to make it easy for whoever is following us, you know, to actually follow us.”
Cora looked down at the dried blood covering her hands. “Okay?”
Pushing the second body over the edge, Griffin watched as it covered nearly the same path as the first, but gained speed much more rapidly due to the extreme size difference. “Wow.”
Looking back once more, Cora squinted. Attempting to focus through the falling snow and between the densely spaced spruces, she waited as her eyes adjusted to the varying highs and lows. “I don’t get it, how do you know that anyone is even following—”
“They’re here.” Griffin said, moving away from the edge. “We have to go.”
Stepping quickly to Cora, he placed his hands on her shoulders and squatted behind a large spruce. “We’ve got maybe a twenty second lead on them, but they know that we’re here.”
Eyeing his weapon and then her own, Cora said, “We have the advantage, why are we running from them?”
Griffin turned toward the now undeniable footfalls, coming from just beyond the treeline. “Because, I’m freezing. Because we have to get off this mountain in the next hour. But mostly because I still have no idea what the hell is going on, and whoever or whatever is following us doesn’t seem to care.”
Two silhouetted figures appeared not more than thirty yards away. They hadn’t yet spotted the pair as Griffin pulled Cora into him. He spoke quietly into her ear and pointed to the open range to their right. “That’s our only way down. You ready?”
“I don’t know if—”
“There isn’t time. I’d rather lose them than confront them. We can stop and talk about this once we’re far enough away.” Still standing in the shadows afforded them by the large spruce, Griffin stood and pulled Cora up by the jacket. “Let’s go.”
She followed him as the number of those in close pursuit increased to four and by the time they reached the open space, six. Although they moved at a slightly reduced tempo, the deep base of white powder blurred the advantage as Griffin struggled to keep up with his more agile counterpart.
Aided by the gradual slope, Cora ran out ahead. She focused on her breathing and tried to forget what this race meant. She wanted to block out the bus and what happened to her friend. She wanted to go back, to just wake up and have it all be a bad dream. She was running from something she didn’t understand, but knew she needed to.
Breaking out from the trees and in full view, Griffin motioned toward the southern edge. “That’s where we need to get to. It drops off over there and I don’t think they’ll be able to follow.”
Nodding, Cora cursed into the falling snow. Her feet were two frozen slabs of concrete she wrestled to pull in and out of the snow. Not completely numb, the searing pain of a hundred thousand needles was running a close second to the inferno that now raged through both of her thighs. Each and every step tested her desire to continue forward.
Forty yards from the next grouping of trees and the air in her lungs began to thin. Her racing heart begged for mercy and the stitch in her side forced Cora to momentarily slow her pace. Turning to see the four disheveled women and two men closing the distance, she called to Griffin. “Where?”
Now alongside and matching her speed, he pointed with the nine millimeter still in his right hand. “The two trees right in the middle, get there first and I’ll be right behind.”
Reaching the rutted landscape near the outer rim of the open expanse, Cora pushed to stay ahead. She stepped lightly across the iced-over rocky terrain shadowed by the massive row of spruce. Consciously placing each stride in line with the one before and keeping her weight evenly distributed, Cora focused on the gap between the two trees. “Be careful, the ice.”
Coming in less than a second behind Cora, Griffin only understood her warning as he began to slide. His right foot glided out from under him as he reached for the tree to his left. And crashing into her from behind, the disparity in their weight pushed Cora past the first row of trees and off the jagged ledge.
As she shot past the serrated edge of the hillside, the near vertical drop afforded her a brief moment to realize her new predicament. Large flat rock surrounded by loose shale and peppered with not nearly enough foliage to grant her a reprieve from injury, Cora clenched her teeth and braced for impact.
Her left foot contacted the ground first. Again propelled forward, Cora’s knees slammed against the unforgiving rock face, sending her onto her stomach. Fighting to bring her arms up around her face, she skidded headfirst into a barren shrub the size of a small oven.
As she plowed through the dried out branches, her jacket took much of the initial damage. Flat on her back, shards of black nylon and puffed white feathers slowly floated back to earth as her pulse echoed against her inner ear.
“GRIFFIN.” Collecting herself and waiting for him to answer, Cora rubbed her hands along her face and neck. Nothing noteworthy. Taking a deep breath in through her nose and attempting to roll onto her stomach, a searing blowtorch exploded from the tender skin just above her hip.
Instinctively grabbing at the half-inch thick branch penetrating her left side, Cora gagged. Drawing back her blood-soaked left hand, she took another deep breath and nearly lost consciousness. Lifting her head, she could see that the opposite end of the limb was still securely attached to the desolate shrub that enveloped her.
Her heart rate beginning to climb yet again, and Cora cried out. They were only four words, yet nearly impossible to voice. “Griffin, I need help.”
She waited, but there was still no response.
> 21
As the first few flakes of the day’s snowfall kissed the exposed areas along his face and neck, Ethan attempted to sit forward. He flexed his right arm and made a fist, relieved to find that the extent of his injuries were encapsulated in only his shoulder. After three such injuries over the last twenty years, he’d be able to repair the damage on his own, if only he could get the beast clawing its way toward his throat to find another victim.
. . .
Friday, October 6th, 1995. Seventeen minutes into the most important game of his epic high school football career, Ethan Runner found out that his seventeen-year-old body wasn’t necessarily invincible.
Lying flat on his back in the middle of the street, he flashed to the first time he suffered pain of this magnitude. The fourth quarter of what would be his final high school football game, a night that should have brought about no less than eleven full-ride athletic scholarship offers, became the crutch he’d carry for the next two decades.
From the huddle, he nodded as his best friend signaled the next play. Before turning back to the rest of his offensive squad, Ethan looked toward the four seats occupied by his parents, his sister Emma, and the woman who’d become his wife only a handful of years later.
Emma, his mother, and his girlfriend seemed to be buried in whatever gossip they felt needed their attention at the moment. However, as was always the case, his father leaned into the railing and made eye contact with Ethan. He smiled and looked toward the end zone. Ethan smiled and nodded before dropping his head back into the huddle and calling out the play.
“We’re going big. Let’s show these children on the other side of line of scrimmage why they should have never stepped off that bus.”
His offensive line began to slap at their hip pads as he called the play. “Eighty-three blue goose, deep pocket, blast left, on two.”
As they moved into position, Ethan again scanned the crowd. This time he looked toward the upper right corner, attempting to count the number of college scouts spaced intermittently throughout the local families enjoying their Friday night ritual.
They weren’t hard to spot. Discreetly alone and most with a massive clipboard obscuring their faces, these individuals only took their eyes off the field when Ethan moved to the sidelines. Although he’d already made up his mind on which school he’d quarterback for the following season, his father told him to keep an open mind and visit as many schools as time would allow.
There were a total of six schools on his short-list. And even though many of his friends were staying local or heading to the West Coast, Ethan had his mind made up that he’d be tossing the pigskin for the Florida Gators. His trip to the Sunshine State over the summer sealed the deal.
As he settled in behind center and scanned the defense, the world around went silent as it always did. The other twenty-one players on the field were his to own. Ethan was told on more than a few occasions that his ability to read defenses, as the plays were actually happening, was unparalleled at his age.
Taking the ball and dropping back, he quickly accounted for the three closest defenders and pumped the ball, sending those most near back and onto their heels. Ethan then shuffled left and hesitated as his teammate sped up field, losing the last two opponents.
Six seconds ticked off the clock as Ethan took a step forward and stiff-armed the opposing number sixty-six, sending him face-first into the turf. Pausing for another second, he waited for the pocket to clear, dropped his shoulder, and shot forward through the small opening between his left tackle and guard.
Crossing the line of scrimmage, Ethan leapt one of the cornerbacks and turned up field. As he cut left and headed for the sideline, seven of the players on the opposing team were already too far behind to be of any real danger.
Less than a second later, as he was blowing by the fifty yard line, there was only one player left with any real chance of stopping him. Ethan’s forty yard dash would be the best his school had seen in decades and only second to one other player in the entire valley. That player was now less than ten yards away. That player was the opposing number forty-two.
Cutting the field at a thirty degree angle, number forty-two was closer to the end zone, although Ethan was sure that one perfectly timed cut would put another six points on the scoreboard before the half ended. He only needed to stay on the gas.
At the twenty, the player now clearly making this personal, cut into his peripheral line of sight and moved quicker than anyone he’d played to date. As Ethan planted his left foot, just inches shy of the sideline, number forty-two left his feet, the red stripe along the top of his helmet in a direct path with Ethan’s right arm.
Switching the ball to his left hand, pushing off, and raising his right arm, Ethan met his opponent at the six yard line. Attempting to force them both into the end zone, Ethan leaned into the collision, sending both he and his opponent airborne.
Number forty-two’s helmet stuck Ethan just below his armpit and continued upward, forcing his elbow and forearm over his head. As they re-entered the atmosphere and were thrown into the grass, he slid headfirst to the three yard line, as fragments of sod and soil caked in around his facemask.
Twisting to the right and attempting to push himself up, Ethan only was able to pull free his left arm. As number forty-two scampered away to rejoin his team, and the crowd’s applause began to die off, Ethan rolled to his back and sat forward.
This sensation was different. It was definitely a nine on the pain scale, maybe a ten. However, it was also infused with a dash of emptiness, almost as if his right shoulder was falling asleep. This was something he’d never experienced in this section of his body. Ethan attempted to place his hand on the ground to support pushing back to a standing positon, although his right arm refused.
His second effort placed him flat on his back, cradling his right arm in his left. And as the crowd went deadly quiet, the only voices were those of the overly exuberant crickets serenading one another, somewhere out in the late summer night.
Before the distant footsteps came bounding across the field toward him, Ethan regained the feeling along his left side. A rush of warmth was closely followed by a shock wave that raced from his shoulder into his neck, and exploded against the back of his skull.
His heart rate climbed with each second that passed and as he fought to take each new breath, a familiar voice broke the silence. “Hey buddy, I’m here.”
His father was the first to reach him and kneeling at his side, gently took Ethan’s right hand. “Your shoulder?”
Two quick short breaths. “Yeah dad. It hurts real bad.”
“I saw the hit son, it’s probably separated. But hey, we’ll get you to the hospital and fixed up before you know it. Just hang in there.”
On the stretcher and escorted along the outer edge of the track, Ethan’s breathing slowly began to return to normal. Hesitantly looking out over the crowd as the game continued, he watched as four of the six scouts packed their things and without making eye contact, hurried out of the stadium.
Wheeled into the emergency room with his father at his side, Ethan waited for the doctor and the nurse to vacate. As they slid the privacy curtain around his bed and the pain meds started to do their job, he had only one thing on his mind. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“The scout from Florida, did you talk to him? Is he still here?”
“Your mother has been trying to reach him at his hotel since the game ended.”
Only half wanting to know, Ethan said, “Dad, do you think I’m done? I mean this is my throwing arm.”
His dad smiled. “It won’t be easy, but you will come back from this. The pain you’re feeling is only temporary. Ethan, you were born to be a leader. So, when we leave this hospital, I want you to hold your head high and act like one. Show everyone in this valley who you are by doing what you need to do to get back on that field. Let your actions be your words.”
. . .
The man clawing at his waist
was now gone and as the rapid gunfire died off, David came into view, now standing over him. “Buddy, you nearly got yourself killed. How’s your head?”
Back on his feet and moving slowly past the six corpses, Ethan said. “My head is fine, it’s my shoulder, and it’s out again.”
“Well,” David said, “then it’s a good thing we’re headed to the hospital.”
As David helped him back into the passenger’s side of the armored truck, Ethan thought back to that night twenty years before and only wished he’d have taken his father’s advice.
22
Eyeing the edge of the cliff nearly thirty feet above, she waited for Griffin to appear; he didn’t. Five minutes maybe ten, she wasn’t sure, but it felt like time slowed to a crawl. She called out to him numerous times and after all she’d seen over the last ten years, it almost seemed absurd that she needed anyone’s help. Least of all from a man.
