The Ridealong

by Michaelbrent Collings

  THE RIDEALONG

  by

  Michaelbrent Collings

  Copyright © 2015 by Michaelbrent Collings

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. For information send request to info@michaelbrentcollings.com.

  website: http://www.michaelbrentcollings.com

  email: info@michaelbrentcollings.com

  cover and interior art elements © Aleshyn_Andrei and spixel

  used under license from Shutterstock.com

  cover design by Michaelbrent Collings

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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  PRAISE FOR THE WORK OF

  MICHAELBRENT COLLINGS

  "... prepare to be creeped out." – San Francisco Book Review

  "Move over Stephen King... Clive Barker.... Michaelbrent Collings is taking over as the new king of the horror book genre." – Media Mikes

  "[Crime Seen] will keep you guessing until the end.... 5/5. " – Horror Novel Reviews

  "It's rare to find an ending to a novel that is clever, thought-provoking and surprising, yet here Collings nails all three...." – Ravenous Reads

  "Crime Seen by Michaelbrent Collings is one of those rare books that deserves more than five stars." – Top of the Heap Reviews

  "I barely had time to buckle my mental seatbelt before the pedal hit the metal...." – The Horror Fiction Review

  "Collings is so proficient at what he does, he crooks his finger to get you inside his world and before you know it, you are along for the ride. You don't even see it coming; he is that good." – Only Five Star Book Reviews

  "A proficient and pedagogical author, Collings’ works should be studied to see what makes his writing resonate with such vividness of detail...." – Hellnotes

  "[H]auntingly reminiscent of M. Night Shyamalan or Alfred Hitchcock." – horrornews.net

  "The Haunted is a terrific read with some great scares and a shock of an ending!" – Rick Hautala, international bestselling author; Bram Stoker Award® for Lifetime Achievement winner

  "[G]ritty, compelling and will leave you on the edge of your seat.... " – horrornews.net

  "[W]ill scare even the most jaded horror hounds. " – Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Flesh Eaters and The Savage Dead

  "Apparition is a hard core supernatural horror novel that is going to scare the hell out of you.... This book has everything that you would want in a horror novel.... it is a roller coaster ride right up to a shocking ending." – horroraddicts.net

  "What a ride.... This is one you will not be able to put down and one you will remember for a long time to come. Very highly recommended." – Midwest Book Review

  "Collings has a way with words that pulls you into every moment of the story, absorbing every scene with all of your senses." – Clean Romance Reviews

  Dedication

  To...

  Tonn Peterson, because he likes to be scared,

  and he plays hooky sometimes,

  Shane Langton, who drove me around,

  and probably showed me more than he wanted,

  and to Laura, FTAAE.

  Contents

  PART ONE: A DREAM IS A DREAM YOUR HEART MAKES

  Journal Day One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  PART TWO: TAKEN FOR A RIDE

  Journal Day Five

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  19

  PART THREE: DARKNESS CLOSING

  Journal Day Ten

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  PART FOUR: INTO THE DEPTHS

  Journal Day FIFTEEN

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  PART FIVE: A PEEK BEHIND THE CURTAIN

  Journal Day Twenty-nine

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART SIX: LAST CALL

  Journal Day THIRTY

  1

  2

  PART ONE:

  A DREAM IS A DREAM

  YOUR HEART MAKES

  June 30

  PD Property Receipt – Evidence

  Case # IA15-6-3086

  Rec'd: 6/29

  Investigating Unit: IA/Homicide

  Journal

  Day One

  DAD CAME HOME AND TALKED to me and told me everything.

  Wait, that's too late in the story.

  I guess I should start with: I think it's weird that I'm starting a journal. Dad always said I should have one. Said it was "like a best friend... only one you never have to lie to." He always said that with his dumb grin, like he's telling the funniest joke ever only he knows it's not funny at all and he just doesn't care.

  But I care now. I'm writing this so I don't have to lie. Because I'm scared, and I don't want Dad to know.

  Dad came home and talked to me.

  He told me everything.

  I wish he hadn't. Because now it's all I think about, all I know. Sometimes I close my eyes and it's not like I'm there, it's like it's all I am.

  So now we aren't talking much. Dad talks to me all the time. Like he's afraid he's going to lose me the way he did Mom. But I don't talk back. I can't. What if he guesses how scared I am, how much he changed me that day?

  I think that would kill him.

  So I won't lie. I won't tell him.

  Ha. Now that's the lie.

  1

  I AM IN SOMEONE ELSE's body.

  There are four other cops.

  Tim Knight, a tall guy who looks like a brick with angry eyes. But when he smiles the anger disappears and he looks like a kid at Disneyland.

  Ben Zevahk, short and round and looks soft but once he invited a 'banger to punch him in the stomach and when the kid took the shot it broke his wrist.

  Jedediah Voss, who insists on being called "Jedediah," and not "Jed" and every time he makes a big deal he laughs like it's funny, but he's a prick and a jackass and everyone knows it.

  Steve Linde. My
partner. Smiling and laughing all the time. Too much for a cop, like he's practicing to be a circus clown when he retires.

  And me. Don't forget me. I'm there. I'm the fifth cop on the scene, even though I'm not really me, I'm someone else. I'm a cop here, in this place, but a part of me knows that this is not reality. Even though I'm caught in this now, in this place, I know that this isn't me isn't me can't be me.

  Glass breaks. I hear the quiet creak of leather, the sounds my equipment makes as it rubs against my waist. Then all that is lost in the noise of gunshots. Bursts from a fully automatic weapon.

  Knight screams: "Jesus!"

  Zevahk: "Where's he at?"

  Another burst of gunfire and Linde starts screaming. Hit. I can't tell how bad – he was crouched on the other side of the patrol car we share. Only a few feet away, but his screams sound so far, and I can't see him from where I huddle and hide.

  I should go to him.

  I should go to them.

  I make a move. Knight darts out and grabs me. Stops me.

  "They'll die!" My voice – so deep, so gruff –

  (so not me this isn't me this can't be me who is this if it isn't me?)

  – cracks as I scream, "They'll die!"

  "They're dead already!"

  The words are a slap in the face. They're horrible. They're painful.

  They're true.

  There are two bodies in the street between us and the shooter. One is also holding a gun. A righteous kill.

  The other one holds no gun. Holds nothing but some books, maybe a phone in a death-clenched hand. A kid. The same age as –

  Don't go there. Don't think that. Get the job done.

  I'm here. I'm now. I can't think of anything else. If I waste brain space on what's already been lost today, then I'll be making sure we lose even more.

  Besides... what if they're not dead? Linde is still screaming, my partner is still alive. So maybe the kid is, too. Maybe we can save –

  More shots cut through my hope.

  Then the sounds of Linde, still screaming. High-pitched shrieks that drill into my mind, shattering my thoughts.

  It's so loud, good God, so loud.

  Knight shouts, "We've gotta take this guy!"

  Zevahk laughs. An angry sound. "Ya think?"

  "How long until backup gets here?" That's me. My voice sounds faraway. Not just like it's someone else, but like it's a whole other life, a whole other reality. An unme.

  Knight gapes at me. He and Zevahk are crouched behind open doors of their patrol car. They've been partners forever. Best friends and brothers the way only cops can be.

  "Are you kidding me, you think we're gonna –?" Knight begins.

  Another flurry of shots cuts him off.

  Linde is still screaming, but the screams are getting quieter. Bleeding away as he bleeds out.

  "On three! We take him on three!" Not sure whether that was Knight or Zevahk or Voss. Not Linde. My partner is still screaming, no words, just wordless pain.

  Everything's bleeding together. Just like Linde is bleeding out, like the blood all over the kid in the street. Blood everywhere.

  "On three!" That was Zevahk.

  "One."

  I want to scream, No! Wait!

  "Two!"

  What's going on? Why can't I talk?

  Because this isn't me. It's a dream. It's happening to someone else.

  I'm not really here.

  "THREE!"

  My legs push up on their own. I don't control them, I don't control anything. I'm here but I'm not me. In this place I am just an observer, just a watcher. I cannot act, I can only follow along with what must happen.

  Guns fire. The rapid-fire pounding of a full-auto rifle. The irregular pummeling of semi-automatics being shot as fast as fingers can pull the triggers.

  So loud. So loud, I can't think.

  Something punches me in the shoulder. I wonder who did that. Everything's bleeding together. Bleeding –

  (like Voss, like the kid in the street, like the now of it all)

  – and then bled and done. The world loses its color.

  The shooting has stopped.

  I'm falling.

  Shot. I was shot.

  No. Not me. Someone else.

  It all happened in seconds.

  I'm dying.

  Not me. Not....

  So fast. But lives changed. Lives ended.

  Blood in the street.

  I hear a voice. "You killed my baby!" It's torn with grief, with rage, with pain. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!"

  Then my long fall finally ends. A long laydown across asphalt that for some reason feels soft. So soft. So wet. Bloody.

  It all bleeds together. Bleeds to black.

  "I'll kill you all!"

  It's the last thing I hear before...

  2

  ... I WAKE UP AND I'M me again.

  For a second I can't understand where I am. Where the bright sun went, the hot asphalt under me and the blood all around.

  I'm on a bed. Not as soft as that final pillow the street made for the person I was in my dream, but certainly more friendly. Still, it doesn't seem right. For a moment this doesn't seem like the place I should be.

  I don't belong here.

  The dream is still a part of me. Still something that insists on its reality. I look around my bedroom: the bedroom of a teenage girl. Posters, pictures of friends, the desk that Dad gave me so I could do schoolwork on – a joke since I do all my schoolwork on the kitchen table. Every item I see shoves the dream back a little bit. Slices bits of it off until it retreats and becomes, not reality, but nightmare. Not memory, but merely fear.

  As soon as I think that, Dad's voice moves into the room. He's seemed to be at my elbow since the shooting, since the event that spun me into the constant nightmare.

  (Five cops went in. Two made it out fine, but my dad and another cop came out shot. A third came out dead. Protect and serve, ain't it a hoot!)

  "The dream again?" His voice is calm. Low. The voice of the guy who took on double duties with no complaint when Mom died. Who rocked me all night long when my eardrum burst as a seven-year-old. Who would do anything for me.

  That voice pushes the nightmare back a bit more. It always does. But at the same time, I know that the voice is the source of the nightmare.

  Because what if I had lost him? What if he had gone away that day... and never come back?

  I don't say that. It would be too real if I did. The nightmare would come back, and this time it wouldn't be a dream, it would by my reality.

  Instead: "It's like I was there with you, Dad."

  I sense him trying to smile. "I should never have –"

  I know how he's going to finish the sentence. We've always been close. Closer now than ever.

  I should never have let you in on this.

  I should never have told you.

  I should never have let you grow up.

  None of that matters. None of it changes what happened. What I feel now. How afraid I am.

  "I don't want you to go back," I say. And I finally look at him. He's leaning on my doorjamb, just like I knew he would be. Dressed in the same thing he always wears: jeans, t-shirt, cross-trainers. Hunt Leigh Knight is a man of simple tastes. Not the smartest bulb in the marquee of life, as he always says. But he's mine. I couldn't stand losing him.

  But that shootout...

  He's leaning against his left shoulder. As if to prove it's all right. As if to prove the bullet hole is completely healed, there's nothing to worry about. Good as new, let's move on.

  "I don't want you to go back," I say again.

  His smile gets strained. Maybe it's because his shoulder hurts.

  "Nothing good happens without work," he says. "No pain no gain."

  I don't think that's funny. And I don't know if I can handle him not being around today.

  Thirty-one days ago my father stumbled into a drug bust gone bad. He was shot. One of his brothers
– his partner, Steve Linde – was shot and killed. Another was shot and just got out of the hospital.

  Three others were killed in the shootout as well.

  Dad could have died. Almost did.

  And today is going to be his first day back since the shooting.

  3

  WE'RE ON OUR WAY OUT the door when the phone rings. I don't know why we even have a landline – Dad and I both have cells, and it seems weird for him to toss fifty bucks a month at the phone company for the privilege of maybe six phone calls.

  Though there were a lot more these last few weeks. Condolences, concerns.

  "Can you get that?" Dad says.

  There's a phone on the little table in the entry. I pick it up. "Latham drug den, where we serve your crack, how may I help you?" I say. Dad laughs nearby, which means I'll get an earful about answering the phone nicely. But he'll scold me while he smiles. And that's cool. Dad tries to be what he thinks of as "a good father" wrapped up in "a good mother," but he's never kept it a secret that he doesn't feel up to either task. And I think me saying stupid crap on the phone kinda reassures him. Like he's catching me at little things, so he doesn't have to worry about big ones.

  "Can we talk?"

  For some reason my stomach falls out through my knees. It used to be when Liam called my stomach turned in happy knots. Now I just feel sick.

  Everything's changed.

  Maybe this is what growing up feels like.

  "Now's not a good time."

  "Please, I just want to... I need to talk to you –"

  "Liam, I can't. I'm on my way out. Maybe –"

  "It has to be now!"

  The shout catches me off guard. Shuts me up for a few seconds. I suddenly feel like I'm back in that dream. "I'm sorry about what happened," he says. "I'm so, so sorry." He sounds like he's crying now. Crying. "I just... I need to talk to you. I feel like you're the only one I can trust."

  What's going on?

  The dream feeling. The feeling like I'm somewhere else, someone and somewhen else – it's so strong I'm spinning.

  "I'll talk to you later," I say.

  He sounds like he's going to keep on going. And I don't want to hear whatever he's going to say. He'll ask why we're not talking, what happened, why we stopped going out. Whatever it is, I don't want to answer.