The Ridealong

by Michaelbrent Collings

  He looks at me with a strange expression. Lost, like he doesn't know what to do.

  I feel strangely angry at that. Dads aren't supposed to look like he does now. They're always supposed to know what to do. That's what makes them "Dad" instead of "some guy I live with."

  "Sorry... sorry...."

  Zevahk's words begin to gurgle. Like he's drowning right here, like the waves that end a good hundred feet away have somehow found their way into his lungs.

  "Hold on, Z." Dad snaps back to himself. Knows what to do again. Apparently decides that he's got to get his friend to a hospital, however he has to do it. He leans in and pops the hatch that holds the lug wrench and jack behind it.

  The car's spare key is taped to the lug wrench. Dad twists it away. Then puts a hand on the trunk. I realize he's going to slam it shut, slam Zevahk inside there, alone and drowning inside himself.

  "Sorry... sorry...."

  It seems wrong.

  "Sorry... sorry...."

  It's also the only thing we can do. He's not going to let us touch him. He's dying.

  "Sorry..."

  His voice weakens.

  And the first shot takes him in the throat.

  13

  STORIES ARE FULL OF heroes who stand fast. Who rise up in a hail of bullets, draw their own guns, and strike down evildoers in an instant.

  Well, I guess I'm no hero. I see Zevahk's throat tear open and know he's dead. Just a last few sounds as the breath rasps out of his body.

  "Sorry... sorr...."

  In that instant I hit the ground. I slam myself down so hard the breath whooshes out of me in an explosion almost as loud as the next bullet.

  Zevahk goes silent.

  Dad screams, "Honey!" from beside me.

  "I'm fine!"

  I see where the shot came from. A cruiser is parked nearby. Probably came up on us while our attention was focused on Zevahk –

  (Dead. Zevahk's dead. Knight and Voss and Liam and now Zevahk and when will it stop oh please let it stop!)

  – then opened fire. I don't know whether the shooter meant to kill Zevahk or was simply aiming at us. Doesn't matter. It just matters that we are in trouble.

  I can see Dad reach for his gun. He wears a Glock 22, .40 caliber load. That's the gun I've shot on the range. It's a good gun, one of the most popular guns for law enforcement across the U.S. Partly that's because it uses an ammo they like. Partly because it's supposed to be pretty much indestructible.

  But no matter how good a gun you own, it won't help you a bit if it's just not there.

  Where'd it go? Where's his gun?

  Dad's hand slaps the empty holster where his gun was – I know it was there – earlier in the night. But now it's gone. How, and where?

  Jack, of course. It has to be Jack. How he did it I have no idea. But it was him.

  I suddenly think of Dad, lifting the card key off the attendant at the Moo Cow carpark, and wonder if Jack somehow did something like that to Dad's gun. When? How?

  Doesn't matter. Not at the moment. What matters now is that we're facing someone with who just killed a man, who is still firing at us, and Dad has nothing more than a collapsible baton – assuming that's still on his belt.

  The shooter in the cruiser – parked in the road just beyond the beach, maybe a hundred feet away – lets out a flurry of shots. Some ping into metal, others hit with dry thuds into the sand around the car. Some make a meaty sound that I figure is Zevahk – what's left of him.

  I realize I'm screaming.

  The gun shooting at us is louder than the one Dad has. This has to be the M4. A big gun, so even if Dad had his own sidearm, we'd be seriously outgunned.

  Dad says something. It seems to take a long time to wend its way through the gunfire, the panic, the air itself.

  "Get ready."

  Ready for what? my mind screams.

  The M4 pounds away as he does, the bullets flying around us like a swarm of hornets, stingers extended, more deadly than any other species.

  Dad yanks me away.

  Back toward the Ocean's Tomb.

  14

  GOING UP BEFORE WAS scary. This time it's a nightmare. I know Dad's right: it's the only way to go. The others lead only to empty space (suicide), the ocean (Dad can't swim with his rig or his vest, and no time to strip them off), or straight into the arms of the guy with the M4.

  So up the rocks we go.

  Bullets keep zipping past. Keep pinging off the rocks. I feel one hit near me. Feel chips of rock explode into my face. My eyes close fast enough to keep me from being blinded, but it's close. I feel blood flow down my nose and cheek, a million tiny cuts opened as the volcanic rock splits into shards of glass.

  We climb. Fingers bleeding, knuckles split. Feet slipping.

  I hear something below us. Know it's him. The man who's following – trying to kill us. I know he won't give up.

  We climb.

  The top of the rocks seemed big before, when we were looking for some unknown clue as to where to go.

  This time it seems bigger. Massive. Certainly big enough that by the time we pick our way over the top, get to the far side and start down, the killer cop will be up there as well. Then there's nowhere to go. He'll draw, he'll fire.

  Then it'll be over. No way a trained shooter misses with a long gun at this range.

  We're dead.

  Dad seems to know it, too. He pulls out his collapsible baton. Flicks it open and motions for me to get behind him.

  I do, but I'm not waiting for him to fight. That's suicide. I don't want us to die, I'm not willing to just give up – even if giving up comes in the form of a last, brave charge to certain death.

  And then I see our way out. Wonder if it's maybe worse than the M4.

  Don't think. Do it.

  "Dad," I whisper. "Come on."

  I yank him away from the edge of the rocks. Toward the center of the mass. The two jets keep shooting out as the rock mountain moans. Between the jets: the fountain where I almost died.

  And that's where I'm headed.

  We get there, and I explain what I think we should do. Dad looks at me like I'm crazy. I think he's probably right.

  "You got any better ideas?" I demand. I hope he does. Pray he does.

  He doesn't.

  The hole the water is gushing out of isn't wide enough for two people to escape through, even without the water spewing from it.

  But near the top? Maybe we can both fit.

  We maneuver ourselves into the foamy water. Salt stings my eyes. Gets up my nose. I try to hold my breath, but all I manage is a choking gasp. I hear Dad snorting beside me as well.

  Then we almost fall together. Grabbing one another as we pitch into the hole. Hands reaching for the sides, knowing that to go too far is to die.

  We stop waist-deep in the hole. Our heads are in the water, which still fountains out waist-high.

  I lean back, pushing my back as far as it will bend. Eyes screwed shut. I breathe in, ready to start choking and drowning.

  I don't. I can breathe. It's unpleasant, my lips curled back over clenched teeth so as to filter as much of the falling water as possible, like I'm in the world's heaviest rainfall. But I can do it.

  Beside me, I hear Dad doing the same, hear his sputtering breath.

  Now we just have to wait here and hope the gunman doesn't see us in the thick column of water. If he does, or if he thinks to look around the back of the column to where we're leaning out, we're dead.

  And then I hear the sound of footsteps.

  He's on top of the rocks.

  He's up here with us.

  And I can hear him coming toward us. Our luck – if you can call it that – has finally run out.

  15

  I FEEL DAD'S HAND ON mine. Gripping hard. I hold him back. A wordless conversation.

  Him: He's here.

  Me: I know.

  Him: Stay.

  Me: Where would I go?

  Then the pulses on my h
and turn into a steady grip. A feel I interpret as, Wait.

  I do.

  Wait.

  The footsteps are close. So close I can hear the rasp-scrape of leather boots making their way over sand- and salt-covered rocks.

  Wait.

  Darkness all around, darkness approaching. Still near-choking on water and my own fear.

  Wait.

  Then Dad gently pulls on me. I drag in a final gagging breath. Then we're both in the column of water. Fully and completely.

  The water in here is dark. It seems saltier than normal seawater. Could be my imagination, or maybe it's got something to do with being filtered through the rock. Whatever it is, my eyes burn. I shut them for a second, but open them quickly.

  I have to see.

  No details. Everything is wavy, shattered. Broken in a million million pieces by the million million individual water droplets that make up our hiding space. We are in plain view, hidden while standing only feet from our pursuer.

  I see him. Blurred, shifting as the water burbles around me. He is nothing but a dark smear across the black night. A tall creature come calling, a monster come to claim us here, alone under the stars.

  I'm holding my breath again. I resolve never to go swimming again as long as I live.

  The man moves slowly. Looking over the front side of the rocks, where surf crashes against it.

  I can't hold on much longer.

  I lean out. Dad's hand grabs for me, but I'm on the verge of panic. If I don't breathe, I'll die.

  I see the man. Leaning over the front of the rock pile, holding a huge gun that I guess is the M4.

  His back is to me. All I see is the gun and the uniform blues.

  He starts to lean back around toward me.

  I whip myself back into the column.

  The dark shape moves toward the fountain. Toward the place where Dad and I clutch each other under our blanket of water. It stops right in front of the column. Shifts its weight. I can't tell if it's staring at us or looking somewhere else.

  It moves away. To the other side of the rock pile.

  Dad and I lean out. Gasping silently, trying to gulp as much air as possible without making a sound.

  We hear the man start down, start back toward his car.

  We climb silently out of the hole.

  I put my hand down. Pull myself out. Only the whisper of the water. Nothing that can be heard over the moaning Tomb.

  Then I kick a rock. It slides over the side of another rock. Disappears into a crevice with an echo that shatters the silence.

  Dad is on his knees beside me. We both freeze. Every part of our minds focused solely on hearing, on listening for telltale sounds that might indicate our pursuer heard the noise; that he's coming back.

  Nothing.

  Dad stands.

  And we hear something – someone – scrambling back up toward us.

  We run for the far side of the mountain and throw ourselves over.

  16

  I ROLL. FEEL MORE CUTS open. My hands go out to stop my fall. I force them in, close to my body.

  The human body isn't designed to fall with acceptance. Pitching headfirst into gravity's embrace is something that we fight with outstretched arms, with legs desperately trying to get themselves below us. It happens without conscious thought. And it's what I need not to happen right now. Screw climbing. Screw even the concept of a controlled fall.

  We have to roll down.

  But reality sets in halfway down. If I don't stop bouncing I'm going to die. Or at least break a bone, which amounts to the same thing when you have an insane gunman after you.

  Dad falls with me, into me. I feel his arms around me for part of the drop, protecting me.

  Doesn't work.

  My hands fling out again. Trying to stop the freefall, turn it into something slower, safer. They hit rock. Already-split knuckles cry protests as they break open still further. There is no thought, only pain.

  One of my hands catches something. My shoulder feels like it's been wrenched out of its socket, but I stop my death-tumble.

  Beside me, Dad stops as well. Gasping raggedly.

  We don't look up. Don't have time. We climb down almost as fast as we fell. Because we can hear the sound of someone climbing after us. Not insane – there's no sliding sand, no pounding of flesh against rock that would indicate he's falling like we did.

  But he's coming fast.

  And he's armed.

  Then we're down.

  Dad grabs my hand. We run through sand. Back to the fish market. The maze of empty kiosks and stalls that have been boarded over for the night.

  I realize how dark it is. How alone and lonely I feel. Dad's beside me, but utterly silent. I might as well be the only person in the world. Just me and the man behind, the man who wants to kill me.

  We dash between the stalls, turning this way and that. Some of the stalls have flaps that extend over to the next stall, awnings that meet in the center to create makeshift roofs that protect from the elements – sun most of the year, rain on those rare wet days. They make me feel like I'm running through tunnels, through deep places.

  The fish market is paved, so the sand can't grip us, can't yank us back and keep us from our top speed. But the slap of feet on sidewalk will give our position away.

  We hear the smack-smack-smack of our pursuer's rapid steps. I think I can hear him breathing, winded from the pursuit. Probably my imagination. Or maybe not. No way to be sure.

  Dad turns. Drags me behind one of the kiosks. Motions me to be quiet with a finger to his lips.

  We both listen. I pull his shirt sleeve – still wet – and point to our left. I think that's where I hear him coming from. The footsteps are softer now. He's slowed down. Looking for us. Hunting us. I can picture him, eyes scanning up and down the rows of stalls, searching for us as he walks. Cat and mouse, predator and prey.

  Dad waits, a long moment. Nods. We creep around the stall we're hunched beside. Trying to time our movements with the motion of the wind, the flaps of canvas awnings and tie-downs all around us.

  We dash across an aisle. Open to sight in four directions at once.

  I see him.

  Again his face is turned away. Bad, because I want to know who he is. Need to know. Who he is will tell us what's going on – maybe how to survive it.

  But if I saw him, he'd see us, too. He's that close. And he's still got that M4, holding it like he means business – which I know he does.

  Then we're past, squatting behind the next kiosk, waiting for him to pass a bit further.

  His footsteps stop abruptly. He starts running. Feet fast and hard across the pavement. Slap-slap-slap-slap.

  I don't know if he saw something. Maybe a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he heard the scrape of our shoes on the cement, the sound of our ragged breathing. Maybe he just knew, the way monsters know when you're in your bed, blanket over your head and terrified to look out.

  He's coming for us.

  I move first this time. Yanking Dad with me. Both of us fleeing in time, our footsteps perfectly matched as we run.

  I wonder what I'd look like crammed in a trunk like Zevahk. Splayed out across an alley like Knight. Shoved in a cave –

  (crab scuttling across my eye and I'm dead we're both dead we can't escape we're dead all dead now)

  – like Voss.

  "No."

  Not sure if I actually say the word, or if it just bounces around the jumbled furniture of my mind. Either way, it gives me a bit of strength. Pushes me away from the sudden despair that threatens to swallow me.

  I'm not going to end up like those guys. I'm not. Dad and I will find out what's going on. Will figure out how to end it. To make it right.

  Suddenly that is my entire existence. I don't care about school, about friends. Don't even care about survival for its own sake.

  I want justice. For Dad's partner. For Voss, Knight, and Z.

  For Liam.

  I am outpa
cing Dad. I grab him. Yank him with me. Ridiculous, a girl pulling a big man. But he stumbles along a bit faster.

  Still in the fish market. Still hearing that slap-slap-slap behind us. Only now it's faster. Slapslapslapslap, the shoes coming down so fast and hard I half expect them to kick the world right out of orbit.

  I pull Dad to the right. Another right. Another.

  The cop is on our tail. Slapslapslap.

  Another right. Moving in a big circle. Looking for something. Anything. A way to hide, a way to fight.

  Nothing. We can't leave the market – the maze of stalls is our only cover. We have to....

  I spot a hope. Pull Dad with me again. He doesn't resist. He trusts.

  I hope that trust won't kill us.

  17

  ONE OF THE STALLS ISN't a perfect square. There's a notch in it, an area where people can get out of the crowd to get drinks or napkins or condiments or something. Just a little space, maybe four feet by four feet. Barely enough to hold my dad and I standing together. And if we're in there we'll be easily seen. Sitting ducks.

  I go there. Dad pulls back. Resists. I look at him. Hope my face says what I want it to: Trust me.

  He does. And, again, I hope I'm not killing us with this move.

  We cram ourselves into the stall. And as we do I reach down and grab the knife Dad used to cut up the Red Rocks package. Flip it open with a snick that's so loud it's like a lightning strike in my ears. It may be my imagination but it seems to make the pursuing feet move even faster – slapslapslaslasla...

  I slash a pair of tie-downs. The third doesn't want to cut.

  Slapslap... the feet are right around the corner...

  ... one more desperate cut...

  ... I hear feet scraping around a turn...

  ... he'll see us...

  ... the rope I'm cutting parts...

  ... slapslapslap...

  ... and the canvas awning flutters down. Covers Dad and me from head to toe. I hope it looks like a cover laying flat against the perfect box of a stall. Hope the killer doesn't think of examining it too closely. Hope our feet aren't sticking out.