Constant Danger (Book 1): Fight The Darkness

by Westfield, Ryan

  “All right,” she said. “Now I can’t bury my dad, but I can leave him somewhere halfway decent. That’s what I was going to do until you came along. I’d just get in my truck and drive away, but I can’t leave him where he is now, no matter how unsentimental and unemotional I’m trying to be. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get up and run away. If you do anything, if you try anything at all, if you do anything that’s not just getting away from me as fast as possible, you’re going to get shot. Understood?”

  “You’re a weird one,” he said. “I mean, I hate to see you get away with a murder, but I guess I have no choice. What I don’t get is why you’re trying to keep up this charade, like you have something to prove to me, some stranger.”

  “I’m tired of this game,” she snarled. The anger was getting to her. She wanted him out of her sight. She didn’t want to deal with him anymore. “You going to do as I say or not?”

  “Sure,” he said, his voice sounding sleepy and distant. “I’ll do it. But I can’t run that fast. I got beaten up real bad. Some Sri Lankan doc helped me ... gave me some pills.... hope I can run at all...”

  “What kind of gibberish is that? Sri Lankan doctor? Either do what I say or you’re dead, got it?”

  “Got it. Got it. Got it. Got it.”

  He was repeating the words over and over again.

  Maybe he was crazy. Or maybe he was high. She didn’t know and at this point, she didn’t care.

  She just wanted to get the hell out of here. Leave her dad’s body behind. Focus on surviving. This was already hard enough as it was.

  Suddenly, a sound erupted into the night air.

  Various noises, all mixed together. It took a moment for her startled brain to sort them out, to make sense of what she was hearing.

  Engines. A few of them.

  Engines and shouts.

  Were they shouting in pain? Agony? Pleasure?

  She couldn’t make sense of it.

  But something about the shouts and yelps made her heart start beating fast in fear. Something about those yells reminded her of something primal, something dark and sinister.

  The yelling got louder.

  The engines got louder.

  The sound stirred something in her, something deep in her bones.

  Fear.

  Meg had to get out of there. She knew there was trouble coming. She didn’t know what those yells were about but she knew what they meant.

  People would hurt her. Probably for fun.

  Shit.

  Things were coming crashing down around her.

  What should she do?

  She glanced over at her truck, then at her father’s body, then at the man on whom she had her gun trained.

  She couldn’t do it all. She couldn’t do everything. She couldn’t drag her father’s body away to a better spot and still get away.

  The safest thing would be to get into her truck and drive away as fast as possible. That’s what her dad would have wanted. He wouldn’t have cared where his body was left. Not if she knew him. He was all about being practical. And he’d wanted her to survive.

  But she couldn’t stomach it.

  She knew it was stupid. But she had to do something with the body.

  “Whoo-hooo!” came the primal yell. It sounded like a dozen drunk high school football players, ready to tear up the town, ready, in this case, to use violence to get what they wanted.

  She didn’t want to be here when they arrived.

  But the headlights were already appearing. She could see them as clearly as she could see the sun at noon.

  What should she do?

  If she went to move her dad’s body, she might have time to get out of there. But not with the guy here that she wasn’t going to shoot in cold blood.

  It seemed that he really thought she was a murderer. It seemed as if he was a decent guy. Maybe too good a guy, if he was out hunting down murderers at great personal risk.

  If she wasn’t going to shoot him, and there wasn’t time for him to run away, then as soon as she went to move her dad’s body, he’d attack her. After all, he thought she was a murderer and he wanted to apprehend her. To him, he’d be doing the right thing.

  So what could she do?

  Maybe convince him that she wasn’t a murderer? How could she do that?

  Time was running out. The roaring engines were louder. The yelling sounded more vicious and demented, more joyous and destructive. It was louder and clearer. People were coming. There wasn’t much time.

  The smart thing would be to leave it all. Leave her dad’s body. That was what he would have wanted.

  The decision had to be fast.

  Her heart was pounding.

  Her palms were sweaty despite the cold.

  Her feet felt like they’d been dunked into an ice-water bath.

  23

  James

  It was funny. She didn’t seem like a murderer. In fact, she seemed nice. Several years older than he was. She might even be in her early thirties. He didn’t know. And he wasn’t about to try to guess a woman’s age, not when the woman in question had a firearm trained on him.

  What a weird thought. But then again, his thoughts had been pretty bizarre since the pain pills. His thinking was jumpy and somewhat confused. Maybe that was why he’d decided to attack a murderer, unarmed and alone? Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t know. It didn’t matter now. It sure seemed as if he was done for. Toast. About to die.

  He should have cared. But he didn’t. The pain pills had done something to him. Taken away some of his instincts. Taken away his will to survive. Taken away who he was.

  He didn’t like it. As much as James was still here, he didn’t like it.

  If, by some chance, he lived, he’d have to ditch the pain pills. There was enough of him left to recognize that.

  But there was no way he was getting out of this.

  His mind was muddled, but still he recognized the approaching danger. He could hear the shouts. Hear the engines.

  And he heard the gunshots. Firearms discharged joyously, probably into the night sky.

  The shots were a warning to all who heard them.

  There were those out there who just wanted to destroy. They just wanted chaos. To them, it was fun.

  And what of this murderess who had the gun aimed at him? Surely she’d want to escape. Surely she’d want to do the quick and easy thing, shooting James once in the head then leaving.

  James couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “You know...” he mumbled, vaguely aware that his words were slurred. He shouldn’t be talking. But what was the difference? And, it seemed as if he couldn’t help himself. The effect of the pain pills was strong now. They must be some high-dose pills that the doctor had handed him. Or had James taken some more of them from that bottle in his pocket? He couldn’t quite remember now.

  “Shut up,” she snapped. “I’m trying to think.”

  The effect of the pills reminded James of alcohol. It disinhibited him. It didn’t seem possible for him to simply think things rather than say them.

  “You’re too pretty to be a murderer,” he said. “Way too pretty. Are you a model?”

  She didn’t laugh.

  Instead, she just scowled harder. “You really think I’m a murderer?” she said.

  He nodded vigorously. “And it’s a shame,” he said. “Because maybe I’d ask you out if it weren’t for...”

  “Shut up,” she snapped. “No, I’m not a murderer. And I’m going to prove it to you. Then you’re going to help me move my dad’s body. Then we’re going to drive out of here before those guys get here and kill us for sport or whatever demented thing it is they’re doing. I know I shouldn’t do this. This is the exact opposite of what my dad warned me about, but I have a gut feeling about you ... and I know to trust my gut ... nothing weird or supernatural about that...”

  It was his turn to interrupt her.

  “I saw you with the body ... there’s
nothing you can say to me ... I’m not going to give up my principles just because some people are coming and may kill us for fun.”

  “Look,” she said, lowering her gun a little and reaching into her pocket. “Here’s my license.”

  “Your license?”

  Had she gone crazy?

  Something weird was going on.

  She stepped toward him cautiously. But quickly. Now she handed him something. A small hard card. A driver’s license.

  “Look at it.”

  She was backing away from him, heading toward the corpse.

  He stared at the driver’s license. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could just barely make out something on it.

  His vision was blurry from the pills.

  But he could still see something.

  It was her. Definitely her.

  He glanced over at her. She was digging into the pockets of the corpse.

  She approached him again, holding something else. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Look,” she said. “This is my dad. Look at his driver’s license. The last name’s the same.”

  It took him seemingly forever, but eventually he was able to make out the face on it.

  It was the same face as the dead guy. And the same name as her license.

  He felt his attitude softening a little.

  “But,” he said. “So what? You could have killed your dad, right?”

  But as he spoke the words, he knew they weren’t true.

  He knew she was right and he’d been wrong.

  She wasn’t a murderer.

  There was a softness in her face. And an intense sadness.

  It wasn’t anything supernatural. It was just normal, human perception. It was just gut instinct.

  He’d been distracted by the pills. He’d been caught up in thinking he was the hero, in thinking he had to be the good guy, like in the movies.

  What kind of woman who’d murdered her father would go to such great lengths not to shoot James? If she’d been capable of killing her father, she would have just shot him, not shown him the driver’s license.

  Suddenly, the two of them were lit up by the blinding harsh white light of headlights.

  An engine roared wildly. Someone had the vehicle in too low a gear, or they were riding the clutch.

  The headlights were coming right at them.

  For a split second, the two of them were like deer caught and frozen in the light.

  Then they moved.

  In a split second, everything had changed.

  Now, they acted together. They ran together, side by side, scrambling to get out of the way of the oncoming vehicle.

  The headlights blinded them. James couldn’t see where he was going, but he could hear the woman beside him.

  James and the woman were heading toward her truck.

  It didn’t seem like they’d make it.

  The oncoming vehicle had come out of nowhere. It must have come around a curve, or over a small hill. It seemed as if it was right on their heels.

  The woman was fast. Her body was as battered as James’s, apparently. She was in front of him now, almost to her truck, heading around the front of it.

  She was smart, getting her body out of the path of the oncoming vehicle.

  The vehicle could crash into her truck but she’d be protected.

  James’s diaphragm was spasming. He was sucking wind, gulping for air but not getting any. His muscles felt loose and weird, not as they normally did when he ran. The pills and the beating had done a number on him.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  He knew enough to not look behind him, even in his altered state. He’d either make it or he wouldn’t. Looking would only slow him down. What could he do if he saw it was inches behind him? Run faster? He was already maxed out.

  He was almost there. And then his leg gave out.

  The calf muscle started spasming wildly, and then he lost strength in the leg completely and it gave out.

  There wasn’t anything he could do. He collapsed, falling face first to the ground, not even managing to break his fall with his arms, which seemed to be coordinated entirely with his scrambled mind.

  The pain from the fall didn’t bother him.

  But the knowledge that he was about to be run over did.

  The roar of the engine was loud.

  Suddenly, hands grabbed him.

  Someone was pulling on him, dragging him to safety.

  24

  Meg

  She wasn’t thinking. She was just acting.

  The vehicle raced past, scraping along the side of her truck, knocking one of the side mirrors clean off.

  Meg dragged the guy to safety in the nick of time, saving him from being run over.

  She could see the vehicle now. It was a nineties SUV, raised up, with massive tires. She’d seen vehicles like that before. She’d always associated them with young guys, the types who liked to party, snowboard, and basically just get a thrill any way they could. There were a few like that in New Mexico. Most of them were fine. But some of them went down strange dark paths, getting into drugs for thrills, getting into whatever gave them kicks.

  Behind the SUV came another vehicle, a beat-up old pickup truck.

  The SUV suddenly began sliding out, as if the driver had spun the wheel and pulled the handbrake.

  Moments later, it had done a 180-degree turn, its headlights once again facing Meg and the man.

  The engine revved.

  There was no real pause. The SUV was rocketing toward them once again.

  “Come on!” shouted Meg, grabbing the guy.

  He was only partially functional. But he was trying. Trying to scramble up and out of the way. She helped him, half supporting him.

  Together, they made it around to the other side of her truck, where the driver’s side door was still partially opened.

  The SUV’s engine was roaring, its headlights almost blinding her. The high beams must have been on. She’d lost track of the pickup and the other vehicles that must have been there.

  There were all sorts of shouts and whoops.

  A gun discharged.

  She wasn’t hit. She would have felt it.

  She was in the truck now, scrambling up, turning around, pulling on the guy, trying to get him inside. She couldn’t leave him there.

  But in fact she didn’t even think about whether leaving him was really an option. It was as if all of a sudden, they were a team. In it together.

  Meg had to push herself against the steering wheel so that there was enough space to get him into the truck cab.

  Once up, he made it past her. Now, she was desperately trying to spin herself around so that she could get the truck moving.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he was urging her.

  “I’m trying!” she started to say.

  But there wasn’t enough time.

  The SUV smashed directly into the front of her truck.

  The impact was intense. Her head smashed into the headrest.

  The airbags would have gone off, had they not already done so earlier that day.

  “Shit,” someone was muttering.

  For a very short and very confusing moment, she didn’t know whether she’d uttered the words or he had.

  Then she realized it was him.

  “Help me,” she said.

  She was tangled up in something, barely able to move.

  He yanked on her, pulling her just enough to get her free.

  Everything was happening so fast. There was noise and commotion everywhere. Harsh headlights in the night. Gunshots. Shouts. Engines roaring. Tires squealing. More shouts and yells.

  She shut it all out, knowing that the only thing that would help her was to get turned around the right way, back the truck up, and try to get the hell out of there.

  It was a struggle, but she got there. Her left hand wrapped around the wheel, her right around the shifter.

  Her left food slammed in the clutch, and s
he jammed the shifter into reverse.

  Without missing a beat, she slammed on the gas, flooring it.

  Her truck’s engine roared. For a moment, she didn’t know if it’d work. Maybe the truck was too damaged to move. After all, the impact had been hard. Easily enough force to wreck some critical mechanical component.

  In that long moment, she suddenly caught sight, amidst all the chaos and the darkness and the harsh lights, of the men in the lifted SUV. They were staring right at her. Their eyes seemed small and their faces intensely mean, packed with the sort of joy a jackal displays when hunting its prey.

  Would this be the end? Would they get her?

  Maybe.

  But the truck worked.

  More or less

  It rocketed backward.

  Meg didn’t take her foot off the accelerator.

  She spun her head around, but she couldn’t see much behind her except darkness. In front of her there were headlights, but she didn’t know if the SUV was pursuing them yet or not.

  If she was lucky, the lifted SUV would have been damaged enough by the impact to not be able to pursue them.

  But she somehow doubted it.

  Things hadn’t been going her way.

  Why would things suddenly start looking up for her?

  Meg wasn’t sure where the road began and the grass ended. But she guessed as best she could, slamming on the brakes, spinning the wheel as hard as she could, shifting the truck into first, and taking off again.

  The truck was a good truck. It had a good, strong engine. But it was a truck. Acceleration wasn’t its strong suit. It was built for things other than pure speed.

  But she pushed the engine as hard as she could, shifting as quickly as she could, burning through a good bit of clutch as she did so.

  “They’re gaining on us!” shouted the man next to her, who was facing the wrong way in the passenger seat next to her.

  She’d barely gotten going and the thugs were already not just in pursuit, but gaining on them.

  “What do we do?” she found herself asking the stranger in a desperate, frantic voice.

  She was flooring it. She was already in fifth gear.

  Her Toyota was ripping down the road. The white line in the middle was rushing up toward her constantly, never wavering.