Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  Simply amazing to witness.

  Chaos being absorbed and spit right back out.

  Choke and Ruby alternate back and forth. One blasting toes and hands on the bastards in front of us, the other rat-tatting the soulless fucks behind us.

  And I’m getting it all. Recording every second of it. My heart pounds from the very idea this will all play out on a fifty-foot screen.

  A bullet whizzes by, ripping my shirt.

  I’ll go standard black tux at the awards.

  Glancing to my shoulder, it’s bleeding—only a flesh wound. Push. Push through all of it. Shove everything aside, cram it away, and get the shot.

  Make your fucking day, boy.

  Don’t think I’ve taken a breath since the bullets started.

  Breathing can wait.

  Our feet touch the back deck. All five of Shaw’s boys are down. Feet or hands mangled beyond recognition. Ruby takes me behind some overturned deck furniture and continues working the ones firing behind us.

  Choke goes around ripping off the masks of the ones downed on the deck and puts a bullet in each of their heads. I know he’s making sure they are dead, but I also know he’s looking for Shaw. He must still be in the house, or he was smart enough to get the hell out of here.

  One of the Shaw’s men has slipped through Ruby’s field of lead. She bark-calls for Choke. Beach Boy is missing a hand, and his gun barely clings to the remaining fingers on his good hand. He dives at Choke, only to be met with a grenade launched into his gut. As Beach Boy lands on his stomach on top of the grenade, Choke runs into the house. Ruby and I get low. I keep a camera high as Beach Boy’s body lifts about two feet off the deck in a poof of explosion and meat.

  The remaining two members of Shaw’s crew have been put down in the sand, feetless and left rolling and crawling on the blood-pocked beach. Ruby and I rush into the flames and smoke after Choke. It’s hard to make out what’s in front of us. The smoke is thick. My field of vision through the gas mask is limited at best. Still, I keep my cameras pointed in front just in case.

  Gunshots crack up ahead.

  A flaming chuck of ceiling drops in front of me.

  Another gunshot echoes.

  I cling to the tail of Ruby’s shirt, following her through this beach house turned battleground. Smells part campfire, part pig roast. We’ve reached what looks like the living room. Light from a blown-out window lets rays of sunlight cut through the smoke. Choke is down on a rug. He holds a seeping bullet wound in his stomach. A knife is stuck into his shoulder. Standing above him is a large man.

  A large man on fire.

  Half of his body covered in flames.

  Ruby screams, “Shaw!” raising her gun. Flaming Shaw dives through what’s left of the window. Ruby rattles off shots, carving up only the air. She drops down to Choke. He’s in bad shape. Ruby runs her fingers through her father’s hair.

  “Get me up,” he says.

  Ruby looks to me, then to Choke, then back to me. Something grinds behind those eyes of her. She smiles, blowing me a kiss. Ruby removes a zip tie from her cargo pocket and secures Choke’s ankles together, then secures his hands as fast as she can. Choke’s eyes pop wide as plates, but he says nothing. Veins swell and pulsate, seconds from bursting open. Hate that can only come from betrayal, his child’s betrayal, washes over his entire being.

  Ruby takes my hand and leads me outside. As we go, I turn to get a last look at Choke. He doesn’t bother struggling to get free. He only lies there, his stare boring through me. I feel oddly juvenile, as if I were a motorcycle-driving bass player who’s taking his daughter away. In this moment, if he could eat my heart, he would.

  Shaw has managed to put out his body flames by using the classic stop, drop, and roll technique. He’s made his way to a Lexus SUV parked in front of the house.

  Sirens scream in the distance.

  They are far away, but they are coming.

  I think to my little yellow legal pad.

  This part I did figure out. I cannot be taken into police custody with my footage on me. They will take all of it, and it will incriminate the hell out of me. I need to cut and run.

  It’s been real, Ruby, best of luck, but I’ve gotta bounce.

  Ruby tries to open up on the Lexus, but her AR is dry. She speed-loads. Shaw’s Lexus lurches into drive, tearing down the street.

  Sirens are getting closer.

  I look at Ruby. This is harder than I thought. Never was strong at goodbyes.

  Ruby unloads a blitz of firepower into the Lexus’s back window, popping the glass with holes. The Lexus swerves, nailing a parked Mercedes. Reverse lights flick. Ruby charges after the Lexus, bloodlust fueling her.

  A helicopter is coming.

  Ruby looks back at me. Her face drops. She can’t understand why I’m not coming. I take a few steps back, moving closer and closer to the house. Ruby stops. Shoulders drop, face frozen—she’s hurt by me. My heart pauses. I can see it. It’s all over her; she can’t believe what’s happening.

  Shaw pours out from the Lexus. His half-charred body betraying him, slowing him down, more zombie than badass human. With no grace or skill, he whips his AR around.

  Ruby moves toward me as I back away.

  Shaw opens fire. Ruby is forced to turn back and return fire.

  I run.

  82

  Sirens are getting closer as I enter the house in an all-out sprint.

  Think.

  Got to get my gear that’s back in the car.

  Think.

  My face gets singed as I barely dodge some flaming furniture. Choke’s cameras and footage have to be in the car too. He hasn’t had time to stash it anywhere else. Out the window I see Ruby and Shaw exchange volleys of gunfire. Six rounds per second. A ballistic shitfit.

  Cutting through the house, I reach Choke. I try not to lock into his angry eyes as I search him. He’s trying to draw me in, but I can’t let him. Need the keys. Find the damn keys. What else do I need? Think—my cell phone.

  Fire is spreading fast.

  Jamming my hands into all his pockets, I come up empty. Choke’s stare is searing. I avoid all eye contact. The energy of his rage is present. I can feel it. Got no time for it. I punch him in the face. Hurt myself more than him. There, tucked into his inside pocket under a clip, I find my cell phone along with the keys.

  A caravan of squad cars comes raging down the street.

  I make sure to put a foot to Choke’s stomach as I bolt from the room. My legs churn, dodging flames and falling slabs of house, running on faith through the smoke, hoping I’m not rambling headlong into an oven.

  Daylight.

  The sun pushes through the smoke and flames. I run with everything I’ve got toward the shafts of light, finally reaching the ocean air. Sun hits my face. Oxygen has never felt so good. I get a whiff of the odd mix of gunpowder, burning house, and the ocean.

  Sounds of gunfire at the front of the house are slowing replaced by screaming cops and car doors slamming.

  I pump my legs through the sand. Knees spring high. Feels like I’m in slow motion, but I know I’m making progress, just doesn’t feel like it. The car is still about a good half mile away, but I can make it. Need to dump my gear, find their gear, and get back for the police to take me into custody.

  Did I get enough footage?

  Did I steal enough shots?

  God, I hope Alex did his homework. This could get really shitty for me if his big law brain doesn’t work out all the details.

  My cell still has a sliver of a charge.

  I call Alex—

  A hand grabs my leg, yanking me down.

  I fall face-first into the sand. My eyes are blinded, can’t see a thing.

  Flipping over, I can barely see one of Shaw’s guys has ahold of my ankle with the only hand he has left. His gas mask is still on, making him look like a fucked-up beach alien that crawled its way through the sand. His feet are more or less gone. Out of my periphery, I see another
one of his buddies stumbling down the beach in the distance. He’s a mess as well, but he still has a gun.

  “Hello,” says Alex through my cell that’s stuck in the sand next to my ear.

  The one behind me, the one with gun, opens fire. A bullet flies over me. I fight to get free from the other motherfucker’s deformed grip. I kick hard to his face once, twice, three times. The gas mask cracks. He finally releases.

  “What the fuck?” says Alex.

  Another bullet screams by. The one with the gun is still a good distance away.

  I flip over, find my footing, and grab my cell.

  Alex is still on the line. “Hello—”

  “Shut up. Listen.” It’s hard to talk through the fear and heavy breathing. Every other word gets an odd inflection, but I keep talking. “It’s happening. I’m going to dump my gear in a car. I’ll give you the address. Haul ass north on the PCH now. This place is a goddam war zone—cops, bad guys—but the car should be far enough away.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Get everything out of the trunk and secure it—you get me?”

  “I get it, but—”

  “Follow the plan. We’re almost there.”

  A bullet whizzes. My legs kick out from under me. Felt like a sledgehammer slammed into my right leg. I’m spun around into the sand. Looking up at the blue sky, at the birds, the clouds, as this insane warmth spreads through my body…then an indescribable amount of pain.

  I scream the scream of a thousand adolescent girlies.

  I’ve been shot.

  Pretty sure I don’t like this.

  The one with the gun is still far enough away, but gaining. With my bad wheel, I can’t outrun him, can’t flank the fucker. I pull the gun Ruby gave me and fire a couple of wild-ass shots in his general direction. The shots are enough for him to drop to the sand for cover. I flip over and keep moving. It’s either make it to the car or die in the sand or go to jail. My options are shit. I pocket my cell and push toward the car. It’s not far. Almost to the pavement.

  Another bullet rips by me.

  I don’t look back, gritting my teeth as I hobble as fast as I can toward the car. Blindly, I fire behind me, hoping to hold him off. If I don’t keep going, I’ll die in jail.

  Pain is temporary.

  Death is permanent.

  83

  I fall onto the back bumper of the car.

  Fumbling through my pockets, I find the keys I got off Choke. They fumble and drop. As I pick them up, I get a look at my leg. Not good. Ballistic trauma, I’ve heard it called. My leg looks like a muffin made of meatloaf is growing from my thigh.

  Getting the trunk open, I exhale. Caught a break. Mother lode found. All of Choke’s cameras, the camera Ruby was using, different hard drives—it’s all here.

  Can I pull this off? Am I really going to make it?

  As I dump my cap, vest, and camera into the trunk, I notice that they’ve been on the whole time. I forgot. Can’t wait to see all that footage from the last few minutes. Gonna have to edit the fuck out of it, but it’ll be pretty great.

  I’m getting dizzy.

  Think.

  Did I steal enough shots?

  Spinning.

  Enough reaction shots to edit together?

  Find your center. Drill into focus.

  Looking back toward the house, I see the cops have reached the back porch. No sign of Ruby. They have engaged in a firefight with what’s left of Shaw’s guys on the beach.

  Is the car far enough away?

  Can they see me? Can’t let them search the car.

  Calling Alex, I start to move again. I give him the address and tell him to get here as fast as he can. He’s already headed this way. I slip the keys under the driver’s-side floor mat for him. My legs wobble. I have to get back over there so the cops can find me—if I don’t bleed out by then or flop around in the sand as I slam into shock.

  Pushing forward, I head back onto the beach. The battle between Shaw’s disfigured men and the cops has reached an all-out firestorm, and I’m walking toward it. In the distance, I see the one who shot me in the leg. He’s laid out faceup in the sand. I can make out some caked red sand around him. Guess I got the fucker. A sustained tear of bullets sounds out. I decide to get low.

  I get ripped down to the sand.

  Again.

  Same fucking guy takes me down.

  He punches me once, twice, three times about the face. One lands to my ear. One to my throat. My vision goes to spots. Fighting back best I can, I shove fingers and palms where I can to keep him off me. He’s stronger and a better trained fighter even with one hand. We wrestle. Brawl. No style points here. Barbaric style. I pop his nose, bursting it like a tomato. I’ve impressed myself. He returns with a balls-out headbutt to the bridge of my nose. I flop back into the sand upon impact.

  The gunfire has stopped.

  My eyes are heavy.

  My mouth is filling with blood.

  The crunch of his forehead on my nose put my lights out.

  The world slips in and out of darkness. In and out of a place that is neither consciousness nor unconsciousness. I can feel the tags of his fist on my face. This is me breathing—barely.

  The ocean sounds nice…

  84

  Slam.

  I’m back into the world. I’m at the beach. A gunshot rings out, a warm splash across my face, a body flops down on top of me then slumps off to the sand. Blood, not sure whose, probably mine.

  Slam.

  Darkness.

  Shouting.

  Hands on me.

  Slam.

  I’m being carried across the sand. Feels like floating. Frictionless momentum. More shouting. Firefighters working to save what’s left of the house. Arcing water sprays from hoses. Cops everywhere. Helicopter blades whirl above. I let out a yelp, a little embarrassed by the sound that just came out of me. The searing pain in my leg is back. Much worse now, as if the pain is pissed that I checked out for a bit and missed some of the fun.

  Slam.

  I’m here, but now I can’t get my lids to open. They simply won’t do it. Like a mechanical malfunction, they don’t work. Seems like I’ve missed some time. Lost or misplaced a section or two of my life somewhere. Moving again, but feels like rolling. A needle jams in. Velcro wrapped, strapped devices ripped from my arm. Words barked. Words like vitals, weak, gunshot, fucked up, loss, heavy, heavy loss, and blood. Another needle’s jammed in.

  Slam.

  A velvet sea of nothingness spreads out over rolling hills that stretch for miles and miles conveniently located just off the coast of the abyss. Warmth fills my entire body, as if my limbs and my brain, along with each molecule of my being, are soaking in a warm pool of milk. A calm I’ve never felt before. Like I took down a fistful of Percocet while swaying gently in a hammock with a little My Morning Jacket humming in the background. A peace that can only be reached by being heavily sedated with pharmaceutical-grade medication.

  Sweet, sweet medication.

  Sweet, sweet oblivion.

  Slam.

  Lightning strikes.

  The flash jolts me awake. I’m in a hospital. It’s night. A driving rainstorm outside peppers the window. Tubes are jammed into me everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Save for the occasional lightning strike, the room is dark and quiet with only a sliver of light peeking through the bottom of the door. Lightning, no thunder—I must be in SoCal. I can make out foot shadows passing by the door.

  My head is mush.

  Lifeless but breathing.

  Hope they catch the cat that shit in my mouth.

  There’s a rolling tray next to my bed with a water pitcher, along with a couple of cups. People have been here, maybe just doctors and nurses. I hope to hell one of them was Alex. Next to the pitcher is my phone.

  Stretching my heavy arm, pulling a tube I shouldn’t be pulling, I get my hand over enough to reach my phone. They charged it at least. Through my fish-eye lens of sight, I
can’t make out the number of missed calls, but it’s a big red number.

  I touch Messages.

  I listen to the voicemail from Lucy, the message she left before all of this.

  A message left a lifetime ago.

  When it’s over, I listen to it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And…

  85

  Light blasts in.

  The curtains have been rudely ripped open, begging the sun to come in and beat the piss out of me. My lids fire open. Hurts like a bastard. A green blob of a nurse moves back over to the other side of the bed.

  “You are going to walk today,” she says, pouring me a cup of water.

  There’s a certain bite to her tone. I couldn’t have pissed her off already—I’ve been unconscious. There’s definitely something there though. I’m not making this up. There’s some visible hostility in the way she just stabbed the water with the straw. She sets the cup down and shoves the tray in my direction on her way out of the room.

  Before she leaves, she says, “You’ve got a fucking visitor.”

  Okay. I’m not an expert in hospital/patient etiquette, and I’m no stranger to the carnal verbs, I use fuck like it’s the, but I can’t believe a nurse can or should use fuck with guests of the hospital. I’d complain, but it’s probably not a good idea. Still, what the hell did I do?

  Alex walks in.

  “What the fuck did I do to her?” I ask before he gets a word out.

  “Who? The nurse?”

  “Yes. Why is she pissed at me?”

  “Jesus, you don’t remember?”

  I don’t.

  “I’m not going to tell you, but it’s safe to say you were an out-of-line asshole on the medication. Even more than usual.”