A shot.
A hole appeared in the back wall and a ray of sunlight pierced the gloom like a laser. A stray shot? Or did he know where I was? Of course he did. More shots, punching a pattern of holes in the wall and creating a crazy criss-cross light sculpture in the air.
I kept low, crawling deeper into the building. Splinters and dust rained down around me, flickering in the sunlight as they fell. To say that I was now genuinely concerned for my safety is an understatement. The Highway Patrolman hadn’t been bluffing about the use of lethal force. Was he some sort of rogue cop? A psychopath in a uniform? He could kill someone out here in the wilderness and no one would ever know. I might be the latest of many victims.
The revolver was a heavy lump at my side, but I was still reluctant to draw it. I could shoot him in self-defence, but having a gun in my hand would give him a legitimate reason to shoot me. And if I fired my gun, the residue on my hand would back up any story he made up about having to take down an armed fugitive. But none of this meant that I was going to lie there and let him shoot me.
Plan A. I would draw him into the building and make my move before his eyes had a chance to adjust to the gloom. I’d hit him – hard – with something to get him to drop the gun. This would be crossing a line as I would be assaulting a police officer, but I could plead self-defence. If I broke his arm, so be it. While he was down and writhing in agony, I’d duck out the front and use my revolver to blow up his motorcycle. After that, I’d improvise depending on what I found when I got out there. I was still worried about what might have happened to Harmony.
Plan B was that I would draw my revolver and shoot the Highway Patrolman. I’d try and aim for a foot or a leg, but I knew whatever I did, the explosive slugs would do him some serious damage. Plan B was the last resort.
I needed something to hit him with. There were various lengths of wood littering the floor, but I wanted something beefier. There were some metal pipes on the wall. They’d once fed water to the old sink that lay in bone-coloured pieces on the floor. Ripping the pipe off the wall would alert the patrolman to my position and the shooting would start again. I would prefer it if he didn’t aim directly at me.
I picked up the largest piece of broken sink and hurled it as hard as I could away from me. It crashed through the lath and plaster wall into the next room. Better than I’d hoped. Gunshots from outside – but not aimed directly at me. I wrapped my fingers around the steel pipe and pulled. Harder than I needed to, as it turned out. The pipe came loose bringing part of the wall with it. I knocked the bits of wood and plaster off and hefted my new weapon. It was a little over a yard long and felt reassuringly heavy. I ignored the rust-coloured dust that spilled out of it onto my jeans and boots.
Silence again as the cop paused to reload. Maybe if I could stay out of range long enough, he’d run out of ammo. It was a nice idea, but it was only going to take one bullet to put an end to the life of Quincy A. Randall and it didn’t matter if that was his next one or his last one. I had to take action.
“This is the police. Come out with your hands up.”
Not a chance, I thought. He’d put a bullet in my head while I was still blinking in the sunlight. Come and get me, copper. I made a loud groaning sound, as if I’d been hit. I hoped it would draw him in to finish me off. I stood and walked quietly to take up a position behind one of the remaining pieces of wall. I raised the pipe, ready to swing. I had to make the first strike count. I wouldn’t get a second.
His moving shadow caused a shifting pattern in the sunlight. I heard his boots crunching on the fallen plaster as he came into the building. I waited, holding my breath, unable to see him and relying on sound to tell me where he was. More slow footsteps and the creaking of a floorboard. He was coming closer. As soon as he came around the corner I had to strike fast and hard. I was expecting him to lead the way with his gun and I was ready to bring the pipe down on his wrist with every ounce of force I could muster.
There was a sound in the wall behind me. It wasn’t termites. The Highway Patrolman punched his fists through the plaster behind me. Before I could react he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me backwards through the wall.
Chapter Eighteen
I clung to the steel pipe but there was no way for me to turn and swing it.
“You are under arrest,” the Highway Patrolman said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”
“Ow,” I said.
He lifted me off my feet and threw me across the room. I crashed into an old cupboard on the far wall and I came down with it on top of me. There must have been pain but I wasn’t feeling it at that moment. The shock had fired up the adrenaline pump and I flipped into survival mode. I managed to get my knees under me and reached for the pipe.
“You have the right to have a lawyer present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to you free of charge.” His hand hovered close to the holstered gun. I think he intended to shoot now and leave the questions until later.
I used the steel pipe to help me get to my feet. I had to wait a moment for the room to stop spinning. I kept the pipe down by my side but tightened my grip on it.
“If injured, you have the right to receive appropriate medical attention,” he said. “If you do not have medical insurance, basic care will be provided without cost to you.”
I glanced towards the doorway as if I had seen something. It was a standard distraction technique. I didn’t wait to see if he fell for it. I raised the pipe and rushed towards him. The Highway Patrolman raised his arm to ward off the blow. The impact jarred both my shoulders. I was sure it must have broken his arm. But he just smiled at me. He wrenched the pipe from my grip and he bent it in a U-shape. It was a clichéd move, but when you see someone do it for real you can’t help but be impressed. And worried. The next thing he was going to grip with those massively strong hands was me. He tossed the pipe aside.
“In the event of your death,” he said, “your body will be disposed of in accordance with your wishes. If you cannot afford a funeral, an undertaker will be appointed free of charge.” He smiled at me again. “Do you understand these rights as they have been communicated to you?”
He raised his hands, ready to attack. I didn’t fancy my chances if this came down to unarmed combat.
“What was the second one again?” I asked.
I didn’t know whether he was legally obliged to repeat it. It didn’t matter. I slowly drew my revolver from its holster.
“Drop your weapon,” he said. “You have twenty seconds to comply.” His hand moved towards his gun, fingers curling.
I kept my gun pointing downwards. I stared directly into his eyes. He didn’t blink. He still didn’t have a hair out of place. He wasn’t sweating and he wasn’t breathing heavily. Compared to him, I was a wreck. But I still had Plan B – or a variation on it. I jumped backwards and fired the revolver into the floor in front of him. He wasn’t expecting that, I could tell.
The explosive slug tore up the old wooden boards and the floor collapsed into the cellar. The Highway Patrolman went down with it.
I scrambled backwards out of the building. I stood in the street blinking in the sunlight and faced the door, listening as the sounds of collapse faded. In the near-silence that followed, I could hear a few small fragments of wood fall and settle but then nothing. There was no sound from the fallen patrolman. I felt a twinge of guilt. If he was badly hurt, or worse, it was my fault. When I got back to the Trekker, I’d call for an ambulance. Assuming the Trekker was still there. If it wasn’t, I’d borrow the cop’s motorcycle. It was standing in the street – undamaged.
I walked slowly around the corner, my body now choosing to share with me the pain it had been masking. I don’t think there was any part of me that didn’t hurt. Rounding the corner I saw why Harmony had been delayed. Sitting a little distance behind the Trekker was a police cruiser. Or what was left of one. One side of it was
badly crunched, the hood and trunk lids were both missing, and wisps of smoke were coming out of the open rear windows. It was a minute before I realised it was Marshal Rufus T. Dimmock’s car.
Staying close to the building, I edged closer. The Marshal was standing with his back to me and from his stance, I could guess that he was holding a gun. The fact that Harmony was standing with her hands on her head was also a clue. Harmony must have seen me getting closer, but she gave no indication – she didn’t want to tip off the Marshal. I was only a few yards from him when I spoke.
“Is there a problem, officer?”
Startled, the Marshal turned. Luckily for me, he wasn’t as trigger-happy as the Highway Patrolman.
“You!” he said. “You look like squit. What happened?”
Before I could answer, I was distracted by a movement from Harmony.
“No!” I shouted. And then: “Down!”
The Marshal and I hit the ground and covered our heads. Harmony lobbed the live grenade in through the window of the Marshal’s green-and-white.
It wasn’t the biggest explosion I’d ever seen, but it did the job. When the flames died down there wasn’t much left of the Marshal’s car. And what there was, was blackened and mangled.
Harmony was standing over the Marshal. She had taken his gun and was pointing it at him. He pulled himself to his feet, his face a dark red colour.
“What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “What did my car ever do to you?”
Harmony ignored him. “Did you destroy the motorcycle?” she asked me.
“Not yet,” I said. “I wanted to be sure the Trekker was still here.” My point wasn’t lost on her. “Besides, dealing with the bike as your job.”
“I had to deal with this first,” she said. She cocked the hammer on the Marshal’s gun.
“No!” I said. “We’re not cop killers.”
There was a loud crash behind me.
“Apparently not,” Harmony said, looking past me.
I turned. There was a new hole in the wall of the building behind me. The Highway Patrolman was standing in it. He didn’t appear to be injured but his uniform had seen better days. As we watched, he tore off the shredded shirt and threw it aside. He flexed his bare chest muscles.
“What is this, an action movie?” I said.
“I kind of like it,” Harmony said. “What a waste.”
Before I knew what was happening, she had thrown another grenade through the hole where the Patrolman stood.
“No!” I shouted. I wanted to step forward and do something, but there was nothing I could do. A ball of flame swelled behind the Highway Patrolman and then engulfed him. I had to look away.
“What did I say about killing cops?” I said, my teeth gritted.
My anger seemed to amuse Harmony.
“He’s not dead,” the Marshal said.
“What?” I turned. Through the flames and shimmering heat haze, I could see the Highway Patrolman getting to his feet inside the burning building. His remaining clothing was on fire.
“We have to help him,” I said. I took a couple of steps forward – but a sudden sound stopped me.
A blast from an air horn. The truck appeared from nowhere, travelling at speed, and crashed into the burning building. It demolished the structure completely just like it was flattening a cardboard box, crushing the half-naked cop inside. The truck slid to a halt. The driver’s door opened and Floyd stepped down.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“No need to thank me,” Floyd said.
I was trying to look under and around the truck and trailer, looking for some sign of the Highway Patrolman. “Is he dead?”
“You’d hope so, wouldn’t you?” Harmony said.
“Floyd, call an ambulance,” I said.
“Why?”
“We have to do something.” I hurried forward, scanning the burning debris for some sign of the man.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the Marshal said.
He was right, I didn’t know what sort of hideous sight would greet me, but I had to look, in case there was a slim chance of saving him.
Harmony and Floyd came up behind me.
“What are you even doing here?” I asked Floyd.
“You were late for the rendezvous and you didn’t answer the radio. So I came riding to the rescue. You’re welcome.”
I scowled at him. I was about to tell him what I thought of his ‘rescue’ but I heard sounds off to my left. Pieces of old corrugated iron shifting.
“He’s here!” I said. “He’s alive!”
“He doesn’t know does he?” Harmony said.
“How can he not know?” the Marshal asked.
“He’s dumber than he looks,” Floyd explained.
I stepped forward to help the fallen policeman, but Floyd caught my arm and held me back.
The corrugated iron was thrown aside and the Highway Patrolman got to his feet. He was virtually naked now, his uniform burned away, but his flesh and hair seemed to be unharmed. He flexed his muscles and bared his teeth like a superhero gone bad.
“Officer, stand down,” the Marshal commanded.
The Highway Patrolman straightened and relaxed.
“I outrank him,” the Marshal said proudly.
I stared at the near-naked figure. “How is this possible?”
“Flame-retardant chemical in the flesh,” the Marshal said.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
The Highway Patrolman turned his head towards me and I saw that he hadn’t escaped completely unscathed. There was a gash in front of his left ear and blood was trickling down. The cut had exposed metal underneath.
“Wait,” I said, “he’s a robot.”
Behind me, the two humans broke into applause and Floyd issued a victorious cartoon trumpet sound. I think they were mocking me.
“You didn’t know?” Harmony asked. “You fought him all afternoon and you didn’t know?”
“I was distracted by other things,” I said.
“I can see why,” Harmony said, looking the Highway Patrolman up and down. She made a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a growl.
“Really?” I said.
“Are you saying you wouldn’t?” she asked.
“He’d be no good to you,” I said. “I don’t see any boy-parts.”
Harmony peered closer. “I blame the steroids.”
I looked behind me. “Where’s the Marshal?”
“Gone for the motorcycle you left unattended,” Harmony said.
“Is that the same one that you failed to blow up?” I asked.
Harmony rolled her eyes. “Give me your gun, I’ll stop him.”
“Forget it,” I said. “let’s just get out of here.”
Floyd climbed back into the truck and started it up. With any luck, our cargo would still be intact.
“Coming?” I said.
“What about him?” Harmony asked, jerking her thumb towards the Highway Patrolman. He was standing at ease, waiting for instructions from a superior officer.
“He’s not a toy,” I said. “He’s dangerous.”
I thought Harmony would suggest shooting him or blowing him up, but she didn’t. We climbed into the Trekker.
As we were pulling away, Marshal Dimmock rode around the corner. He stopped to allow the naked Highway Patrol robot to climb on behind him.
“That’s really erotic,” Harmony said.
“No,” I said, “it isn’t.”
“Come on,” she insisted. “Fat guy in uniform on a motorcycle with a muscle-bot – people would pay money to see that action.”
“Eww!” I said. “Try and discourage them from following us.”
“How?”
“What do you usually do?” I asked.
“Blow squit up.” Harmony grinned. “At the next town, we’ll need to stop for more grenades.”
There wasn’t a next town, at least not one we could comfortably reach before nightfal
l. Harmony suggested that she and Floyd could drive on through the night while I slept, but I wasn’t comfortable with that idea. Despite my battered and exhausted state, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep while we were moving. There are no lights along Route Nine so you have to navigate by the light from the moons. I’d be worried about what we might be heading towards in the dark – the police, bandits, a wrecked car blocking the road, werewolves. Okay, maybe not werewolves.
We found a quiet spot and pulled off the road. Supper was self-heating coffee and pouches of something that claimed to be ratatouille and tasted like something a child had made with modelling clay. Afterwards, Harmony insisted that I take the bunk in the truck, saying she’d be perfectly comfortable sleeping in the Trekker. I argued that she should take the bunk, but not as vigorously as I would have done if I hadn’t been completely wrecked. I asked her if she’d come and tuck me in and she said ‘Yeah, right.’ Floyd kept a watch over us while we slept in our separate vehicles.
Chapter Nineteen
Harmony and the Trekker were still there when the sun rose and, against my better judgment, I let her drive. I was still bruised from my encounter with the Highway Patrolman and I just wanted to rest. Her driving must have been less enthusiastic than usual because I even managed to close my eyes and snooze for a while. Until she suddenly jammed on the brakes.
“Wha?” I said, startled awake.
“Trouble,” she said.
We were just outside a small town that sat right on the edge of the highway. The trouble she had spotted was a line of motorcycles outside the bar.
“Is it them?” Harmony asked.
Some of the bikes were pretty distinctive and I recognised them immediately. “The Dragon Riders,” I said, nodding.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“We could try and sneak past them,” I said. “How far to the next town?”
“The best part of a day,” Harmony said.
We needed supplies and I wanted to top up the Trekker’s batteries. Waiting another full day could leave both us and our vehicle running on empty.
Road Rage Page 11