Light It Up

by Nick Petrie

  “Hey,” said the man with the shotgun, leaning forward on the seat, looking Peter in the eye. “Listen, settle yourself. Nobody’s gonna die, okay? Not if you behave yourself.”

  The paramedic in the passenger seat half turned to speak through the steel grate. “Fucking relax, okay? Be a man. Jesus, what a pussy.”

  The plasticuffs were designed to be tough and resistant to damage, but the little belt knife was honed like a razor. It sliced through Peter’s right cuff at his wrist with a single determined swipe.

  The man with the shotgun looked down at Peter’s hands. His eyes got wide. The shotgun barrel began to pivot.

  A single sharp jerk freed the cuffs from the zip-tie holding them to the D-ring, and Peter leaped across Henry, pushing aside the barrel of the shotgun with his long right arm.

  Boom! The shotgun went off, loud as hell in that enclosed space, but Peter didn’t turn to see the damage. He slammed the knife into the man’s unarmored side, the blade skating sideways off the ribs until Peter turned his wrist to punch the steel between them fast and hard, again and again.

  The other man fought back like he didn’t know he was perforated, and maybe he didn’t. The blade was short and the man was thick with muscle. Peter was hoping to puncture a lung or damage something else vital, but from that close position with a short blade against an armored vest there was no guarantee.

  The stretcher rocked forward as the ambulance driver hit the brakes. Peter’s weight shifted slightly, and the shotgunner bucked in place trying to throw Peter off.

  But his left hand was caught up with the long gun, his right arm constrained by the corner he’d tucked himself into, and Peter’s strong legs held him there, one boot wedged into the frame of Henry’s stretcher and the other gripping the floor. The white static was now an advantage, supercharging Peter’s muscles like a Detroit hot rod.

  He lifted himself up and raised his own left arm, shrugging off the man’s short chopping punches, then slashed the blade sidearm across the man’s neck, feeling the blade tugging through flesh. A hot jet flooded Peter’s face, blood in his eye that Peter wiped away with the back of his hand as the man’s heart pumped him dry. Peter’s knife had found the carotid artery.

  The shotgun clattered to the floor. The passenger-side paramedic was shouting through the security grate as he twisted around in his seat. He had a pistol in his hand.

  Peter pushed himself off the dead man and turned to look at Banjo, but the buckshot had found him first. The tightly grouped pellets, each the size of a .38 slug, had slammed into the area where his neck met his collarbone. Banjo sat pale and upright, eyes wide in shock and disbelief, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his blood saturated his black shirt.

  The passenger-side paramedic raised his pistol to shoot through the grate. The driver hit the brakes again, throwing the panicked passenger forward as he pulled the trigger as fast as he could, like a child playing a video game. The same lurch pushed Peter forward and down atop Henry’s gurney, and the pistol rounds went through the back door or the ceiling, everywhere but into Peter, although he felt one whisper past his ear.

  Peter put one red hand on Henry’s leg and reached down for the shotgun with the other. He got a knee on the floor and racked the slide with that beautiful sound and fired through the grate at the passenger.

  It would have been difficult to miss with that weapon from that distance.

  The steel mesh flowered outward and the passenger crumpled against the dash. The right side of the windshield turned to red spiderweb. The ambulance was slowing fast on the twisting mountain road, Henry’s gurney bumping back and forth as the driver pumped the brakes, shouting, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.”

  “Stop right now,” Peter called as he racked the slide again, four shells gone and two remaining. He needed another weapon. Through the fractured windshield, he could see taillights on the long uphill curve ahead of them, their unmarked police escort maybe not yet noticing the noise from the ambulance, or maybe having decided it was better not to notice. Whichever it was, there were no brake lights, not yet.

  The ambulance continued to slow.

  He could see the face of the mountain through the windshield.

  Now was as good a time as any.

  Peter raised the shotgun to the grate and blew the driver’s heart out through the front of his chest.

  He’d thought the ambulance would continue to slow, miss the long curve, and end up in the ditch, coming to a relatively soft stop against the mountainside. Instead some rogue neuron fired in the driver’s head and his leg stabbed out, slipping off the brake and onto the gas.

  The ambulance surged up the road with a diesel rattle. The gurney slammed back against the double doors at the rear of the ambulance.

  Peter dropped himself full-length onto the gurney and grabbed the rails in a push-up position, holding himself above Henry. He didn’t know what would happen to the ambulance without a living driver at the wheel.

  Peter looked down at himself, the blood on his hand, his face, his clothes. The grim fucking reaper. A faint black border fluttered at the edges of his vision. Adrenaline overload. When he came down, he was going to crash hard.

  Then Henry blinked up at him.

  “Hey, kid.” The big man’s hoarse whisper somehow carried over the engine noise. “Why don’t you get us the fuck out of here?”

  Peter licked his lips. “Yeah,” said Peter. “Sure.”

  He took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder at the ambulance doors. They were punctured by the paramedic’s wild shots, the lock hardware shattered on one side. He shifted backward in his push-up position and cocked his left leg, strong from years of powering up mountains with a heavy pack. The ambulance kept rocketing forward.

  “Hold on, this isn’t going to be fun,” he said, and kicked the doors open.

  The gurney fell backward through the doorway and out onto the road with a double thump, Henry strapped in and Peter riding shotgun. Peter felt the clack of his teeth and a stab of pain behind his eyes, his head still not recovered from smacking against the window. Henry huffed out a kind of grunt as breath was forced from his lungs.

  The gurney had some forward momentum, but less than the ambulance, which was still accelerating, the last act of the dead driver. Peter watched as the ambulance did exactly as he’d expected it to do, but faster. It missed the curve and shot forward into the ditch, then bounced up the sharp embankment and into the mountain with a crunch.

  The headlights went out, probably broken by the impact. The gurney spent the last of its forward momentum on the uphill highway, its front wheels swiveling sideways as the ambulance’s big diesel sputtered and coughed, then died.

  “There goes our ride,” said Peter.

  He climbed off the gurney, leaving the shotgun lying beside Henry. It had gotten much darker. The wind was cool and strong and blowing clear through him. It smelled like pine resin and rock dust. To the west, the sky had turned a blue so deep it was almost purple, and to the east, it was nearly black. The shadowed peaks rose up around them like ramparts, granite tips still shining in the last rays of the sun. Peter felt his chest expand to the horizon as the static began to fade.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Then he looked up the road and saw the brake lights of the trooper, now stopped a half mile ahead on the switchback. No reverse lights. No dome light, either, so the trooper was probably still in his car, trying to decide what to do.

  He needed a weapon. The paramedic had a pistol, and maybe more ammunition. He began to jog up the road toward the wreck.

  Henry called out to him. “Hey. Peter. Hey!” His hoarse voice was loud in the sudden quiet.

  Peter stopped and looked over his shoulder. The gurney had turned on its swiveling front wheels, and Henry was beginning to roll downhill. Headfirst, still strapped in.

  Peter hadn’t put on the brakes, if that antique even had brakes. It was so old the legs hadn’t automatically extended when
it dropped off the ambulance. A metal trolley a foot off the ground, it resembled nothing more than some adrenaline freak’s new way to hospitalize himself, the rider strapped down with no way to steer.

  “Shit, hang on.” He ran after Henry.

  Peter bent and grabbed the rear of the frame, planted his boots, and almost got yanked off his feet. The gurney wasn’t going fast, but the road was steep and Henry was a big guy. It wasn’t easy to counter all that momentum.

  “No,” said Henry. “Keep going. Let’s get out of here.”

  Peter looked over his shoulder. The trooper still hadn’t moved. Maybe he was on the radio, trying to raise the paramedics. Maybe he was calling for backup.

  Peter still wanted another weapon. But how long would it take him to get it? He’d still have to take on the trooper, who would probably have a shotgun in the cruiser, or an automatic rifle, or both.

  Maybe Henry was right. Soon it would be full dark. Getting some distance was a good idea.

  He didn’t want to have to kill anyone else.

  He tugged sideways on the gurney, confirming that the downhill wheels were on swivels and the uphill wheels were fixed. Like a shopping cart, he thought. It was possible.

  He glanced back at the police car.

  Now the reverse lights were on, and the red and blue flashers were lit up.

  Henry said, “I thought you were a goddamned Marine.”

  Peter didn’t want to think about the carnage in the ambulance, the man he’d killed with a knife, although he knew it would come back to him later whether he liked it or not. He made a decision.

  “Your call, old man.” Peter hopped onto the back of the gurney, pushing off hard. “Just don’t blame me when your ’chute doesn’t open.”

  He looked down at his friend, injured and bloody, rolling headfirst down a twisting mountain road, picking up speed.

  Henry was smiling. His hoarse voice got a little louder.

  “Just wondering, exactly how you planning to steer this fucking sled?”

  Peter felt the cold mountain wind in his hair, the gathering dark, the steady accumulation of speed.

  He was smiling, too.

  “What,” he said aloud. “You want to live forever?”

  7

  The road tilted with the curves, and the relentless slope pulled them downhill, faster and faster.

  Steering the gurney wasn’t easy.

  Steering and trying to slow their acceleration at the same time was even more difficult.

  Peter had let the antique gurney pick up speed to get some distance from the police cruiser. Now that they were rolling quite a bit faster than Peter could run, he wasn’t sure how to stop.

  He rode with his left knee set between Henry’s feet and the sole of his right boot pressed to the asphalt, acting as a brake and a kind of rudder. His stomach muscles were tight and the bottom of his foot was getting hot from the friction. Henry was still strapped in headfirst, eyes rolled back trying to see what was coming.

  The county road ran downhill most of the way to the state highway. Most of the way to Denver, actually. Peter remembered the signs he’d seen on the way up. STEEP GRADE.

  He figured the sole of his boot was wearing away. At least they were new boots, good boots he’d bought for the job.

  The night was dark. The stars were coming out.

  “So what’s the plan, kid?” Henry’s hoarse voice rose above the sound of the wheels, rattling and thumping on the bumpy road. “Not complaining. Just wondering.”

  They’d been rolling for a few minutes, no longer. Not long enough.

  “Putting some highway between us and that state trooper,” Peter said. “Maybe gain a few minutes if he decides to come after us.”

  “There’s a state trooper?” asked Henry.

  Peter remembered that Henry had been knocked out in the crash. “Helping the hijackers,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder. They’d gone around the flank of the mountain and he could no longer see the trooper’s lights. “Maybe he’s a trooper, maybe not. He had a pretty convincing car.”

  The heat on the bottom of his right foot was too much. He pulled it back in and changed to his left. By the time he’d gotten set again, they’d picked up more speed, and the gurney had veered toward the outside of the curve.

  The blacktop was patched and lumpy and pocked with divots from rockfalls. It was a remote county highway, deep in the national forest. There were no guardrails. The road flew beneath their wheels. Peter couldn’t see the bottom of the drop-off.

  It wasn’t easy to get the rocketing gurney back to the yellow line.

  Trying not to show the strain, Peter said, “The farther we get, the more territory he has to search to find us. If I can find a place to get off the road, maybe I can park you somewhere hidden and go for help.”

  “I might be beyond that,” said the big man. “Maybe the best thing would be for you to just find a nice high drop, light me a cigar, and give me a push.”

  “Fuck you, Henry,” Peter said kindly. Now his left foot was getting hot. “I thought you were a tough guy.”

  Henry looked up at the night sky. “Something happened in the accident,” he said. “I can’t feel my legs. Or much of anything below my armpits.”

  The truck had gotten hit hard. “Shit, Henry. I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” said Henry. “You weren’t the asshole driving that tow truck. Besides, there’s worse ways to die. I always wanted to ride a longboard down a mountain.”

  “What, you’re quitting? I thought you didn’t believe in that.”

  “I don’t think of it as quitting.” A smile flickered across Henry’s face. “More like starting something new.”

  “Fuck that.” Peter’s feet were heating up faster as the soles of his boots ground thinner against the asphalt. He switched to his right foot again. They picked up still more speed. The gurney clattered hard over the rough road. The rocky flank of the mountain beside them was a shadowy blur. The front wheels had begun to rattle unpleasantly.

  “How much farther you figure,” said Henry. “We’re really moving.”

  “Just a few more minutes,” Peter said. It was what his mother had always said on long drives when Peter was a kid, when he wanted to know if they were there yet. He wondered if it would work on Henry.

  It didn’t.

  “Ah,” said the big man. “You can’t stop this fucking thing, can you?”

  “Sure,” said Peter. “I can stop whenever I want.”

  “Famous last words,” said Henry. His eyes were on the stars overhead. “I’m telling you, just pick the right place and let go. Send me off to meet my maker in style.”

  Peter smiled. “No fucking way, Henry.”

  The steering on the lumpy blacktop became harder the faster they went. Small adjustments, that was the trick. Oversteer too much and the gurney would slide sideways and roll. That would end a lot of their problems. Probably cause a few more.

  Peter could always let go, of course. He’d curl himself up into a ball, protecting his head with his arms, and try not to come to an abrupt stop against the mountain, or roll right off the edge of it.

  Henry would end up airborne, wishing for wings.

  So no, that wasn’t going to happen.

  “You see any of those slow-vehicle pull-offs coming up?” Henry asked. “I remember we passed a few on the way up. Should be one in the next few miles.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” said Peter. A few miles was a long way when your feet were on fire. “Hey, what’s left on your bucket list? I know you’ve got one.”

  “Find the sonofabitch behind this stickup,” Henry said. “Kick his balls so hard they come out his ears.”

  Peter smiled. “Roger that.”

  He tried not to think about June. If Peter had a bucket list, June was on it. Hell, she was the whole list. At least she was safe at home. When they’d met, she was being chased by men with guns.

  “I knew Deacon for almost six years
,” Henry said. “Banjo for two at least. Those boys were friends of mine.”

  “Me too.” Peter had only known Henry four months, but felt like he’d known the man his whole life.

  Some friends were like that.

  His foot was getting hot again. He could flex his new boots more easily now, almost as if wearing his old running shoes. He wondered how much sole was left. Eventually he was going to run out of boots.

  He changed feet again, and as the gurney went faster, it began to vibrate.

  It wasn’t just the front wheels rattling now. Peter could feel it in his hands, a hum on the side rails that built to a buzz traveling through the whole aluminum frame, getting more violent by the minute. Peter figured the wheel bearings were starting to go on this antique. Eventually they would seize. And the gurney would roll.

  On the other hand, if they hit a major pothole, they’d go ass over teakettle, a full-on cartwheel, and end up looking like jellyfish. If they didn’t just fly right over the edge.

  It was a kind of race, Peter figured. Between the bad bearings, the inevitable pothole, Peter’s thinning boots, and finding a place to pull off the road.

  Sometimes Peter wished he was religious.

  —

  The old asphalt was bleached pale by the Colorado sun pounding down through air thinned by altitude. Although the night had fallen almost completely, the road remained lighter than the darkening world around it. A gray ribbon laid out before them, twisting and turning its way down the mountain.

  Peter changed feet again and the gurney picked up still more speed. The buzz got louder still. He had to look down to get his knee set again between Henry’s feet. When he got his eyes forward, he saw the road appear to come to an abrupt end. Which couldn’t be, because they’d come this way in the ambulance, hadn’t they?

  Then he realized the road took a hard left, vanishing around the flank of the mountain. He leaned and put more pressure on the rudder of his trailing foot and the shuddering gurney reluctantly followed the road around the bend. To their right was a deep valley that seemed bottomless in the darkening evening. Ahead of them the road was visible again, the gray ribbon curling along the contour of the land.