Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  The two of them came out of the trees on to the baseball field at De Witt Clinton Park. Malcolm heard a dog growl. He looked in the direction of the sound. A bald man held a large pit bull by the collar, at the edge of the trees. The dog must not like people running. Malcolm decided to keep an eye on them.

  The man then crouched beside his dog, shouted something, and let go of its collar. The dog broke into a sprint towards Malcolm and Ryan.

  Was this really happening? That son of a bitch just ordered his pit bull to attack them.

  “Ryan!” Malcolm said stopping. He drew his pistol. Ryan turned and saw the dog coming. He cursed and swung his bag around, fumbling for the front pocket zipper. But the dog was much too fast for him.

  Not for Malcolm. He quickly had his pistol aimed at the bounding canine. Its owner must have noticed, because he whistled for the dog. But it was too late. The pit bull was committed. It picked Malcolm as the first target. Malcolm fired one round just as it leapt at him. The impact of the 5.7x28mm slug into the dog’s chest sent it spinning backwards. It landed on its head and crumpled, making no further sound.

  Ryan finally got his gun out. The dog owner shouted in anger and began running towards them. Malcolm and Ryan both aimed their weapons at him in response. He stopped, held up his hands, and walked backwards.

  Malcolm and Ryan resumed jogging, slowly, while holding their weapons and keeping an eye on the would-be attacker.

  When they reached the third base line they stopped. Malcolm re-holstered his gun. Ryan put his safety latch on, and then tucked the 9-millimeter into his jeans, pulling his shirt tail over the bulge.

  “I guess you were right,” Ryan said. “I’ll keep my weapon handier. Nice shot. That thing fires those little rounds impressively. Kind of wish we’d gotten the scumbag owner as well.”

  “Me too. Now where are we going? The ferry landing?”

  “No.”

  They came out of the park on 54th Street. Ryan pointed to the river. “Pier 96, right there. We better keep moving.”

  “What, the kayak place?”

  Ryan didn’t answer. He started off in a trot again. Malcolm ran to keep up with him. As they crossed 12th Avenue, Malcolm looked to the air. Several helicopters circled to the north. They must be over the black bloc.

  A car horn blared, startling Malcolm, instantly drawing his eyes back to the street where a taxi sped by in front of them, easily doing 75. The crazy driver had a fare in the back seat. Must be someone important—or rich.

  Malcolm and Ryan finished crossing the wide street, ran through the short section of the Port Authority parking lot, and continued on to the Greenway Lawn. Several homeless people were camping there. Malcolm tried to see if any of them were Dion, but it was difficult while running. He also kept an eye out for dogs.

  The Manhattan Community Boathouse, a nonprofit organization, came into view. Most New York City residents knew about the free kayak rentals on Pier 96. On weekends during warm months you had to get there early or late if you wanted one without waiting for hours. Malcolm and Hannah came on a Tuesday evening once, and had no trouble acquiring a tandem kayak. Starting in May the boathouse opened at 5:00 pm on weekdays. It was only about 3:30 now.

  But they looked open, judging by the half-dozen or so kayaks on the water. The kayakers didn’t seem to be flitting about, as was normal. Rather, they all paddled towards the west shore of the river. One was just leaving the floating dock.

  As Malcolm and Ryan drew closer, it became apparent the kayaker leaving the pier wasn’t doing so with the well wishes of the staff. A man and a woman stood on the dock shouting angry voices at him.

  That didn’t slow Ryan down. He ran onto the pier and down the upper ramp that led to the covered shed where all the kayaks were stored.

  “We’re closed!” a stressed female voice shouted. “Go away!”

  Malcolm looked to the voice and saw a petite, dirty-blond twenty-something behind a counter. She pointed back up the ramp with a purple fingernail.

  “Where’s Tim?” Ryan said. “I’m here to see Tim.”

  “Oh, are you here to help us?” The girl came around the counter. “Thank God! People are just coming and taking the kayaks by force, pushing us away when we try to stop them. Can you believe that? We’re a nonprofit group! I called the police three times and they still haven’t arrived.”

  She then turned to the launching barge and shouted.

  “Tim! Some friends of yours are here!”

  The man down on the dock heard her. He walked up the lower ramp, shaking his head of curly black hair and stepping carefully in his flip flops. Malcolm felt a little out of place in jeans and a sport coat. But he noticed some of the kayakers out on the Hudson were also fully dressed.

  Tim instantly recognized Ryan when he got to the shed.

  “It’s gone,” he said raising his hands up. “Someone took it. Sorry. You should have gotten here a couple hours ago.”

  Ryan tilted his head. “What do you mean, someone took it? I paid you a hefty sum to keep it on hand for me.”

  The girl spoke. “What’s he talking about, Tim?”

  “Man, I couldn’t hold it! Thugs are taking our kayaks! Tough guys—some of them armed, no doubt. There’s nothing we can do here. The city is in chaos, in case you haven’t heard.”

  “Well, then give me back my $300.” Ryan held his hand out.

  Tim looked down and muttered, “I don’t have it.”

  “What?” the girl said. “You took a bribe, Tim?”

  Tim turned to her. “I sold him the leaky green one. It’s been patched too many times now, and we needed to get rid of it anyway. He said he only wanted it for getting across the river.”

  “That’s not what we do here, Tim—”

  “You don’t have my money,” Ryan said glancing around the shed, “so you owe me one tandem kayak. Any of these will do.” He began reaching towards one on a rack.

  “No!” the girl said.

  “No.” Tim stepped in front of Ryan, blocking his path. “You can’t have one of these.”

  Ryan only stared back.

  At that moment, two more men arrived in the shed. They definitely didn’t work there. One was bald and wore a black leather vest and black jeans. The other had a spikey haircut and lots of piercings. He carried a duffel bag.

  Malcolm didn’t take his eyes off the bald one. Was that the guy who had the pit bull in the park? Malcolm couldn’t tell. He studied Malcolm longer than was comfortable and sneered before grabbing a kayak.

  “What are you doing?” the girl said to him.

  “Going kayaking.”

  “No you’re not. We’re closed.”

  “Grab that end,” the bald one said to his friend. His friend slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and picked up the front end of the kayak.

  “I said no!” The girl ran at them.

  The one in front swung his bag so it smacked her on the side of the head. The girl shrieked as she fell. Tim then came at the guy, but wisely stopped and reconsidered when his adversary assumed a combative stance. Tim ended up bending down to help the girl, who was now crying and whimpering.

  The bald guy stared at Malcolm again. Malcolm instinctively reached inside his coat. The bald guy didn’t care for that movement, and reached inside his vest in reaction.

  Ryan moved his hand under his shirttail. The punk with the duffel bag then set his end of the kayak down, unzipped his bag, and put his hand inside. The four of them stayed in that position for the longest fifteen seconds of Malcolm’s life.

  “You two work here?” the bald one finally said.

  “No,” Ryan answered.

  “Gonna stick your nose where it don’t belong, then?”

  “Nope.” Ryan shook his head. “We’re going kayaking, too.”

  “Fair enough.” The bald one took his hand out of his vest in an apparent gesture of good faith. “But I advise you to keep your distance from us, both here and on the water.”

  R
yan nodded and put his hands behind his back. The bald guy looked at Malcolm. Malcolm put both hands in the air and reached for the tandem kayak next to Ryan.

  That seemed to satisfy the thugs. They picked their kayak back up. The bald one grabbed a paddle from the bin next to the ramp before descending it. It occurred to Malcolm that he could easily shoot them both in the back as they walked down the ramp.

  Ryan and Malcolm waited a few minutes. Tim helped the girl off the floor and back over to the counter. Down on the barge, the two thugs simply pushed the other girl out of the way when she tried to stop them. The kayak they appropriated was a single-seater, but that didn’t appear to hinder them. The little punk with the duffel bag simply sat up on the front end as the bald guy paddled them away.

  “There’s two cops up on the street now,” Tim said to the injured girl. “I’ll go get them. Stay here.” He ran up the upper ramp.

  “Come on,” Ryan said grabbing the front of the tandem kayak again. He pulled it down and Malcolm took hold of the rear. The girl at the counter silently held her head and watched as Ryan took two paddles from the bin with his free arm.

  “I’m sorry,” Ryan said to her before walking down the ramp. “He did sell me a kayak, and promise to hold it for me. And I need it. Hope you’re okay.”

  She offered no response or change of expression.

  The other girl, down on the barge, did not attempt to physically restrain Ryan and Malcolm. She did, however, assault them verbally with everything she could muster—and didn’t for a second believe Ryan’s story about having “purchased” a kayak from Tim. Neither did she react when Malcolm informed her that her coworker was hurt and possibly needed help.

  Her curses continued as the two of them launched. Paddling away, Malcolm heard one last yell from her.

  “We’re a nonprofit group, you assholes!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “We’re directly over the Lincoln Tunnel,” Ryan said from the rear seat. He had to shout, because the noise from helicopters flying back and forth across the Hudson River was loud. Most were police, military, or emergency rescue craft. But some were commercial and private. That must be how billionaires bug out of Manhattan.

  It wasn’t how millionaires bugged out—or at least those who only had a paltry $7.3 million in the bank. Apparently, they had to steal kayaks to get away.

  It occurred to Malcolm he still hadn’t told Ryan about the fortune he made during the first two days of the financial crisis. But with hyperinflation becoming a reality, and the U.S. Dollar crashing beyond all semblance of reason, the accomplishment had become questionable. It was like a trade that wasn’t yet closed, and Malcolm never counted his profits before exiting the trade.

  How would this trade close? Was everyone’s money really going to become worthless? Couldn’t the government fix this? How could they allow things to get this far out of control? Look at the sky full of helicopters. Smell the smoke. Listen to the sirens.

  Malcolm’s bank account didn’t seem to matter much at the moment. He couldn’t, in reality, use it. Everything was absurdly overpriced. It would be incredibly stupid to spend his fortune on food, travel, and sundries. Then what? The supply of those items would eventually run out, and he’d be right back where he was now—only broke. And then maybe the insanity would stop and the markets would all come back. He would have blown his millions buying basic necessities at the top of the “financial meltdown bubble.” He couldn’t do that. So his newfound wealth became useless almost as quickly as he acquired it.

  Right now, the only thing that mattered was the pack on Ryan’s back—whatever it held. Ryan said he spent the week preparing. Malcolm hoped he did a good job. He hoped his plans included a lot more than bribing Tim to keep a kayak ready for him.

  Malcolm looked down. Water visibility was low, so he couldn’t see the top of the Lincoln Tunnel beneath them. They had paddled at least a mile from the Community Boathouse by now, and at a fast pace. Malcolm’s arms were beginning to scream in protest.

  Malcolm looked behind them. The boathouse had faded in the distance, but a new object was rapidly monopolizing the view. A powerboat sped directly towards them, with a blue flashing light on its bow.

  It was a police boat.

  “Ryan,” Malcolm said stretching his neck. “Looks like the police are after us. Great bug-out plan.”

  Ryan frowned and watched the fast-approaching boat. “I find it hard to believe they have nothing better to do. Why single us out? Hopefully they’re after something else.”

  “We’re in a stolen kayak, and they’re headed straight for us. Not to mention the fact we left the scene of a crime at the boathouse. Did Tim at least give you a receipt for your $300?”

  Ryan didn’t answer. He simply pulled his paddle out of the water and waited.

  Malcolm did the same. Maybe they would be fed well in jail.

  The police boat kept right on coming. Strange it wasn’t slowing. They were getting awfully close.

  “Crap!” Malcolm said. “They don’t even see us!” He waved his paddle in the air and shouted, “Hey!”

  Ryan joined the frantic signaling. Malcolm got ready to dive into the water.

  At the last second the boat slowed, turned to one side, sped up again, and continued past them—leaving a six-foot wake.

  “Hang on!” Ryan said. Malcolm set his paddle on his knees and gripped the sides of the kayak.

  They were pitched sideways. Malcolm lost his paddle, and almost fell out himself. Then they were pitched sideways again, in the opposite direction, like a rag doll being flung about. But both of them somehow stayed in the boat.

  “They did that on purpose!” Malcolm said reaching to the water to retrieve his paddle.

  Ryan laughed. “Of course they did. Come on, let’s beach this thing.”

  “Where?”

  “Straight ahead.”

  Malcolm looked to the New Jersey shore. Ryan must be referring to Weehawkin Waterfront Park. The goalposts of the soccer field were visible from here. Ryan apparently wanted to land the kayak on the rocky bank next to it. Malcolm’s arms were too tired to argue. It was the closest place they could take out from their current position. So, he paddled.

  Landing the kayak on the rocks was a little tricky—and bumpy—but they managed it okay. One other kayak from the boathouse was already abandoned there.

  The two of them climbed up the rocks and on to the field, where a small crowd of spectators stood watching Manhattan. These looked like ordinary citizens out to see a fireworks show. Perhaps they expected all of Manhattan to burn. Malcolm and Ryan stood there a minute with them, but nothing particularly special was happening at the moment. Just more helicopter traffic, smoke, sirens, and now an increase in small boat traffic on the river, including more kayaks from the Community Boathouse coming into view.

  Malcolm realized they were fortunate to get out when they did. Leaving the city by any direction other than north was becoming increasingly difficult. And if you went north, there looked to be considerable civil unrest to contend with. Unarmed, you’d be lucky to make it out alive and still have your bag. Staying put was probably the smarter choice for most NYC residents.

  “Where to now?” Malcolm asked. He was glad to be on land again.

  Ryan pointed west. “We walk a few blocks.”

  That sounded good to Malcolm. He found himself starting to trust in Ryan’s preparations, whatever they were.

  He followed Ryan out of the park. The two of them began making their way through Weehawkin, taking time to skirt the large turnaround structure that transitioned Highway 495 through the Lincoln Tunnel. Once past that it was city walking again, this time through streets of low-rise buildings typical of smaller east-coast cities. Malcolm kept himself a few feet apart from Ryan and stayed on the alert.

  Things weren’t quite as chaotic over here, but they were still far from normal. Car traffic was light. The few motor vehicles that passed were usually speeding, and only stopping at in
tersections long enough see that it was clear before proceeding through regardless of the color of the traffic signal. Some sirens wailed on this side of the river, too. People out and about usually ran by, or walked at a rapid pace. You could tell their mood was tense. Occasionally, a group of tough-looking guys would be hanging out on a corner or alley entrance and take what Malcolm thought was a little too much interest in whoever was going by.

  The two of them kept moving, at a pace just shy of trotting.

  Several blocks into the city, Ryan stopped at a storage unit facility. “Watch our backs,” he said as he punched in a code on the keypad.

  The gate opened and they walked inside. As they turned right at the first corner, Malcolm noticed many of the units open. They looked like they had been rifled through and abandoned.

  Out of one such unit two muscular men with short hair and tattoos emerged. One was black. The other held a pair of bolt cutters. They only glanced at Malcolm and Ryan, but the communication within that glance was clear: mind your own affairs. The thieves moved to the next locker and applied the business end of the bolt cutters to the lock there.

  Ryan stopped four units down on the opposite side, in front of a unit that still had a lock on it. It was a different-looking lock, all brass with very little bolt visible recessed within the brass. Ryan dug for a key in his pocket.

  “That’s why you need to buy tough locks,” Ryan said as he bent down.

  Malcolm didn’t like the way he said that. It was intentionally loud and confrontational, even borderline mocking. They didn’t need to provoke any extra trouble.

  The metal door rolled up. Inside the unit sat two red scooters, with two black helmets hanging from the handlebars. Nothing else.

  “The only way to travel.” Ryan proudly spread his hands towards the scooters as if he were a model on The Price is Right.

  Malcolm chuckled. “What’s their range?”

  “These are Genuine Buddy 125’s. The tanks hold 1.7 gallons and they get phenomenal mileage—we’re talking 90 MPG—so they’ll get us well out of New Jersey before we need to refuel.”