I didn't really breathe a sigh of relief until my boots hit the pavement under the fire escape. I sucked in a deep breath of night air, gave a quick look-around at the street, then began to walk. I moved fast, booking along at a near trot on my rubber-soled boots, but not too fast.
My mystery guy continued to follow me.
He followed like a shadow at my heel as I walk-jogged up Second Street towards Chinatown. I didn’t tell him to buzz off, either.
Making a hard left when I reached Jackson, I risked increasing my speed in the unlit sections of street. A few seconds later, I found myself in a full sprint. I ran past where a group of homeless guys slept on pieces of cardboard, a few blocks up from that small park with the giant waterfall, and took another right.
The guy with the weird eyes followed, his footfalls soundless.
By then, I was pretty danged tired.
Between the all-out sprint with murderous stockbroker back there, then the fight in the alley, then our grand, maybe-escape, I felt like I was teetering on my last legs.
Nearly letting out a cry of relief when I saw my bike right where I left it, outside my favorite dim-sum place, I ran faster.
I reached it only a few seconds later. Without even pausing to look the bike over, I fell to one knee and started working the heavy combination lock around the chain I used to secure the Enfield to the street lamp. I knew the weight of the thing provided its best protection... that, and the keys to the ignition, which sat in the pocket of my red, vinyl jacket.
Even so, old habits die hard. Anything that might discourage someone jacking the thing seemed worth it in my eyes, even while I worked a job. I'd never owned enough valuable things to take any of them for granted, I guess.
To me, the bike was special.
"You need a ride somewhere, man?" I asked my companion, still breathing hard enough to have to force out the words between inhales and exhales. I didn't take my eyes off the lock as I spun the wheel to open it. "You have your own wheels... ?"
Behind me, there was a pause.
"Wheels?” he said, puzzled.
“Yeah, wheels.”
“Ride,” he muttered, his voice soft. “Wheels.”
I didn’t look up, but exhaled in some exasperation. “You need a ride, or what?”
He didn’t answer, but I could almost hear him thinking. It occurred to me, too, that every time I spoke to him, or asked him something, there seemed to be a good second or two of lag before he answered me.
He still didn't appear to be out of breath, despite the six or seven blocks we’d just covered, a fair bit of it uphill, to get from Pioneer Square to where we now stood. I’m not ashamed to admit I was sweating through my low-cut blouse into the lining of my jacket, and gasping like a smoker, even though I’d never been one. But yeah, jeez, reality check.
I needed to start running every morning again, at least five miles.
Either that, or find a new way to make money.
I finally looked up at him. "Is English your second language or something? I'm asking if you have a ride, or if you want me to give you one. You got a car? A bicycle? Anything?"
After another short delay, he shook his head.
"No ride," he said.
"You don't want one, or you don't have one?"
Pause.
"I don't have."
Staring up at him another few beats, I shrugged it off a few seconds later as I started to thread the now-unlocked chain through the wheel and frame of my Royal Enfield Bullet, which, yeah, was pretty much my pride and joy. My brother had it sent over for my birthday on a cargo ship, brand new from Switzerland, when he was dating some rich older lady who took him all over Europe and Asia. She took him on cruises, bought him thousand dollar outfits and cars and new ski equipment and whatever else Jake wanted. My brother let her wine and dine him for months before he eventually dropped her for some socialite divorcée from Boston about two decades younger and with her own generous bank account.
So yeah, while me and my brother are both pretty much allergic to regular, punch the clock-type work, I couldn’t help comforting myself that at least I took a comparatively high road with my freelance gigs. I at least tried to help people... most of the time.
Anyway, I wasn’t milking the sad and lonely just because I could.
Jake? Not so much.
Ethics weren’t really Jake’s thing, however generous he could be with the spoils.
Freeing the last of the chain from the pole, I glanced up at the guy in the scuba suit again, uncomfortably aware that his eyes never left me as I worked over the bike. I found myself wondering again why I'd let him come with me this far.
Oh yeah, he tried to save my life. That's why.
Sighing a little, I got to my feet, winding up the chain and hitting the latch to open the storage compartment on the back of the bike. Pulling out my helmet and gloves, I stuffed the chain inside the compartment and locked it before I swung a leg over the leather seat.
Once I had my weight settled, and my booted foot on the kick-starter, I motioned with my head for scuba-suit guy to get on behind me, setting my helmet and gloves on the seat between my legs. The miniskirt would make riding a little less modest than usual, but it wasn't like I hadn't done that before, too.
When catsuit guy didn’t move, I glanced back at him.
“Well?” I said. “I’ve only got one helmet, sorry... and it won’t fit you.”
He just stared at me, unblinking.
Looking up for longer that time, I found myself studying the face of my Samaritan friend, again trying to make up my mind about what was so strange about it. I came up with pretty much the same things I had before.
Overly symmetrical. Unreal-looking.
An odd fusing of robotic and overly animal.
Sighing, I shoved the helmet down over my long, curly-ish, black hair, hearing the two or three layers of hairspray crunch under the fiberglass and foam padding. I buckled the strap, still watching the guy watch me.
"Well, come on, then,” I said.
He still didn’t move, and I sighed a little, gesturing at the street.
“We gotta jet, my friend,” I said. “I got you into this mess. I'm not just leaving you here to get picked up by the cops. I hate to break it to you, but you stick out like a sore thumb."
When he only continued to stand there, I looked at his face again.
“...What's with the catsuit, anyway?” I said, smiling. “You're not one of those vigilante types, are you?" Remembering what I did for a living and the hypocrisy there, I chuckled again. "Never mind," I said, still smiling as I shook my head. "You can tell me when we get somewhere. Hop on."
When he continued to stand there, I put my key in the ignition and turned over the engine. Hell, I couldn’t force him. The guy could clearly best me in a fight, anyway, given the short work he made of that mark.
Kicking down hard on the pedal to start it, I tried a second time, then a third, while my companion just watched me do it, unmoving. When the engine finally roared to life, he stepped back a little, his face not quite showing alarm, but his eyes slightly wider than they had been. He stared at the bike as if it were some kind of animal.
I noticed his eyes looked brown now.
Shaking that off, too, I frowned.
"Are you coming?" I said. "Last chance. I'm grateful for the help, yeah. But not grateful enough to spend a night in jail with you."
After another delay, that one shorter, he seemed to make up his mind.
"Yes. I will come."
I just stood there, balancing the bike while he walked up to me and it cautiously. When he got close enough, he threw a leg carefully over the seat behind me. I already knew he wasn't clumsy... or slow... so I figured it had to be fear I saw on his symmetrical face.
Funny it would come up now. Apparently, facing off with angry sociopaths didn’t bother this guy, or running from a bunch of cops holding guns, but he was afraid of motorcycles.
"Ever ridden
before?" I said, knowing the answer.
A pause.
"No."
Nodding, I pushed down the passenger foot-stands with my boot toes, then pointed at them with my free hand as I started putting on my gloves. "Put your feet on those. And hold onto me. Try not to move around too much, especially on turns. If you can, lean if you feel me leaning... it helps to balance the bike. If you can't, just try to be still, okay?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
Then he did exactly as I'd instructed, placing his feet on the footrests with almost painstaking deliberateness. Once he had, he moved closer to me and laid his hands carefully on my hips. I glanced back at him a last time, grinning a little after pushing up the Enfield’s kickstand with my heel. I revved the engine a little to make sure it was warm.
"Ready?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
Snorting a faint laugh, I pushed down the visor on my helmet and gripped the handlebars, taking my feet off the ground as I cruised the bike out onto Jackson. I was about to hit the accelerator and get us the heck out of there, when the guy's grip on my waist suddenly grew so tight it forced me to suck in a breath.
Wincing from his iron-like fingers, I turned my head, restraining myself from hitting him in the face with the back of my helmet to get him to let go.
"Hey!” I said. “What the hell, man?"
"Do not go that way," he said.
“Let go of me, alright? Now. I know where I’m going...”
He continued to stare straight ahead, as if I hadn't spoken.
When I saw the look growing in his now black-colored eyes, I shifted my gaze to follow his, pushing the weird thing with his eye color to the back of my mind a third time. Facing forward, I scanned the dark road ahead. I couldn’t see much; the corridor was darker than usual due to a burnt-out streetlight a few down from where I'd parked.
Really, all I had to go on was the headlight on the Enfield, and the other guy’s stare.
So yeah, I didn’t see them at first.
When they walked closer, I began to make out the distinct forms, but still didn’t have any idea what their presence meant. They wore the same kind of weird, dark, Batman-like costumes as my friend on the back of the Enfield, so they blended into the shadows between the buildings.
Once they stopped walking to stare back at me and my friend, they also appeared to be almost entirely motionless. Like, statue motionless.
None of them spoke, or looked away from us where we sat on the bike.
"What the hell?" I muttered.
It hadn't been a question I really expected an answer to.
My new friend answered it anyway.
"Malek," he said, his voice suddenly harsher, more foreign-sounding. He resumed speaking in that smoother cadence when he next spoke. "They are here for me. They think this is their world. They do not understand why I am here."
I looked at him again, unable to make heads or tails of what he’d just said.
Pursing my lips when I saw his eyes, which now appeared a dark red color under the nearest street lamp, I shook it off.
"Are these your friends, man?” I said. “Is that what you're saying?"
"No," he said. "They are not friends."
"So do I blow past them, or––"
"It is too late," he told me.
"Too late?" I said, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck abruptly rise. "Too late for what?"
"I am very, very sorry," he said, his words close to resigned.
That time, I really didn’t see what was coming at all.
4
BIKES, LOCKS AND BAD GOODBYES
THERE WAS A sharp, blinding flash of light.
Blue-white in color, it lit the darkness of the surrounding street, seeming to skim over the top of my bike to impact the street lamp behind us.
It happened so fast, I didn't have time to suck in a breath, much less yell.
Glancing back at the sound of screeching metal, I gaped up at the lamp post, feeling like I’d suddenly been transported inside a cartoon.
The tall pole was already falling, fast enough that I gunned the engine instinctively, even though it was falling in the other direction. When I did it, I moved us closer to our attackers before it occurred to me to question whether that was such a good idea, either.
I didn't have time to think about that for long.
The guy sitting behind me let go of my hips all at once. Before I could turn, he leaned forward with force, grabbing hold of the grips on my bike's handlebars.
Shoving my fingers aside––again, before I really comprehended what he was doing––he wrenched control of the bike away from me altogether. In seconds, I found myself slammed down against the gas tank of my own damned motorcycle, trapped under a chest and arms that suddenly felt dense enough and immovable enough to be made out of metal.
Hitting the accelerator, my passenger-cum-driver blazed down Jackson Street as soon as he’d wrestled control of the bike from me. Without slowing, he darted between two of the black-clad forms, even as another of those blue flashes came at us, faster that time.
I ducked, again instinctively, feeling the blast sear my face with heat as it cruised past, even though it had to be at least a yard wide of the bike. Given the range, it struck me to wonder if they’d fired more in warning than an attempt to kill either of us... or if perhaps they were just really lousy shots. Neither thought reassured me much.
That time, the blue flash impacted the wall of a building to our right.
I glimpsed the explosion where it hit, saw flames and black smoke shoot out from where I crouched against the bike’s tank. When I tried to look back to see more after we passed, my friend-cum-abductor’s body blocked most of my view.
I found myself holding on for dear life, gripping the handlebars closer to the central shaft, probably for psychological reasons as much as anything. I couldn’t move, so there was zero chance that I’d fall off the bike unless he crashed into something. For now, my stomach and chest lay flat to the gas tank. I had to fight just to breathe, leaning over with my face not far from the ignition and keys as my strange friend drove from behind and around me.
My feet had mysteriously left the foot pedals, too, although I didn’t remember him kicking me off those. I found myself holding my legs uncomfortably higher than usual, not sure where to put them to keep from burning my legs.
I glimpsed the metro station disappearing on our left just before he took us right again, so that we drove parallel to the train tracks. He turned again before I could really get my bearings in terms of street names and whatnot... then he was going so fast I gasped a little, in spite of myself.
I knew the Enfield could cruise, of course.
I’d tested that engine a few times myself, usually in farming areas where I was less likely to get photographed or pinched. My brother went all-out in his ill-gotten gains, probably in another of his attempts to win me over, or to apologize for having ripped me off again, after I bailed him out of one mess or another.
Or, he might simply have been feeling more expansive than usual.
Either way, he got me one of those custom-built Egli Super-Bullets, so it wasn't your average Enfield. Jake boasted it could outrun a cop, even in Italy.
The boast might not have been idle.
I knew the engine came equipped with an aluminum cylinder, US-sourced piston, larger valves in a redesigned cylinder head, longer stroke crankshaft, special main bearings, dry clutch, timing belt primary drive and 36 millimeter Keihin flat-slide carburetors. The thing had a 624 cc engine, fed via an electric pump and probably had output of over forty horsepower, which was yeah, better than decent for a bike of that size.
I’d never tested my brother’s claim literally, though.
The next time I could make out where we were, the bike was flying south on 12th Avenue, doing somewhere very comfortably past the neighborhood of 100 mph.
The engine alternately purred and growled under me as
he navigated through the sparse traffic like some kind of speed racer, his body motionless over where I lay. I hadn't even seen us cross the freeway, but we must have, maybe on Yesler, and now he headed like a bat out of hell towards Dearborn. He took us on the freeway onramp still going around sixty, leaning into the turn like a pro as it coiled us around to join the main traffic on Highway 5 going north.
My eyes bled tears during most of that trip, where he might have been going as much as 180, or even 200 mph. I did feel the bike slow and glimpsed the turn when he took the offramp for 520 East, towards Bellevue. I thought he’d take us over the floating bridge on Lake Washington, but instead he got off the freeway again, that time heading east and then south towards Washington Park.
I didn’t have much time to think about where he might be taking me when he veered us off the main road in an even tighter turn, bring us directly into the park itself.
From there, he took us on a few other twists and turns, until we drove alongside a golf course. Since I don’t really know the north end of the park all that well, I’d lost my bearings almost entirely by then. He accelerated again, even as I thought it, cruising us past the main building and clubhouse. He gunned it for another half-mile or so where the trees blurred, but I was elbowing him now, trying to yell at him over the wind.
"Hey, man... stop!" I said. "Stop! We're seriously out of danger now, okay?"
I didn't have to see his face to know he disagreed.
"Hey!" I said, elbowing him in the chest again. "Hey! Stop, man! Stop, okay?"
Again, he ignored me.
He took us onto the golf course itself, driving along one of the golf cart paths until we were pretty far into the green and well away from the main road. After a few more stretches where he gunned the motor again, he slowed the bike for real, right around the time I could see a small pond growing larger up ahead, not far from a strand of trees and a longer lawn of green grass that sparkled under the moonlight where a sheen of water covered it.
I didn't dare fight him for real until he finally stopped the bike.
He pulled up on the grass, knocking down the kick-stand and killing the engine of the Enfield as neatly as if he'd parked a thing a hundred times before. Lowering his feet to the grass, he knocked the bike back onto its kickstand, sitting up in the same motion.
The Morph (Gate Shifter Book One) Page 3