The Forgotten

by R. L. King

  Davis was on the move again. The glowing indicator shifted, pointing to the north. It looked like he was off the freeway, heading east into Redwood City. Stone got over to the slow lane and began looking for an exit, taking occasional sideways checks at the map to make sure he was heading in the right direction. A few miles later he took the highway 84 exit, the same one he was convinced that Davis had taken.

  The glow was steady, brighter. He was getting close again.

  It took him another twenty minutes to triangulate, driving around while watching the map, the road, and checking to make sure that no one was following him. The last thing he needed was the DMW to show up now, or some cop to get suspicious about his meanderings. When at last he turned onto Broadway Street and began cruising down a road dominated by warehouses and light industrial firms, the glow on the shoelace was so bright that it was illuminating part of the map. He slowed the car, creeping forward.

  The glow vanished.

  Stone stared at it, pulling over and idling at the curb in front of a warehouse’s dark bulk. “No, no, no!” he protested, picking up the map and the lace and shaking them as if trying to infuse them with power. He’d been so close! How had Davis—

  A chill gripped him as the answer came to him.

  There were only two ways a tracking like this could stop so abruptly: one was if the subject was under magical protection.

  The other was if he was dead.

  “Bugger…” Stone whispered. He looked around to make sure nobody was watching him, then put the car back in gear and moved slowly forward, watching almost exclusively with magical sight now. If Davis had been killed this close to him, the energy from his death would still be detectable, but he wouldn’t have long to find it. He’d have to hurry, if he was going to—

  Magic flared, bright and strong, up ahead of him. Not death residue—it was too potent for that. Whatever was going on up there, black magic was definitely involved. If he could get to it soon enough, he might be able to help.

  Without thinking, without considering the consequences of what he was about to do or how stiff and fatigued he still felt from the drive and the day’s expenditures, he gunned the engine, and the car surged forward.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “That’s bikes,” Charles said, glancing back toward where they’d come in. “Oh, man—Willow said to watch out for DMW. If that’s them—”

  “If that’s them, we’re fucked. And we’re sitting ducks in here. Come on—we need to get out before they come around the back. Shit!” This time he did slam his fist into the file cabinet. “My bike’s out there!”

  Charles was already leaving, but he couldn’t go any faster than the light source. “Come on, man. We gotta go.”

  They hurried across the floor as fast as they dared, still having to dodge bolts and debris. When they reached the hidden hole they paused, listening. The rumbling seemed farther away—either the newcomers had left, or more likely they couldn’t be heard this far back. “Let me go first,” Jason said. “If they’re already in the back, we’re gonna be vulnerable when we’re coming out.”

  Charles had no objection to that plan, so Jason quietly swung the corrugated panel aside and slipped out behind the pile of broken pallets, trying to be as silent as possible. He stopped again to listen and heard nothing close, though the rumbling was more audible now that he was outside. Whoever was out there, they were still here. “Come on,” he whispered to Charles while crouching behind another pile of debris and watching the nearest corner of the building. Reluctantly, he doused the flare by putting the cap back on it. It would make it harder to see, but would also make them harder to see.

  Charles emerged from the hole with much grunting and muttered swearing, but he too got out safely and joined Jason behind the pile. “What now? If they’re up there, we can’t get your bike.”

  “Lemme think.” He took a deep breath, his brain throwing out one crazy idea after the other. He didn’t want to leave the Harley up there, but a bike—any bike—wasn’t worth getting killed over. If he could get it back, though, they’d have a better chance of escaping than on foot. At last he said, “Stay here. I’ll go back and scout around—see if I can figure out where they are.”

  “Like hell,” Charles protested. “No way I’m stayin’ back here. Let’s just make a run for it. Sorry, man, but I ain’t dyin’ for your bike.”

  Jason was just about to reluctantly agree that was the best course of action when the rumbling got louder. More distinct now, it didn’t sound like the low throaty rumble of a Harley, but the higher-pitched, more manic whine of sportbikes. Multiple, from the sound of it. They were coming closer, straight up the same alley Jason and Charles had taken a short time before.

  Jason grabbed Charles’s jacket sleeve. “Come on,” he whispered. “We’ll have to risk going the other way. If they come back here, maybe we can circle around and grab the bike before they come back.”

  Charles looked dubious but now that the intruders were coming, even making a run for it no longer seemed smart. Unfolding himself with obvious pain from his crouch, he hurried after Jason.

  It didn’t sound like they’d left a moment too soon. The sportbikes got louder just as Jason and Charles disappeared around the opposite corner, then quieted a bit. Had they stopped? Were they investigating the back part of the building, looking for anybody hiding there? Jason didn’t know, and he didn’t care. With Charles once again puffing behind him, he hurried down the opposite alleyway toward the front of the building.

  There were some boxes and debris piled up along here too, and as they reached the front edge, Jason pointed at them. “Hide here for a minute. I’m gonna look around and see if they’re gone. If they only left one, I should be able to take him if I get the drop on him. You come lumbering along behind me like a freight train, that ain’t gonna happen.”

  Charles glared at him with some indignation, but he was still breathing hard and couldn’t exactly deny the charges. “Hurry up, man,” he exhorted. “They come this way, I’m runnin’, freight train or no.”

  “Deal,” Jason muttered. He moved forward and peered around the edge of the building. He couldn’t see anything—no lights or signs of movement—nor could he hear anything but the far-off rumble of the bikes in the back. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his bike was still where he’d parked it. Staying close to the wall, he edged along the front of the building toward it, eyes constantly searching for potential threats.

  It was still there. He took a few seconds to give it a quick visual inspection—it didn’t look like anyone had touched it. The tires were still pumped up and it was still in the same place he’d parked it. He turned back toward the corner he’d come from and motioned Charles to join him. With any luck they could just hop on the bike and get the hell out of here before the guys in the back even knew they were gone.

  Charles crossed the distance in next to no time—the guy might be chubby, but he could move when he had to. “Shh,” Jason whispered. “Let’s—”

  Lights appeared around the other side of the building, momentarily dazzling them, pinning them to the wall like two insects in a killing box. “Got ’em!” yelled a triumphant, manic voice. “Get up here! We got ’em!” Almost immediately the other motorcycle sounds grew louder.

  Jason swore. He had a decision to make now, and he knew whatever he picked would likely mean the difference between whether they lived or died—if they even had a chance to live through this at all. He could dive for the bike, try to get it started and get them out of here, or he and Charles could make a run for it and try to lose themselves in the night. The bike itself didn’t even matter anymore—it was worthless next to their lives—but it still represented the best chance of getting away.

  As it happened, the guy on the bike made the choice for him. With a high-pitched, insane laugh, he reached into his jacket and pulled out something, which he chu
cked toward the Harley.

  “Down!” Charles yelled, grabbing Jason’s jacket and yanking him backward.

  The object flew unerringly at the Hog, landing almost directly in front of it and exploding. The sound ripped through the quiet night as flames erupted around the bike. The kid on the sportbike kept laughing the whole time, along with his friend on the bike next to him. “Next one’s for you, shitheads!” he yelled.

  Jason could see more lights approaching—the other bikers were close. “Come on!” he yelled to Charles. “We gotta get outta here now!”

  Charles wasn’t arguing. He and Jason both took off back toward the corner they’d come from. But when they reached it, they saw more lights approaching from that side. Damn—boxed in! The only direction they had to run now was straight out through the front parking lot, and that would be a killing field if the bikers had guns or more of the incendiary grenades.

  The other bikes were emerging from either side of the building now: two on each side, making six in total. Two of them had passengers, including one who looked smaller than the others. Jason took all this in in the space of a few seconds. So far he couldn’t see any guns, but he was sure they were hidden somewhere in the gangbangers’ jackets. Lacking anything else to do, Jason pulled his knife from his pocket and flicked it open. If he was going down, at least he was going down fighting. Next to him, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Charles doing the same thing. “They DMW?” he muttered sideways.

  Charles nodded. “Yeah.” He sounded resolute and scared, like he was preparing to die.

  “If we run they’ll shoot us, won’t they?”

  Charles’s answer surprised him: “Nah. DMW don’t use guns. They like to get up close and personal. And they like to blow shit up,” he added unnecessarily, cocking his head back toward the burning Harley.

  The bikes were coming closer now, moving slowly, rumbling into a semicircle in front of them. “They don’t use guns? You serious?”

  “They’re known for it. It’s kind of their signature.”

  Jason drew in air through gritted teeth as one of the bikers in the middle of the semicircle reached inside his jacket. “I’m gonna do something crazy. Be ready, okay?”

  “What the—?”

  But Jason didn’t wait for him to ask questions. Instead, he turned to his left and, yelling at the top of his lungs, sprinted toward the nearest bike, which happened to be the one with the rider and the smaller pillion.

  Sometimes God or the universe or whatever runs things out there favors the idiots, and for one of the few times in Jason’s life he got the benefit of that favor. The biker was so startled by this utterly inexplicable action that he hadn’t even moved when Jason hurtled into him, grabbing him and shoving him off the bike. He scrambled to his feet quickly, but Jason had already tossed off his passenger as well (a kid? Seriously? Nah, I must be wrong), grabbed the bike before it toppled, and leaped onto it.

  The other bikers weren’t as easily startled, though. The guy who’d reached into his jacket yanked out another of the small, grenade-like objects and flung it at Jason. He gunned the engine and shot forward, coming to a quick stop next to Charles, barely avoiding the explosion. “Get on!” he screamed. This whole plan was predicated on keeping his level of panic and adrenaline high enough that he didn’t stop to think about how completely insane his actions were.

  Charles hurried to comply, but he was a big man and there wasn’t as much room on the back of this bike as there had been on the Harley. He stumbled and fell against it, his weight upsetting Jason’s balance and making put his foot down to avoid tipping over. “Fuck!” Charles yelled, scrambling to get his feet under him again.

  The other bikers were getting closer. Jason knew he couldn’t hesitate. “Take this, assholes!” he yelled, gunning the bike again and stuffing it through the open space between the two bikes in front of him. One held his ground, but the other peeled off to the side. Jason spun the bike around (these things handled a hell of a lot better than the Harley) and zipped back toward Charles.

  Only Charles wasn’t there anymore. He’d taken advantage of the gangers’ momentary lack of attention to make a run for it, back toward the corner of the building. “Get him!” yelled one of the gangers, turning his bike to get some light on the fleeing figure. Charles was only feet away from making it around the corner of the building. If he could do that, then maybe they might have a chance. If he—

  And then the middle ganger leaped off his bike and did an odd thing, all in the space of a few seconds. Jason got a look at his face as he went by—his eyes were cold and dead-looking, gleaming with some sort of malevolent fire. He didn’t quite look human. Crouching down, he jerked up the figure of the smaller passenger from where he’d fallen. Then, with one hand holding the boy and one hand pointing at Charles’s retreating form, he yelled…something. Something loud and so completely foreign that Jason couldn’t make it out.

  Several things happened at that point:

  The ganger’s hand glowed. A crackling nimbus that Jason wasn’t even sure he was seeing properly appeared around it, and then arced out toward Charles.

  Under his other hand, the boy’s body began to shake as the nimbus surrounded it as well.

  Some sort of bright force jumped from the ganger’s hand to Charles’s head.

  Charles screamed, clutching his head in agony. As Jason stared, his eyes so wide he forgot to blink, blood erupted from every hole in Charles’s head. His eyes, his nose, his mouth and his ears spewed crimson so forcefully it splattered the wall. All of this was illuminated with surreal clarity in the headlights of the other bikers’ rides.

  Abruptly, Charles’s screams ceased. He dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap and didn’t move. For a second or two afterward, another scream—higher-pitched this time—echoed Charles’s, and then that too was stilled.

  Eyes still bulging with panic, Jason glanced back at the guy who’d apparently caused all of this. He just stood there, a look of triumphant glee on his face. Jason realized with horror that he looked like a man experiencing an orgasm. All around him the other bikers had similar expressions. For a moment, Jason forgot to move, too. He stared at the lead biker and noticed the boy was gone as well. All that was left of where he had been was a heap of clothes and pile of what looked like ashes on the ground.

  Something slammed into him from behind, throwing him sideways off the bike. He crashed to the ground, pain lancing through his right arm. One of the laughing gangers had recovered his senses enough to run his bike into Jason’s, and now towered over him, revving his engine. “You like that?” he shouted over the bike’s roar. “You like that, fuckhead? You wanna see some more? We got lotsa tricks!”

  Jason struggled to scramble to his feet. His mind still spun, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it moving his ribcage. The bikers surrounded him now. He turned in place, fumbling the knife from his jacket pocket but so confused he wasn’t even sure he’d know what to do with it. The lights dazzled him. What the hell had just happened? What had that guy done to Charles? What—

  In the periphery of his awareness, he heard the sound of screeching tires. Another set of lights appeared, approaching fast. More bikers? Oh, shit, not more—

  A bright light, brighter than the bikes’ headlights, erupted around two of the gangers and they dropped like someone had cut their strings, their bikes clattering down next to them. The other bikers spun around. A large black car screeched to a stop parallel to the scene. A shadowy figure leaned out the window. “Get in!” he yelled. “Hurry up!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Running on instinct, Jason didn’t hesitate. He vaulted over the car’s hood and dived in the open passenger door. He had no idea who his savior was, but he didn’t care. Even if it was yet another enemy, at least he’d have another chance to get himself out, and he’d be more likely to do that against one than against six. “G
o! Go! Go!”

  The bikers had recovered quickly, and four of them were now circling the car as the other two hustled their bikes upright. One reached into his jacket. “Look out!” Jason yelled. “Go! He’s got a—”

  The shadowy stranger ignored him. Instead he stuck his arm out the window, directing his palm toward two of the gangers. Jason stared, wondering if he was finally succumbing to whatever hereditary madness had gotten hold of Verity, as a bright glowing shield appeared in front of the gangers. Too late to stop his throw, the lead one tossed his firebomb, which impacted the shield, bounced off, and exploded right at his and his friend’s feet. They flew off their bikes and hit the ground, bloody, aflame, and screaming, then lay still. For a couple of seconds Jason saw—or thought he saw (he couldn’t be sure of much of anything at this point)—a shimmering effect blur the air above their bodies, then rise up and dissipate into the night.

  “That’s done,” the stranger said grimly. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.” Jason only had time to notice two things—he had a British accent, and he sounded exhausted—before he gunned the engine and the car rocketed out of the parking lot. The remaining gangers, amazingly to Jason, didn’t follow.

  “Wait—Charles—” Jason protested. “We can’t—” He couldn’t get the image of the blood geysering from Charles’s eyes out of his mind.

  “He’s already dead,” the stranger said without stopping. “Nothing we can do about that now.” The car careened down the street, fishtailing back and forth like it was being piloted by a drunk. Jason decided not to say anything about that. He glanced at the stranger—he looked to be maybe in his mid-thirties, dark hair, dressed in a dark overcoat. The slump of his shoulders and the way he held his head told Jason that something wasn’t right with him.