by B. C. Tweedt
The sudden clack of hooves seemed like a dream, quietly prancing toward him, muffled but heavy. Maybe his near-deaf ears were playing tricks on him, but they were hooves. They had to be.
He looked up, waiting, breathing heavy until the dark shape took form in the swirling grey smoke. It grew larger, coming straight for him, growing in size as it made its way through the clumps of smoke churning around it.
It lumbered closer, clacking and clacking. But the shape was not that of a horse.
A quick breeze blew the smoke from the animal’s front, and its snout blew a hunk of saliva and snot to the cement. Two grotesque teeth jutted up from its blackened gums.
Jarryd froze.
“No. Bad boar! Stay away!”
It took two laborious steps closer, swinging its massive belly fat to one side and the other.
Jarryd slowly inched his way to his feet. “Good boary-boar. You’re looking especially big today.”
The boar waddled closer and Jarryd took a step back. “I mean. You’re looking trim. And – screw it. Aaagghh!”
He sprinted from the boar and headed into the smoke imagining the beast chasing him with his jagged tusks and nasty teeth. Suddenly, more animals joined him in the stampede. It was unreal. He almost collided with bleating goats to his left and tripped over piglets that scurried away to his right. A llama sauntered between two food huts, and a herd of cows were headed to the greenest areas to feed. Several stallions raced around him on all sides, blowing the smoke over him and slapping him with their tails.
Horses!
“Hold on! Whoa,” he wheezed. He staggered after them, but they were too fast. He’d never catch one in this chaos. He needed something else. ‘Anything’, Greyson had said. Lost now in the haze, he twirled around, thinking, thinking, until he saw it.
That’s something.
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Nick and Sammy passed overhead again, back on another lap into the fray. “The terrorists are guarding the entrances,” Nick reported to Greyson below. “They’re shooting at any of the cops trying to enter, holding them off. I think we’re on our own.”
Greyson’s heart sunk, but he took a deep breath, navigating through the RVs. “Roger that.”
“But you’re almost there. Just around the corner.”
Greyson shot around the corner and his eyes lit up. His mouth followed, curling into a devious smile. The stunt show had been abandoned. Including the dirt bike. Thanks for the training, Kip.
Greyson mounted the bike but could barely touch the ground with his toes. But it would work. With a strong push, he kick-started it and tested the throttle.
Braaaaapbraaaapbraaaap!
Hold on Sydney. I’m coming.
Chapter 21
The building was burning, and they were in it. Sprinklers rained cold water over the slopping wet, red carpet that accented the narrow aisles. The Varied Industries Building was one large room divided into four very organized rows of cubicles. In each of the hundreds of cubicles was a table or display of an Iowa business, organization, or college. On a normal day, thousands of people would visit the demonstrators, learning about all they had to offer, enter their contests, receive their temporary tattoos, or listen to a presentation before grabbing a brochure. There was everything from pottery to hot tubs to beekeeping to buckets of blue-ribbon cookies.
But this was not a normal day. The electricity had gone out with the blasts, descending the large room into darkness. The only light was from the several fires fighting the sprinklers and the sun streaming down in great rays from high above at a sharp angle. The shadows were long and flickered with the light of the flames.
Sydney and Sam had found a hot tub for refuge. Terrorists had chased them into the building, but in the confusion of people running in and out, they’d managed to evade them for several minutes. Sydney bobbed her head just above water, peeking out into the aisles of cubicles and eyeing Sam who bobbed alongside her. It had been quiet after another burst of gunfire and a scream had echoed above the pattering of sprinklers and the crackle of flames. There were still other civilians in here, hiding, but the terrorists were driving them out – or worse.
“We should make a run for it,” Sam whispered.
“Shh!”
First a flickering shadow and then a terrorist emerged from behind a cubicle, the sprinkler’s water splashing on the glistening barrel of his automatic rifle. He had it leveled in front of him, ready to fire. He swiveled toward the hot tubs and eyed them suspiciously. He saw no one.
Moving on, he leveled his gun toward the next aisle and quick-stepped away.
Sydney held on to Sam’s shirt another three beats before letting him surface. They sucked in air and spat quietly.
“Now?” he asked, the water dripping down his soaked hair.
Sydney glanced from aisle to aisle. “Why? They don’t know we’re here. We wait it out – until help comes.”
“Help? The Secret Service and a thousand terrorists are after us.”
“First of all, there are not a thousand terrorists. Exaggerating doesn’t help. Second of all, Greyson is coming to help. I saw him.”
Sam’s eyes examined her. Is she serious? Greyson? And then he remembered the story of Morris. He chose not to object.
“My cell phone’s soaked now, but we need to contact him somehow. Let him know where to find us.”
Despite the sprinkler system, the crackling of the fire had gotten louder, and they could now feel the heat as it consumed the cubicle to their left. Soon, all their cover would be destroyed.
Sydney changed her mind. “I think we should move, actually.”
Sam nodded. “Agreed.”
They pushed out of the tubs and sloshed to the nearest safe cubicle. Together they searched all the belongings that had been left in haste. No cellphones.
Cautious as ever, she peeked into the aisle. Finding it empty, she motioned for Sam to follow. Just as they rounded the corner to the next aisle, they heard the shouts.
“I got ‘em. Over here!”
We’ve been spotted! Sam and Sydney shared a look of despair, but she was the first to react, bursting in the aisle and leading the sprinting pair toward the door. There was no one in the doorway. It was clear!
And then a figure stepped out from around the corner. Agent Murray.
“Over here!” he repeated, laughing at himself.
It had been a trick.
Agent Murray’s smile vanished as he lunged.
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Wind whipped at his face, sucking at his eardrums and pushing the tears from his eyes. The familiarity of the feeling exhilarated him, but the lack of a helmet gave him an extra bit of reserve he would have to overcome. No hesitation, he reminded himself. No panic.
Greyson held tighter to the handlebars as he buzzed between farm machinery on display, burst onto a sidewalk, and skidded onto grassy dirt. The dirt bike’s engine whirred at top speed and its tires kicked dirt and grass behind him, spraying it into the lingering smoke.
He turned the throttle on and off as he weaved between food huts, bypassing hiding pedestrians and turning their heads. To his right he could see terrorists running freely around Riley Stage, but he wasn’t interested in saving the governor – if he could still be saved.
He was focused on finding the fastest path to his destination – where he had last seen Sam running – the gigantic Varied Industries Building. He wasn’t far. A few moments later he burst into open territory and squealed to a stop on the main concourse. It hadn’t taken long to find her.
A convoy of terrorists was facing him forty yards out. At the front of the convoy was a black SUV where Agent Murray shoved Sydney into the backseat and slammed the door in her face. He was shaking his hand where she had bitten him.
Good girl.
One of the white moving trucks was behind, being loaded with almost a dozen camouflaged men with rifles. Other terrorists were being rushed in one direction or the other by two l
arge, angry men dressed like civilians. If Greyson had to guess their nationality, it would be Russian.
And then something struck him. The leaders were wearing civilian clothes. SnakeSkin wore a cowboy outfit; Emory, too, had worn normal clothing. It was the foot soldiers who wore the camo and who carried machine guns. Why? It only made sense if the leaders were expecting not to fight – to be unnoticed. They are going to blend in with the crowd to escape!
He raised the walkie. “I think they’re going through the campgrounds to slip out unnoticed. Can you get to the East Skyride?”
“Uh…yeah. We’re a few minutes away.”
Putting the walkie back in his pack, he drove behind the corner of the building, hoping not to be seen. He had to think. How was he going to stop them? One dirt bike versus a dozen terrorists and two much bigger vehicles. One slingshot versus automatic guns. What could he possibly do?
He had to find their weaknesses and use his strengths. His strength would be speed and agility with the bike. And their weaknesses? Perhaps he could survive long enough to find a weakness.
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Sydney wiped at her mouth, trying to rid herself of the taste of Agent Murray’s flesh. Disgusting.
“Where are you taking us?” Sam shouted at the back of Agent Murray’s head as he drove. Apparently he couldn’t hear them through the thick glass that separated the drivers and the passengers. Frustrated, Sam pounded on the spotless glass, leaving a wet smudge of hot tub water dripping down. “Why are you doing this?”
All of sudden a voice piped in from speakers. It was Agent Murray. “Relax. If you hadn’t run, these complications could have been avoided. We will take you back to your father.”
“Is he – is he okay?”
Sydney tried to watch the side of the man’s face for any signs of deception.
“Yes he is. And if you and he cooperate, you will see him tonight.”
The news sent a wave of relief through Sam’s shoulders and he flashed a brief smile at Sydney. She didn’t return one and he turned back to the window.
“What about Sydney? You’re not going to hurt her.”
The silence that followed spoke volumes. And then came the voice. “That’s not up to me.”
Turning to each other, Sam couldn’t hold eye contact with her. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on…I didn’t…”
Sydney took in a deep breath and blew out a shuddering sigh. Crying won’t help, she told herself. Hold it in. Hold it in.
She closed her eyes and suddenly felt Sam’s arms come around her shoulders. He squeezed her in a wet hug and rested his head against hers.
“It will be okay,” he whispered. “My dad will keep us safe. He’ll do whatever it takes.”
Sydney let him hug her. It felt good – comforting – to know she was with someone else. She laid her head on his as the SUV bumped along the main concourse.
They heard the gunfire first, coming from behind, and then the distinctive braaaapbraaaapbraaaap of a dirt bike’s engine. The hug ended and their heads snapped to the window behind. The sound shifted quickly through the gears, higher and higher in pitch. The moving truck behind them swerved to the right sharply, narrowly missing the dirt bike as it burst into sight.
His red hat was dark with sweat and soot, his face streaked with ash, but his small body, though dwarfed by the size of the bike, was pressed forward with energy and confidence.
Sydney’s heart skipped a beat. He never looked better.
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He had never felt more scared in his life – and he’d been shot at before.
The back of the moving truck had opened up, full of terrorists, and every one had shot at him just as he’d jammed the throttle and burst to the side. And then the truck had swung at him, nearly smashing him into a food hut. Now, he buzzed through columns of black and grey smoke, weaving around bodies and debris, next to an SUV ten times his size.
His eyes watered so hard, he had to blink the tears away to see, and even then, the smoke was so thick that he could only see twenty yards ahead of him at any given time.
He glanced at the SUV and tried to peer through the tinted glass. She was in there. But how to get her out?
An idea came to him and he drew the slingshot from his bag and managed to unfold it with one hand. He had to take intermittent glances at the slingshot to do so, and when he looked up –
SHOOT!
He jammed both hands back on the handlebar just in time to swerve around a dead horse. And then a stampede of live ones.
He couldn’t breathe. Like in slow motion, he saw them coming from the right, out of the smoke just ahead. They were beautiful, dark stallions with sinewy muscles rippling in the rays of sun that pierced momentarily through the wisps of smoke. But they were headed for a straight-on collision.
Jamming the brakes and jerking the handlebars the only way he could – toward the horses – he leaned into the turn. Skidding a foot away from a powerful beast, he zipped to the right. His muscles clenched as he held straight, passing between two horses with only inches to spare on each side. Once through, he desperately swerved in and out of the stragglers, narrowly avoiding being shoved to the ground and trampled. Behind him he heard what must have been several of the noble creatures slam into the side or front of the SUV. He couldn’t bear to look back.
Finally free of the stampede, he kept on the throttle, realizing his trajectory had taken him into a park near Riley Stage. Bullets ricocheted off the food huts from behind as the moving truck had turned to its left, giving the shooters a brief shot at him. But he disappeared into the huts and trees.
Once clear of their fire, he was able to take in a much-needed, deep breath. Greyson swung the bike around in a patch of grass and rested with a racing heart. He could see the convoy start up again as the stampede passed, but there were even more animals out and about. A group of piglets were scampering behind a mother on a sidewalk, chickens were fluttering in a doorway, and he could see a small goat with a bearded chin chomping on a patch of grass.
Suddenly the goat looked up as the sound of more gunfire ripped through the park making Greyson duck his head out of instinct. Screams followed but were quickly stifled.
Greyson wavered between gunning it back to the convoy or taking a more stealthy approach around this new threat. Choosing the latter, he revved the bike to a crawl and took a cautious path along the sidewalk to where he could see a terrorist leveling his rifle at a fleeing civilian. He drew his slingshot, but before he could load a ball, another terrorist shoved the others’ gun up into the air just as it fired.
“What are you doing, Pat? You gone crazy?”
Pat, a bigger man with an unkempt beard, eyed his friend. “What? We’re supposed to.”
Greyson could see the bodies of two civilians where the man had been aiming. He had shot them. He had just murdered innocent people.
Rage flooded through Greyson’s veins as he raised his slingshot. But something held his fingers together, clasped around the ammunition pocket, pulled back so far that his arms shook. A sudden memory had rose with his rage.
He had been seven years old when his father had dared him to jump off the high dive at the local pool. For two full minutes he had stood on the edge of the diving board, eyeing the water far below, unable to overcome his fear. Spectators had begun to point, to laugh, or to try to do him a favor by urging him to “just do it”. His father was treading water below, just nodding his head, ignoring the spectators – until he went under. Greyson had thought his dad was the best swimmer, flawless, strong – but he had waited too long. His dad had gotten tired.
His dad’s head rose above the water one more time and he reached out for him. “Help!” he cried. And Greyson was in the air, falling, falling, smacking the water in a panic. In a moment he was at his father’s side, but it was his father holding him, not the other way around.
When he realized his father had been faking, he went into a rage, f
lailing his tiny fists at his chest, but his father had grabbed his wrists before he could land his blows.
“Wait, little man. Before you hit me, think. When you hurt someone else, you could leave quite a mark on them.” He placed one of Greyson’s fists on his own chest. “You could give me quite a bruise, or worse – depending on how strong you are.” He smiled at him, still treading water, holding them both up. “But you’ll also leave marks here…” he pointed at Greyson’s fist, “…here,” at his heart, “…and here.” His finger rested on Greyson’s head. “I often regret the ways I’ve hurt people in the past.”
Greyson’s rage had already faded, and he had realized how much he would have regretted hitting his dad.
“So think, before you hurt someone – is your mark on him, worth his marks on you here, here, and here?”
THUNK! The terrorist’s head jerked as the ball entered it. His body collapsed to the ground, and, reacting faster than Greyson anticipated, the other terrorist swung around and got off a shot just before Greyson’s second ball knocked him to the ground.
The gun’s blast had startled Greyson, but he hadn’t felt an impact. He patted himself down, searching for holes, but there were none. At least no visible marks.
He had pulled the first shot back as far as he could – further than he ever had – and the ball could have broken through the man’s skull, perhaps killing him. Greyson sucked at his breath and tried to ignore the guilt that washed over him. But then his anger overcame it – the man had deserved it. They all did. Whatever marks left on him would be worth it.
Still angry, he opened the throttle.