by B. C. Tweedt
Braaaaapbraaaap! The bike spat dirt behind as it ripped into the ground. The bike leapt forward in a short wheelie before it came to a rest at a dead sprint. He found another terrorist running. Pressing the sides of the bike with his knees for balance, he tried to straighten himself with both hands working his slingshot, his body and aim shaking with the speeding bike. His wavering courage screamed at him that he was not a stuntman, but he was already doing it.
Pull – aim – snap!
The ball missed wide and the bike nearly toppled in an uncontrolled swerve. Greyson snagged the steering wheel just in time, corrected the bike, and saw the terrorist spin around, suddenly aware of the sound of the bike. His heart jumped and his mouth muttered curses against himself for the miss, but he had already loaded the second shot.
Pull – aim – snap!
He shot the man in the chest, sending him to his knees gasping for breath.
Pull – aim – snap! The third ball put him down for good as the bike zipped past. He gratefully took a hold of the handlebars again.
Another close call. How many do I get? He shook his head. Don’t think about it. Just keep going.
Turning the bike and jumping a piece of debris, he spotted another terrorist aiming at a group of civilians, yelling obscenities at them.
Braaapbraaap!
This time the maneuver was balanced. Pull – aim – snap! The ball pounded him in the temple and the man went down hard. The huddled group of civilians watched cautiously out of hidden eyes and then jumped on the wounded terrorist, adding their own blows of justice.
Greyson sped up, headed for the main concourse, but when he reached to reload, he realized he had only two ball bearings remaining.
Remembering what he had said to Jarryd, he smiled to himself and set a path toward the convoy. Good thing. I’m going to need balls for this.
Chapter 22
“Greyson, we’re getting on the East SkyRide. The convoy was just ahead of us.”
“Roger that. Get some eyes on it. Tell me how to stop them!”
“Roger. And…those horses…”
“I know. They slowed them down at least.”
“Right.”
Greyson flew across a side street and buzzed toward the back of the Agriculture building. He spotted the two-trunked maple tree where he and his friends had been relaxing just a day ago. An intricate ice sculpture of an alligator was melting, the chainsaw and chisels abandoned on the grass next to it.
Taking a shortcut, he whipped through the red-bricked Pella Plaza, straight through the fountain where, just yesterday, he had drank from the fountain’s spurts. Now he longed to take in a long, cold gulp of it – but there was no time. The convoy would be approaching the campground’s exit in less than a minute.
Blasting across the sidewalk through the kids’ Fun Forest playground and hopping the curb onto a side street, he caught sight of the white moving truck speeding along the road up ahead. Maybe if I take out a tire…
He zipped underneath the SkyRide and burst onto the road at the side of the convoy. Suddenly he was back next to the speeding SUV. Steadying the bike in the newly practiced maneuver, he reared up with both hands, aiming at the rear tire. Alright, Greyson. You’ll only get one shot at this…
ZIIIIIIIP! Plunk.
The ball bounced away from the spinning rubber uselessly, and the SUV sped along. One ball left.
Plan B. Distract them and hope another stampede gets in their way.
Brrrrraaaaaapbraaaaaaaapbraaaaap!
He darted the bike in front of the truck and whipped to the left. Greyson could hear the truck speed up to ram him, but he was too fast.
He maneuvered around the front of the SUV as citizens screamed and ran from the street ahead of them. Agent Murray sped up and the SUV’s engine purred to a high whine. It was then that a plan formed in Greyson’s mind. And there was no time for second guesses. Just as the bike’s back tire almost met SUV bumper, Greyson swerved around an information booth in the center of the street. Unable to react in time, the SUV slammed into the booth, sending wooden planks and paper careening up and over its roof and onto the white moving truck behind.
Nailed it!
Smiling out of satisfaction, Greyson looked back to watch through the cascading paper debris; his smile morphed into fear. Men had leaned around the back of the moving truck and out the passenger window, and he saw the flashes before he heard the sound.
RATATATATATAT!
The bullets ripped at the asphalt and whizzed by his bike. Pulling at the handlebars, he dodged to the right, putting the SUV behind him in the line of fire. A few bullets pelted the trunk and back window of the SUV, but the glass merely cracked – bulletproof.
Agent Murray sneered and eyed the dirt bike with disdain. The boy was still swerving around, dodging bullets as if he were invincible. But he was far from it. He was a nuisance. And running him over would be wholly satisfying after the embarrassment of almost losing his target. When all of this was over, he would have to account for his mistakes, but at least he’d have this memory.
He slammed on the accelerator and kept the bike centered in the windshield.
“Greyson!”
Swerving around a golf cart, he could barely hear the muffled sound of the walkie coming from his pack over the sound of accelerating engines.
“Get off the road! NOW!”
Greyson jerked his focus forward, staring straight into a massive cloud of smoke obscuring the entire road. He couldn’t see anything beyond it, but he could hear it. Faintly. The sound of creaking metal and the putputput of its engine.
Tractor-taxi.
Trusting Nick, he swerved at full speed before he saw the two fog lights glowing like monstrous, yellow eyes. And just then it burst through the smoke, scattering the cloud around its gleaming hulk like water off a swimmer’s body. The colossal machine filled Agent Murray’s windshield, but he’d already begun to swerve after the dirt bike.
The SUV banked on two wheels and rammed through a food hut as it came to a complete stop. The moving truck was not as lucky. It turned, but not fast enough. The collision was spectacular – metal, sparks, and a massive explosion sent debris spiraling into the air in all directions with the churning cloud of flame.
“Get down!” Nick and Sammy ducked as shrapnel plinked off of their chair lift.
A jagged piece of metal wedged into the food hut next to Greyson and more rained down all around his bike, clattering and cutting into the main street buildings selling fried pickles. He banked around a flaming piece of metal and avoided a rolling tire as if in a serpentine.
Finally free of the debris, more screams turned Greyson’s attention to an outdoor amphitheater where hundreds of people had gathered at a makeshift hospital with Red Cross golf carts and ambulances scattered about. The ground and seats were littered with bloodied people; others were rushing around trying their best to care for them, and police officers were watching the corners for any terrorists. But at that moment, most of their heads were turned toward the giant explosion, which had mushroomed behind the stage.
Everyone’s attention had been taken – even Greyson’s.
He didn’t see him until he stepped into his bike’s path – a commanding statue with a cowboy hat, playing chicken with him in a narrow alley. Greyson startled but didn’t panic or hesitate. He knew he couldn’t stop – he would be shot instantly. He had to act quickly.
He sped up, slammed on the front brake, and pushed himself off, flying toward SnakeSkin at fifteen miles per hour. The move surprised SnakeSkin and he hesitated just long enough for Greyson to ram into him in a spectacular flying tackle. His collarbone instantly felt the sting, but it did not break. It had grown back stronger – just like the doctors had said it would.
The two of them burst through the wooden fence behind and toppled into a small arena. Their bodies tangled as they rolled, but Greyson held on. They rolled and rolled, finally coming to rest at the edge of a pool of water. As soon as he
sensed their stop, Greyson pulled himself on top of the man and started pummeling him. Greyson’s fist found the man’s cheekbone once, twice, three times. The pain shot up Greyson’s knuckles, but…SnakeSkin laughed. His flaky, cracked lips were twisted into a smile that suddenly turned sinister. Greyson held his fist back, debating whether to strike again, dumbfounded.
Before he knew what had happened, SnakeSkin had grabbed his arms and slammed him to the ground, kneeling over him. His nose was bloody and dripping as he straddled the boy. Small flakes of skin drifted through the humid air to Greyson’s horrified face. The man was stronger – and an experienced killer.
He had to get out. He was going to kill him! He couldn’t move! Not like this, not like this!
SnakeSkin reached behind his back and came out with the serrated, red combat knife. It’s sharp edges glistened in the sun.
“It should run away from trouble,” he said from deep within his throat, lowering the knife to Greyson’s thin neck. “Not towards it…”
“Hey, Cowboy!”
SnakeSkin turned and was confronted with nothing he had ever seen before. A small boy riding an ostrich.
Jarryd kicked SnakeSkin square in the jaw with a sick, cracking sound. The cowboy’s hat flew off and his body toppled into the pool of water with a splash.
Greyson instantly rolled away and jumped to his feet.
“OwwWWWaaaah!” Jarryd moaned from atop the large bird. “My frickin’ foot!”
Greyson smiled briefly before snapping to action, still delirious from fear. “What is that? Where’s my bike? I got to go. Sydney’s about to…”
“This is ‘something’. You said to get you ‘something’ and here it is. And you’re welcome by the way.” The bird danced around and Jarryd tried to control the thing by grabbing its neck and yanking it left and right. “Hop on! You just gotta kinda grab some feathers and yank yourself up…but just not too hard…then it pecks you…”
“I’m not riding that bird.”
“Why not? It got me here all right to save your sorry butt.”
Greyson shook his head and searched the area. Where’s my bike?
With no warning, a sudden rush of water splashed from the center of the pool. SnakeSkin stood up with red combat knife in hand. He drew back to throw, but a flash of green erupted from the water and latched onto his arm. The alligator ripped the man under water in a great mess of thrashing limbs and blood. After a few more thrashes, it was all over.
Greyson lowered his slingshot.
Jarryd shrugged. “Well, at least he saw the Fair before he died.”
Chapter 23
Agent Murray watched the explosion in his rear-view mirror before deciding to abandon the idea of running the dirt bike down. He had to get out of this place with the target. Now. He pressed on the accelerator and bumped over the remains of the food hut. Cotton candy and multi-colored slush slid off his windshield.
The Russian passenger who had been yelling commands at him debated killing him and taking the wheel, but then again, he didn’t want to take the blame for what had just happened.
As the SUV made its way back to the main concourse, now within view of the campground entrance, Sydney and Sam scooted from window to window to try and take it all in. The back window was plastered with spider web-cracks from the barrage of bullets, but each side window was clear. They’d watched Greyson’s suicide-run with fascination and nearly wet their pants when the tractor had appeared out of heaven’s clouds in front of them.
“Where’s Greyson? Do you see him?” Sydney asked Sam.
He joined her at the left window. “No, I lost him. I can’t hear the bike anymore.”
“He’ll come back. Don’t worry.”
“Maybe he’s getting a gun or something.”
“No. He doesn’t do guns. He doesn’t want to kill anyone.”
Sam scrunched his eyebrows. “He just killed a truckload of ‘em.”
Sydney punched him. “No, he didn’t. They drove themselves into that tractor.”
Skeptical, Sam decided not to argue. Her punches hurt.
Suddenly, the car hit the brakes again. Their attention shot to the front where another SUV blocked the entrance to the campgrounds. A lone man stood behind the open driver’s side door, aiming a pistol at them.
Agent Murray and the Russian were having a heated conversation up front.
“Is that…?” Sydney wondered. “Yeah, it is! It’s Kip!”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s saving us!”
PopCRACKpopCRACKpopCRACK! The shots rang out and their windshield erupted in cracks. Agent Murray slammed the SUV into reverse and had to look backwards to steer. Sam took the opportunity to stick his tongue out at him.
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“Jarryd!” Nick’s voice crackled over the walkie. “He’s alive! And on an ostrich!”
Greyson held up the walkie as he sprinted on foot. “Yeah…that’s right.”
Jarryd bounced up and down on the bird next to Greyson, keeping up a rather good pace. “His name is Oscar!”
Greyson ignored him and tried also to ignore the pains all over his body. It felt like he’d been inside a washing machine full of sweat and then a dryer full of ashes. But his morning runs had prepared him for this. His bike was totaled and there was no way he’d get on the bird. As his feet pounded the pavement, though, the bird became more tempting.
“Wait!” Greyson stopped and Jarryd yanked Oscar’s neck. They stood together, squinting into the distance. The SUV had stopped. Another SUV was blocking the way. And then the familiar pops of gunfire.
“It’s a good guy. They’re stopping. And coming back,” Jarryd narrated. “Now what?”
“Nick, they’re headed back,” Greyson relayed, breathless. “Any ideas?”
His hand reached into his pack. One shot left.
“Yes! Well, maybe. If – if they come to us. Can you get them to come this way?”
Greyson and Jarryd eyed each other and shrugged. “What’s the plan, Nick?”
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The Russian returned fire several more times, but Kip had already retreated into his vehicle. Agent Murray whipped the SUV around and started to drive the other way.
“Take the sidestrit,” the Russian commanded with his heavy accent. “Ve’ll come back aro’nd. It’s the only vay they’ll let us out.”’
“Got it.”
He was about to hang a left past the First Church, but something caught his eye – one of Greyson’s friends riding an ostrich. And further down the main concourse, the annoying boy in the red hat was running down the middle of the road.
Agent Murray changed his mind quickly, squealing the tires as the SUV jerked back onto the main concourse, colliding with a golf cart and sending it rolling into the grass toward a fleeing group of refugees.
“Vut are you doing?”
“Change of plan. We’ll take the next side street.”
“Ve’re running out of time!”
In the distance ahead, they could see the swarm of police lights beginning to push through the west entrance.
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Greyson saw them, too, and he sprinted even faster toward them. They represented freedom, safety, and rest. Finally, rest.
But he had to run, harder than he ran every morning; he couldn’t stop until he was underneath the SkyRide. Still painfully far away, he could see Nick and Sammy preparing their plan.
“Tell Jarryd to stay to their right,” Nick instructed. “They can’t look left; so make them look right!”
Greyson glanced over at Jarryd who was riding beside him offering moral support.
Jarryd nodded. “I got it. Don’t waste your breath.”
Gradually, the noise of the SUV’s engine began to grow louder and louder, but the SkyRide cables were still so far. Maybe I should try the bird…
But he remembered it screeching at him, and he caught a second wind. This was the last stretch. H
is breath came out in staggers; his feet pounded the pavement. His chest burned; his face dripped with grimy sweat.
“Come on! Faster!”
Jarryd pulled Oscar to the right as they got closer and began yanking at his shirt. When he had reached the cables, he turned and waved his shirt in the air like a shirtless cowboy with a lasso, making an even more appealing target than Greyson.
The SUV sped toward them, its engine whining beneath its crumpled hood where horses had met with what Agent Murray hoped would be a similar fate to Greyson’s. Their blood still stained the chrome grill.
A little further.
Greyson imagined the speeding vehicle crushing his legs from behind, bringing him under the tires. His bones would break and his fluids would burst out of him like road kill.
“Almost…almost…” buzzed the walkie.
Agent Murray gripped the steering wheel, preparing for the impact.
Jarryd waved his shirt and let out a hoot and a holler.
Greyson pumped his arms and huffed and puffed as he crossed the finish line.
“And…”
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Agent Murray tried to avoid looking at the shirtless ostrich-rider, but he was too curious. The Russian watched him, too, and lowered the window. He leaned out with his handgun. It would only take one shot to the chest…
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“And…”
Sammy grabbed his roped brick and gave it a quick good luck kiss before he threw the brick as far as he could. Nick held on tightly to the rope and finally yanked it taut, sending the brink flying toward the street in a low, swinging arc.
“…dive!”
Greyson dove out of the way just as the brick flashed above his head. The SUV soon took his place, and the brick rocketed in like a speeding pendulum, piercing its mark with unbelievable force. The driver’s window shattered; the SUV spasmed and rocked as the wheelman lost control. Almost instantaneously the vehicle plunged into the Ye Old Mill building, colliding with support pillars and splashing into the narrow river-ride as the roof collapsed, burying it in wood and dust.