I.
Frank Reynolds eased past the empty ballfields just before midnight and parked at the trailhead to the pedestrian bridge. The park, a wide expanse of bottomland at the confluence of the Stones and Cumberland Rivers, was an odd place to pick up a rider, and he checked the name on his rideshare app. Neville Mann. Where have I heard that name? The fare was in his late fifties, with graying hair around the temples and a rumpled business suit that emanated a strange odor. Smells like he got too close to a campfire. The drunks on Broadway were unlikely to notice – one had vomited in his backseat last week – but if Neville Mann forced him to detail the car tomorrow morning, Frank expected a generous tip in return. A duffel lay at his feet, and the passenger picked it up with a grunt.
“201 Cashmere Drive?”
“That’s right,” the passenger said. “You can get me home?”
“Never lost a fare yet,” Frank smiled.
“Good.” The cold steel of the Glock pressed against the back of his neck. “Start driving, and don’t stop until I tell you otherwise. Leave the meter running and I’ll make it worth your while.”
I’m going to die, Frank thought. His friends never tired of pointing out headlines like Ride Share Driver Killed with Axe or Bizarre Suicide Pact Between Driver and Passenger, but most of his customers were college students or tourists, and Frank expected nothing worse than the occasional drunken belligerence. He knew that bad things happened – after all, the South Side Strangler was still a living memory – he had never expected anything to happen to him. He gave the car a little gas, and they picked up speed as they moved away from the river.
“Can you go faster?” His passenger tapped the headrest with the pistol as the duffel bag shifted in the backseat.
“Anything you like.” He blew through a stop sign at the end of the street. “Just… point that thing somewhere else, will you?”
II.
On the narrow floodplain that bordered the river, a void opened in the earth, and the riders that poured from that empty space gunned their engines. The motorcycles were unbearably loud, but the wider world remained unaware of their presence, save for the moans of a few restless sleepers as they roared up the empty street. The engines idled with an infernal rumble as they stopped at the main road, sniffing at the air like bloodhounds before turning right and disappearing into the darkness.
III.
“So, where are we going?” Frank tried to make conversation, because talking reminded the lunatic in the backseat that he was human, and being human reduced his chances of ending up as a corpse on the roadside. “I’m guessing that Cashmere Drive is out of the question.”
“No, not there.” His passenger’s eyes alternated between the driver’s seat and the rear window. “That’s the first place they will check. Just keep moving, and I’ll give you more instructions as needed.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “I’m sure that we can work things out, and if you’re in any kind of trouble…”
“Trouble.” His laughter had a bitter edge. “What do you know about trouble? You said you never lost a fare, right?”
“Not yet.” Frank sped up the on-ramp to Briley Parkway. The sporting goods store was just down the hill, and if he drove through the big window, the one where they displayed the bass boats, perhaps he could grab a shotgun from the display case before…
“All right, then. We’re going to do two things. First, we’re going to drive until sunup – I don’t care where you go, just as long as you don’t leave the city. Second – and listen very carefully, mister –” he glanced at the rideshare app on his phone “– mister Reynolds, you’re going to make me a promise.”
“What’s that?” Frank tried to keep his voice under control. You have six hours to sort things out.
“You’re going to promise me that no matter what happens, no matter how bad things get, that you’re not going to lose me. Agreed?”
“Sure.”
“Not good enough.” The pistol tapped the front seat. “You need to say the words. You need to promise.”
“Fine.” Frank took a deep breath. “I’ve never lost a fare, and I promise that I won’t lose you.”
“No matter what.”
“That’s right,” Frank said. “No matter what.”
IV.
The motorcycles moved four abreast as they roared onto the four-lane highway, and though they remained unseen, the tires blew on a southbound car as they passed, and a gas station attendant died at his post, his heart attack so sudden and massive that he had no time to cry out for help. The rideshare was too distant to perceive with the naked eye, but the riders detected their prey and moved with renewed urgency, their fleshless faces grinning without mirth as they drew closer.
V.
“Take the next exit.” Neville Mann gave a backward glance at the approaching headlights. “When you reach the end of the off-ramp, pull under the bridge and kill the engine. Don’t move until I say otherwise.”
No way I’m stopping, Frank thought, and the speedometer inched upward. An isolated spot under a bridge was the perfect place to leave a corpse, and if he was going to die, he would die in a fiery crash and take his killer along for the ride.
“Take. The next. Exit.” Frank’s courage melted as the pistol touched the back of his head, and they coasted down the off-ramp. “They’re dogged but not all that bright, and when they pass, we’ll head in the other direction. Can you crack the windows?”
Frank did. He had ceased to notice the odd burnt aroma that lingered around his passenger, but as fresh air drifted through the window, the contrast was obvious. He opened the window a little more and breathed deeply.
“Tell me, Frank.” The madman’s voice was more relaxed now. “What brings you out this lovely night to ferry our local drunks about the city?”
“I was a management trainee for a mid-sized telecom. When they went bankrupt last year, they closed the office and sent all their hardware overseas. And what do you… do?”
“Before I made a hobby out of kidnapping? I was an attorney – have you heard of Neville Mann and Associates?”
“Never heard of it… wait. That Neville Mann?” Frank gaped, aghast that he had failed to make the connection. “The lawyer who defended the South Side Strangler?”
“One and the same. And before you ask, yes – he was guilty as hell. The police could only prove one case, and the evidence on that one was weak enough to get a good plea deal. All the same, I imagine he won’t be out until… Wait.” Neville Mann cocked his head to one side. “Do you hear that?”
Frank listened, and he did hear something, though he was at a loss to explain the noise that registered in his brain. It was like the sound of a distant earthquake, a deep rumbling that left pain and loss in his wake. It grew louder, passed directly overhead, then vanished into the distance as it continued its northward path.
“What the hell was that?” Frank’s voice trembled as he spoke.
“That,” Neville said, “is what I’m running from.”
VI.
The motorcycles continued onward for another five miles, and when the riders grasped that their quarry had eluded them, they skidded to a halt, and the noise of the screeching tires blew out a nearby transformer. A roadside tavern erupted in violence as they seethed at their failure, then four engines revved to an ear-splitting volume and the riders reversed course, passing through the concrete barrier like smoke as they turned onto the southbound lanes.
VII.
Patrol officer Liz Park pulled into a fast food restaurant on Music Valley drive, killed the engine, and straightened her ponytail. Her watch read 12:45. Not halfway through my shift yet, and I’m already exhausted. She discounted the old cop lore about full moons bringing out the crazies, but in three years on the force, she had never seen a night like this one. Two barfights, one domestic, and God knows how many calls of shots fired. She suspected that by morning, they would find a couple of new corpses lying in the street, their bodies perforated by bullet holes. Right now, just find a bathroom and some coffee. She keyed the radio and reported Patrol Unit 364 as out of service for the next ten minutes.
She paused in the doorway and glanced at the gas station across the street. Something about the car at the gas pumps raised her hackles, and her hand dropped by reflex to the butt of her pistol. Late model crossover SUV, one white male at the gas pumps, no sign of passengers. She wiggled her fingers, working out the tension as she pulled her hand away from the gun. Getting jumpy, officer Park? There was nothing suspicious about the idling vehicle, and she had no basis for the sensation of lurking danger that jangled her nerves.
VIII.
Frank Reynolds worked the gas pump as Neville Mann, locally famous attorney and newly-minted maniac, sat quietly in the back. He did a quick calculation – if he sprinted, perhaps he could make it to the door before his passenger could bring the gun into play. We can lock the door, and the clerk can dial 911. If he doesn’t blow out my brains first. He glanced toward the back window, and Neville gave a polite nod. A police car rested across the street, a good hundred yards away. There’s no way I’d make it. Frank sighed in resignation and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“What time is it? My watch is broken.”
Frank glanced at his phone. “Twelve fifty-seven. You know, if I don’t check in soon, they’ll send someone looking for me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. In six hours and three minutes, you can call them and let them know that you’re okay.”
“Yeah, but I’ll lose my job, and I won’t be able to pay my rent next month.” Frank watched as a group of motorcycles roared past at high speed. “Or my car payment. Seriously, I’m looking at major financial trouble if I can’t keep this job. You wouldn’t want –”
A mile away, the motorcycles exited the highway and shrieked through the mall parking lot. In the sporting goods store, famous for its enormous freshwater tank, all the fish died as the water boiled away.
“Frank.” Neville Mann watched the approaching headlights. “I think we need to go now.”
“It’ll only take a minute. Just let me call so I can keep my job and…” Frank looked up, dazzled by the glare of the lights. “What the hell?”
Neville grasped his shirt with unexpected strength and pulled him away from the window as the riders opened fire, and an empty delivery truck burst into flames at the far end of the parking lot. The riders accelerated, and Frank gaped as the motorcycles became airborne, their wheels clearing his hood by a good two feet and landed next to the burning truck. Four engines revved as they readied for another pass, and Neville tapped his shoulder.
“Now, can we go?”
IX.
Her mind was tied in knots, and her stomach was already sick with fear, but Liz Park worked the radio without thinking as she ran for her car. Tires squealed as the black crossover exited the gas station, closely pursued by – her mind tried to interpret the sight and was unable – but her first priority was the delivery truck. The fire, a flash that burned intensely and died quickly, was already subsiding, and a uniformed man stood in the doorway of the gas station with a stunned expression.
“Anyone else in the truck?” He shook his head, and she gave him a thumbs-up. She would need to secure the scene until fire units arrived, and Park keyed her radio.
“This is 364, send another unit to my location.”
“Negative 364.” The dispatcher’s voice was muted by static. “No other units available.”
“10-4.” You’ve got to be kidding me. “I have shots fired at my location and a suspect fleeing south on Music Valley Drive. Can you…” There was another hiss of static as the radio died.
Damn it! A burst of gunfire rang out in the distance, and Liz took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Her patrol rifle was in the trunk, and the ballistic vest would protect her torso, but she was overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of aloneness. She keyed her radio again and heard only silence. All right then. The crossover had turned right at the end of the street, and she turned left, for the road made a great winding loop along the Cumberland River before depositing its traffic onto McGavock Pike. Come in from the opposite end, and you can head them off.
X.
He took the curve a little too quickly, and the car caromed off a guardrail with a horrible squeal of metal on metal. Frank’s ears filled with the flapping of black wings as the motorcycles gained ground, but he was already taking a huge risk – just beyond the range of his headlights, the river flowed perilously close to the road, and one wrong move would send them into the water. Neville sat behind him, his face deathly pale, as more shots rang out. A deer grazed at the edge of the road, and Frank’s eyes barely registered the sight as the unfortunate creature was vaporized by the gunfire.
“Neville?” Frank cried out. “Where’s the gun?”
“It’s here… Right here in my lap.”
“Well what are you waiting for? Shoot them!”
“I can’t.” The older man’s voice quavered a little as he spoke. “The gun’s not actually loaded.”
You son of a bitch, Frank thought. If I survive the next two minutes, I’ll make you pay for this. A motorcycle pulled alongside the car, and its rider brandished a weapon that looked like an old flintlock pistol. Frank stared at that gaping muzzle, then at the bony arm that held the weapon, then finally, a long instant later, at the face. Oh my God… A series of images flashed through his brain – a crying child, the bare bone of a grinning skull, the blackest emptiness he had ever seen. And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. He yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, and the rider swerved, righted himself, and fired again. On the far side of the road, a tree wilted and died, its leaves falling away like chaff. Frank swerved again, and the rider fell back with the others, blocking his retreat.
“Frank, look out!”
The flashing blue lights dazzled him as Frank stomped the brakes, and the car skidded, sloughed to the left, and came to a stop in the middle of the road. They were trapped, and the approaching headlights grew larger, blinding him, as the motorcycles closed in. Frank had time for one final thought – there’s no way they will stop in time – and a strange cry of rage and frustration echoed between his ears as the riders sailed upward and outward, leaving the road and landing in the river beyond. The waters in the channel grew foul, and fish died for a hundred yards in every direction.
“Metro Police!” A woman’s voice rang out through the car’s PA system. “Turn off your engine and toss out the keys!”
“Frank,” Neville’s voice regained a little of its old steadiness. “We need to go – there could be others.”
“No, I need to go. You can open that door and get the hell out – this ride is officially over.”
“But you promised…”
“I don’t care what I promised! I can lie when you hold a gun to my head! Now –”
“Please.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that Neville was crying. “Those things are after me. They’ll be back and I have no one else to help.”
You promised, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. To hell with that, Frank thought, but he found himself wavering. From the backseat, Neville looked shrunken and helpless, and if Frank abandoned him now, could he live with himself, leaving his passenger at the mercy of those things? He shifted the car into drive.
“All right. We’re going to find a safe place, and then you’re going to tell me what’s going on – the gun, those motorcycles, everything.”
XI.
Liz Park stared at the fleeing car, her mouth agape, but there was nothing that she could do. Something had gone into the water, and she needed to remain at the scene until the survivors, or bodies, could be accounted for. The radio crackled to life, and she jumped.
“364, where are you?” The dispatcher sounded agitated.
“This is 364, I’m under the bridge on Pennington Bend. I lost radio contact.”
“Your last transmission was garbled, 364. Give me an update on your status –”
“Park?” Bob Stephens, her shift supervisor broke in over the radio, and Park breathed a sigh of relief. “What the hell is going on?”
“Can you make it to my location? Something weird is going on.”
To be continued…
That was so cool. Great rhythm and timing. A helluva ride, that's for sure!
This was such a fun story, with all kinds of twists and turns! I can't wait for part 2.
Also I love the way you casually describe the region. It makes the characters feel familiar and like they belong in the world. Like we're taking a look into what's happening rather than the moment to moment action being curated which I really enjoy.