Ken Douglas - Scorpion

“ Sheeit,” Dependable Ted said under his breath, but Maria heard.

“ Is anybody hurt?” Broxton asked.

“ Don’t think so,” Ted said.

“ I’m okay,” Maria said, looking out of the car. Seconds ago she’d been on a highway, with cars, houses, stores and people. Now she was surrounded by green-leaves, grass, weeds, bushes and trees. She was in an ancient world, a primitive place, and something deep in her heart told her that man wasn’t welcome.

“ That car hit us on purpose,” Ted said, turning toward them. His smile was gone and there was a glazed look in his dark brown eyes.

“ Looked like it,” Broxton said, and even as he said it the glaze faded from Dependable Ted’s eyes and as they cleared Maria saw anger, bubbling and boiling, raging and ready to burst forth.

“ It was an accident,” Maria said.

“ Wasn’t,” Ted said, “and somebody is going to pay.”

Broxton put his hand to the latch, pulled it and pushed against the door. It creaked and groaned, but it opened. He turned back toward Ted and leaned forward till his face was inches away. “My name’s Broxton. Call the American Embassy tomorrow. Tell them I owe you a new car and cab fare. It’ll be taken care of.” There was something about the way he said it. Low and slow, every syllable clear, even though it was barely a whisper, that told both Ted and Maria that what he said was truth.

“ Yes, sir.” Ted held his hand out. Broxton shook it.

“ Then forget you ever saw me.”

“ Yes, sir.” Ted released Broxton’s hand.

“ No questions?” Broxton asked.

“ You best get going, ’cause I never saw you,” the driver said. Then he added, “go straight into the green till you get to the river, ain’t far, then turn right and follow it back to the road. Bridge goes under, you come out on the opposite side. It’s easy. I used to do it all the time when I was a boy.”

“ Thanks,” Broxton said, and he grabbed both bags, took her by the hand and slipped out of the car, pulling her out after himself. She offered no resistance. He led her around a large teak tree and pulled her further into the tall grass and dense growth. He heard the running water and in seconds he was confronted with a small river that wound from the mountains above down to the sea. Still holding her hand he started to step down the bank.

“ Wait,” she said.

Broxton stopped.

“ Why are we running?”

“ I don’t know,” Broxton said. “Somebody ran us off the road.”

“ It was an accident,” she said again.

“ No, someone tried to kill us.” Again he was whispering and again she heard truth.

“ You can’t know that.” She was panting and she felt sweat rolling down her back. She wiped an insect off of her face with her free hand and met his eyes.

“ I’m an analyst. I’m paid to think and figure the odds, and right now my training tells me that if we don’t move we will wind up dead.” He was talking fast now, trying to convince her.

“ What if you’re wrong?” she said.

“ What if I’m not?” he said.

“ They went in there,” she heard a voice say, gravelly and menacing, not friendly.

“ You’re not,” she said, deciding. “Let’s go.” She felt him tighten his grip. Then he turned back toward the river and started down the bank. The ground was wet, muddy and it smelled. People up in the mountains had been using the river as a dump for too long. The water that should have been fresh and sweet was polluted with litter: plastic bottles, Styrofoam cups, coke cans and other odd bits of trash. The river was taking it all toward the sea.

At the bottom he sloshed through the river, still pulling her along behind. The water was only inches deep, but the mud was tugging at her shoes, threatening to pull them off. The growth was dense and oppressive and she was thankful that he was breaking trail for her. Chills ran up her spine, sliding under the sweat that was running down her back. She was as frightened now as she’d been on the plane. She squeezed his hand tighter as he led her toward the road and safety.

“ Shit, I think they’re headed back toward the road,” the gravel voice from behind said, and Broxton answered her squeeze by gripping her hand even tighter as he picked up his pace through the shallow river, pushing low overhanging branches aside with his other hand.

“ Bridge up ahead,” Broxton said. “We have to go under.”

But when she looked ahead she didn’t see a bridge at all, just the highway above the trees and a place where the river vanished into the undergrowth beneath it and he was pulling her steadily toward it.

“ No,” she said, jerking on his hand and forcing him to stop. “Let’s climb up this side.”

“ That’s what they’ll expect,” Broxton said. “They might even have somebody up there waiting.”

“ Who?” she asked.

“ Don’t know and we don’t have time to discuss it,” he said, then he released her hand and turned toward the spot where the river disappeared under the road. “I hope there’s no snakes under there” he said. “I hate snakes.”

She shivered. “Me too,” she whispered, as he slung the bags over his neck and dropped to a crouch, making his way toward the dense growth.

“ Going to have to crawl.” He dropped his hands and knees into the water. She watched as he forced himself through the wet and slimy foliage that guarded the area under the bridge, and then she couldn’t see him anymore and she was alone. She heard the slight murmuring of people overhead and the sound of a siren off in the distance, but there were no traffic sounds on the highway, no cars whizzing by above. Traffic was stopped. She didn’t want to go in there. Maybe she could climb up on this side. There were people there, she’d be safe.

“ Hurry up.” It was the gravel voice behind her. “Not much farther,” it said, and it made her mind up. She dropped to a crawl and scooted through the muck and slime, pushing as much of it away from her face as she could. Her heart was racing, sweat chilled her skin and she felt insects crawling on the back of her neck. She wanted to scream each time her fingers curled into the muck, but she fought it back and pushed forward.

She was closed in by the dark, like a letter in an envelope and she was waiting for somebody to seal her in. Then she felt something else under her hands. The mud and muck had a bottom to it and it was solid. A chill rippled through her as she pulled a hand out of the river. She reached out to her left and shivered when she struck something solid. A wall. She thrust her hand above her head and whimpered when it touched the concrete top.

She was in a drain pipe.

Every ounce and fiber of herself screamed, Go back, but she bit into her lower lip, closed her eyes and plunged on ahead. Then she felt sunlight on her eyelids, and when she opened them she saw Broxton. She pushed herself out of the pipe as a great wave of relief flooded through her.

But as quickly as it came, it went, when she saw she had nothing to be relieved about. They’d gone only halfway. They were under the highway, between the lanes. There was another drain pipe on the other side. She was going to have to do it all again. She didn’t know if she could.

He leaned toward her and put his lips to her ear. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered. “You’re doing fine.” His whisper calmed and soothed her. She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath, trying to get control of herself. “That’s the way,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”

She shivered, but not as much as before. She opened her eyes and looked around. She was in a place where trolls lived. Under the bridge, under the feet of people and the wheels of cars. A mythical, fairytale, dangerous kind of place. There were things here she didn’t want to know about. Creepy crawlies and slithering slimies, all chucky jammed full of poison. She wanted out and the only way was to slide through that other drain pipe.