David Morrell - The Shimmer

“Don’t you wish you’d obeyed the sign?” the guard yelled. “I warned you, didn’t I? I said you’d be prosecuted! Hey, Mr. Big Deal Reporter, I’ve got a question for you!”

“Ask me anything!” Brent hoped to stall for time.

“Did you go to announcers’ school or something like that?”

What the hell…? Brent had no choice except to humor the guy. Anything was better than being shot at.

“Yes, I have a college degree in broadcasting!”

“That’s what I figured! You had to have learned it! No one could be born that full of shit!”

The guard shot more holes in the back of the van.

Brent heard liquid splashing onto the ground. His nostrils felt pinched by the odor of gasoline streaming from holes in the fuel tank.

At once he heard something else-the drone of a distant engine. Somebody’s coming. We’ll get help. He stared down the lane that led to the road, but he didn’t see an approaching dust cloud.

The drone became closer and louder, growing into a rumble.

In the air. He turned in the direction of the lowering sun and saw the dark silhouette of a helicopter speeding toward the observatory.

Thank God, he thought.

The guard must have seen it, too. “I’ll deal with you in a little while, Mr. Television Reporter!”

Mouth dry from fear, Brent eased his head around the side of the van and saw the guard vanish into the darkness of the doorway. The building was so small that Brent concluded there had to be stairs leading underground.

The last time the guard had gone back inside, he’d returned with an assault rifle. Brent hated to imagine what he would bring next.

Movement made him turn. Groaning, Anita managed to come to a sitting position and prop herself against the front of the van.

“I can’t drive with this arm.” She cradled it in pain. “The key’s in my right pants pocket.” Sweat trickled down her cheeks. “Let’s get out of here while he’s distracted.”

Brent fumbled inside her pocket and pulled out the key. He also took the knife she’d returned to that pocket. He had no idea what to do with it. Even so, he shoved it into his pants.

Anita struggled to get to her feet.

Brent moved to help, putting an arm around her, guiding her to the side of the van. His rapid breathing was hoarse as he shoved her up into the passenger seat. He shut the door, trying to minimize the noise, and raced around to the driver’s side. Fear made his legs unsteady when he climbed behind the steering wheel. His trembling fingers had trouble inserting the ignition key.

Come on! Finally it slipped in.

He twisted the key, feeling a surge of triumph when the engine roared to life. Abruptly his sense of triumph turned to panic. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the guard rushing from the doorway. The rifle the man held had something thick mounted under the barrel.

Brent stomped the accelerator and felt the flat rear tires try to gain traction. The wheel rims dug into the ground, spraying a dust cloud. He couldn’t see the guard.

Maybe the dust’ll keep him from aiming!

The van lurched forward sluggishly.

“Ease off on the gas. You’re spinning the wheels,” Anita found the strength to tell him.

Brent obeyed. The van responded, gaining more distance from the observatory. In the rearview mirror, he saw the dust settling and caught a glimpse of the guard raising the rifle to his shoulder. Above the sound of the van’s engine, he heard the helicopter roaring closer, coming in to land.

The van moved a little faster down the lane, its flat rear wheels fighting the dirt.

Frantic, Brent glanced at the rearview mirror again. The guard suddenly changed the direction in which he aimed. He turned west, toward the rumble of the approaching helicopter. In silhouette, the object attached to the rifle’s barrel seemed thicker.

Brent stared to his right, past Anita, toward the massive shape of the chopper, which was close enough that he could see the faint shape of the pilot’s face through the canopy. He switched his gaze to- ward the rearview mirror and saw the rifle buck as if it had been fired. Something flew from the object mounted under the barrel.

The front of the chopper exploded. As the shock wave rocked the van, the fireball of a second explosion-perhaps from fuel tanks-tore the aircraft apart. Wreckage flew in all directions. Chunks of rotors, sections of fuselage, fragments of engines crashed onto the dirt. Smoke billowed. Grass started burning. A flaming skeleton of the fuselage hit the ground and rolled, crushing a section of fence.

“Madre de Dios,” Anita said in shock.

The speedometer showed fifteen miles an hour, probably as fast as the van would go with shredded rear tires and wheel rims grinding into the dirt.

“We’re going to make it,” she managed to say.

Brent glanced toward the rearview mirror again and felt pressure in his chest, seeing the guard turn toward the van to realign his aim.

“Anita, brace yourself.”

Brent saw the rifle jerk upward. Something rushed from the launcher mounted under the rifle’s barrel.

Another shock wave rocked the van. In the rearview mirror, Brent saw an explosion tear up dirt.

“We’re far enough away!” Brent shouted. “Yes, we’re going to make it!”

The words caught in his throat when he saw flames erupt behind the van.

The bullet holes in the fuel tank, he realized. We’re leaving a trail of gasoline.

His bladder let loose when the flames began to chase the van.

“No!”

The rear of the van heaved as the flames reached the fuel that streamed from the holes in the tank. The impact wasn’t like the grenade explosions. It didn’t produce a loud roar. It didn’t tear the back of the van apart. It was violent nonetheless, filling the rearview mirror with an image of erupting smoke and flames.

Brent stomped the brakes. As the flames spread forward, he was relieved to see Anita muster the strength to open the passenger door and drop to the ground. He shoved the driver’s door open, jumped out, and hurried around to where she’d landed. She was on one knee, struggling to stand.

He grabbed her and lunged toward a furrow, collapsing, pushing her down.

The flames spread toward the middle of the van.

“Need the camera,” Brent said.

“Don’t take the chance. You’ll be hit.”

His heart pounded so violently that he was certain it would burst against his ribs. He surged upright, sprinted to the van’s side door, and shoved it open. Flames licked at him as he grabbed the camera.

Something snapped past him. A bullet.

Coughing from the smoke, he crouched and ran, holding the cam- era with both arms. Another bullet snapped past him. He reached the furrow and protected the camera by falling onto his back.

“You’re a fool.” Anita stared through wide eyes and looked paler.

“My mother always thought so.”

He pushed the record button and pointed the camera toward the burning van, panning from the fiery back of it until he reached the front seats, which burst into flames. Then he got a close shot of the shredded rear tire on his side of the van, the fire beginning to melt it. The smoke spread dramatically.

“You’ve been shot,” Anita said.

“Where?”

“Your right ear.”

Brent reached up and touched the wound, feeling the slippery blood and the gash on his earlobe.

“Blood’s streaming down your neck and onto your shoulder,” she murmured.

“Good. If I help you position the camera, do you think you can get a shot of it?”

“You really are crazy.”

“You expect me to just wait here and do nothing while he tries to kill us? The camera’s the only weapon I have. I’m going to record as much of what’s happening as I can. If we get out of this, this’ll be the story of a lifetime.” The word “lifetime” made him pause. Desperate to distract himself, he added, “I can win an Emmy for this.”