Stephen White - Critical Conditions

The man began to turn in his bin to check for pursuers. I dropped flat in my tray. Behind me, Sam didn’t have the same luxury; he couldn’t hide. He was overflowing the beige bin on his single tele-car like a soft-boiled egg in an egg cup.

And he was almost that vulnerable.

The man spotted him. Within seconds I knew my suspicions were correct. The man chasing Merritt did have a gun.

Shots echoed in the cement-walled chamber like an explosion in a pipe. Two blasts came from the direction of the man who was after Merritt.

One came quickly in return from Sam.

As the echoes died, the drones of the tele-cars on the tracks were the only sounds I heard.

The tracks made a sudden drop right then, going from straight and level to a thirty-degree decline, and the tele-cars picked up speed. The experience was not unlike an amusement park ride that was revving to terminal velocity. We were, I assumed, beginning our passage into the service tunnels on our way out toward the concourses. Without raising my head, I looked up behind me, silently counting the tele-cars that were appearing above and behind me on the sloping tracks.

I counted eighteen tele-cars before I stopped. I knew Sam was no longer riding in his beige bin.

My despair could have filled the terminal.

Twenty or thirty seconds later, I heard loud voices and my tele-car burst from below the terminal building. Looking down, I realized I was high above an intersection of roads. Below me were a cluster of electric carts and a group of about a dozen people on the tunnel roadway. In that instant, the tele-car I was riding crossed into the service tunnels, and I was now traveling on tracks that were suspended from the tunnel ceiling at least thirty feet above the cement roadway. I raised my head just enough to peek forward. The man in the bomber jacket was still in front of me. On a parallel track, tele-cars with empty bins zoomed past me in the opposite direction to return to the concourse to pick up fresh loads of luggage.

I guessed we were about halfway between the terminal and Concourse A when the man shouted something I couldn’t understand and fired another shot.

Merritt screamed so clearly I thought she was right next to me.

She was.

I raised my head and was astonished to see her in a gray tray traveling back toward me on the parallel track.

He fired again. I screamed, “Get down.”

Merritt shrieked again and yelled, “Help me.”

“How did-”

“It’s about to slow,” she said.

And it did. As we approached Concourse A, the tele-cars slowed so scanners could read the tags and divert any bags that were destined for the A concourse. I waited for a double tele-car to approach from the opposite direction, tried not to think about what I was doing, tried to time my leap, and jumped.

My timing was better than my strategy. I landed solidly in the approaching gray tray, not remembering that the tray was not actually attached to the tele-cars. My momentum caused the tray to begin to slide out of its steel cradle. I rolled hard against the opposite side and the tray seemed to hesitate before sliding down and finding its natural place. It thunked back into position.

“Merritt, are you okay? I made it. I’m behind you.”

“I’m okay. Who’s after me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Alan, is that you?” The voice was Sam Purdy’s and came from the roadway down below. My heart leaped.

I yelled, “Sam, we’re heading back the other way, toward the terminal. Merritt and me.”

“What? Where is-”

“Don’t know.”

He yelled something else, but the cars had carried me out of range of his voice and I couldn’t understand him.

A few seconds later, I knew where the man was.

A gunshot cracked in the tunnel. The gunman had managed the same maneuver as Merritt and me and was behind us. I hoped far behind us, but I wasn’t sure.

Just as I called out, “Merritt, are you hit?” I was reassured by a piercing shriek from her direction. Again, I reminded her to stay down.

I knew that the nature of the chase had changed significantly. One, my presence in the baggage system was no longer a secret to the man who was after Merritt. And two, I was no longer trailing him; I was now a wonderful target situated conveniently between him and his prey.

I also realized that since we had changed direction and were heading back toward the terminal, I had no idea where the system was taking us. Before, I was taking solace in my hope that the Denver police would be waiting for us at the termination point of the baggage system below Concourse B. They would protect Merritt and arrest whoever it was who was chasing her.

Now? I didn’t know where these empty cars were going other than to return to pick up new loads of outbound luggage. And the Skycap had said that there were twelve different collection points on each side of the terminal. That meant there were a lot of possible destinations. I hoped that Sam could get some help in puzzling it out in time to meet us wherever we were headed.

I had a feeling Merritt and I were going to need a little assistance.

We were approaching the end of the tunnel, the spot where the tracks guiding the tele-cars would begin to climb into the bowels of the terminal. At the moment that Merritt’s tele-car began its ascent, her pursuer’s car would be below her and she would be visible to him. I was guessing she would be exposed, and vulnerable, for about three to five seconds. Shortly after that I would be exposed for target practice for about the same amount of time.

Based on the speed we were traveling, I had-maybe-thirty seconds to come up with a solution to the problem.

I crawled to the far end of the bin and raised my head so I could look back down the tunnel to see if the electric carts were keeping up with us on the roadway below. I spotted one, about a hundred yards back.

“Sam? Is that you?” I yelled. One of the most surprising things about the automated baggage system is how quiet it is. Speaking to someone next to you requires only a slight elevation in volume.

“Yeah.”

“Up ahead, when we go up that incline into the terminal, he’ll have a clear shot. You have to distract him before Merritt gets to the bottom of the incline.”

He was gaining on us; Sam’s electric cart was closer now, no more than thirty yards back.

Sam yelled, “Where is he?” and the man responded by firing a round at Sam’s cart.

“He’s behind me, in a gray tray like mine, maybe fifty yards. I don’t know.”

The gunshot helped Sam locate him. Sam said, “Got him. Merritt, stay down.”

I watched Merritt’s tele-car begin the climb from the tunnel into the terminal. The instant she was visible, gunshots began peppering the tunnel behind me. I couldn’t tell whether they were being fired by the man chasing us or whether they were being fired by Sam and the Denver police.

When I risked another look up, Merritt’s tele-car had cleared the incline. I had no idea whether she had been hit. Now, it was my turn to head up the same hill.

I felt the change in track angle and my guts seized into knots. Again, the gunfire erupted behind me. I covered my head with my hands as a slug ripped into the plastic three inches from my right hip.

The tele-car cleared the top of the incline and leveled off. I yelled, “Made it. Find us, Sam, hurry,” and sat up, looking for Merritt.

I tried, “Merritt, are you okay?”

I didn’t hear a reply.

At this stage of the system the baggage tracks have more switches and off ramps than an L.A. freeway interchange. I assumed the returning tele-cars were being automatically routed to whatever loading location required empty tele-cars.