V. Larson - Spyware

“Huh. Looks like he’s trying to run from us. You know this guy, Ingles?”

“Indeed, I do.”

By the time the driver had gotten the car turned around and pointed back toward the main road, the silver Ranger pulled out of the trees and blocked his path. A very surprised John Nogatakei climbed slowly out from behind the wheel of his Lincoln.

Ray awakened groggily. A thousand aches and pains assaulted his senses. The most irritating of which happened to be a left shoulder. It seemed bent and locked in an uncomfortable position, almost dislocated. He squirmed, but was only partly able to relieve the pain. Something resisted his every movement. It was difficult to get air into his lungs, the feeling of suffocation was horrible. It sat on his chest like a living thing. Panic reared its leering head and he had to fight to control himself. He believed for a few moments that he was in a sleeping bag, or perhaps a blanket. But it was much tighter than that. Even his face was wrapped up, leaving only a hole or two over his nostrils and a narrow slit over his right eye. He heard conversation, but couldn’t turn his head toward it.

He lay back, tried to breathe evenly. At least he was still alive. He rolled his one eye this way and that, taking in what he could. He seemed to be laying on hard, ribbed surface under the open sky. He smelled dust, oil and hot engine. The bed of a pickup? He could only guess.

A door crumped. Then second one followed. Ray felt a shimmer run through the truck bed beneath him. “If that’s a cop, he needs to lay off the donuts,” remarked the voice of the man who had pistol-whipped him. What had Ingles called him? Spurlock.

“Ingles, I’m glad I found you,” said Nog’s voice with a nervous laugh. Ray tried not to react. He appeared to have awakened into a meeting of conspirators. Instantly, Ray suspected that Nog had led him into all this. But then, if it had all been a setup, why had Ingles let two of his toes get blown off before calling in Spurlock?

“You know this geek?” demanded Spurlock.

“Indeed. Spurlock, meet John Nogatakei, otherwise known as Nog. Nog, Mr. Spurlock.”

“Who is this guy?” asked Spurlock.

“Nog is the brilliant creator of the virus that started this whole adventure.”

“Then I ought to blow his ugly face off right now,” complained Spurlock. “So Nog, if you’re our buddy, how come you tried to take off when you saw us?”

“I–I wasn’t sure who you were,” stammered Nog. “I came down this back road to avoid running into anyone.”

“Nog, we weren’t to have any further contact,” said Ingles. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“We have to talk, Ingles,” replied Nog, “privately.”

“What we have to do,” growled Spurlock, “is get the fuck out of Dodge, man!” Ray thought he heard the men grapple one another briefly. There was a scuffling sound in the dirt and someone fell against the side of the pickup, making it rock on its springs.

Nog’s voice came next, and it sounded closer and higher pitched, perhaps on the edge of panic. Ray surmised that Spurlock had grabbed him and thrown him against the pickup.

“Wait a minute, man! I’m on your side! I-” he broke off here as a series of thudding sounds commenced. Nog shrieked and Ray quailed as a shadow loomed over his limited field of vision. Nog’s face, twisted in pain, doubled over the side of the pickup bed. Nog and he made eye contact-Ray’s one wide, staring eye meeting Nog’s own grimacing glance. Nog registered the shock of recognition, then pain as more blows sounded behind him.

“I’ll find your kidneys in all this blubber somewhere, punk,” growled Spurlock.

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Spurlock,” said Ingles.

“Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do with this whale? For all we know he’s just led the posse right to us! We’ve got to get out of here, man!”

“Beating our co-conspirator serves no purpose, Mr. Spurlock,” said Ingles. “He has after all, provided us with an answer to our dilemma concerning Vance.”

“You mean the Lincoln?”

“Precisely. That trunk will provide ample room for transporting our mummified cargo.”

“Huh,” said Spurlock. “I suppose you’re right, but I still don’t trust this frigging nerd.”There came another thump that shivered the truck again. Nog lurched in pain and Ray figured he had just been kicked in the rear. Ray realized right then that Nog must have come back to look for him. He must have wondered what had happened. He felt a pang of regret for Nog’s predicament, despite everything.

More sounds of doors crumping open and closed came to Ray. Nog looked down at him. Ray watched the man worry at his tongue, and somehow, this time, the sight didn’t sicken him.

“I’m sorry, Vance,” Nog whispered.

Ray blinked his eye. It was all he could do to respond.

Nog looked over his shoulder, then back down at Ray. “I’ll do what I can,” he hissed.

Then he was gone, and all Ray could see was the blue sky with drifting clouds of gray and white.

… 25 Hours and Counting..

Spurlock and Ingles had no sooner loaded Vance into the trunk of the Lincoln and slammed down the lid than they heard the big car thrum into life.

“What the fu-?” demanded Spurlock, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the big white car’s engine. It spit a cloud of dust and gravel into their legs and half-bounced, half-rolled off the canal embankment.

“He’s running!” shouted Ingles as he limped for the open door of the Ranger. As Nog skimmed past the pickup, the Lincoln scraped the rear bumper with a screech of metal on metal. The car plunged into the almond trees like a submerging whale.

Ingles had the pickup going in seconds. He almost backed over Spurlock, who grabbed the open passenger door as it flew by and swung himself into the cab.

“I’m gonna kill that fat bastard!” he screamed at Ingles. “Don’t even get in my way this time!”

Ingles saved his breath for driving. He barely missed a thick black trunk as he swung the Ranger around and popped it into second. They both rammed their heads into the ceiling as he revved it over the uneven ground.

“Get out that popgun of yours,” suggested Ingles.

“I can’t hit anything from a distance,” shouted back Spurlock.

“Just try to nail a tire when we catch up. He can’t outrun us on rough ground.”

Spurlock nodded and rolled down his window. He slipped his pistol into his hand.

Nog surprised them all, however, by pulling a U-turn in the middle of the orchard. He chose a spot for the manuever where three trees were missing. Only dark wounds showed where the trees had been uprooted and removed like rotten teeth. The open sky showed above; a brief streak of bright blue that tore through the otherwise seamless green canopy.

“A storm blew those out last winter,” remarked Ingles unconcernedly, even as he hand-over-hand whipped the steering wheel around and back again. Spurlock frowned at him, unsure how he could be so cool in such a situation.

“He’s trying to get back to the main road, where he can pour it on,” shouted Spurlock.

The chase doubled back to the canal embankment. It was there that Nog made a fatal error. He tried to cut a sharp turn just as he crested the embankment. The car lurched up and veered right, toward the main road, but didn’t make the turn. Instead, it slid sideways toward the canal and over the edge. The big white Lincoln rolled over like a dying whale and crashed down into the slime and filth at the bottom of the concrete walls.

Ingles and Spurlock pulled up in the Ranger and walked to the edge.

“He’s been thrown out and crushed,” said Spurlock, panting, “smashed like a bug under that big boat. Splat! Ha! Ha! Game over, Nog!”