Joe Lansdale - Lost Echoes

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Harry said. “Just shoot us. I’m not driving this thing over the cliff.”

“I will shoot you, you know?”

“Do it. Make some bullet holes. I don’t think you’re as certain of this shit as you act. You want us over that cliff, you’ll have to drive us.”

The chief looked at his watch.

“Like I care about your movie,” Harry said. “I get one thing out of this, make you miss your recording, that’s better than nothing. Learn to set the timer, you dumb son of a bitch.”

“All right,” the chief said. He reached through the window, got hold of the gearshift, put it in neutral. “Me and Pale, we thought about this. We didn’t expect it to be easy. Would have been nice, but…”

Pale’s car lights came up behind them and the car bumped up against Harry’s car, started it rolling.

As the chief pulled his hand back, Harry leaped for the gun. He grabbed it, turning it up to the ceiling. A shot went off, knocked a hole in the roof, made Harry’s head ring. The car picked up speed. The chief lost his footing, but Harry hung onto his hand. The car got bumped again and charged over the edge, dragging the chief with it, but at the last moment he twisted free and fell for about ten feet. He landed on a rise of dirt and stopped, the gun tumbled from his hand. He grabbed at a clutch of roots. They held him.

The car went sailing through the air, ducked over the edge, and disappeared from the chief’s view. He heard it hit. Several times. Bouncing.

He started working his way back up, hanging onto old roots and vines, thinking once he got up there, he’d have to go back down. Get another gun, climb down there and make sure they were finished, or at least hurt so bad they weren’t going to recover. Maybe he could beat them to death with something. That would be satisfying. That would be good. He hung from a vine and looked at the glow of his watch.

He still had time to set the recording, if everything went smooth from here on. Shit, worst-case scenario, he could buy the DVD.

Tad saw the car go over just as he came to a line of trees on the top of the hill, saw the headlights of the other car shining on the burnt ground. His heart went over with Harry’s car. His stomach twisted; it was like that day he heard about his wife and son.

Maybe, just maybe, Harry and Kayla were alive and the car was on top of that sonofabitch Chief Asshole.

Christ, don’t let it happen twice. Don’t let me lose my boy again.

Tad watched as Pale got out of his car quickly and ran over to the edge. Tad took that moment to move into the opening, his hand dipping into his coat pocket, bringing out the six darts. He shifted all but one to his left hand.

As he trotted toward Pale, Pale turned, saw him, reached inside his coat.

Tad couldn’t really see the guy’s face, but he could see his shape, knew where his target was by reflex. He flicked the dart.

Sergeant Pale saw what looked like a black spot jump up in front of his eye, and then he was hit, thinking at first a bug had flown into his face, into his eye, but when the pain started he knew better.

He screamed and grabbed at the dart, twisted his body, dropped to one knee, pulled the dart free, and most of his eye came with it.

“You bastard!”

Tad kept coming at a kind of slow trot.

Pale tried to get his gun out from under his coat, but another dart hit him in the hand. He jerked it back, saw the dart standing up on the back of his palm, saw with his good eye a big man running toward him like a locomotive.

He tried for the gun again, but now the guy was on him, and—

Tad kicked, caught Pale solidly under the chin, sent him spinning to the edge of the drop. But Pale scuttled around on his hands and knees, and even with one eye gone, a dart stuck in his hand, he made it to his feet, jogged for his car.

Tad tried to cut him off, but he faked right, went left. Some football maneuver. Tad hated football. Run, bump, and mill, that was all that shit was, bunch of goobers in pads and helmets running together, and here was this motherfucker, blind in one eye, outmaneuvering him with some football move, and now he was drawing a gun from under his coat.

Tad flicked a dart from his left hand to his right, twisted his wrist. The dart made a humming sound, went right into the guy’s throat. Pale gagged, fell to the ground, crawled behind his car.

Tad jumped on the hood and took a leap, and there was Pale on his back, looking up, gun in hand, and as Tad came down on him like a big panther, the goddamn Flintstones song jumping into his head, the whole fucking thing in a wink of the eye, the gun fired.

The chief worked his way steadily to the top of the hill. As he pulled himself over, he looked about cautiously, having heard a gunshot.

Tad was amazed.

The guy missed. Here he was, the biggest goddamn target in creation, and the guy missed.

He thought: One eye will throw you off, won’t it, motherfucker?

Tad had dropped his two remaining darts, was on top of the guy now, and the man was strong. Tad didn’t fight the strength. He snatched at the man’s wrist, flexed it where the nerves gathered, made the man’s wrist go weak. The gun dropped. Tad brought his fist down with all his weight behind it, hit Pale in his wounded throat, hit the dart there, drove it in deeper. Pale raised his shoulders and head, let out with a sound somewhere between a burp and a gurgle. Tad reached behind the man’s ear, brought his hand back sharply, as if he might thump his own chest, and caught him on the rear point of the jaw, knocking him out.

Tad stood up, said, “Love tap, cocksucker.”

As he put a hand on the hood of the car, he realized he had allowed himself to be distracted.

He heard movement, turned, thinking: I’m getting old.

He started to duck.

But he was a heartbeat too slow.

The chief swung a large limb and it caught Tad on the forehead, knocked him to the ground. Tad tried to get up, but the chief hit him again, this time behind the neck. Tad hit the dirt like he lived there.

The chief hit him another time, in the head.

Another time.

He tossed the limb aside and leaned against the car, took in some deep breaths.

“Pale,” he said.

Pale didn’t answer.

The chief bent over him, saw the dart in his throat. He pulled it out, flicked it away. He lifted Pale’s head. “Sergeant, you with me, man?”

Pale blinked his eyes. Blood ran out of the ruined one, blossomed like a ripe strawberry on his neck.

“I said, you with me?”

Pale said, “He put my goddamn eye out!”

The chief could see that now. There was blood all over the place. “Yeah, man. He did. Can you get up?”

The chief helped him. Pale pulled the dart out of the back of his hand, tossed it aside, put that hand over his eye.

“Sit in the car,” the chief said. “You got some first-aid shit, right?”

“Glove box. But there ain’t no eye in there. Man, God, fuck, it hurts.”

“All right. Come on.”

The chief walked him around to the driver’s side, helped him in. “My gun. It’s on the ground,” Pale said.

“Sit there a minute,” the chief said. “I’ll get the gun, the first aid.” The chief closed the door, hurried to the other side of the car, stopped to kick Tad in the head, looked around until he saw the automatic. He picked it up, opened the door on the passenger’s side, climbed in.

“God,” said Pale, his hand over his ruined eye. “I hurt bad. I’m fucking blind. My eye. It’s gone, man. Gone.”

“You go home, gonna be hard to explain.”

“Oh, God. I don’t know what to do. That fucker. I hope he’s dead.”

“I believe he’s dead and then some. Pale, look at me.”