Previous Chapter - The Last 3 Days (17): Stoaway All published chapters can be found here. 25:20:23 Don sat in his stationary police cruiser at an intersection and laughed. The last day of life on earth and there was no traffic. That’s because everyone is where they want to be, he thought. Except me. His mood soured. His exhaustion was beginning to show — he couldn’t decide which way to go because he couldn’t remember what each direction meant. Then the early Sunday silence was swept away by an approaching siren. A fire truck flashed by and he followed, just to keep moving. 25:16:33 Seated once again in Februzzio’s van, Bobby idly scanned the printed sheets as if he were waiting for them to speak. Beside him, Ryan’s attention was on the spreading fire across the street. Bobby looked up from the pages when the siren registered. “Ryan. Hear that? They’re probably coming here.” “So what? I want to watch this.” The fire truck came into view, pulled up at a hydrant, and spilled its fire crew. Neither Bobby nor Ryan noticed the dark sedan pull up until Don shut his door and joined the firemen. “Shit,” Ryan growled. “Get down.” Bobby slid forward into the foot well and discovered there was less room than he thought. His knees thumped against the firewall, and the top of his head was still visible above the dashboard. Ryan yanked Bobby’s head sideways and out of sight just as Don looked over. “It’s that cop.” “What is his problem?” Ryan opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t. He needed to share this with someone. “That kid we dumped in the country? The cop’s his dad.” “Should we run?” Bobby asked. “Not in this heap. We wait for him to go.” Slowly, Ryan sat up until he could see Don speak to a fireman monitoring the truck’s pumps. “But thanks for the offer,” the Fireman answered without taking his gaze off his gauges. “I think we’re too late to make a difference here.” Don walked back to his car. His phone was ringing. He reached through the open window to pick it up from the seat. “Hello, this is Don … Hi, Becky … What? Slow down … Ryan took Nick? … Who told you … Is Jay OK? … Are you with him now? … Where? … No. A hospital will be no help. Trust me. Take him next door to my wife … Good. Stay there. I’ll call when I can.” As he talked, Don walked around the front of his car and climbed in. Bobby was panting in quick, shallow breaths, his face red. “I gotta sit up. I can hardly breathe. And I can’t feel my right leg.” “Just hang on.” Ryan raised his head. Don seemed to be looking right at him, so he ducked out of sight. As Don dropped the phone on the passenger seat, he caught a flash of movement through the van’s windshield. Keeping his eyes on the van, he started the car, revved the engine, put it in drive and released the brake. As the car inched forward, Don guided it to block the van. Then stopped. “Hear that?” Ryan said when a nearby engine started and revved. Bobby’s face was scarlet now, his voice a whisper. “Finally.” Ryan peeked over the dashboard. The cruiser was gone. Bobby said, “I’m stuck.” Sitting up, Ryan saw the rear of Don’s car — and found Don staring at him. Ryan watched his features sharpen in recognition. “Stay right there, son.” Don leaned into his door to open it, but he had parked too close and couldn’t squeeze through. He backed up, then scrambled out. Bobby was starting to panic in the van’s footwell. “Help me, Ryan.” Ryan saw he had one option. He launched himself into the rear of the van, through the doors and out onto the street. When the rear doors of the van burst open and Ryan sprinted away to disappear around a corner, Don took several steps in pursuit before accepting he would never catch the younger man on foot. He rushed back to the car. 25:04:54 Ryan had more than a half-block lead when Don came around the corner, threading abandoned vehicles and garbage in the road. Still, the cruiser closed the distance. Ryan reached the next intersection, glanced right, and veered that way. Don followed, only to find his way blocked by vehicles. Reversing, he took off in search of a detour. 24:57:32 Becky and Olga looked up from the TV as Anne descended the stairs in the Burns’ home. Eileen rushed over to her friend. Anne held her hand up to forestall Eileen’s panic. “He’ll be fine — as in I found nothing beyond the obvious. Let him sleep and I’ll check on him every hour.” The size of the television screen seemed to emphasize the exhaustion on the unshaven anchor’s face. He scanned the papers in his hand, sighed, and then tossed the sheaf aside. Looking into the camera, he said, “I’ll be right back.” A few moments later, he tugged some wires placed a console phone on his desk, and sat. Retrieving a page from those he discarded, he folded it twice and then wrote something on it. When he set it on the desk in front of him, the message was numerical. A phone number. “The news feeds are dead and I for one am tired of amateur videos of riots and destruction. So what, then? I have an idea. I’d like you to call in and share your best memories. The phone console lit up. 24:54:19 Don accelerated out of a corner, throwing caution to the wind as he swerved around abandoned vehicles and drove over strewn bottles and other litter, trying to head off Ryan. Until he came to an obstacle that defeated him. A huge crowd filled the street ahead, part of a human wave slowly emerging from a side street. Don had no choice but to stop. He leaned his head back and sighed. And then Ryan sauntered into view from the opposite direction. The two men noticed each other simultaneously. Don threw his door open, forgetting the last two decades, and gave chase as Ryan dove into the parade of people. Don pushed into the press of people, following the wake of those recovering from Ryan’s violent rush. “Police! Make way!” While people turned towards his shout, they were slower to move aside. He couldn’t catch his younger quarry. Drawing his weapon, he fired it into the air. Better. The Red Sea didn’t part this fast. An aisle appeared, enabling Don to move faster. And then he had Ryan in sight, but his quarry had reached the front of the crowd. Only the Pastor, Bible in hand, stood between him and freedom. Ryan picked up speed, dodging around the pastor. Who clotheslined him with the heavy volume. Ryan dropped, stunned. Gasping for breath, Don emerged from the crowd, weapon ready. Kneeling on the young man’s back, he exchanged his weapon for hand-cuffs and secured Ryan’s wrists. Only then did he look up. The pastor was grinning. “Mysterious ways, Officer.” 24:22:56 The sole interrogation room in the police department was measurably larger than the precinct’s cells, but even more claustrophobic for three reasons. First, there was no window, and the only light came from an elderly single fluorescent tube so long overdue for replacement that its flickering was constant. Even worse, the room was so well insulated against noise that any torture administered within would have gone unnoticed in the hall outside. The room housed two pieces of furniture, one of which was unused. A wooden chair sat against the wall opposite the room’s only exit — a steel door. The second item, centered in the space, was a stainless steel table bolted to the floor. An inverted U-shaped ring was welded into the table’s center. The chain between Ryan’s hand-cuffed wrists ran through that ring, which forced him to lean forward just enough to demand a portion of his attention. He could not straighten nor could he rest his elbows on the table, so his balance never settled. “This is illegal,” he snarled at Don. “I want a lawyer.” He tilted his head in the direction of the chair. “And that chair. And I need to relieve myself.” Don stood facing him across the table, his arms folded but his expression patient. “Where’s Nick?” “Who’s Nick?” Don pointed at Ryan’s swollen eye. “The kid who gave you that.” “Lucky swing.” “So you do know him.” “I know my rights, cop.” Suddenly, Don grabbed Ryan’s shirt with both hands and hauling him forward with such force that Ryan cried out when his feet lost contact with the floor. “Answer my question.” “I want a lawyer.” Nick’s father released his grip on Ryan’s shirt, who could do nothing to prevent his chin from hitting the table’s edge or stop his cuffs from lacerating his wrists. Don said, “I’ll give you some time to think,” and left. A moment later, the room went dark. Also published here.

The Last 3 Days (19): Benevolence Shrugs

The Last 3 Days (17): Stowaway

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The Last 3 Days (18): Confrontation in the Darkness

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