"Stay calm," Marty said, "Don't move."
As if the kid was going anywhere. What a dumb thing to say. But Marty couldn't think of anything else. He wasn't even sure how to get the kid out of there without tipping the car over. Opening the door was probably too risky. It could shift things too suddenly.
"What's your name?"
"Franklin!" It came out as a scream.
"Okay, Franklin, here's what we're going to do. You're going to roll down the window."
The kid looked at him and shook his head, his teeth chattering in fright. No fucking way, not for this guy.
"You have to," Marty said, his voice cracking with fear. If he was counting on winning the kid over with his own courage, he could forget about it.
The kid just kept shaking his head. "No!"
"Listen, kid, I know how stupid and scared I look. Some jerk in a bunch of dirty blankets. You think you'd rather take your chances in the car." From the expression on Franklin's face, Marty knew he read the kid right. "But Franklin, the truth is, the car is going to fall and you will die. I may get you killed, too, but at least you will have tried to save yourself."
The kid looked at him, then looked forward, out the broken windshield at the ground below. Marty knew what he was thinking about. He was thinking about it, too.
"What would he want you to do?" Marty asked.
The blanket slipped a bit, shaking free more chunks of concrete. Marty inadvertently screamed again, grabbing at the air.
"Stop fucking around!" Buck yelled from above.
Something in Buck's voice, perhaps the violence and anger, must have made a difference, because Franklin slowly rolled down the window. The car swayed and creaked as he slightly shifted his weight. Marty gently reached into the open window and held the door to steady himself. He could see that Franklin had wet his pants. Marty didn't blame him.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do. You're going to unbuckle yourself, grab hold of my arm, and I'm going to slowly pull you out."
Franklin stared at him. "I can't."
"You have to, Franklin." Marty said. "I won't drop you. I promise." He hoped it was a promise he could keep. His mind immediately, uncontrollably flashed to that horrific, opening scene in
Cliffhanger
.
Franklin must have seen the doubt skirt across Marty's eyes. "I want to wait for the firemen."
They were losing valuable seconds. And the longer Marty dangled, the more terrified Marty was becoming. What little resolve he had was fading fast and so was the strength of the men holding him. Marty imagined what the audience was seeing and he wasn't, the loose knots slowly becoming unfurled, the blanket ripping on the sharp edge of concrete. And they would all be screaming, why doesn't that dumb fucking idiot do something?
"Franklin, there are no firemen. There will never be any firemen. I am it. Now get out of the goddamn car."
The kid started crying again, but he unbuckled his belt. Franklin immediately fell forward against the dash, the car teetering suddenly with the shift in weight. Marty reached in, grabbed the back of Franklin's shirt with both hands, and yanked with all his strength just as the Toyota pitched forward, falling free.
Franklin dangled from Marty's hands, his shirt riding up his body, his legs kicking in open space, as the car flipped end-over-end and smacked into the ground below. Marty and the kid were both screaming now, spinning in the air, hanging in terror.
God, the kid was heavy. Marty had never held anything so heavy, it felt like the kid was tearing his arms from his sockets, ripping tendons, shredding muscles. He couldn't possibly hold him another second.
The kid grabbed Marty and hugged him tightly, his face pressed against Marty's legs, muffling his cries. But Marty screamed loud and hard, from the bottom of his lungs, enough for both of them.
Buck and Enrique pulled them up onto the overpass and dragged them a few feet from the edge before letting go. The kid broke free of Marty the second they were safe and ran, sobbing. Enrique chased after him, caught him, and pulled him into a hug.
Marty sat up, pulling the piss-soaked blankets off as fast as he could. Buck offered him his hand. Marty swatted it away.
"Get away from me," Marty said, shakily getting to his feet. He was shivering all over. Buck reached out to him again and Marty punched him in the face.
It wasn't much of a punch, not much more than a slap, really. His fist was shaking too much to have any power behind it. But it was the first time Marty had swung at anyone since third grade. His pugilistic skills hadn't improved any since then.
Marty was as surprised by the punch as Buck was, but he didn't regret it. Marty had never been so angry or so scared.
Buck could easily have flattened Marty with a return blow. Instead, the big man just grinned.
"Who taught you how to fight? The same clown who showed you how to run?" Buck said. "That's got to change if you're gonna pull off this hero shit."
"I don't want to be a hero," Marty screamed at him. "I'd like to live."
"Take it easy. Now that you've done it, it will be easier next time."
"I'm going home," Marty found his back pack and put it on. "I'm not stopping for anybody, do you understand me?"
Buck walked towards him. "We'll see what happens."
Marty pointed at Buck and backed away. "Stay the hell away from me, you crazy, psycho, son-of-a-bitch."
"We're going the same way."
"I'm going alone," Marty said. "I don't want to see you ever again."
Buck looked at Marty, truly dumbfounded. "What are you so pissed off for?"
Marty couldn't believe what he was hearing. What was there the guy didn't get?
"You shot me," Marty yelled. "You wrapped me in piss blankets and dangled me off the edge of a collapsed overpass!"
"That part was your idea. And what the fuck difference does it make now? You saved the kid's life."
Yes, he did.
Marty turned and looked at Franklin, still crying, still hugging Enrique, a complete stranger. The nightmare was over. Thanks to Marty Slack.
He'd actually plucked a frightened child from a car teetering on the brink of a three-story drop.
Holy shit.
Maybe there was a little Charlton Heston in him after all.
Marty felt a proud smile starting on his face and quickly suppressed it, reminding himself that he
was angry. Furious. Outraged.
He shot you. He forced you into this at gunpoint. You could have been killed! The only reason you're still alive is dumb luck. How much more of that do you think you have left?
The scowl returned. He turned back to confront Buck.
"I could just as easily have ended up dead, because you put a gun to my head and made me do that stupid, suicidal stunt," Marty said. "You are a homicidal Neanderthal psycho. I don't want you near me, understand? Go away. Get somebody else killed."
Marty turned around and marched off, passing Enrique and Franklin without looking at them. He didn't want to be drawn in any deeper into the kid's problems, or Enrique's for that matter. All he wanted to do was go home, put as many miles between himself and all of this as he could.
"Stop or I'll shoot," Buck said.
He gave Buck the finger without looking back and kept right on walking.
CHAPTER FIVE
Going Nowhere Fast
2:20 p.m. Tuesday
Marty marched across Glendale Avenue, heading west, staying clear of the overpass on his left.
It was already mid-afternoon and he'd only covered three or four miles since he started. But Marty felt like he'd already walked a hundred. Every joint in his body throbbed in pain. At this rate, it would take him days to get home.
He glanced to his right. He was passing a stark, white, windowless building that looked like a mausoleum. It might as well have been. A sign near the flat roof read "Bob Baker's Marionette Theatre," which was now showing a program called "It's a Musical World."
Marty had never heard of the place, and wondered who bothered coming to this godforsaken spot to see such rudimentary entertainment. What kid would chose to see a puppet on strings over his PlayStation, the Internet, or a digital-effects blockbuster on DVD? Seeing a show at the marionette theatre made as much sense to Marty as gathering in a cave to watch Grog scratch stick figures on the stone.
He was so caught up in distracting himself with a pointless rumination on the irrelevance of puppetry in a modern world that he didn't see the homeless man waving the rusty steak knife until they were face-to-face.
It looked like someone had used the bearded bum's scabby face to clean a couple hundred very dirty dishes. And he smelled just like Marty. A walking urinal.
"You stole my stuff," the man hissed through broken, rotting teeth. "I saw you."
So now Marty knew why they smelled alike. Those piss-soaked blankets belonged to this Brillo-faced guy.
"I didn't steal your blankets—" Marty started to say.
"I saw you," the bum interrupted. "Motherfucker."
"I just borrowed them to rescue the kid. You saw me rescue the kid, right?"
"Give me my stuff," the man repeated. "I want my stuff."
"I don't have it," Marty replied. "It's on the overpass. You're welcome to it. Thanks for the loan."
"Motherfucker," The bum thrust the knife at Marty, nearly stabbing him with it. Marty jerked back defensively.
"Hey, I'm sorry about borrowing your stuff without asking, but it's all there, right on the overpass," Marty said. "I had to use them to save the kid. If you saw me take the blankets, you must have seen that, too."
The bum studied Marty with the goopy, glassy eyes of a hound. "Give me your stuff."
"Your blankets are up there. Just go get them."
"Give me your stuff." The bum motioned to the gym bag. "I want your stuff."
"No."
"Motherfucker!" The bum poked the air between them with the knife. "Give me your stuff or I'll stick you."
Marty knew he would, too. But there was no way he was giving up his survival kit. Certainly not in exchange for a pile of piss-drenched rags he never wanted to begin with. No, he was not giving his pack up.
"You want it?" Marty asked, slipping it off his shoulders. "Fine, you can have it. Motherfucker."
And with that, Marty lunged at him, holding the gym bag out directly in front of him. Marty pushed himself right into the point of bum's knife, which sunk harmlessly into the bag.
The surprised bum staggered back and, just as he realized he'd lost his weapon, there was a loud crack and he spun around, shoved aside by some invisible linebacker.
It took a moment for Marty to figure out what happened, to make sense of the sound, the bum on the ground, the blood pooling underneath him.
He'd been shot.
Marty whirled around to see Buck marching up, holding the gun casually at his side, a cocky grimace on his face. "Never fear, the professional is here."
"What the hell is the matter with you?" Marty immediately dropped his gym bag and knelt beside the bum, who was still alive, semi-conscious, groaning in pain. The wound was in his shoulder.
"I just saved your life," Buck said, "you inconsiderate fuck."
"I was handling it!" Marty tore open the man's blood-soaked shirt, recoiling at the smell and the flea-bitten skin.
"You couldn't handle your prick to piss." Buck peered down at his victim.
Marty gently turned the man over and saw the exit wound. The bullet had passed right through him. That was a good thing, wasn't it? He had no idea. Shit!
"You can't just go around shooting people!" Marty yelled at him.
"I can shoot whoever I want whenever I want," Buck replied casually. "I'm a licensed bounty hunter. Besides, this was self-defense."
"He wasn't threatening you," Marty snapped. "Get me the first aid kit in my bag."
"I was talking about your self defense, asshole," Buck picked up the bag. "Did he or did he not threaten you with a knife?"
"I disarmed him!"
"Your method of disarming an individual is almost as impressive as your method of delivering a punch," snorted Buck, dropping the bag dismissively, the knife still impaled in it, at Marty's feet. "You're owed a refund on your manhood."
Marty unzipped the bag, tore open the plastic first aid kit, and flipped frantically through the ridiculously small brochure. Bee stings, blisters, broken arms—where the hell was the chapter on bullet wounds?
Buck sighed wearily. "What the fuck are you looking for?"
"Instructions!" Marty retorted. "How do I stop the bleeding?"
"Like this, dumb fuck." Buck yanked the bum up into a sitting position, grabbed some gauze in each fist from the first aid kit, and applied pressure to both wounds. "Where have you been living?"
Marty looked at the two of them—the deranged, bleeding bum and the homicidal maniac who shot him—and stood up slowly on shaky knees.
"In another world," Marty said, "and I'm anxious to get back."
He snatched up his gym bag by one of the straps, plucked the steak knife out of it, and tossed it as far as he could. "You can keep the medical kit. You're going to need it."
"Where are you going?"
"Home. Haven't you been listening?" Marty pulled a fresh dust mask out of his pack, zipped it up, and looped the straps over his shoulders. "You're staying here and taking care of this man until help arrives."
"Like hell I am."
"Oh, you'll do it, Buck. Because when this is all over, I'm going to tell the police what happened here today, that you shot him in cold blood. So, for your sake, you better hope he doesn't bleed to death."