A CLOSE CALL

Foreword:

This story was written over three years ago now, and it has given me a lot of satisfactions since it was first published on the Net. I am proud to say that this was the first, and maybe the only fully-featured Rocket Power novel out there. Now my friend and fellow author Scott prepared a new edition of this story, including more scenes and more details on some of the characters, in an attempt to clarify the events that happen here. Call it a "director's cut" if you will. This new version is perhaps stronger and much more graphical than the original version, so I think it should be rated as a PG-PG13 story.

Before beginning posting, I want to express my truest thankfulness to the co-author of this story, my friend Scott Sanchez, whose contributions really added up a lot to the plot. Thanks again, Scott!

Chapter 1

It was very early in the morning, and most Ocean Shores residents were still asleep. The tide was still high at sea, and the stars shone above. A full moon lit the darkened streets, and the only noise was that of the surf and the occasional, distant horn of a ship as it crossed in front of the pier and into the open ocean. The fishermen were returning from their nightly run, their holds full with the catch. From the distance, their lights seemed like little fireflies hovering over the black ocean.

Sammy was up, looking sadly through his window to the dark street outside and the sleeping houses of his friends. He had a bad night; first he could not sleep because his asthma had worsened, making it very difficult to him to breathe, and, when he was finally able to snooze, he had the same nightmare that had been haunting him the whole week. It was a very nasty dream; in it, he always saw how his friends were injured while he was standing there, watching helplessly, paralyzed with fear. Sometimes it was Otto, sometimes Twister, and this time the whole gang had been hurt.

When this bad dream reached the worst part, Sammy woke up and could not get to sleep anymore. He was very pale and sweating so profusely that his pajama was all soaked. It was still dark; he could not see clearly his watch because he had not his eyeglasses on, but it could have been between four and five in the morning. He was panting; the scary nightmare made him suffer yet another asthma attack. Sammy reached for the night table and took his medicine. He held the inhaler against his mouth and pressed it, taking a dose of medicine that helped him breathe again. Lately he had to do it more often than usual. The constant lack of air had made him weaker than ever, and if he usually had trouble keeping pace with Otto and Twister, now he could barely skate or ride his bike a little before having to stop to rest and take his medicine, with the constant laughs and puns from Twist and the despair of Otto.

Sammy knew very well that if he suffered an excessively severe attack, his mother would have to take him to the hospital for treatment. He did not want it; he was afraid of being in the hospital. He had the experience before, back in Kansas, and it was not a pleasant one. He hated particularly those thin plastic tubes the doctor inserted into his throat to inject oxygen directly to his lungs. Fortunately, so far, he had managed to control the seizures with his medicine, and his mother had arranged an appointment with his doctor the following week to see if he needed a new treatment.

Sammy rested his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, but to no use. He was wide-awake. The nightmare had left him so nervous that he could not think of anything else. Besides, he felt uncomfortable on his wet pajama, and his sheets were soaked in sweat. Sammy sat on his bed and tried again to see his clock, but it was useless; without his eyeglasses, all he could see were colored figures completely out of focus, so he reached for the table again and took his glasses. Once he had them on, he could see clearly again. The clock marked four forty-nine in the morning. Sammy was hot and uncomfortable, and he finally decided to take his pajama off. It was still too early, anyway, and nobody would see him wearing only his briefs. His friends were not to be up and around until eight, and he hoped to relax and catch a few moments of sleep before they arrived. He wished they were there, with him. He never told his mother when he was nervous because of a nightmare because he didn't want to worry her; but now he would give anything just to be with those kids that had become something very close to the siblings he never had. Sighing deeply, he went to the window and watched the night slowly slip away. He had too many worries for a ten-year-old boy.

Sammy kept a small radio by the window. It was an old FM walkman his father gave him the last time the boy was in the hospital, and Sam had kept it with him ever since. Sadness and depression had taken the place of fear and nervousness, so he turned the radio on. Maybe a little music could help him relax. He put the earphones on and shuffled through the stations, but could not find anything interesting. It was very early on a Sunday morning and most stations were still out of the air or broadcasting commercials. Sammy was about to turn off the radio when he found a station playing old records. The DJ announced an Alan Parson's Project song. The unmistakable hissing sound of a vinyl record came through the earphones. Sammy knew that song; the slow, sad rhythm matched exactly his mood.

"Time keeps flowing like a river.

Time beckoning me,

Who knows when we shall meet again?

If ever

But time

Keeps flowing like a river

To the sea"…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Meanwhile, an old van with a trailer chugged laboriously up the California Incline, struggling to get to the top. It had just departed from one of the waterfront warehouses to nearby San José Market. A fishmonger by trade, the driver had just bought the cargo from the incoming boats and was hurrying to deliver the shrimp and sardines to the market; but the engine was too weak for that challenge and stalled in the middle of the hill.

Apart from that van, there were no other cars on the street, and the driver was thankful for that. Laboriously, carefully, he backed up to the nearest driveway and tried to turn the vehicle about. He was trying to descend the steep hill into the parking lot, so he could try to figure out how to start the engine again; but he hit the curb with one tire and stopped. The driver sighed; it seemed it was not to be his day. He applied the hand brake, opened the hood and descended from the van, not very excited by the prospect of fixing up that old engine with the van in such a precarious position. Inside the cabin, the radio was still on; curiously, the man was listening to the same station as Sammy.

"Goodbye, my love, maybe for forever

Goodbye, my love. The tide waits for me..."