Edited.
34: Paid in Full
Upstate New York, in a dawning, awakening wood-
Alan Tracy bounded through the withered underbrush, ducking barren branches and hurtling slippery rocks. In the process (deliberately) he made a tremendous, unnecessary racket. Not only did Alan slap the trees and branches that he passed, but he carried on a loud and enthusiastic 'conversation' with his brother, John, leading their would-be pursuers deeper into the forest.
His leg had stopped hurting him, allowing the boy's surfer athleticism full play. That, and a truck-load of adrenaline, kept him running and talking at full speed. It was kind of funny, but speaking as 'John', he could be highly, inventively profane, even throwing in a few of Gordon's best phrases when not listening behind himself for the sloppy smack of leaves and cracking of broken twigs.
At first, running wildly uphill, Alan didn't care how loud he breathed, because drawing attention was kind of like his goal. All good things must come to an end, though; even games of really serious freeze-tag.
In the water, when a wave came along that you'd rather not deal with, you grabbed your board and duck-dived, letting it pass safely overhead while the sea surged in your ears and clawed at your nostrils. Here, Alan did pretty much the same thing. Once he figured that he'd lured the other guys far enough, he hit the nearest patch of scrub and buried himself in damp, mildewy leaf litter. (Something he'd seen in a movie, once, though he'd have to check himself all over for ticks and chiggers, afterward. They never mentioned that in Hollywood.)
The guys thundered past him a few minutes later. Alan counted three of them; one scrawny, pasty-faced geek type and two regulation-sized pistol apes, all of them armed, bruised and angry.
Alan held his breath and tried not to shiver, or worry about spiders (like, he could just about feel them crawling around in his blanket of soggy leaves, looking for a nice, juicy bite of Alan). The gunmen never noticed him, though, blundering straight on past and over the crest of the wooded hill. Obviously, they'd never done time in the cub scouts.
Alan gave them two or three minutes, listening hard. Then, when nothing happened, he shook off his limp-black, moist coating and rushed back the way he'd come, only quietly, this time. His breath misted the air. The forest seemed to jump and lurch in time to Alan's broken, crouching run; a no-brainer, because it was all downhill.
See, he had a plan. The Wharton access road lay in a kind of valley between two big hills. Ought to be easy to find, right? First the road, then the ditch and John… except that things didn't work out that way.
As low, slanting sun beams began sifting through the trees, and Alan slithered his way ever downward, the two-lane highway came into sight. Before he could celebrate, a grey sedan appeared, moving fast and weaving erratically.
The driver's side window was busted out, and the satellite radio was blasting, tuned to a California surf report. John; it had to be. Who else would think to call 'Alan, over here,' in such a weird-butt way?
Sensing escape, the boy rose from his half-crouch and ran for the road, waving both arms overhead. The grey sedan screeched to a halt, engine choking and steaming, tires slipping on wet asphalt.
Alan hurtled into the ditch, scaled the other side and then pounded five feet up the road to that waiting grey car. He didn't bother with the passenger door, but went directly to the driver's side, where his ghostly-pale wreck of a brother sat hunched over the wheel.
"Scoot over!" Alan panted, jerking open the heavy door.
"What…?" John didn't seem very focused.
"I said, scoot over, dude! I'll drive."
"Drive?" John repeated, like Alan had suggested a meal of dog food and pencil shavings. "Hell, no. You don't even have a license."
But Alan pushed his way into the car's glass-spattered interior, forcing John to haul himself over to the passenger seat; a major, tooth-grinding ordeal. Alan shoved him along, insisting,
"I got my learner's permit just last month, smart one. Meanwhile, you're driving a stolen car like it's ten bottles past New Year's Eve, so shut up and frickin' scoot!"
Ordinarily, John would have put up more of a fight, but he was in pretty bad shape; disoriented and hurting. Needless to say, Alan won the argument, and a seat behind the wheel.
Okay… let's see… brake, gas, shift lever… keys? Uh-uh. No keys, just a popped steering column and a couple of dangling, twisted cables. Now what? John, grunting, leaned over and did something funny to the blue and red wires. The car's engine coughed once, then turned over, and just like that, they were back in business. Alan put her in drive, and hit the left turn signal.
"GPS," his brother whispered, indicating the car's routing screen. "Head for the old Hudsonville Airport. Penny's meeting us there."
Alan was focused on driving… letting out the brake while smoothly depressing the gas pedal, pulling cautiously onto the road… but he managed to nod.
"Airport; got it. You gonna be okay, John?"
(He was too busy to look over, but concerned about his slumping, mud-and-bloodied older brother.)
"Yeah. I'm good."
There were lies, and there were outright, jaw-dropping whoppers; this was one of those.
"Hey… when you were, um… trying to sound like me…?"
"Uh-huh?" Alan prodded, nervously checking his rearview mirror for, like, the millionth time. Nothing there, though. No lights, cars, or pursuing gunmen. "What about it?"
John took a minute to collect his blurry thoughts, and then asked,
"I curse that much?"
This time, Alan took his eyes off the curving road long enough to gaze at his brother.
"Uh… yeah. 'Fraid so, dude."
"Damn. Got to find a less… stereotyped response."
Despite their situation, Alan grinned at him.
"Uh-huh. Good luck with that. Seriously though, bro; shut up and get some rest. You look like the boss from 'Creeping Dead 3'."
Naturally, John flipped him off, but sort of smiled while he did it. Before he'd quite finished slumping into the seat and deep unconsciousness, Alan asked him a question.
"John… any idea what's going on with Cody and Chris? We're friends, and I'd like to find out if everything's okay, or if I need to send them some help. John?"
Unfortunately, his brother had cast off the mooring lines and was already drifting away. He did manage to grunt,
"Hospital,"
…before losing consciousness entirely. After that, Alan focused on driving far and fast, rolling down the windows to keep alert and hide the break-in damage. From time to time he looked over at John, who slept like the dead, twitching whenever a spear of pain touched him through the layers of enveloping dark.
Alan increased his speed, reacting to his brother's condition and the GPS screen's subliminal prompting. He reached the airport after 45 minutes of determined driving. It was late morning, still cold, and Alan's face was frigid-stiff from all that blowing wind. He pulled up to an automatic gate, which screeched aside despite the big yellow 'closed for repairs' sign.
A nudge to the gas pedal sent the vehicle creeping past a shuttered building, through the chain-activated gate and up to a weedy airstrip. Lady Penelope's jet was already there, together with an unmarked patrol car. Alan took a deep breath. Reaching across the car, he tapped his densely unconscious brother, and coasted to a slow stop.
"John, we're here," he whispered, but his brother didn't move. Moving stiffly, Alan crept out of the car and slammed the door, then limped around to the other side.
A New York Highway Patrolman left his unmarked cruiser about the same time as Parker got out of Lady P's waiting jet. Both wore uniforms, though the driver's was grey, and the officer's, green. The trooper sported a blond buzz-cut and mirrored sunglasses, but he wore a wrist comm and gave Alan a swift signal. An operative, thank goodness. Sergeant Stewart, according to his name tag.
"Hey guys," Alan greeted the approaching men, switching course to meet them halfway. "John's in the car. He's kind of tired, though, so if you could help me get him to the plane, I'd appreciate it."
A drink of water and a bathroom would have been nice, too, but one thing at a time, right? Parker smiled at him.
"Chin up, Mister Alan," said the driver, his seamed, old prize-fighter's face crinkling pleasantly. "Y've won through with naught but a scratch or two. There's a brave lad."
Yeah… except that he wasn't really worried about himself. John was the one needing serious medical help.
"Thanks, Parker, but it wasn't me that did most of the brave stuff. I just got kidnapped and rescued."
They walked around to the passenger side. There, Parker and Stewart opened the door and carefully extricated John. The astronaut didn't awaken. But, given the sorry shape that his leg was in, this was probably a blessing.
"Be that as it may," Parker continued; whoof-ing a little as he and the patrolman lifted John, "Y' done yer bit in a right vexin' situation, lad, and yer both alive because of it. Now, 'tis time fer me and 'er Ladyship t' do ours. We'll 'ave Mister John, 'ere, delivered ter 'is folk in a trice, whilst Officer Stewart sees t' gettin' y' back ter school."
Alan nodded, trailing behind Parker and Stewart as they maneuvered John across the cracked tarmac and into Penelope's jet. He felt a little useless; unable to do or say anything really helpful, but unwilling to leave.
The plane was nice inside, all leather seats and golden fixtures. Lady Penelope didn't look so good, though. Her eyes were too bright and her face was blotchy. Worried about John, maybe? Or mad because he'd run off to Mars? Alan cleared his throat to say something, but the elegant operative cut him off with a raised hand. To the boy and Officer Stewart she said,
"That will be all, thank you. Once you've placed him in the rear chamber, you have my leave to depart."
'Just like that, huh? And have a nice day, yourself, Chica.'
John was deposited on a bed at the back of the plane, where Penny wrapped up the worst of his hurts, her touch abrupt and almost angry. The astronaut stirred, but Alan was hustled out the door and off the plane before he quite awakened. As usual, Parker wasted no time and very few words, forcing Alan to catch at his uniform sleeve for a moment's attention.
"Um… you'll keep an eye on him, right? He's gonna be okay, and everything?"
Parker paused before the jet's boarding stairs.
"Don't worry yer 'ead, Mister Alan. Ee'll be as safe as 'ouses, never you fear. 'Erself as 'er moods, t' be sure, but she loves 'im, just th' same."
Probably not the best of all strategic times to bring up the fact that John was married, with a kid, even. Maybe later, when he was safely healed up and out there on tour, promoting NASA. Instead, rather anxiously, Alan said,
"It's just that I'm worried about him. He's not the only brother I've got, but he sure gets into the weirdest crap. Lands in trouble more often than I do, know what I'm saying?"
Parker's tired smile broadened slightly. Removing his cap, the driver rubbed at his own thinning grey hair.
"Of that, Mister Alan, Oi'm very well aware. Like mindin' ruddy Jean Valjean, 'tis, except fer th' odd 'oliday, now and again. 'Er Ladyship's quite taken with 'im, though, troubles or no."
Jean Val who? And which holiday? Christmas? Because there wasn't likely to be much celebrating after dad got through chewing them out for their kidnap and cyborg disaster. As for his mom, back in southern Cali… she preferred not even hearing about his 'not so nice' adventures. They disturbed her chi, while John's mere presence gave her quivering fits. Strange, huh?
"Okay… just fly safe, and when he wakes up, tell him I said to hang loose. No, tell him I said 'thank you'."
"Oi'll certainly pass on yer message, lad. And 'ave a safe trip yerself, young Sir."
Moments later, Parker was back in Her Ladyship's private jet, pulling up the boarding stairs. Officer Stewart's firm hand at his shoulder drew Alan off the runway.
"Come on, youngster," the patrolman said, giving his teenaged charge a friendly shake. "We need to get moving, if we want to have you positioned for safe 'finding' by one of the search teams."
"Yeah," Alan agreed quietly, slumping a little beneath Stewart's broad hand. "Guess you're right."
But he stayed long enough to watch the jet roar to life, gather speed and take off. Just like Fermat, he felt strangely uprooted. It was like… like something very deep and well-hidden had suddenly shifted course, leaving them all high, dry and stranded.
High in the air above Fort Detrick, Maryland, and under attack-
As alarms rang through the cockpit of Thunderbird 3, Jeff Tracy upped their Shadowbot coverage and shouted,
"Captain Hart, you're about to disappear! Do not, repeat, do not disengage!"