Fugitives 12

As he concentrated his efforts on terrorising his intended victim, Hansen discounted the older man who was still loosely restrained by his left arm.

Mark sensed the tension of decision in his captor's body and, correlating it with the deliberate targeting of his gun arm, he came to the obvious conclusion and reacted violently and instinctively to save his son. With all the strength he could muster - and he found reserves he would not have thought possible moments before - he jammed his elbow back into the solid wall of flesh behind him. Simultaneously, he launched an attack with the only weapon left to him, his teeth, sinking them into the wrist just under his mouth.

With the roar of an enraged bull, the giant shook him loose with the ease of a horse shrugging off a fly. In the split second Mark was airborne, he saw his son spring into motion, but the shock of impact against the wall caused him to lose his bearings. Two shots rang out almost as one. The light swooped up and around dizzily then fell, blinking feebly, against the wall so only the faintest of red glows illuminated the room. Even dazed, Mark remembered that, of the three men, his son was the only one unarmed but, before despair had the chance to lodge in his heart, he was offered desperate, if bemused, hope by the obvious sounds of fighting still ensuing. Through the swirling eddies of dust thrown out by the struggle, he could make out a writhing mass of bodies with the occasional clear outline of a fist and once a knife.

Mark's mind frantically did the math. Tony had been the one menacing him with the knife, so it made sense that it was Steve and Tony wrestling on the floor. But what had happened to Hansen? Although he yearned to provide his son with assistance, he couldn't chance being taken hostage again, knowing Steve would allow himself to be shot rather than risk his father's life. Hoping that the continued sounds of struggle would mask his movements, he cast around for any possible means of offense. His fingers closed on a piece of pipe, and he hefted it experimentally, unsure of his ability to wield it effectively, but willing to try. While Mark crawled around trying to locate Hansen, with bloodthirsty thoughts of cracking him on the head, the sounds of struggle ceased. Fear gelled in an icy layer around his heart as he waited for the revelation of the victor's identity, terrified he'd left it too late to help his son. He hoisted the pipe with grim intent, his heart thundering in his ears and his breath harsh on his abused throat.

"Dad?...Dad?" Steve's voice was frantic with worry, but it was music to his father's ears.

"I'm here," he replied...or at least that's what he had intended to reply. But, to his surprise, a croak came out. His larynx was bruised and swollen from the earlier assault, and the sounds that issued from his mouth were unintelligible and hardly reassuring. In a second, Steve was beside his father, clasping his shoulders with both hands and trying to determine the extent of his injuries. The relief that his son had once more dodged the slings and arrows that fortune had so liberally scattered in his path was overwhelming. There was so much Mark wanted to say, expressions of love, relief and gratitude that, if he could have spoken, he thought he would be babbling by now. The need to express himself as well as to reassure his son impelled him to communicate his emotions in the only way he could, and he pulled Steve into a deep, heartfelt hug. For a split second, Steve stiffened in surprise, concerned that Mark was concealing a serious injury, but then he relaxed, reciprocating the hug.

Neither felt immediately inclined to break the embrace that offered an oasis of calm and comfort in the wilderness of violence and suspense they had recently experienced. The darkness froze the moment, pure and private, breaking through normal reticence as they drew strength from one another. Mark could feel the fine, sharp tremors shuddering through his son's body, mute evidence of the recent stress he had experienced. The contact was like soothing balm on an inflamed wound, calming and warming him.

Steve was the first to pull away, replacing his hands on his father's shoulders and giving him a small shake. As he spoke, his voice was thicker than usual. "What is it with you? Did you inadvertently take out membership in 'Psychos R'Us' or is it your aftershave that collects them like flies? I can't tell you how incredibly tired I am of watching people stick a gun to your head. If I went the rest of my life without it happening again, it would be too soon!"

It was a long speech from his usually taciturn son, and it was a fair indication of the strength of his feelings. Mark's laugh in response was genuine, if a trifle shaky, but he felt remarkably energised. It was amazing how cathartic a hug could be and, as a doctor, he should remember that. "Well, if you insist. Actually, I'm a trifle tired of it myself." He found that whispering was easier on his bruised larynx than normal speech. But it also reminded Steve of the trauma his father had just endured.

"How badly are you hurt?" he enquired anxiously.

"My throat's rather sore, but otherwise I'm just fine." With the renewal of Mark's spirits, his unquenchable curiosity resurfaced. "What happened to Hansen?"

"I shot him," Steve replied tersely, not tempted to expand either on the particulars of the occasion or his feelings on the matter.

Mark peered through the darkness, trying to read his expression. "But you didn't have a gun," he pointed out reasonably.

This time he could hear a justifiable smugness in Steve's voice. "Yes, I did. I had taken one off the guard on the side door, who, by the way, will probably be waking up soon. I had it tucked into the back of my pants, but I had to make my reluctance to give up my own gun appear realistic."

"I should have trusted you," Mark said remorsefully. "I could have got you killed with that fool stunt. I was so afraid he was going to shoot you."

"On the contrary, you did exactly the right thing. I needed a distraction to get the gun out, and you provided that perfectly - thank you."

As Mark sat there, the sense of peace created by his son's words changed to anxiety as he clued in to another piece of information - a wet patch that had soaked though his son's shirt and transferred itself to his. "You're bleeding," he said accusingly.

"I don't think your stitches were equal to the struggle," Steve obfuscated. He didn't see any point in adding that Tony's knife had found its mark more than once. He knew none of the cuts were too deep or dangerous, and there was little his father could do in the dark, so the information would only worry him.

Suppressing a groan, Steve got to his feet and walked over to pick up the flashlight. A knock with the heel of his hand was all it took to restore it to working order. "This should come in handy," he observed. "OK, Dad, we've nearly reached our bolt hole. Do you feel up to moving again?"

Mark nodded his assent, stretching limbs that had already stiffened in the respite from action. "I'm surprised we haven't have company yet," he commented.

Steve shrugged, not wanting to admit that, for a short time, he'd forgotten entirely about the outside threat in his relief that Mark had survived the more immediate danger. "The shots would have been muffled, and it would have been nearly impossible to tell which direction they came from in this labyrinth of buildings, but I expect we're running out of time."

"Well, I'm ready, willing and just about able." Mark stretched a hand towards his son. "Help an old man up?"

"Old!" Steve snorted. "The only thing old about you is that hat you insist on wearing when we go fishing." He hoisted his father to his feet, ignoring the tearing pain that ripped down his side, and gently wound his father's arm over his shoulders. He knew the exertion must be uncomfortable for Mark too, and wished he could spare him the necessity of further activity. He kept up an encouraging monologue as they made their way out of the building, making one short stop to recover the notebook, which he had thrust into the first convenient hidey-hole he'd found.

Outside, the moon had gone down and the sky was lit only by the ubiquitous orange glow reflected from the lights of LA. Mark's breath rasped painfully in his bruised throat, but he refused to utter any complaint or slow them down any more, their recent experience reinforcing his understanding of how dangerous delay could be. He concentrated only on keeping the exchange of weight from his good leg to his left arm slung over Steve's shoulder as smoothly rhythmic as possible, and he was surprised when Steve came to a sudden halt near a small shed. It took him a moment to realise that the man-hole cover they were standing next to was their destination.

"Sewer?" he queried hoarsely, unable to keep the note of distaste out of his voice, the thought of crawling through the detritus of human waste more than he wanted to contemplate.

"Actually, it's a maintenance tunnel to the Red Line." Steve was crouching next to the entrance and twisted his head up to smile at his father. "Hey, there are limits to what I'd do to escape."

"The Metro?" Mark was still a little doubtful.

"Hopefully, no one else here knows of its existence and it should be overlooked, especially in the dark."

Steve inserted two fingers into the holes on either side of the metal disc. It was heavy and immensely difficult to lift with such a precarious hold, and the rim bit painfully into his fingers, but he succeeded in lifting it enough to elevate it out of the hole. He rested it gingerly on the size of the opening and pushed it the rest of the way.

The flashlight revealed metal rungs embedded in the concrete walls of a circular shaft, and they both peered down curiously.

"You'll need to go first, Dad, so I can replace the lid. Can you manage it?" Steve's misgivings swelled into active trepidation as he stared down the hole. When he had envisaged this way of escape, he hadn't anticipated his father would be hurt. The shaft was deep, and a slip could cause a serious injury, or worse, but their options were severely limited.

Mark flexed his fingers like a magician before an illusionary trick. "With two good hands and one foot, no problem," he stated confidently.

He sat sideways on the edge of the shaft, his good foot resting on the second rung, then swung himself in with an athletic twist. Holding on strongly with both hands, he hopped his good foot down to the next level. It wasn't the fastest or most graceful mode of descent, but it worked. Steve illuminated his passage as best he could, offering advice and feeling like an anxious parent at the playground. Despite his preoccupation with his father's progress, he also kept half an eye on their surroundings to ensure their departure went uninterrupted. The glow of lights behind the boarded windows of the building they'd recently vacated informed him that the police were closing in on their position.

"We're going to have company soon, Dad," he warned his father. "Just stay where you are for now. I'm coming down."

Steve placed the cover partially over the hole, leaving himself just enough room to squeeze through the gap, then he duplicated his father's earlier moves until he was in the shaft. It was hard maneuvering the lid from below, with only one hand available for the task, but eventually it slipped into place with a dull clang which he hoped no sharp ears had overheard. He hurried down the ladder until he had nearly reached Mark, then removed the flashlight from his pocket to assist him in completing his descent.

As Steve reached the bottom, he dusted off his fingers and shone the flashlight around to survey their surroundings. The illumination it provided was minimal, so he removed the red filter that had been attached to the top, and the pure white light that emanated was a relief to them both after the malevolent red glow. It revealed a sizable, semi-circular tunnel, the walls loosely covered with a dingy plastic lining. Steve was grateful neither of them was claustrophobic, but even the thought made him involuntarily cast the light upwards to check on the condition of the ceiling, hoping there was no danger of collapse.

A hoarse chuckle told him Mark had followed his pessimistic train of thought, and he swung the light round to his father, noticing the white strain dusted around his mouth, although his eyes still brimmed with good humour.

"Where are the rails?" Mark whispered, deflecting the worry he sensed behind the perusal.

As he had intended, the question redirected the beam to the ground. "I think this was part of the Mid-City Extension that they had to abandon because of the discovery of hydrogen sulfide in the soil."

"That's toxic even at very low concentrations," Mark remarked with concern. "We'd better keep moving."

They had their teamwork down to a fine art, but still their progress became increasingly laborious as time passed. Mark had already expended his reserves of strength and was stumbling along on sheer stubbornness alone. Steve braced him as far as he was able, wishing that his father would simply lose consciousness and he could carry him. It would be preferable to feeling him suffer through every strained breath, the shudders of exhaustion shaking his father transmitting themselves to Steve's body.

Steve insisted on frequent breaks, and Mark no longer protested. This time, he sank down, head bowed, shoulders heaving, fatigue evident in every drooping line of his body. Steve refused to acknowledge his own weariness and prowled around, every surreptitious glance at the subdued figure of his father fueling the anger that spurred his restless movements.

For the last two days, his one goal had been to keep his father safe, yet he had failed miserably to accomplish that seemingly simple objective. At every turn, his choices had only been between the lesser of two evils: to run or be arrested, to engage in a high speed pursuit or surrender and, more recently, to drop his weapon or risk a shot. Each decision had further endangered Mark's life, and now he felt like a heel, forcing his father to keep moving when he was so clearly at the end of his endurance. He wanted to reconnoiter to find the easiest path back above ground but, with Mark's penchant for finding trouble, he had no intention of leaving him alone again.

He paced some more. Despite the compulsion to keep going and seek safety, he couldn't bring himself to force Mark to his feet again. His father would have to be the one to decide to resume the trek.

"Steve." His father's hoarse voice brought him immediately to his side.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"I'm sorry, this is too slow."

"Take as long as you need," Steve answered gently. "We've shaken them off for now, so there's no hurry. Take a nap if you need to."

Mark shook his head resolutely. "If they do find us in here, we'll be sitting ducks. There's nowhere to hide. Help me up."

For a moment, Steve stared down at him, noticing the dark tendrils of shadows that seemed to bleed furtively in at the corners of his eyes. He recognised the truth of that sentiment, but hated its necessity. "Just a bit further," he acquiesced eventually, taking as much of his father's weight as he could.

They staggered on, each driven by their personal demons of fear. The end of the tunnel was marked by a thick plastic sheet hanging down across the entrance. The prospect of an end to this interminable journey bolstered both their spirits. On the other side of the makeshift curtain, a gentle curve led them onto the main Metro tracks. In each direction, the double tracks of the Red line disappeared into snug, dark tunnels. Steve pulled up a mental map of the area, trying to envision the best direction to choose.

There was no service passageway besides these tracks, so their progress would necessitate walking actually along the rails. For the first time, Mark balked.

"You know, in every movie I've watched like this, the moment someone steps onto a train track, their foot gets stuck and along comes a train and splat...they're pate." His smile was lopsided with fatigue. "Are you sure we're not going become train fodder?"

"The trains have stopped for the night," Steve asserted with more confidence than he felt, the spectre of that very nightmare ghosting along his nerves. "They don't start again until 4:30. That gives us..." he shone the flashlight on his wrist, "...almost two hours. More to the point, we need to avoid barbecuing ourselves on the live rail, which would be... that one." He illuminated the danger, running the light along the lethal rail and back.

"Are you sure?" Mark's eyes followed the light as it moved hypnotically back and forth.

"Hey, if there's one thing I know, it's BBQ. Besides, I intend for us to take the first maintenance tunnel out. They have surveillance cameras at every station, so we can't go as far as that."

Steve chose the right-hand tunnel, not because it offered any more promise than the opposite direction, but because it kept him between his father and the live rail. An inadvertent stumble was only too likely in their exhausted state, and could have lethal consequences. He wasn't taking any more chances with Mark's life.

There was a pervading stench of machine oil and, underlying it, a more subtle odor of damp. The silence and darkness were oppressive, and Steve found himself straining his ears for the rumble of an approaching train.

Walking single file beside the rails wouldn't have been difficult, but their current three-legged hop-and-shuffle was nearly impossible since it necessitated Steve walking between the actual rails. Their progress became a nightmare of balancing and stumbling, and Steve couldn't have been more relieved when the flashlight finally revealed another maintenance shaft off to the side.

He left Mark resting at the bottom while he climbed up to explore. He wasn't sure if he could even open the hatch - it might be locked from above - or he might emerge in the middle of a busy street. The metal lid proved difficult to budge but, by bracing himself in the tunnel and using both hands, he managed to shift it. He peeked out cautiously, not wanting witnesses to his clandestine emergence. It was a street, but a small, deserted one, not that surprising for 3:30 in the morning, and he hurried back to give Mark the good news.

Climbing up the rungs with only one good foot was much harder than descending had been, and Steve hovered closely behind his father, ready to avert potential disasters.

Their luck held, and no one saw their undignified and furtive scramble out of the hole. The fresh air and relative illumination were invigorating, but neither of them were capable of going much further, and Steve picked the first promising alley as a place in which to rest.

There were some flattened cardboard boxes outside the back door of a deli, and Steve used them to construct a flimsy shelter to provide them with warmth and protection against both the filth on the ground and prying eyes. Nothing, however, could remove the stench of stale urine and rotting garbage that pervaded the whole area. For all its deficiencies, it still provided a place to rest, and they collapsed down on the cardboard, shoulder to shoulder. Mark was bone tired, his ankle throbbed while his throat kept up a syncopated rhythm, and every limb felt like it had a two-ton weight attached.

Even in the dim light, Steve could see his father's face was a pasty shade of gray that made him look old, and his eyes were dark and glittery, sunken in his face. As illogical as it was, Steve couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for that exhaustion. His father had been pulled into his merciless, violent world, and he had been unable to protect him. The pain of that failure festered inside.

"Get some sleep," he encouraged the older man gently. "We'll be safe here until morning."

It wasn't long before Mark's head slipped sideways onto his son's shoulder, his neck twisted at an awkward angle. Steve shifted slightly to the side, allowing his father's weight to rest more fully against him, then he carefully slipped an arm around his father's waist, gently maneuvering him into a more comfortable position against his new pillow. Mark slept on, oblivious.

Steve could feel the urgent pull of sleep, but fought against its insistent call, needing to protect the vulnerable man quietly snoring in his arms. He reached behind his back and, without jostling his burden, withdrew his gun, leaving it next to him for easy access. Then, he leaned his head back against the wall with a deep sigh. Intellectually, he knew that cardboard was too insubstantial a barrier to rely on for defense, yet, emotionally, he was oddly content with their small sanctuary. The interminable tension of being the quarry in a pitiless hunt was temporarily abated in the eerie quiet of the early morning.

Sleeping in a cardboard box reduced life to its barest essentials, and in this strange crucible, the insignificant impurities of possessions, career and status were burnt away, allowing him to focus on the small, shiny, untarnished nugget of pure gold that remained. His father was alive and, for now, safe. He'd worry about how to keep him that way at daybreak.