Larry stepped over the body. I kicked a .45 away from the limp hand. The gun slid out of sight under the car. If I hadn't been pressed for time, I'd have checked his pulse. I always like to know if I've killed someone. Makes the police report go so much smoother.
Larry had the car door open and was leaning over to unlock the passenger side door. I aimed at one of the running figures and pulled the trigger. The figure stumbled, fell, and started screaming. The others hesitated. They weren't used to being shot at. Poor babies.
I slid into the car and yelled, "Drive, drive, drive!"
Larry peeled out in a spray of gravel. The car fishtailed, headlights swaying crazily. "Don't wrap us around a tree, Larry."
His eyes flicked to me. "Sorry." The car slowed from stomach-turning speed to grab-the-door-handle-and-hold-on speed. We were staying between the trees; that was something.
The headlights bounced off trees; tombstones flashed white. The car skidded around a curve, gravel spitting. A man stood framed in the middle of the road. Jeremy Ruebens of Humans First stood pale and shining in the lights. He stood in the middle of a flat stretch of road. If we could make the turn beyond him, we'd be out on the highway and safe.
The car was slowing down.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I can't just hit him," Larry said.
"The hell you can't."
"I can't!" His voice wasn't outraged, it was scared.
"He's just playing chicken with us, Larry. He'll move."
"Are you sure?" A little boy's voice asking if there really was a monster in the closet.
"I'm sure; now floor it and get us out of here."
He pressed down on the accelerator. The car jumped forward, rushing toward the small, straight figure of Jeremy Ruebens.
"He's not moving," Larry said.
"He'll move," I said.
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me."
His eyes flicked to me, then back to the road. "You better be right," he whispered.
I believed Ruebens would move. Honest. But even if he wasn't bluffing, the only way out was either past him or through him. It was Ruebens's choice.
The headlights bathed him in glaring white light. His small, dark features glared at us. He wasn't moving.
"He isn't moving," Larry said.
"He'll move," I said.
"Shit," Larry said. I couldn't have agreed more.
The headlights roared up onto Jeremy Ruebens, and he threw himself to one side. There was the sound of brushing cloth as his coat slid along the car's side. Close, damn close.
Larry picked up speed and swung us around the last corner and into the last straight stretch. We spilled out onto the highway in a shower of gravel and spinning tires. But we were out of the cemetery. We'd made it. Thank you, God.
Larry's hands were white on the steering wheel. "You can ease down now," I said. "We're safe."
He swallowed hard enough for me to hear it, then nodded. The car started gradually approaching the speed limit. His face was beaded with sweat that had nothing to do with the cool October evening.
"You all right?"