The Victims Game
Part Nine - the Car
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMERS:  Hi. We've got some legal stuff to wade through before we can jump into things. Mostly the usual prerequisite jazz: ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Entertainment Television, a bunch of really swell, understanding guys who won't sue me if I mention that the aforementioned characters and institutions are being used without their permission, but only for entertainment purposes, and that no form of profit is being made on this work. For the benefit of the content-conscious amongst you, I'll assure you that there's nothing here that you couldn't see on the show, anyway. Except maybe some language, I'm not sure yet. Depends what kind of day I'm having as I write. Beyond that, I make no promises about what's in store. Could be silly, could be scary, could be sexy, could be sad. I'm not telling. Come on, live dangerously...

The good news was, I hurt too much to be dead.

When that's the good news, you know the bad news is gonna be way, way bad.

I was having less luck determining where I was this time than the last time, but I seemed to be in a constant state of motion. For some reason I flashed back to being four years old and napping in the back seat of my parents' VW when we drove anywhere. Then my brain kicked in and I knew I wasn't far off.

I was lying in the back seat of a car, one not really big enough to lie down in comfortably. Even if you didn't have your hands tied behind your back, as I seemed to. Or have a couple of scratchy wool blankets thrown over you, as I also seemed to. The fact that the car needed new shock absorbers didn't escape me, either.

I had a persistent headache, whether as a result of the rough ride, sleeping with blankets over my head, or being zapped and drugged in rapid succession. Most likely, it was a combination of all three. This was just not my night.

In point of fact, it wasn't night anymore. Between the edge of the blanket and the seat's upholstery, I could see ambient light of day. Encouraged, if only microscopically, by this - it was that whole light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel deal - I managed to get my head more or less clear and start thinking fast and hard. It was time to get a handle on the situation.

You're tied up in the back seat of a moving car, concealed by blankets, I thought to myself. This is not good. Despite what 'Joan' said last night - or however long ago that conversation took place - you've got no way of knowing what they plan to do with you. It would be real easy to end up in a ditch with two or three bullets behind the ear, or checking into the Concrete Retirement Home, with your new roommate, Jimmy Hoffa. Let's think of a way out of this before we find out the hard way which it's gonna be, okay?

My thoughts were interrupted as the car made a sharp turn, which was pretty uncomfortable in my current position, and braked sharply, which was more so. The engine shut off, and I closed my eyes and played dead.

I heard the driver getting out, only a couple of feet from me, and I expected that the next thing to happen would be that the rear door opens and I get pulled out of the car. But this didn't happen. Instead, I heard footsteps moving away from the car. Were they just leaving me here? I couldn't tell if this was a good or bad thing...

With the engine off and the absence of road noise, I became aware of another sound. It was faint, yet somehow seemed close by, rather than far off. It was soft, or somehow muffled, and my brain, although still foggy, interpreted it as someone's voice. I couldn't make out the words, but it had the rhythm and cadence of someone reciting something. A poem, maybe? A prayer? A bedtime story? It sounded like a woman's voice, or a child's. Not exactly a soothing tone, more excited, or afraid.

It seemed to be coming from the upholstery. Talking seat cushions? It's nearly the 21st century, so I suppose almost anything's possible...

The footsteps were coming back, and then I heard some kind of clunking sound against the car, then a liquidy sound, like plumbing... We were fueling up at a gas station, I realized.

Bad guys who stop for gas? You never see this in the movies, but I guess they've got to do it, just like the rest of us.

Why was I in the back seat instead of the trunk, I wondered? It would have been more secure, and easier to hide my body. And why were my hands tied with what felt like twine, instead of handcuffs? You'd think that whatever shadowy, mega-secret government agency was at work here could spring for a decent pair of cuffs. Budget cuts, maybe?

The driver got back in, fired up the engine - I couldn't hear the voice anymore - and off we went.

I was scared as hell, frankly, but I knew I'd need a completely clear head if I were going to get out of this mess, so I tried some slow, steady breathing exercises that Valerie Besch taught me, back when we were together. She was into the whole New Age Chic, and I kind of went along with as much of it as I could take. She dumped me later, saying our karmic paths had diverged, or some damn thing, but some of what I learned with her has stuck with me. One thing I remember hearing from one of her assorted gurus: if you panic, you're screwed. It's as simple as that. Douglas Adams knew what he was talking about.

I spent the next hour or so, it was hard to tell, visualizing calming, healing energies flowing to every part of me, regaining control of my physical and mental faculties. It wasn't as good as "Use the Force, Fox," but it helped. When I was pretty much centered, I managed to inch the blankets down with my chin, until I could see what was around me.

It was a cloudy, sunless day, and I couldn't see any buildings or streetlights going by outside. Broken Nose was driving the car, and there was nobody riding shotgun. Just him and me, one on one. A fair fight. I liked those odds. Of course, I would have liked them better if I had free hands. And a machine gun. But you take what you can get.

I could only see the back of Broken Nose's head, which almost certainly meant he couldn't see me. If we're going to do anything, best to do it now...

Moving very, very slowly and carefully, so as not to draw his attention, I tried sliding my bound hands down my rear and under my legs. You've seen this bit in the movies. Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson gets their hands tied behind their back, and they just do a quick little somersault and bada-bing-bada-boom, get their hands in front of them, whereupon they proceed to kill some bad guys.

Yeah, well it's a lot harder than it looks. Particularly when you're trying to do it without drawing attention to yourself. Plus, it seems that Kerry Weaver was right; I seemed to have become thicker around the butt and waist than I remembered. Quick resolution, I thought: go on a diet, effective immediately.

We weren't turning or slowing, and we seemed to move left or right only to change lanes. That probably meant a highway or freeway. I didn't hear any other vehicles passing us, which made it unlikely that we were within city limits.

Finally, I got one leg, then the other, through my arms, and my hands were in front of me. Both shoulder joints felt about half twisted off, but my options had increased significantly. I did some things with my teeth that my dentist wouldn't approve of, and was able to undo the twine on my wrists, and then I was free. Yay for me.

Next obstacle, the driver. What tools were on hand with which I could deal with him? All I had was a couple of blankets and some twine. And, of course, the element of surprise, which is nothing to sneer at.

I inched my head up enough to see that we were driving along a relatively flat stretch of road, with plenty of open space. No cliffs to drive off of or mountains to crash into, which was good. I didn't want to kill us both with what I was about to do.

Gathering the thicker blanket and the twine in my hands, I psyched myself up a bit more, counted silently to three, and then moved as fast as I could.

I threw the blanket over Broken Nose's head, and looped the twine around his throat like a garrote. "SURPRISE!" I yelled in his ear in the same instant. A little shock value always spices things up. Never hurts to make the other guy panic.

He yelled something I won't repeat, and clawed at his throat with one hand. Even in this position, he was smart enough to keep one hand on the wheel.

I yelled, "Stop the car, or I'll break your neck, you son of a-!!"

Now, I really should have seen this next bit coming. Even if I hadn't seen "The Road Warrior" a hundred or so times, it would have been kind of obvious, if you think about it.

He slammed on the brakes, practically standing on the pedal, and it was only when I was flying over the front seat that it really occurred to me that he was wearing a seat belt, and I wasn't. Be careful what you ask for, buckle up, and all that.

(In one of those odd details that your subconscious somehow picks up even in a moment of chaos, I heard the voice again. It sounded like a shriek - still muffled - at the exact moment we braked. I registered it, somehow, but didn't have time to think about it now.)

"Oh, SHIT!!" was the only thing that I could manage to say as my back crunched into the windshield, and I ended up lying half in Broken Nose's lap. That was going to hurt when the adrenaline rush came down. I was damn lucky we hadn't been driving all that fast, or I'd have gone completely through the windshield.

I had lost my hold on Broken Nose when I was thrown into the front, and he was doing two things at once. His left hand was pulling the blanket off his head to clear his vision. His right hand, more importantly, was pulling a Glock pistol, just like his partner's, from under his coat.

I grabbed his gun hand with both of mine, wrestling to keep the muzzle pointed away from me, and then, in desperation, I braced both my feet against the passenger door and straightened my body, using every muscle I had. My shoulder, with all my weight behind it, slammed his head against his window ONCE, TWICE, then a THIRD time for good measure. His arm went limp and I grabbed the gun out of his hand, scrambling to sit upright. The horn sounded and kept blaring.

Broken Nose was slumped over the wheel, motionless, his face against the car horn. His window was fractured, with blood from his head on it. The windshield was also cracked, in a kind of spiderweb pattern. His foot had eased off the brake pedal, and the car was rolling slowly forward.

I yanked up the parking brake lever, bringing us to a stop, and pushed him off the horn, to rest limply against his door. Look at that, I thought. Bound in the back seat, and I still manage to take out an armed Shadow Op. Who's bad?

Once the horn had stopped making noise, and the chaos of the moment had settled some, I became aware of that voice again. It was still reciting...whatever, but the pitch and tempo had risen sharply since we stopped. With sudden horror, I got it, and knew what was going on.

Reaching over Broken Nose's still form, I triggered the trunk release lever, then got out of the car and went around to the back. I opened the trunk, and Kerry Weaver blinked at the sudden light, and when she saw me she let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp of relief and a sob. Then she flailed around, desperately trying to climb out, but in her haste, her limbs either lacked leverage or coordination, and she was like a bird caught in a thorn bush, frantically but futilely flapping its wings for freedom.

I took hold of an arm and helped her out, and she virtually threw herself onto me, wrapping her arms around my neck as if she was drowning in the sea and I was the only piece of solid structure above water. I held her as close as I could, her feet off the ground, feeling her heart pounding like a trip hammer against my chest. Her breathing, right into the side of my neck, was much too fast and tight, and she wasn't getting enough oxygen to do her any good. Her fingers dug into my shoulder blades like a mountain climber desperately clinging to a crumbling cliffside. Hanging on by her fingernails, lest she be plunged into the yawning chasm. She was very close to hysteria.

As scared as her presence in this situation made me, her reaction was even more disturbing. I have seen Kerry Weaver depressed, despondent, frustrated, and furious, but never, ever, out of control. Even when someone was shooting high-velocity rifle bullets at her, she had never lost her head. Until now.

"It's okay, I've got you," I told her, "We're all right, we're safe now. Calm down, just breathe slow and deep...take it easy..." I think I was talking to myself as much as to her.

Her breathing gradually deepened and slowed, no longer hyperventilating, and she eased up on her grip. Coming back from the edge. I loosened my arms, lowering her until her feet touched the ground, but her knees folded, and I eased her down and guided her to sit on a log by the side of the road. Kerry put her head in her hands and squeezed, like her head was Pandora's Box, and she was afraid if she let her emotions out, she'd never get them back in again.

I stood up, taking real stock of our surroundings for the first time. We were on a two-lane highway, running through grassy countryside. A low-hanging fog ate up most of the surrounding terrain, but I got the impression of some easy hills, and I thought I heard a cow in the distance. Aside from the car, and the road itself, I saw no sign of human habitation, except for a stretch of barbed-wire fence.

Kerry's crutch was in the trunk, along with two chunks of cinder block and a coil of the same twine I'd been tied with. Just the thing for dumping someone into a lake or something...

I pulled the crutch out and shut the trunk, going back to her. I couldn't account for her being here, at first, but then I remembered seeing her car in the hotel parking lot. Just before I was grabbed. If she had spotted them grabbing me, and if they had spotted her spotting them...

Oh my God, they'd have to get rid of her, too. Again, her misfortune was because of me.

Kerry still had her head in her hands, her eyes were closed, and she was repeating something, quietly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

I knelt in front of her. "Kerry, it's all..."

"I'm sorry I panicked..." she said, and I realized she was talking to herself, not me. Apologizing for the loss of control. Promising it wouldn't happen again. I wondered how many times she'd made herself the same promise, and how many times it had been broken.

I tried again. "Kerry..."

She didn't open her eyes.

"Doctor Weaver!"

Her eyes opened and locked onto me. "What?" she snapped, like I had interrupted a private conversation. Maybe I had.

"We're all right, now, it's over," I assured her.

"Yeah, I know, I know..." she replied, impatiently.

"You, ah, you've got something written on your forehead," I said, pointing to it without touching her, "Looks like magic marker, black..." The middle letter was an 'O'.

She became very, very still, and her eyes went wide. It was a look of mortal terror. "What...what does it say?" she asked.

"I can't tell. Move your hands..." I gently removed her hands, and looked at the other letters. There was an 'X' on one side (Tic Tac Toe? The crazy thought flashed through me) and an 'F' on the other.

"F-O-X...Fox," I told her. Why was my name written on her?

Kerry let out a deep breath and a shudder, her head dropping with relief. "Oh, thank Loving God," she whispered.

I put my hands on her shoulders. "What were you afraid it was going to say?" I asked her, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

" 'Whore'," she answered at last, "That was written on the bodies of several rape victims we treated last year...for a moment, I thought...no, he was caught. And I'd know if..." She was starting to babble.

"I know. Don't go there, we're both fine," I said, trying to project strength and reassurance through contact.

After a while, she put her hand over one of mine, returning some of the same feeling. Showing me she had it together again. Showing herself, as well.

"I knew that was your voice I heard in the trunk," I said.

She nodded. "I was reciting 'Gray's Anatomy' to myself. I had to do something to keep from losing my mind in there."

"Are you claustrophobic?"

"Not normally, no, but it reminded me of, you know, last time..."

Oh, yeah. The last time Kerry Weaver had been imprisoned inside a moving vehicle, her best friend had died, and we had both nearly followed suit. The difference, this time, was that I was probably the one to blame for her abduction. When did I become such a bad luck charm for her?

There was the sound of the car starting, suddenly, and it surged backwards.

I dived out of the way, behind the log, knocking Kerry backwards with me. The car's rear tire hit the log, and was stopped by it. I rolled over and came up with the Glock in my hands, aimed at the driver.

Broken Nose glared at me, his face bloodied, then he threw the car into forward gear and floored it, pulling away. Bits of gravel pelted us.

I fired at the retreating vehicle twice. Or, rather, tried to. The trigger snapped twice, cleanly, producing a click, click, but that was all. No kick, no flash, no bang. I'm not much of a gunsmith, but even I know that's not what's supposed to happen. I checked the magazine, and saw that it was fully loaded, and there was a round in the firing chamber. What the hell...?

The car disappeared into the distance and fog, and was gone. Damn, I should have taken the keys out of the ignition. I was really not at my best, today.

"Now what?" Kerry Weaver asked, plaintively, getting up from the ground where I'd knocked her.

"Now," I said, apologetically, "we're kind of stranded, alone, in the middle of Lord Knows Where."

She looked around, taking in the situation. We had no vehicle, no coats or jackets, and no idea where we were. Some days are just destined to suck, it seemed.

"Well," she said, at last, "here's another fine mess you've gotten us into, Daniel."

"I don't know how to thank you guys!"
--- Fozzie Bear, 'The Muppet Movie'
"I don't know WHY to thank you guys..."
--- Kermit the Frog, Ibid