Date: Thu, 25 Aug 1994 00:27:43 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "(Nancy Cleveland)" Subject: Aloha Chapter 2 (p 97-102) * * * * * Duncan fought to control the bike, keeping his body low, his weight centered as it skidded around the corners, barely missing a cab, an astonished pedestrian. He risked a glance, a quick darting look over his shoulder, at the white paneled van, following closely, trying to catch him, trying to shoulder him off the road. The buzz had faded, when he'd left the street, faded to nothing at all. The Immortal, whoever he or she was, was back at the house, hadn't taken the bait, hadn't followed. He hoped Richie could deal with the situation. He had his own hands full, at the moment. A side window of the van had opened and someone was leaning out, shooting at him.Spraying the street with automatic weapons fire, indiscriminately. A car coming the other way veered suddenly, running up on the curb, hitting a tree, its windshield shattered, its driver slumped, dead possibly, the innocent victim of a stray bullet. The man with the gun stopped, pulled his head in, and re-emerged, a new gun in his hands. Duncan felt a deep loathing for the mentality that could kill innocents in the pursuit of anything, of any one. These pursuers were desecrating that value, stomping it into the dust, in their disdain. He felt a surge of anger, of outrage at their actions. Duncan swerved, feeling a searing pain along his leg as one of the bullets glanced off the metal frame of the bike and ricocheted into his flesh. Knowing it would heal,eventually, didn't help much with how it felt, right now. His kneecap was twisted, dislocated, maybe, from the impact. His leg throbbed, burned, ached, as he twisted open the throttle, the bike jouncing along the uneven pavement, heading down, always down, toward the river. Towards the Potomac. He could see it, glittering in the sunlight, seductively, ahead. A last burst of traffic, a red light he ignored, weaving around a slow moving bus, toppling a bicyclist with a brush of his elbow, inadvertently. He could hear the van's engine, its distinctive whine, closing in on him. He risked another quick glance, saw the bicyclist scrambling to safety, out of the street, behind a tree, saw her her bike, a twisted wreck of metal, clinging to the front bumper of the van. They were almost on top of him, the bumper only feet away. The man leaning out the window had a grin plastered across his face, his teeth flashing white, the gun in his hand flashing too. He was on the bridge, speeding past the road signs, offering him a half glimpsed option of Alexandria or Crystal City...The gunman fired again, point blank, and Duncan felt the bullets hit home, hit solidly, pounding into his flesh, into his chest. He twisted the wheel, pulled the bike around, sideways, and took it through the narrow gap in the stanchions for the pedestrian walkway, took it through, up and over the low railings, feeling his heart slow, feeling death creeping up on him, as he arched in a final flight through the air, above the glittering water. Falling, free. The bike, falling with him. He hit the water first. It was cold. And hard. Like liquid ice. Tthe shock stole the breath from his lungs. The impact stunned him, dazed him. The bike came down on top of him, pushing him under, down, deeper and deeper into the chill dark water. Crushing him beneath it. He struggled, fought, jerked himself free, and watched the bike spiral slowly down, disappearing beneath him into the dark, murky depths of the river. He felt the current pulling him, dragging him away, dragging him back, up, towards the distant surface that glittered like some fractured crystal dome, far above him. Water filled his lungs. He felt his heart leap in his chest, shudder, then stop. He knew no more.... Swimming....out of the depths...... Hands, roughly, pulling at his shoulders. Coughing, gasping. Air, blessed air, filling his lungs once more. He choked, gasped, vomited water and bile, the sour taste mixed in his throat, gasped again. It was good. Good to breathe. Good to feel. Good to be alive once more. *Good to be alive, yes.* A chorus of voices swept over him, in him, submerging him, drowning him again, this time in a flood of personalities, exulting, celebrating thier return, their freedom. And with the voices, came an instant of awareness, of who he was, what he was, a true flash of insight, a sure sudden knowledge of himself. He knew... nothing. Just as he grasped at the details, tried to put names, words to the images he saw, it all shut off. His mind snapped down a hard barrier, a barrier he hadn't even been aware of, before. A barrier that divided him from himself, blocked him, again, from understanding who he was. Protected him, from the voices, as well. He opened his eyes. He lay on his back, in the bottom of a small row boat. It was beached on a tiny spit of sand. A few trees overhung them, scraggly bushes shielded them from passing eyes. They were gnarly and stunted, growing from a small island of sand and rock in the middle of the river. A man sat next to him, in the boat, resting his arms on the oars. Looking at him, speculatively. His eyes were blue, like the winter sky, cold and pale. His long blonde hair dripped in lank strands across his face, clinging to his cheeks, his neck. Dripped. The man's dark clothes were sodden, gleaming with moisture, outlining his lanky form. Water sloshed in the boat as it rocked in a slight swell, and Duncan's stomach heaved. He turned his head and retched. Nothing came out. His stomach was empty, it's contents strewn around him, in the bottom of the boat. He felt awful. Smelled awful. He was shivering uncontrollably, his body chilled by its long immersion in the river. His skin was puckered, his fingertips looked like wrinkled prunes. He wrapped his arms around himself, seeking any extra warmth. He looked back at his...rescuer. The man pulled a dank woolen blanket from behind the seat and offered it to him. "Thanks." Duncan reached for it, pausing as the man drew back his hand slighitly, pulled away from his touch. He took the blanket, sat up and wrapped it around his shoulders, still shivering, still miserable, as his rescuer leaned back and shoved the boat off the sand, then dipped the oars into the water, and began rowing towards the distant, green shore. "Stay down until I tell you to get up." The whisper hissed at him, abrupt, commanding. He slumped back against the ribbed frame, back into the shallow, vile water that sloshed monotonously back and forth across the bottom of the boat. "Why are you still alive?" The words seemed to come out of nowhere, the voice like that of a scarecrow come to life, scratchy and breathy and almost not human. Duncan started out of his reverie, his dull dumb contemplation of his inner misery, and looked up again at the man rowing the boat. "I don't know." That was true enough, in the largest sense. He had no idea why he had become an Immortal, how he was chosen, instead of another. It was begging the point to skim the truth here, though. And if his rescuer pressed the issue, pressed the question, he didn't know how far he would go, could go, in making a convincing lie. He glanced up river. Far up river, by the tiny bridge, made a miniature by distance, he could see red flashing lights, on the span, blue and white flashes above the water, as a police boat led the river search. A helicopter hovered like an oversized wasp, buzzing importantly over the scene. A second boat, larger, closer to the rowboat, quartered back and forth across the chopy grey water, a net dragging from its stern. "Why are you helping me?" What motivated this man, besides curiosity.... The pace of the oars, slow, regular, steady, never faltered. "You're MacLeod, right?" "Yes." Duncan waited. Wondered what Richie was doing, now. Wondered when....if... they would meet, again. Wondered if anything this man would say to him, would be the truth. "Raven sent me. I'm taking you to him." Raven. < So we will meet.. again... at last. But to what end? > He fingered the computer disk, still in his breast pocket, still intact, sealed in a saran zip pouch. He had planned to use the river, it was his last resort, and he had also planned to protect his only lead, his only clue to his and Raven's identities, purposes, in this mad chase. The blond man rowed, silently. The helicopter's thrumming noise grew closer, and Duncan huddled under the blanket, holding himself still, as it passed directly overhead. He could feel the downdraft from its blades, ruffling the blanket, the water, making the boat rock and tilt. It circled, hovered overhead again, then the noise faded away, going furthur down the river, following the current. He lay, breathing shallowly, in the bottom of the boat. Feeling the return of health, of vigor, of strength. It still amazed him, awed him, that his body could heal itself so rapidly, so well. The rocking tiltling twist of the boat still made him nauseous, but he knew he would shrug it off, as soon as he stood on solid ground again. "We're here. Get out, quickly." The keel of the boat scraped bottom, sliding across rock and sand. Duncan threw the blanket aside and looked around, saw the trees, the rocky inlet the man had chosen, and grasped the side of the boat, lifting himself out, splashing through the shallow water, to shore. He helped the man pull the boat well into the wooded fringe that buffered the river from the highway. He could hear cars zooming by, yards away. They draped the blanket over the boat, trying to disguise its too identifiable profile. Duncan tossed dead branches and leaves, a scattering of dirt, onto the blanket as well. Again, he felt the blond man's eyes on him. He looked up quickly, and caught an expression of wonder, a shadow of fear, on his face. Their eyes crossed, held. The man stared back at him, his expression now smoothed carefully blank, then he deliberately reached into his open shirt collar, and pulled out a small silver cross, hanging around his neck from a thin, almost invisible chain. He held it in his hand, looking from Duncan, to the cross. It gleamed, reflecting the sunlight....a flash of molten silver...shifting, shimmering....the rumbling noise of traffic rising in the background... His world tilted and changed.... "I'm nae vampire, if that's what ye be fearin." Duncan backed carefully away from the angry crowd of men who surrounded him in the smoky tavern. They murmured and shouted threats, the mob producing a collective, menacing rumble of sound, one he had heard, before, but never faced, himself. The man in the lead thrust a silver cross at him, jabbing it towards his face, towards his eyes, like a weapon. Duncan held a short dirk in one hand, his tattered tartan cloak slung around his other, ready to snap it at someone's eyes, or to deflect a too eager blade from drinking his blood. He glanced longingly at his sword, across the room, resting next to the fireplace where he'd left it, foolishly, to order another flagon of ale. Not that a single sword could get him out of this mess. Oh, no. It would take divine intervention, this time. Things looked bad. Very bad. "We saw ye dead on the battlefield, boy. Dead, in the full light of day, I tell you. What are ye doin walking around here tonight, eh?" He's a ghoul, come to drink our blood, that's what." "Or a witch. He's sold his soul to the dark one, he did. Probably has the devil's gold in his pouch, too. " There was a general murmur at that, shouts of "Let's see his purse. Give up your gold, boy." He knew that the frustration of defeat spurred them on, fueled their anger, unbalanced their reason, and understanding, he could forgive them, but still, he didn't want to be the blood sacrifice, the scapegoat for their loss. He tried to shout over them, but they were too many. His protestations of innocence, of mistaken identity, were lost in the rising rumble of the crowd, greed mixed with hostilty, suspicion towards a stranger, ignorance, superstition, fear.....The mob roared... ....the roar of the returning helicopter cut into his awareness, pulled him back to the present. The blond man grabbed his shoulder, pushing him forwards, towards a car parked casually next to a rustic log picnic table, just ahead. He could hear the shrill cries of children, at play. He stumbled through the scrub, tripping over roots, half his mind on what his feet were doing, the rest reviewing in amazement what had just happened. It felt *right.* He'd filled in some more blanks, understood more of what made him who he was. The doors were unlocked, the windows rolled down. Duncan slid into the passenger seat moments ahead of his companion, then they slammed their doors simultaneously, just a brief instant ahead of the helicopter's pass over the parking lot. A family waved at the chopper from the adjoining picnic table, friendly, uncomplicated fun. =========================================================================