Challenge #1 (July) - Carousel, Part Five
Title: Carousel Author: celadon_55
Genre: Gen
Characters: Don (surprise!), Nikki, David, Colby - it's a WIP, so who knows who else might show up?
Rating: PG 13+ Warning: violence
Spoilers: Um...Season 5?
Summary: written for Clue Challenge #1, July 2009 athurt_don. Prompts: Who? - Don. What? - Fireworks. Where? - Park.
Part Five
How close? She’s not quite sure - the sound distortion of the water isn’t helping. She sees his right arm twitch again, then still, his face turned down to the water, something like surprise or confusion creasing his features. She can’t help wondering if the synapses skipped and crossed a couple of wires, if the two Dons finally bumped on this present plane. He sinks back into the wall, slowly, hitching his injured side with a wince.
She glances at him to be sure he’s upright, gun barrel lifted to try and track the faint movements above. Not enough light or space between the planks to help. Two creaks - louder, and in quick succession. Still one guy? Probably? Past them, or not even near yet? She bites her lip and braces the gun with her other hand. No way to tell, really.
She catches just the edge of movement out of the corner of her eye and glances back at Don again, wondering if he’s in trouble. His good hand flickers, near his ear, then his nose - what the heck…? Does something hurt, or…? The fingers tap his forehead now, clumsy, but urgent, then he slowly pushes his palm flat against the boards above.
Head must be hurting. Well, hell, no wonder - the miracle is that he’s even conscious, never mind upright. If that helps him keep his feet until I can get him vertical again… She releases the gun with her left hand, pats his chest in a way that she hopes is comforting, reassuring, jumps with a splash when his fingers curl unexpectedly around her wrist. The faint sounds above grow still.
They both wait, transfixed, painfully aware of how loud the splash sounded in the silence, then he guides her hand, palm up, to the boards above, pushing against the underside in imitation of his a few minutes ago.
Oh! I get it! She gives him a grin of surprised admiration. Pretty slick! She can feel the boards shift just barely, the minimal difference as the tips of her fingers sense a weight difference above. She glances at him, trying to indicate the proximity. His eyes are fixed on her. She can't be sure he really understands, but at least she knows he's conscious. The boards give a little more, against her fingers now, and her breath catches, the nose of the gun hovering just beneath the boardwalk. If she fires from this angle without a visual, what are the odds she'll just leave somebody wounded and mean? She glances at him again, for encouragement or guidance, she isn't sure which. His fingers flicker again, ear, nose, forehead; and she almost groans in recognition.
Oh. Well, damn. I don't know your baseball signals, friend - basketball is my game - but I get the feeling you're telling me to fire when ready, right? She nods as though she understands, and who knows, maybe she does.
The weight over her hand is more distinct now, certain and centered, and while she knows there's a good chance she'll give away their position just to shoot off a toe, she doesn't see that she has any choice, especially if his friend is closing in from the other side. It's just a matter of time before they're discovered and they'll be in a better position if they can avoid being squeezed between the two offenders. And the longer the wait, the less likely Don is still going to be on his feet, and she needs him on his feet, at least long enough to find some better cover. And anyway, the best defense is a good offense, right? Hope that's not just a lotta macho jive.
She glances his way again, sees that he is still watching her, intent and focused. Wish I had some clue which one of you is in there right now and what you're seeing. She checks the weight above with her palm, then pushes the mouth of the gun against a crack in the boards. Before she can think about it too long, she steadies her sweat-slick finger on the trigger and squeezes. The sound of the gunshot reverberates on the water, almost simultaneously there's a howl and a thud and the boards over their heads tremble. She fires again, this time in what she hopes is a more meaningful spot, mindful of her limited ammo, one hand fisting in Don's tactical vest.
"Go!" she hisses, pushing him along in front of her. "Move!"
He's trying. She can see how hard he's trying and it breaks her heart, makes her feel like Dr. Mengele, the way his hand fumbles along the wall, seeking strength and support, but it's the only way and she shoves on ruthlessly. She thinks she sees some liquid streak the wall from above, darker than the water, drip from between the planks, but there's no time to examine it - their position is clear now, and the sooner they change it, the better their chances of survival. A roar, terrifyingly close, an explosion of wood near their heads and the water leaps around them, not just once, but a staccato chain of eruptions. This guy might be down, but he's not out and whatever firepower he's carrying, it's better than hers. She keeps forcing their momentum, eyes on the boards above them, wondering at the value of trying another shot.
Don's vest yanks abruptly southward against her grip and her legs let go underneath her. The world disappears in a rush of water and darkness and her knees smack against concrete, but she holds on doggedly. If she loses her hold on him now, under water, it's over. She tries to get a better grab on him, feels her fingers scrape across the ammo pockets on the vest front and clings to them. Her boots skitter on the canal floor, fighting for purchase against the buoyancy, her lungs flat and tight. The water explodes again, but not so close this time.
She tries to re-settle her grasp. There's nothing to hold onto and he's hard to drag, bigger than she is and heavy with inertia. Her feet manage to plant and she pushes upward with all her might against the pull of the water, but she's lost all sense of placement and can only hope she's not bringing them up in full view of the gunman…or his friend. Her head breaks free of the surface and she sucks in air, trying to keep it silent, sliding a hand up the front of his vest until she finds his chin, hooking an elbow around his neck to keep it clear of the water. She can feel his head rest on her shoulder, heavy and still, drenched tendrils of hair brushing her neck. She blinks water out of her eyes, trying to look around.
They've drifted free of the boardwalk and she can see a dark shadow stretched along the wooden surface. It seems very still. She doesn't really trust it and she isn't taking time for niceties like pulse checking. Besides, they're still better off using the underside of the boardwalk for cover on the trip out of here. Especially until they can figure out where this guy's buddies are keeping themselves. But she sure would like that weapon - her own disappeared in their underwater dive.
She can make out a dark shape just forward of the figures reach and she eyes it speculatively. Could be playing possum, but it's worth the risk - if she's fast. Something damp tickles her neck and she shoots a look at Don, sees his lashes flicker.
"Stay down," she whispers, just barely a breath. She feels the head roll, then still. "Good. Good boy." Pulling him in a dead man's float is actually easier, though the moniker makes her wince inwardly. The gun is within reach, but if this guy is faking, it'll all be over real fast - no speedy exits submerged in water. She positions herself as far out of the shadow's reach as possible, then fumbles for the gun strap. She curls a hand around it and yanks. The heavy gun slides over the boards with a bumping noise, but the figure doesn't move and nothing misfires. She blows out a silent breath. Okay, then. One down. Maybe. She slings the strap over her neck to leave a hand free and ducks back under the boardwalk, her passenger in tow. Not bad, boss. We do good work together, huh?
A loud grinding noise interrupts her self congratulations. The noise settles into a mechanical hum and she grabs automatically for the gun, the movement almost sending Don under. It takes her a panicked heartbeat to realize that it's the belt that guides the boats along, suddenly come to life.
Damn it - DAMN it! Do they know, or are they just trying to drive us out into the open…? She pulls as deep under the boardwalk as she can manage. The belt is churning the water up enough to disguise any movements they might be making, so she dares to hurry. As much as somebody walking through chest-high water, dragging someone, can hurry, anyway, she thinks dryly.
Guess they modernize even these old rides some. Hard to believe that once-upon-a-time these old boats used to bump through the canal under their own steam. Thinking back, she remembers going through one once - it had included scare tactics - figures that popped out at strategic turns, probably intended to drive couples into a clinch. Wonder if this one has any of those - I mean, aside from gun-toting felons. And maybe you're getting a little hysterical again, Nikki. Well, no time for that now - save it for later. These things follow a circumscribed route, so somebody could be waiting patiently at the end, if they've figured out where we're headed.
She feels Don stir again, makes shushing noises and is gratified when he stills, his only movement a hand that wraps around her forearm and hangs on. Somehow, she finds it comforting. We may come out of this okay yet. If only our not-so-on-the-spot cavalry can get their asses in gear and come to the rescue.
There is a distinctive noise underneath the motorized sounds, something familiar, getting louder, and her tired mind struggles to place it. She thinks back on her own Tunnel of Love ride, trying to gain context. Let's see…boring ride in the dark…guy with restless hands…scary figures leaping out…and…oh, God!
The rush of water, now recognizable, grows louder, and the memory of how these rides always end comes a split second too late as the concrete floor disappears beneath her feet. She feels Don's hand tear from its hold and scrabbles to secure her grasp on him, fingers clutching at his collar, but the force of the water is like a fist, slamming her downward. Her nails scratch at Kevlar and for a moment she thinks she has it, then her fists close on nothing.
Only water.
TBC