Primal Threat - Earl Emerson [90]
From his vantage point he couldn’t see all of the beating, but what he did witness threw him into a state of disbelief—Scooter swinging the rifle at Muldaur and knocking him to the ground, then knocking him to the ground again.
Zak made his plan as he rolled down the hill and saw a natural ramp on the road directly above Scooter. If he picked up enough speed, he might get airborne, and if he got airborne and timed it properly, he might take Scooter down. At the very least, he would crash into him, and if Zak kept to hard surfaces, Scooter might not hear him coming until it was too late.
When Scooter did hear him, Zak was already barreling down the mountainside at almost thirty miles an hour, Scooter jacking a cartridge into the chamber, sighting along the barrel, pointing the Winchester toward Zak’s chest as Zak bounced down the road. Somewhere in the middle of it the gun went off.
The crash was a blur, and strangely it was silent in Zak’s brain. He was in midair when the explosion occurred, and he definitely felt the heat of the gunshot on his bare leg, but he didn’t hear it. Later he figured the bullet had gone harmlessly between his legs. He must have hit Scooter with one of his pedals, because he felt a jolt in the crank arm. The force twisted Zak and the bike around in midair and flipped him. It was a rough fall—he’d been higher than Scooter’s head when it started.
Now Scooter was on the ground cradling his bloodied head, Muldaur standing over him with the rifle, while Zak lay on his back trying to assess the damage he’d incurred. The wind had been knocked out of him, and his left hip and rump burned with road rash. Both shoulders were sore, but the helmet had protected his head, even though he had a headache. His right ankle was scraped, and he could feel blood seeping through the sock.
Zak rolled over and then got to his hands and knees slowly, bending his joints, counting his digits, inspecting himself for wounds. He stood slowly and limped over to his bike and found that, miraculously, except for a bent brake lever, it was mechanically sound. Zak picked it up and walked it up the hill toward Muldaur, testing his legs and glancing down at the blood oozing out his arm. A crash at such a speed should have been a lot worse. Fortunately, the impact with Scooter had absorbed much of his momentum.
Except for a large tear in the left leg of his cycling shorts, Zak’s kit was intact, as were his sunglasses.
Lying on his side, Scooter groaned and said, “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t.” Muldaur had the rifle now.
Following Muldaur’s directions, Zak headed down the dirt scree toward the flipped Land Rover, aware that the closer he got to the vehicle, the more nervous he became. It was as if he were walking through a trapdoor directly into his childhood. This wasn’t anything like coming up on a wrecked car while riding Engine 6. He didn’t have a crew backing him up. He didn’t have protective equipment, and he didn’t have the profession propelling him forward. Here he was free to let fear take full rein. And for reasons he would mull over for years to come, take over it did.
Ten feet away from the wreck, he froze.
Zak peered into the half-crushed Land Rover. He edged forward, his legs quivering. He was having a difficult time breathing. He wanted to move forward. He wanted to squirm into the crushed passenger’s compartment and find the occupant, but, hypoxic and shaking, he stared into the vehicle in a daze.
There was no telling how long his stupor lasted. When he finally came out of it, he forced himself to creep forward and touch the Land Rover. If he could touch it, perhaps the feel of warm metal in the August heat would bring him back to his senses. When he put his palm on the Land Rover and pushed gently, the vehicle tipped slightly. He knelt and peered inside