Crazy Dangerous, Page 2

  But here’s the problem: I hate being pushed around. Really. I hate it. Like, a lot. Something happens inside me when someone tries to bully me—when someone shoves me or hits me or anything like that. Everything just goes red inside. I can’t think anymore. I go nuts. I can’t help it. And I fight back—whether I intend to or not—and even if it means I get my head ripped off. Which, in my limited experience, is exactly what happens.

  Now, I could already feel the anger building in me as I climbed to my feet. I dusted myself off. I saw Jeff watching me, still grinning. That made the anger even worse.

  “I guess you want to be more careful next time,” Jeff said. His thug friends laughed as if this were really hilarious, as if he were a professional comedian or something. “Running around here can be kind of dangerous.”

  Again, this would have been an excellent time for me to keep my mouth shut. But somehow I just couldn’t. “Okay,” I said. “You tripped me and I fell. Ho ho ho. That’s very funny. If you’re, like, seven years old . . .”

  Harry Mac didn’t appreciate that remark. “Hey!” he said, and he pushed me in the shoulder—hard. I knocked his hand away because—well, just because, that’s why. Because I don’t like being pushed around. That made Harry Mac even angrier—so angry, he cocked his fist as if he were about to drive it into my face. Which I guess he was.

  But to my surprise, Jeff stopped him. He slapped Harry Mac lightly on the shoulder. Harry Mac hesitated. Jeff gave him a negative shake of the head. Harry Mac lowered his fist, backed off me with a look that said: You got lucky this time. Which was true.

  Jeff looked me over, up and down. “I see you in school, don’t I?” he said. “Hopkins, is that it?”

  I slowly drew my eyes away from Harry Mac and turned them on Jeff. “That’s right. Sam Hopkins,” I told him.

  Jeff nodded. “And you know who we are, right?”

  I nodded back. Everyone in school knew Jeff Winger and his thug buddies.

  “Okay, good,” Jeff went on in what sounded like a reasonable voice. “Because here’s the deal, Sam. This isn’t a good place for you, okay? This isn’t where you want to do your running anymore.”

  Some part of my mind was telling me to just keep quiet and nod and smile a lot and get myself out of this. Any one of these guys could’ve pounded me into the earth. All three of them could pretty much kick me around like a soccer ball at will. But the part of my mind that understood that was somehow not getting through to the part of my mind that

  Just.

  Didn’t.

  Like.

  Getting.

  Pushed.

  Around.

  So instead of keeping quiet, I said, “What do you mean, it’s not a good place? It’s a great place. I like running here.”

  Jeff laughed. It was not a friendly laugh. He took a casual step toward me—casual, but threatening. He went on smiling and he shook his head as if I had misunderstood him. “No, no, Sam, I don’t think so. I don’t think you do like running here. Not anymore, anyway.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said—and, okay, it wasn’t exactly a brilliant comeback, but it was all I could think of under the circumstances.

  And of course Jeff answered, “Yeah. In the future, Sam, I think maybe you ought to run someplace else. Anyplace else. This isn’t your place anymore. This is our place. It’s our place and we don’t want you here.”

  Through the red haze of my anger, I began to understand what was going on. My eyes moved back over the trees and the bushes around us. It was a dark, lonesome spot up here. You could sit in the underbrush and no one would ever see you or find out what you were up to. So I guess Jeff and his pals were up to stuff they shouldn’t have been up to, and they didn’t want me or anyone else to see.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay, I get it.”

  “Good,” said Jeff.

  “Sure. You guys want to be left alone. And that’s fine with me. Really. I don’t want to bother you. I don’t want to bother anyone. I don’t care what you’re doing here. I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to know. And I’m sure not gonna report you to anyone or anything. I just want to go for my run, that’s all, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Jeff with another laugh. “Sure, you can go for your run. You can go for your run anytime you want. Just not here, Sam. This is not your place, I’m telling you. This is our place now.”

  Just so I’m sure you have the picture here. Them: three big tough guys. Me: one little guy, not tough. Place: middle of nowhere. Raise your hand if you know what the smart thing to do would have been. Right. I should have smiled and said, “Okay, Jeff, sorry to intrude,” and shut up and run off on my way just as fast as my legs would carry me.

  Instead, I said: “Forget it, Jeff. This is where I run. I like it. I’m not getting chased off. No way.”

  Jeff gave what sounded like a grunt of surprise. He looked over his shoulder at his buddies. He looked back at me.

  Then, so fast I had no time to react, he grabbed hold of the front of my sweatshirt. While he was at it, he grabbed a handful of my chest as well. He dragged me toward him.

  “Listen . . . ,” he started to say.

  I punched him in the face.

  I didn’t mean to. Okay, I did mean to. Of course I meant to. It’s not the sort of thing you do to someone by accident. What I’m trying to say is: I didn’t plan it. I just got so angry when he grabbed hold of me that I sort of automatically let fly.

  My fist cracked into Jeff’s cheek, right under his eye. I didn’t connect very hard, but it was hard enough, a good solid, stinging jab. And, of course, Jeff wasn’t expecting it—not at all. He was so startled, he actually let go of me and staggered back a step. He grabbed his cheek and just stood there, stunned.

  They were all stunned. Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac. They all just stood there for that long second, staring, as if they couldn’t believe what had happened. Which they probably couldn’t.

  And you know what? I couldn’t believe it either. I was stunned too, totally taken by surprise. I just stood there, staring at Jeff and the others.

  Then—out of nowhere it seemed—there came a loud, high shriek. It pierced the air, deafening. I didn’t know what it was at first, but whatever it was, it sort of jolted me awake. My brain started working again.

  And my brain said to me: Uh, Sam? Run for your life!

  Which is exactly what I did.

  2

  A Game of Chicken

  Harry Mac made a grab at me, but too late, he missed. I took off along the ridge. Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac charged after me. When I looked back, I could tell by the expressions on their faces that they were determined to catch me and take their revenge. They were gaining on me too. Especially Harry Mac. He was a muscleman, like I said, and a lot of times guys like that aren’t flexible enough to move well or run fast. But just my luck, Harry Mac was plenty flexible, and it turned out he could run like the wind. He was running like the wind, in fact, his thick, powerful legs pistoning under him, driving him after me, leaving his two thug pals behind and quickly closing the gap between us.

  Then I heard it again: that high-pitched shriek—the sound that had brought me back to my senses. I glanced across the valley as I ran and I saw what it was. It was the whistle of a freight train. I could see the train winding out from behind the hills, heading for the far end of the railway bridge.

  Which gave me an idea. And I think it’s safe to say it was the craziest idea I had ever had. It’s possible it was the craziest idea anyone had ever had. But what can I tell you? I was totally panicked. I knew if Jeff and his pals caught me, they would break me into little bits and then break the bits into even littler bits. I saw only one chance to escape them and, crazy as it was, I took the chance without really thinking.

  I ran for the bridge. Moving off the McAdams Trail onto the gravelly dirt along the ridge. Dodging through the sparse and scraggly trees. Running as fast as I could.

  I glanced back over my shoulder as I ran. Harry M
ac was closing in on me fast. I had to go up a steep little incline to reach the end of the bridge and that slowed me down, and Harry Mac got even closer.

  Now I stepped onto the bridge, onto the tracks, and started running over them. The world dropped away on either side of me. Suddenly I was high, high up in the air with no escape route, Jeff and his pals behind me, the train coming up ahead of me, nothing but sky to my left and right. I kept to the center of the tracks, between the rails, between the edges of the bridge. My feet flew over old brown wooden ties that were strung close together with only small strips of grass and gravel between them.

  As I ran, I looked up ahead. I could see the train. It sent out another piercing whistle as it steamed along the ridge over the Sawnee, heading for the bridge’s far side. My idea was this: If I could run across the bridge fast enough, I would get to the other end before the train reached it. Jeff and his friends wouldn’t follow me because they couldn’t possibly be ridiculous enough to run across a single-track bridge with a freight train about to cut off their only exit.

  You can see what I mean when I say I hadn’t quite thought this idea all the way through. For instance, if I thought Jeff and his thug pals were too smart to run across the bridge with the train coming—well, then, shouldn’t I have been too smart to do it also? Just to save you the trouble of looking up the answer, it’s: Yes! Of course yes! What I was doing was absolutely insane! But with everything happening so quickly, and with the whole panic thing going on and my fear of Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac, I just wasn’t being very smart, that’s all.

  So I continued running as fast as I could, down the center of the train tracks, over the bridge.

  It wasn’t easy running over those wooden ties. I had to be careful not to catch my foot in one of the gaps, where I could’ve twisted or even broken my ankle, running as fast as I was. Also, some of those wooden ties felt kind of soft and rotten under my feet, as if they could break at any time. I didn’t know what would happen then. If one of them broke and I plunged through, would I just land on the gravel underneath? Or would I keep on falling down and down into the river below?

  Even in my panicked state, it was beginning to occur to me: this was a dumb plan. A really, really dumb plan.

  I was about to stop. I was about to turn around and run back. Then, amazingly, I felt fingers snag the collar of my sweatshirt. Startled, I whipped a look over my shoulder.

  You gotta be kidding me! I thought.

  But no, there was Harry Mac, his face red and twisted with effort, running after me, closing on me, reaching out with one hand to grab hold of my shirt.

  He’d followed me out onto the bridge. How crazy could anyone be? Didn’t he see there was a train coming? What was he, some kind of idiot?

  I faced forward and put on some extra speed, fueled by fear. I felt Harry Mac’s fingers lose their hold on my shirt and slip away. I looked ahead and there was the train, snaking around the curve to head for the end of the bridge. Once it got there, there would be no way to get out of its path.

  I glanced back one more time. Now, even Harry Mac had figured out this was the craziest thing ever. He had stopped on the bridge. He was standing in the middle of the train tracks, breathless, staring after me, shaking his head.

  Just before I faced forward, I saw him turn away. I saw him start jogging back toward where Jeff and Ed P. were standing in safety at the bridge entrance. They had stopped where they were. They had not come after me. They weren’t complete idiots after all.

  I wish I could say the same about myself. Even then, I might have had time to turn around. I might have headed back toward where Jeff and his thug pals were standing and gotten off the tracks before the train came. Why didn’t I do it? What was the worst that could’ve happened to me? Jeff and his friends would’ve picked me up by my ankles and driven my head into the ground and left me there buried up to my neck with my feet dangling in the air. That wouldn’t have been so bad, really—at least not when you compared it to getting flattened by that oncoming freight.

  But I just couldn’t think that clearly. All I could think about was getting away from Jeff—and beating that train to the end of the bridge. So I kept running, watching as the train got closer and closer and closer to the other side.

  Now I was about two-thirds of the way over. The freight engine was chugging hard across the last stretch of the ridge, winding around the bend toward the bridge entrance. Right at that moment, I liked my chances. I thought I had a good shot of getting all the way across before the train cut me off.

  I gave it everything I had, pouring all my strength and effort into my legs. With the fading blue of the afternoon sky all around me, I felt as if I were suspended in midair, running desperately through the middle of nothingness. I caught wild glimpses of the hills up ahead and the town below. But mostly I saw that train. Closer and closer to the bridge. Fully around the bend now so that the front of the engine was pointed straight at me, barreling straight toward me.

  The whistle pierced the air again, so loud it hurt my ears. I raced headlong toward the front of the engine. Yes, I truly believed I was going to make the exit before the freight got there and blocked it off.

  Then I stepped on a rotten tie, and the wood snapped. My foot went crashing through, my ankle twisting. I stumbled forward, trying to keep on my feet. I couldn’t. I fell, putting out my hands to brace myself. My palm smacked the rough wood of the railroad ties, and I felt the burning pain as my skin was pierced by splinters. I screamed and hugged my wounded hand to my chest.

  But there was no time to worry about it now. I scrambled to my feet. With horror, I saw that the freight was less than a hundred yards away from the end of the bridge. I cried out and ran straight toward it—there was no other choice. If I turned and tried to run back now, the thing would just plow right over me.

  The freight whistle screamed again as if in anguish at what was about to happen. I screamed too, just from the effort of running—and, oh yeah, from terror. The thing was fifty yards away.

  I reached the end of the bridge. The freight reached it at the same moment. The front of the locomotive loomed, gigantic and deadly. There were maybe ten yards separating us now.

  I hurled myself through that gap.

  The scream of the freight whistle filled the air, filled my mind, filled everything, and my own scream filled everything too, as I hit the ground and tumbled over the gravelly slope.

  Lying on my back, I looked up and saw the great monster of a train flashing over me, the giant cars flashing and flashing past me, rumbling out onto the bridge, the whole long beast going on and on and on it seemed forever.

  I lay on the ground, staring up at the massive, murderous wheels. I was okay. I had played a game of chicken with a freight train and survived.

  Pretty stupid, yes?

  But it was still not the stupidest thing I ever did.

  3

  The Red Camaro

  It was long, long moments before I could catch my breath, before I could stop shaking, before I could slowly climb to my feet and look around me.

  When I did, I gazed back across the bridge. The long freight filled it now end to end. As my eyes rose to the far hill, I expected to see Jeff and his fellow thugs standing there, watching me. Maybe shaking their heads. Maybe muttering, “Curses, foiled again!” Or something like that.

  But to my surprise, they weren’t there at all! They weren’t anywhere in sight. They had vanished. They were totally gone.

  I panned my gaze over the ridge, searching for them. Nothing. Not a sign. Just hillside and trees. Just the sky through the lacework of winter branches. Just the freight train now moving off across the hillside, to disappear on the downward slope into the next valley over.

  I stared, my mouth open, my breath still coming fast. My mind ratcheted into overdrive, trying to figure it out. Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac—they’d been there a moment ago and now they were gone as if they had never existed. As if I’d imagined them or dreamed them
. But I knew I hadn’t.

  And then my mouth clapped shut.

  And I thought: Oh no.

  It wasn’t easy to start running again, but I did it. At least it was downhill this time—steeply downhill. I plunged down the slope, taking long strides over the rough ground. My ankle ached. My lungs burned. My hand throbbed with pain because of the splinters still buried in my flesh. I ignored all of it and just ran.

  I’ll tell you why. There’s a road up beyond the McAdams Trail. Right up there beyond the trees and the bushes where Harry Mac had tripped me. It’s an old road of broken asphalt and gravel that leads to several other roads, dirt roads, that go into several wilderness areas where there are farms and abandoned farms and campgrounds and other stuff like that.

  I felt pretty sure that Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac hadn’t hiked to the spot where I had found them. They didn’t strike me as the healthy, happy hiking types, if you see what I mean. No, they had probably driven up the old broken road and parked nearby and walked into the trees to sit and smoke and drink beer or whatever it was they’d been doing that I wasn’t supposed to see. So that meant they probably had a car up there, maybe the hot red Camaro Jeff was always driving to school, the one that had the muffler modified so you could hear it roaring three counties over. And if they had a car up there, well, then they could get in that car and drive it down the hill, couldn’t they? Down the hill to the road below. Which was where I had to go now. It was the only way I could get back to my bike from here. In other words, if they got to their car fast enough—if they drove fast enough—they could still catch me on the road.

  So I ran down the hill.

  It was so steep, I must have stumbled a dozen times on my way. I nearly fell down half a dozen. As I reached the denser trees by the roadside, I had to dodge between their trunks, leap over their roots, and push my way through the underbrush that tore at my sweatclothes and my hands. But I kept on going, fast as I could. And at last I spilled out onto the road at the bottom of the hill: County Road 64.