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  The Endangered

  THE ENDANGERED

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by S. L. Eaves

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For more information, to inquire about rights to this or other works, or to purchase copies for special educational, business, or sales promotional uses please write to:

  The Zharmae Publishing Press, LLC

  5638 Lake Murray Blvd, Suite 217

  La Mesa, CA 91942

  www.zharmae.com

  FIRST EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  Zharmae Publishing, logo, and the TZPP logo are trademarks of The Zharmae Publishing Press, L.L.C.

  ISBN: 978-1-937365-45-5

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The Endangered

  S.L. Eaves

  Spokane, Washington

  For my parents. Thank you for your unwavering support and encouragement.

  Prologue

  “Drive faster.”

  80…85…90. The pedal vibrates under my foot.

  “I’m pushing a hundred. These winding roads make it hard.”

  Crina climbs over the front seats and settles into shotgun. She’d been taking care of Xan, who was unconscious in the back.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He took one hell of a blow to the head, but he’ll be okay.”

  I turn up the radio to drown out the sound of the police sirens behind us. My eyes keep darting to the rearview.

  There were two of them back there. At least.

  They’d caught our trail while we were tearing through the city. You could say we had a police escort out of Los Angeles.

  “How far till Mexico?” Crina was wiping blood off her hands.

  “Far. Dunno. At this rate we’re not gonna make it.”

  “Where the hell are we anyway?”

  “Somewhere mountainous,” I respond dryly.

  “You shouldn’t be driving. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “Well right now that’s the least of our problems.”

  I’d hotwired an old 90s roadster while Crina was hoisting an unconscious Xan through the hatchback. An easy steal, but the old beast of a transmission was fighting me on every turn. It was a miracle we’d made it out of the city at all.

  Headlights glimpse the guardrail. We hit a sharp curve, catch some stones in the tires and skid through the gravel for a spell. I grip the wheel tightly, downshifting. Crina claws the dash. Xan remains sprawled across the backseat. We fishtail, then straighten out.

  I shift gears and keep my focus on the road ahead.

  The speedometer climbs back over 80 mph. Crina shoots me a nervous glance.

  “Just keeping the cops on their toes.”

  “They’ll be sending out backup and lots of it…likely include a chopper. We aren’t going to make it much farther in this car. We gotta bail.”

  “Yeah…”

  I hate when she’s right.

  Crina rolls down her window.

  “We should’ve stolen a convertible.”

  I grin. “Next time.”

  “There’s a ravine nearby. I smell the water.”

  There was a valley down to our left, a fitting host for water. And our escape.

  “Something to aim for. What about Xan?”

  An over-confident Crina is halfway out the window; she ducks back in.

  “Can’t toss him. Gotta pull him from the wreckage.”

  My stomach churns. Not what I wanted to hear. Cops are still in tight pursuit. They would not be relenting anytime soon. Someone blew apart several blocks of downtown LA, and we presently carried the titles of Suspect One, Two, and Three.

  Our options are limited at best. There is a tight bend up ahead.

  “Get ready to bail.”

  My foot slams the accelerator. Crina climbs most of the way out the window, bracing her feet on the door handle.

  “See you at the bottom,” I promise Xan under my breath.

  The road curves sharply to the right.

  We do not.

  The car runs out of road and we eject mid dive over the rocky and tree-filled terrain. From my own airborne position, I watch as the car clips the tops of a few trees and nosedives into the jagged landscape below. Its short-lived plummet is followed by a dramatic landing as it bounces into tree trunks, flips over laterally and eventually rolls to a stop.

  I have similar luck.

  My feet strike the ground, but I don’t stick the landing. Hurling forward over some rocks, I bounce along the mountainside until a tree brings me to an abrupt halt. Still conscious, I lie at its trunk watching the world spin.

  Ouch.

  Stumbling, I force my feet to keep me vertical. My head is spinning. I stagger toward the light supplied by flames now emanating from the pile of metal and gasoline that used to be a car. My eyes start to focus as I near the overturned vehicle.

  “Xan,” I cough, holding my rib cage.

  Had that fall not jolted him awake? Lucky bastard.

  I look around. No sign of Crina.

  Hastily, I pry back the driver’s side door and am relieved to see Xan inside, still unconscious. The fall had tossed him onto the footwell of the back, but he seems no worse for wear.

  Folding the driver’s seat forward, I climb in and slip my arms under his shoulders. Grasping his underarms, I slide him out from the burning car. Crina catches me as I fall backwards under his deadweight. She pulls us both to safety, beating out my pant leg, which had caught fire in the process.

  We take shelter in some dense underbrush. From there we can see the police cars up the hillside. They are parked, headlights beaming out across the night sky, illuminating the treetops. I spot the silhouette of an officer as he crosses the front of a car. None of them appear to be making their way downhill. Perhaps they are waiting for a fire truck or a medical unit.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Okay. Caught ahold of a tree branch mid-flight. Made for an easy descent. You?”

  I feel my sides, which are covered in blood. Some of the earlier wounds have healed, but the fresh ones still carry some sting.

  “Had a kinda rough landing. Cracked a few ribs.”

  Xan begins to stir.

  “Xan!” we both exclaim.

  “What happened?” His voice is hoarse and weak. I bend down to hug him.

  “Lori!” He wraps his arms around me and stays clenched as I straighten up. I grimace at his weight on my half-eaten shoulder. Crina takes his arms from my neck and helps him to his feet.

  “You sure you can stand okay?” she asks. He is looking around, a dazed expression on his face.

  “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere outside LA,” I mutter, bracing myself against a tree. I look over at the car a few yards up the hillside. Cops are shining flashlights around, but they don’t quite have the range. The car is now completely engulfed in flames.

  “We have to keep moving,” Crina states. “I lost my comm a ways back.”

  “I have mine.” I pop it out of my ear. Surprised it’s still intact. I tap the button, stick it back in. Not even static.

  “Nothing.”

  “Damn.”

  ***

  We continue downhill. Crina had been right about the water. We trudge along the crooked path cut by the river, cr
ossing when it narrows. It isn’t long before we are out of range of the sirens.

  The silence manages to feel both refreshing and disconcerting.

  Crina leads the way, hacking through the foliage. Xan and I stumble along behind. A good hour passes with none of us speaking. I feel dizzy, nauseous, exhausted.

  Eventually we reach a clearing.

  “Break time,” I proclaim, dropping flat on my back and letting the soft earth break my fall. Crina and Xan join me.

  We lie there taking in the beautiful, crystal clear night sky. And a full moon, apparently, illuminating the field around us.

  “Full moon tonight. With everything else going on I’d completely forgotten.”

  “So had I,” Crina sighs. “Ironic now, I suppose.”

  “Where are the others?” Xan asks absently.

  “That’s a good question.”

  I reach into Xan’s cargo pocket, fishing around.

  “Feeling frisky?” he jokes. I remove my hand, displaying the cigarettes and Zippo he’d been holding for me.

  “Oh, right,” he laughs as I wink at him.

  I light one and briefly feel human as the smoke fills my lungs. Some vices are worth clinging to if only for the memories.

  Crina reaches across and slides one from the pack. She normally complains about the smell. I don’t comment. Just flip open the lighter. I give them back to Xan, who hasn’t moved since our collapse.

  “And yet you still managed to start a fire.” Xan plays with my Zippo. He takes a cig from the pack, now resting on his stomach, and cranes his neck to light it.

  After a moment, Crina props up onto her elbows.

  “Does this mean it’s over?”

  “I don’t know.” I close my eyes and picture the bomb detonating.

  She cranes her neck for a better glimpse of the moon.

  Xan groans. “My head is splitting.”

  I reach out and run my fingers through his hair.

  “My head…is full of static. The comm!”

  I sit up with a jolt, hand on my earpiece.

  Static comes over my comm, followed by a faint voice. I can’t make it out. My ears are still ringing from the blast. I hand the comm to Crina.

  “Thought I heard a transmission. See if you have any luck.”

  Crina holds the piece to her ear, pushing the button in.

  “Hello. Anyone hear me? Hello.”

  I close my eyes, relaxing on the moist earth. The blades of grass prick my skin. It is a warm night. A perfect night.

  It is not enough.

  I had heard a voice over the comm. A voice that sounded like Catch’s.

  Chapter 1

  The Kettle Drum is a local college dive adjacent to New York University’s campus and a convenient three blocks from my place. The bar extends the length of the left wall, and round tables with little wooden chairs litter the narrow room, making a relaxed, if not cramped, atmosphere.

  Perhaps this cozy dive got its name for its acoustics. Besides its $2 drink specials, the true draw of the Kettle rests at the far end where a stage invites the local student bands and DJs to stop by and jam. Thursdays are the exception and maybe the highlight for some—karaoke night.

  Tonight the bar is moderately crowded, inviting in a steady stream of thirsty students. I am a Thursday night regular. Not typically a performer, but always eager to be entertained by the drunken frat guys singing their “artful” rendition of 80s classics. Every one of them aspires to be Axel, I swear.

  When I arrive on this particular Thursday, I find my friends already settled in, drinks in hand, at our usual table to the far right of the bar. As I pull up a chair, the group is simultaneously joined by Brooke, giddy and bounding back from the karaoke stage. We greet her with cheers.

  Having just fled class, I drop my bag from my shoulder and turn my attention to Kylie who is ranting about her favorite topic, Carson.

  “He’s impossible,” Kylie moans.

  “Who are we talking about?” I feign interest, already knowing the answer.

  “Her ex. Who else?”

  Rachel rolls her eyes, refilling her glass with the remainder of a pitcher.

  “Jersey boy? What’d he do this time?” I’m wondering why I encourage her.

  Kylie restarts her story. Rachel, not one for repeating herself let alone tolerating it from others, intervenes.

  “Blew her off to go to the game with the boys.”

  “So you’re not together, but you see him when you’re home for a little hanky-panky?”

  “No. We’re just friends now.” Kylie is staring down into her empty glass.

  “Fuck that. Why stay friends with an ex if you’re not getting the benefits?”

  Rachel nods. “That is a great question.”

  “Kylie, you got to ask yourself which is more painful—ripping off the Band-Aid or slowly peeling it from your skin.”

  She does not follow. Sometimes I wonder how some people got as far as college.

  “End it, get closure, stop torturing yourself,” I continue.

  Kylie pouts. This night is going south quick. I call for another round.

  ***

  Tucked in the far corner, Adrian observes with evident disinterest, bored and slightly irritated by the antics of drunken college kids. He forces himself to endure their obnoxious banter, reminding himself of past torment of greater degree. Still, he plans for a quick exit if another sorority recites a Britney Spears number. His age sets him apart from the crowd, not to mention his cloaked attire. But there he sits, drinking his whiskey discreetly at a pace that’d put any college kid to shame.

  ***

  “Come on, Kylie, get up there.”

  “No way, I haven’t had enough to drink.”

  If she thinks we’re going to reward her pathetic behavior with some shots, she doesn’t know us very well. Sympathy isn’t our game. No, we’re going to taunt her mercilessly until she earns the right to wallow neck deep in booze.

  “You chickened out last week; don’t think we’re letting you off the hook again,” goads Brett, the preppy frat boy whose depth of music and film trivia may have been the sole reason we hung out with him. He was our ringer on Quizzo nights.

  We were getting fairly sloshed off pitchers of cheap beer and are well into the ritual taunting of one another until someone inevitably folds to the pressure and sings. The two guys presently on stage are spilling their beers as they attempt to belt out the lyrics to “Baby Got Back.”

  Kylie emits a sigh. “Anything to stop this.”

  She makes her way on stage. We cheer victoriously at our accomplishment. One of the guys from a neighboring table hands her the rest of his beer as she passes, and she chugs it on her way up.

  Sasha, one of my roommates, joins our table.

  “Okay, is that really Kylie up there?”

  “You bet. Isn’t peer pressure great?” I point at her backpack. “How was class?”

  “Long. I hate night classes.” Sasha plops her bag next to mine and signals the waiter. “Next round’s on me.”

  Sasha hands cash to our waiter as he sets down more pitchers.

  She turns to me.

  “Yo, so guess who followed me in?”

  “Who?”

  She points toward the bar. I turn to see Ryan flagging the bartender.

  “Ryan,” I mutter.

  Everyone within earshot suddenly looks from me to the bar and then proceeds to exchange worried glances with one another.

  Subtle, guys, real subtle.

  Sasha continues, “With that bitch.”

  More deer in the headlights glances from the peanut gallery.

  Through the crowd I can make out his spiky jet-black hair and, unfortunately, the girl his arm is around.

  “Damn it.” I shift in my seat.

  One year of an on-again-off-again romance came to a screeching halt two weeks ago when I caught him in the bathroom of a fraternity house making out with some chick that wasn’t me.

/>   Despite all the ups and downs, I really thought we’d persevered and were stronger for it. But I was wrong. Crushed was the feeling in my chest, and possibly his nose, when I slammed the bathroom door shut on his excuse-ridden face.

  “He never came here except when I dragged him. He knew I’d be here.”

  “Cheating fucker wanted to show off his new arm candy,” Rachel glowers.

  “Slut.”

  “Bastard.”

  The peanut gallery gives their two cents. Great friends. All of them.

  “You know, maybe I will sing tonight. I suddenly feel inspired.”

  “Do it, girl.”

  The bar is filling up. I push my way through the crowd over to JD

  JD is a cool kid, but he tries too hard. He’s shorter than me, maybe 5'3", and doesn’t look a day over sixteen. As long as I’ve known him, he has worked at the bar—booking bands, carting kegs, and occasionally busing tables. He shares in the management, so I figure him to be at least a year or so my senior. Poor guy. His apparel doesn’t help much either. He dresses like a seventies thrift shop, all baggy tracksuits and gold chains.

  He spots me and throws his arm out. I extend mine and am greeted by some over-exuberant handshake that feels more like a thumb war.

  “What’ll it be, Lor? Got some shzizzlin’ vibez loaded up. Hot an’ fresh like you."

  Sadly, I do not think he has a speech impairment of any kind; he actually talks like that voluntarily.

  “Fresh eh? Not tonight. I’m feeling a little down and out.” I sneak a glance down the bar. “Little hostile too.”

  “Don’ be lettin’ some loser under yo’ skin. Won’t taw’late it.”

  “Naw, JD, just feelin’ a certain vibe of my own right now.”

  “An’ what’s the gut spew’n?”

  I flip through his extensive catalogue, which is mostly wasted in this environment where the same Bon Jovi and Journey songs are beaten to death every week. My finger lands on the list.

  “Throw up some Incubus. Old school.”

  “Alwayz classic with you…been ages tho. Fall’n luv or out?”