Monster Chapter 11

I do not believe in a fate that will fall on us no matter what we do. I do believe in a fate that will fall on us if we do nothing. —Ronald Reagan 

The policeman cursed behind him. Nick heard scraping in the gravel as the officer scrambled to his feet. 

Once again, Nick felt like eyes were on him. Watching his every move. Not the eyes of those in the parking lot. Something else. Something intense.  

Ignoring the feeling, he raced through the parking lot, darting between cars and trucks. Big Cowboy’s vehicle was to his left, headed north and gaining speed. 

Nick turned and coughed, blood splattering against the window of a van to his right. He jumped through a hedge and bolted onto the road, skidding to a stop on the asphalt. The yellow headlights of the truck blinded him and he turned his head involuntarily.

The truck screeched to a stop. The driver’s side door opened as Big Cowboy got out of the truck. 

“What in the hell’s your problem, boy?” 

Nick moved left, around the car and toward Jimmy, still sitting in the passenger seat. He opened the blade to the pocketknife. Stopping at the front right tire, he brought his hand up, and then down, stabbing at the tire. The blade bounced off. This wasn’t the movies, apparently. He stabbed again, harder, and with conviction, and was rewarded with a bang and a hiss. Big Cowboy was almost on him. Nick yanked hard at the knife and ran toward the back of the truck. One last hard jab and the second tire hissed and fell flat. 

Big Cowboy grabbed him from behind. The knife came out of his hand, still stuck in the tire. Nick felt a force throw him to the side of the road and he tumbled to the gravel. He curled up in a ball, covering his head. 

Big Cowboy came at him. One step. Two. Nick looked at the truck and saw Jimmy peering at him from the passenger seat. 

Two flat tires. That would put Big Cowboy hours behind schedule getting home. He might even have to stay overnight. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t be on the road in forty minutes. 

Big Cowboy’s boot caught him in the sternum. The air rushed out of his lungs, and then didn’t come back in. His mouth gaped but he couldn’t breathe. The boot struck him again, and then a third time. Still he couldn’t get air. 

And then the policeman was there, pushing Big Cowboy away and dragging Nick to his feet. He held him with one hand and put the other on Big Cowboy’s chest. “Sir, get back in your vehicle.” 

“You saw what he—” 

“Sir, I will take care of this, but you need to get back in your vehicle. Get it pulled over to the side of the road.” 

“The tires are flat.” 

“Get it pulled over so the traffic can move around you.” 

Big Cowboy swore, spat brown juice onto the road, and moved toward his truck. 

Nick’s lungs opened and he gulped in air. He coughed and breathed and coughed again. His nose was on fire and his stomach and chest a dull ache. The officer picked up Nick and led him to the side of the road. The policeman pulled Nick’s arms behind him, and he felt cold metal against his wrists. He heard the clicking of handcuffs. 

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can and will be held against you.” 

The policeman grabbed Nick’s elbow and led him toward the patrol car. The officer continued to explain his rights, but Nick didn’t listen. He looked over his shoulder. 

Jimmy was hanging out the passenger side window of his father’s truck. He looked back and forth between the two flat tires, holding onto his hat with one hand so it wouldn’t fall off. 

The boy looked up and Nick read the timer as the officer put him in the back of his patrol car. 

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Sixty-two years.