Rift by Richard Cox

rain, which grows stronger still.
    â€œThis is silly,” I say, raising my voice so Tom can hear me. “We’re not going anywhere out here.”
    â€œThen neither are they.”
    â€œBut what next? Even if we get off this course without them, what’s to stop them from finding me again? What if they know where you live?”
    â€œAt least that would be on my property. I could deal with these assholes on my own property.”
    I still am not clear on why we are attempting to get away from these guys. Besides Ivan’s threatening demeanor, there is no clear evidence to suggest that they want anything more than to observe me. And no matter what happens today, a bigger problem lies ahead: my entire post-transmission existence. Am I not the man who entered the departing portal back in Houston? My declining dexterity suggests that something indeed went wrong between Texas and Arizona, and it makes me sick to think what exactly the error might have been. Is something permanently wrong with me? And what the hell is it?
    I turn to Tom just as his eyes widen, and then see what has surprised him: Ivan. He is walking toward us, but instead of coming from the putting green, he has been slinking around the rocks on our right. It seems as though the one place we forgot to watch is the exact direction from which we came.
    Tom grabs my arm. “I knew it! He’s got a gun. Come on!”
    We scamper between the rocks, onto the green, feet slipping on the wet grass. Our present course would take us across the cart path toward a row of houses, but Ed has foreseen this predictable response and stands directly in our path. Through the driving rain I see a gun held chest high and pointed directly at us. We come to a stop just as lightning stabs out of the sky, branching in several directions as it blazes toward the ground. Thunder booms from nowhere. Rivers of rain pour off the bill of my cap.
    I turn around again, looking for Ivan, and find him walking toward us. His gun is now trained on us as well.
    â€œWhat the hell do we do now?” I ask Tom.
    About forty yards separates each of the men from us. If we’re going to do anything other than surrender, it better be now.
    â€œI’m telling you, Cameron. We can’t let these guys catch us.”
    â€œWhat do you—”
    â€œJust come on!”
    Tom takes off, back across the green again, splitting the distance between the two men. I don’t know what else to do, so I follow him. We are no longer headed toward the houses, but instead run perpendicular to our former course. They could shoot us now—from behind, shoot us in our backs—but something tells me this is not going to happen. Why would they kill us? What have we done? So I run behind Tom, my legs raw now, feet sloshing inside wet shoes, until we reach the cart path. A small stucco structure stands just ahead. Perhaps a snack bar or bathrooms. The path will also take us back to the clubhouse if we follow it long enough.
    The sky is dark now, the color of a bruise. Clouds are lower, rolling near the ground, even obscuring a nearby butte. The rain pelts our backs and the ground without mercy. I can’t believe this is happening in southern Arizona. We’re supposed to be in a desert.
    And then, as if from nowhere, another man leaps into view. Another! There are three of them! Tom veers to his left, his feet slip, and he spills toward the ground in a heap. The man jumps on him at once. Beneath them, the muddy ground slopes away from the cart path—apparently paved at the crest of a small hill—and they slide down perhaps twenty feet.
    â€œKeep running!” Tom screams at me. “Don’t stop!”
    But I can’t keep running. I can’t leave Tom behind. I turn around, intending to go after him, when I see Ivan barreling toward me on the cart path.
    â€œFind Crystal, Cam! Get the fuck out of here and find—”
    His words are cut off by a