Rift by Richard Cox Page B

for him again, I am shocked to find him less than thirty yards behind me.
    I’m in decent shape for a thirty-five-year-old man, but only Superman could keep up this pace forever. Any moment my legs are simply going to stop moving. I was dumb to leave the cart path, where at least the possibility of encountering other people existed, and now I don’t have the strength to get back there, not with that hill to climb.
    I look behind me and find Ivan closer still. He no longer carries the gun, but this provides little consolation, since I could surely mount no physical defense against him. I am caught. There is no escape. I am—
    My feet slip out from under me while my head is still turned, and I fall headfirst into the ground. Searing pain sweeps across my cheek as my face strikes a rock embedded in the mud. I slide forward, my arms and exhausted legs scrambling against the grime, instinctively trying to resume my flight from danger. With great effort I gather my feet close and struggle to stand. Then arms grasp me from behind in a powerful bear hug. Ivan pulls me backwards briefly and then throws me against the ground, pinning me there. When I try to look at him, mud oozes into my eyes. Stinging me. Blinding me.
    â€œWhy did you run?”
he screams.
    My mind, whirling and nauseous, doesn’t comprehend the question. My eyes scream in pain. My ears roar. I think I must have suffered some sort of brain trauma when my face hit the rock.
    â€œWhat do you know? Tell me or I’ll drown you in that river.”
    River?
    â€œTalk to me, goddammit!”
    The roaring is louder now. Not brain damage, but the sound of rushing water. I must have been running directly toward it.
    He seizes my shoulders and slings me closer to the roaring sound. I land on my back, solidly, and the impact induces a jagged fit of coughing that I fear will yield blood.
    â€œYour friend back there knew something. He told you to call Crystal. Was this a setup?”
    I would like to know the answer to that question myself.
    Ivan seizes my shoulders again. This time, instead of throwing me, he straddles my body and drags me forward until the ground beneath my head falls away. Adrenaline pours into me, pooling as terror in my fingers and toes.
    I have landed on the bank of a surging current of mud and water. Even from this compromised position I can see the river tugging at its bank, eroding the rain-softened earth at an alarming rate. Our position so close to the edge is obviously not safe. Already the mud beneath me is moving, pulled toward the river and sinking at the same time. If I go into that water, I will likely die.
    Ivan leans forward. Pulls my head close. Tobacco and garlic foul his breath.
    â€œTell me, motherfucker, or I’ll throw you in. Tell me what you know and how you know it.”
    â€œDid the transmission do something to me? Am I going to die?”
    He doesn’t answer.
    â€œAre you going to kill me?”
    â€œI didn’t come out here to kill you,” he says. “You shouldn’t have run.”
    The ground is still moving, down and away, but now
I
am moving as well. Sinking. My body is two, maybe three inches below the surface of the mud. Ivan seems to notice this the same time I do, because he lets go of me and tries to step away. But his feet are stuck. He loses balance and falls backwards, onto my ankles.
    My head fell when he let go and now hangs over the soft edge of the bank, pulling my neck deeper into the mud. Ivan manages to suck his feet out and stumbles away from me, but I can barely move. This mud is like quicksand. My arms and legs are almost completely immobilized. If anything, struggling seems to be pulling me down more quickly.
    Fear floods me now, a claustrophobic terror with which I am utterly unfamiliar. This is what it must feel like to die.
    â€œHelp me!” I yell.
    Ivan stands and seems to come closer. I can’t see him, not with my head hanging so far over the