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2: Busted 6:34 AM, Thursday Anthony’s glossy eyes widened. He swiped the back of his hand across each cheek, wiping away the tears streaming down his face. Light from the computer monitor illuminated his face but especially sparkled in his eyes. He sniffled. "What’s wrong?" Anthony gasped and jumped in his seat. He fell off the bench, tumbling to the floor by a pair of bare feet. He gazed up at their owner. "Are you okay?" Chad furrowed his eyebrows. He extended a hand to Anthony. "Chad!" he replied as his left hand slapped into Chad’s. "You’re my hero." Chad raised an eyebrow. "Anthony," he said, "I thought you were off the drugs." Sliding back onto the bench, Anthony pointed to the computer screen. "You risked your life to carry me through the desert! And now you’re dead!" Chad shook his head. He leaned over Anthony and took hold of the mouse. "No, I’m revived in the epilogue." CLICK! A new page appeared. Anthony sat back and sighed. "Thanks for ruining the story for me." "My pleasure!" Chad stepped back. "So, how many have you read?" "Just this one. I was looking at your other bookmarks first." Anthony perused the text on the screen. "They have pretty cool pen names," he added, chuckling to himself. "Like Fastfood Junkie wrote this one." "Yeah," Chad smiled. "John’s favourite story was written by a girl named Chewable Morphine. It’s about us..." SQUEEL! Chad slammed into Anthony as the tour bus swerved to the right. The laptop clunked into the wall, and plates slid off the countertop, shattering on the walls. Chad threw his arms across the top of his head, and Anthony leaned over him as glass shards rained over them. The pieces clattered to the floor, as the bus ground to a halt. Several seconds of silence slid by before Anthony raised his head. He rubbed the back of his throbbing neck and, when he lowered his arm, he found blood speckling his palm. He sighed. Chad got to his knees, his eyes meeting with Anthony’s. "’The hell was that?" Anthony blinked and shrugged. The two got to their feet and marched down the centre aisle, toward the front of the bus. A gangly shadow stood in the middle, a hand to his head. "Mike!" John called to the bus driver. "What happened?" Mike murmured a reply, and Flea joined the three in the aisle. His eyes were puffy, and he squinted at Anthony. "What’s going on?" He rasped, rubbing his left eye. "THIS IS THE POLICE!" a tinny voice rattled from outside the tour bus. The four stood wide-eyed, glancing at one another as the voice continued. "PLEASE STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE AND PUT YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEADS!" "’The hell did we do?" Chad furrowed his eyebrows. "Sh**! This can’t be over speeding," Anthony stated, and John shrugged. The two raised their arms into the air and folded their hands against the base of their skulls. Chad and Flea followed suit, and paced toward the door of the bus. John stepped out first. A policeman stood before him, a gawky young man who tapped his shoe against the gravel underfoot. The kid’s eyes darted about as he adjusted his dark police cap. His arms dangled at his sides, the fingers of his right hand playing against the gun on his utility belt. John gulped. "Move it along!" A burly hand shot out from John’s left. It latched onto his shoulder and shoved him. John stumbled forward a few steps, toward Mike, before regaining his balance. He turned toward the bus. A Crown Victoria sprawled across the road, in front of the path of the tour bus. The bus was mere inches from the side of the sedan, just inches from slamming into it. John raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the door. Flea slid off the last step, and the husky cop pushed him toward Chad and Anthony, who stood beside John. The cop glared at the five, his eyes so dark and sinister that John stung from within. He looked away, instead glancing at his comrades. Anthony stood directly beside him, fingers fidgeting behind his head. Anthony bit his lower lip. Wisps of bleached blond hair wiggled over his eyes, scrunching his nose as ends of these strands brushed across it. He trembled a bit, perhaps because of fear, perhaps because the morning air felt so dead. John looked next to Chad. Muscles tensioned, stony eyes staring straight ahead, Chad could have been replaced with a life-size toy soldier and have not looked any differently. The digits interlocked behind his head whitened as they pressed against his short, wavy locks. Just beyond Chad, Flea visibly shivered, his baby blues glazed, the mind behind them barely aware of its surroundings. Flea had only been asleep for a few hours, just long enough for his body to stop regulating internal temperature. Flea’s body was at its daily low point. His hands jittered, barely holding to his light curls. He stifled a yawn, swallowing it back inside himself. The husky cop paced past Flea, past Chad, Past Anthony, John, and Mike. Then turned. And approached John, with that soul shattering glare. John lowered his head, and the officer spoke. "You’re clean," the copper said, nodding toward Mike. "But the rest of you have been charged with being in possession of narcotics, if not trafficking as well..." "’The hell!" Chad exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. "We’ve all been clean for..." "You have the right to remain silent," the officer scowled at Chad. "Anything you say can..." "I know my f***ing rights!" Chad retorted. "I’m just saying you’re wasting your time! You can search the bus; we’re clean." The husky copper snorted. "We’ll see about that." Grabbing onto Mike’s shoulder, he ushered the bus driver back onto the bus. John’s eyes focused on the officer’s shoes as he took to the steps. Once white Nikes, the copper’s sneakers were now caked with mud. John shook his head. "Um, excuse me, officer? Can we see your badge?" Each of the other Chili Peppers shot John a confused glance while the cop dug his hands in his pockets. "Well, sure, boy!" A sharp pain shot through John’s back. He gasped, starting to turn. A hand grasped his shoulder, and the throbbing along his spine doubled as something hard grinded into it. "Whatever he shows you, accept," a weaselly voice whispered in John’s ear. "Don’t try to play the hero." John froze, wide-eyed, staring at the hulking cop who drew a shiny badge from his pocket. He flashed it to each Chili Pepper. They all glanced nonchalantly at the embossed hunk of metal, all except for John. He gulped as the officer boarded the bus with Mike. Taking in a deep breath, John closed his eyes. The stabbing in his back intensified, then waned as John’s mind retreated from his body, going inside, into a self-induced subconscious state. He needed to think. So much happening. So much around him. A brief step away from his body, away from immediate dangers, and he knew what to do. His eyelids flew open. "They’re not real cops!" A shove from behind, and John fell to his knees. He coughed. His hands slid into mud, his knees beneath him feeling damp. Something dug into the back of his skull. John trembled, and lowered his head into the ground. Mud sloshed over his hands as he slid them further into the muck. "What the f*** is your problem?" the impish voice overhead shouted, sending a shiver down John’s spine. "Do you WANT to die?" A foot drove into John’s back. Crying out, he slammed into the mud. His face sunk into it. He jerked his head upward but met a force at the base of his skull. He coughed. And coughed. And coughed. Each time he did, inhaling mud into his airways. Still, he coughed, though he fought his body’s inclination to do so. CLICK! "Please let him up," John heard Anthony’s voice waver. "Just... just tell us what you want." John’s coughing weakened as he began feeling lightheaded. His arms hadn’t the strength to move. He was having a hard time stringing concepts with thoughts, images with meaning. Colours swirled across his vision, his body limp. "Josh! You’re gonna kill him, you moron!" a deep, raspy voice exclaimed. The pressure on John’s back and head let up, but he lay there. A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders, flipping him onto his back. John’s eyes fluttered closed. Something pounded into his flanneled chest. And again. John coughed, mud spewing forth from his lips. He lay there, coughing and gasping for air, his breathing ragged and raw. His eyes were open but only the whites showed. John’s eyes focused on Anthony, shivering and pale, just ten feet away. His black T-shirt flapped in the breeze, strands of his hair across the top half of his face. To the left, a gun was still trained at John’s forehead. "What... what do you want?" John gasped, then hacked up another clump of mud. "Just get in the car!" the heavyset man grabbed Flea’s T-shirt collar and led him to the passenger’s side of the car. Eyebrows furrowed, Flea glanced about, his blue eyes stormy with confusion. The man opened the back door and shoved Flea into the car. Latching onto Chad’s shoulder, he pushed the drummer into the car next. Chad collided with Flea; the two huddled together, away from the open door and their captor. The heavyset man turned to Josh. "’ight! Put the kid in the trunk!" He gestured toward John. The Chili Pepper was lying on his back, eyes closed, head tilted back, eyes closed, heaving and wheezing. "Please don’t make him ride in the trunk!" Anthony protested. "Are you telling me what to do, runt?" the man snarled, grabbing hold of Anthony’s arm, shoving him against the car. The frigid metal sent a chill through Anthony’s spine. "You think ‘cause you’re famous that you’re better than me, a hard working member of the labouring class?" The man’s eyes bulged, glaring at the singer. His grip tightened, his fingernails digging into flesh. "N...no, sir," Anthony stuttered. His eyes wandered to John, who now lay on his side, staring back at his friend. Anthony’s sights returned to the man. "I, I’m asking you. You can put me in the trunk instead." The man backed away from Anthony, who sighed. With a huff, he turned to John. "Get your sorry ass off the ground!" John got to his feet, as the husky man fumbled with his keys. He unlocked the trunk, which popped open. John and Anthony exchanged glances as they were led past one another, into their respective prisons. Anthony climbed into the trunk of the sedan. He held his legs to his chest, curling himself into a ball. The trunk closed over him, leaving him in complete darkness. He heard feet falling heavy, doors slam, the car’s engine rumble to life. The car sped away, into the early morning light. |