The Rising
Page 25

“I’m calling 911,” the woman babbled. “I don’t care what you say. I’m calling.”
I lay under the big vehicle. It was a tight fit and I was flattened against the pavement, ears smashed against my head. The woman reached the dispatcher before Ash could get to her.
“There,” she said. “The police will come and shoot it.”
“Hell, no,” her husband said. “I’ve got my rifle from last weekend. I should have remembered that earlier. Forget a photo. I’ll get a real trophy.”
The man opened the hatch of his SUV—the one right over my head.
“You’re going to shoot her?” Ash said, his voice wavering, as if he was struggling to stay calm and reasonable. “Do you know how much trouble you’ll get in? They’re an endangered species.”
“Not in BC they’re not.” He rummaged through the back of his truck. “I’m a hunter, boy. I know what’s what, and this beast just attacked me—I hope you got a picture of that, Sue. I’m within my rights to shoot it.”
“In a parking garage? After your wife called 911?”
“Couldn’t be helped.” A rifle case clicked. “It went after her, too. Right, Sue?”
His wife said nothing.
“Huh,” the man said. “Looks like I forgot to unload it. We’re all set, then. I’ll just—”
I heard Ash let out a snarl and watched his running feet disappear as he jumped the guy. The man fell back. Ash took him down as the woman screamed. Ash leaped to his feet first. He kicked the man, hard enough to make him wail. Then he kicked him again.
“Run, Maya!” Ash shouted.
I was already squeezing out the other side of the SUV. I raced into the lane and heard a rumble. I looked over to see headlights, so bright they blinded me. Tires squealed. Someone shouted. I saw the man lying on the ground, his wife running to the car, shrieking and sobbing. There was no sign of Ash.
“Run!”
Ash tore from between the SUVs, my clothes bundled under his arm. “Run!” he yelled again.
I roared up the ramp, Ash behind me. As I rounded the corner to the exit, headlights blinded me again and I dived to the side. The wrong side. I was pinned against a wall near the exit, trapped between it and a car. A police car.
SEVENTEEN
“OH, YEAH,” SAID THE officer in the passenger seat as he lowered his window. “That’s a cougar.”
His partner swore and stopped the car. I could see Ash on the other side, tucked behind a pillar, his gaze darting from the cruiser to me.
The passenger door opened.
“Hey!” his partner called. “Don’t do that!”
Ash stepped from his hiding spot and waved for me to get out of the building. I tore through the exit and nearly mowed down two girls in miniskirts. The police siren echoed their screams as the officers shouted at Ash and the girls to take cover.
I barreled past the girls and raced along the sidewalk, only to see a whole crowd of college kids pouring from a bar. I veered onto the road. I didn’t stop to look. I didn’t think to. I saw all those people and my brain sent me flying the other way—right into traffic.
Brakes squealed. Horns honked. People shouted. A crash behind me as cars collided. I kept running, swerving around them, tearing down the middle of the street as drivers stopped and gaped and pulled out cell phones.
Another siren joined the first. Then a third. The sounds snapped me back and I raced to the opposite sidewalk, pedestrians flying like bowling pins as they scattered out of my way.
“Maya!” Ash shouted behind me. “You need to get—”
I veered down the first gap between buildings. An alleyway. I raced along it until I passed a row of recycling bins outside a doorway. I tucked myself between the bins and was standing there, flanks heaving, when Ash caught up.
I looked up at him.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Take cover.” He peered up and down the alley. “This looks good. Just stay where you are.” Another look. “And tuck in your tail.”
I pulled it in and sat, my sides still heaving as my heart rate slowed.
Ash crouched beside me. “You okay?”
I dipped my muzzle in a nod.
“Scary, huh?” He said the words awkwardly, like it wasn’t something he was accustomed to admitting.
I dipped my head again.
He hunkered down, getting more comfortable. “I think we did okay. Best we could, under the circumstances. Just . . . a string of bad luck.”
I chuffed.
“I shouldn’t have gone after that kid,” he said. “I should have listened to you. Ignored it. But . . .” He rolled his shoulders. “Sometimes I can’t.” He looked down the alley. “Most times I can’t.”
It’s not easy. There are all kinds of racism—from that frat-boy ugliness down to the kind of stereotyping and misconceptions where people don’t even seem to realize they’re doing or saying anything offensive. I had been lucky growing up in Salmon Creek. The way we were raised, I didn’t even feel different. I was just one of the kids. My parents were just a normal couple. I think I was ten before I even heard the term interracial marriage.
Even when I encountered racism outside Salmon Creek, it usually rolled off me. The worst of it often came from rednecks whipping past in rusted pickups. I looked at them and I looked at me—class leader, track star, straight-A student—and their slurs about dirty Indians and drunk Indians and dumb Indians were laughable.
Mom says crap like that comes from people who’ve accomplished so little in life that they feel the need to lift themselves above someone, anyone. So they pick skin color or religion or sexual orientation and say, “Well, I might not be much, but at least I’m not a . . .” I’d look at those guys, and see the truth of her words. Even with the frat boys, I knew I was their equal. In a couple of years, I could be sitting in class beside them.
But it was different for Ash. He certainly seemed smart, but from the way he talked, he hadn’t spent much time in school. If I asked about college, I’m sure he’d make some crack about having to decide between Harvard and Yale. That wasn’t in his future. Nor were athletic trophies and community awards and academic scholarships. He’d look at the rednecks in the rust-bucket pickups and say, “At least they have a truck.”