#samdash

He wondered if he should ask the man where he wanted to go next from here, but he figured that he would tell him and stayed quiet.

Overalle Street was considered (by Allen) to be the scab under the bandaid, the bandaid being the beautiful skyline of the main road parallel to this one. A little pocket of filth and grime behind the squeak and shiny. Rusty, chain link fences with spirals of barbed wire lined the side of the road, caging within broken down cars, old, boarded up brick buildings, and scarred German shepherds who looked like war-beaten veterans. More skyscrapers loomed in the darkness, the orange and white-lighted windows floating above like stationary ghosts. A few scraggly vagabonds strolled along the grass underneath the fences, some in dark clothing, others in patchworked tatters, and they all eyed the vehicle as it passed with no small amount of distaste.

The stranger seemed unusually quiet back there, but then again, was it unusual? Allen didn't ask questions. He just drove.

But Overalle Street made him nervous, so his hand went to the passenger seat where his burger sat, and he shoved it into his mouth. Perhaps the savor of the meat would calm him.

Hmm. That's odd. That German Shepherd seemed to be barking at nothing.

But dogs barked at nothing on a regular basis.

With their hackles up?

A huge shape moved in the darkness from the driveway of a broken-down house, and an audaciously decorated food truck shot out into the street, coming to a screeching halt across it.

Allen's heart pounded.

A figure. No. Two figures. One tall, one remarkably small, leapt from the back of the vehicle.

Allen gulped.

Each hefting handguns. They fanned out to either side of the road so there could possibly be no escape through the small pockets.

No escape that way, anyways.

As soon as he had that thought, a pair of bright white lights flooded into his mirrors, and dueling motorcycle engines screamed into the night.

The huge man detached himself from the shadows and stalked towards the driver side of the vehicle. Allen balled his hands into his fists, getting ready to fight. He wouldn't go down without one. He didn't get a black belt in jujitsu for nothing.

Behind him, two darkly dressed men in motorcycle helmets rushed up to the taxi just as the big man opened the driver's seat.

Allen almost expected to be pulled out by the shirt collar, but the man merely swept his hand in an inviting gesture and said politely, “Please exit the vehicle.”

“What?” Allen demanded, the burger falling to the ground. “Are you cops or something?”

“Or something,” said a young man's voice from the shadows.

Behind him, the two men had rushed up to the car--one on either side– their handguns drawn, and the shorter of the two ripped open the back seat door.

And started with surprise.

Pointing his gun upwards, he leaned into the vehicle, then crossed to the trunk, opening it with a rusty POP!

“Well?” Came a third voice, a raspy, rough voice, coming from the direction of the food truck. “Is he there, Halt?”

The shorter man slammed the trunk shut with a grunt of frustration, then kicked his toe in the dirt for good measure. Whipping his helmet off his head, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

Then, he seemed to notice Allen for the first time, and smartly approached him.

The first thing Allen noticed about him was his untamed, unruly, uneven grizzled hair, and a full, business-like beard. Then, he noticed the eyes. Dark, flashing windows that never broke contact for a second once contact had been confirmed.

“Where is he?” The man hissed, so close Allen could smell the coffee on his breath from that morning. Or was it the morning before?

“Who?” Allen asked.

The man pointed back at the taxi. “Your passenger. Dark-haired man with black hoodie and a bow. Where. Is. He?”

Allen's brow scrunched up, confused. “Isn't he–?” he began, and crossed back to the car, peering inside the backseat.

Empty.

Just like that Rang–

Allen snapped his mouth shut, even though he hadn't said anything. And turned to face the little, grizzle-bearded man. “I don't understand,” he said. “He was back there! I talked to him! He gave me directions--sorta…”

The taller motorcycle man held up a hand. “We know that,” he said. “We just want to know where he went.”

Allen spread his hands. “I don't know! I didn't even stop long enough for him to leave or heard the door open! I didn't want to drive him in the first place! He just got in on my break and demanded to be driven somewhere! This isn't my fault….!”

The shorter man held up a hand, shaking his head in defeat. “No need to get uptight,” he assured Allen gruffly. “We believe you. We've lost him. It's as simple as that.”

Shrugging, he sighed, and crossed back to his bike, wheeling it toward the food truck. “Good hustle out there,” he told the other men. “You all did good.”

As Allen drove away from that spot, eyes glazed as if in a trance, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had, once again, run into a Ranger.