The Imagination Latibule: Moon Knight - The Rise of the Moon

Chapter 14

Marc and Steven were in the recovery position and breathing steadily, if not a bit shallowly. You sat, raking the sand through your fingers into small piles beneath your palms, thinking what to do. Khonshu was gone, and you never thought you'd miss his presence. Without the suit, Marc and Steven were vulnerable, and--

--Your ears pricked at the sound of an engine. No one would be out in the middle of the desert unless they'd followed you, and the only people who would have were Harrow's devout cult. 

"Shit," you muttered, as bright headlights swamped the area. A yell echoed across the desert, and you threw yourself over Steven and Marc's body as someone open fired. You tucked your hands under their arms, and dragged them down the dune out of the line of fire. The sand was lose, and you yelped as the two of you went tumbling down, landing in a messy heap at the bottom. Marc and Steven had landed on their back, still in a deep sleep. You heard the assailants car fighting the sand as it sped up the dune, and you sprinted towards the van you'd driven in, hiding out of sight as the car drove down the other side. You could hear the rattling of ammunition. They'd come with the intent to kill both of you.

You felt like you couldn't catch your breath as the car slowed to a crawl, scanning the ground. The light fell over Marc and Stevens body, and you prayed to whatever God was still listening that they wouldn't shoot him. Under the assumption he was already dead, they didn't. 

"I saw someone running!" one of the men yelled and you swore under your breath. Then you heard a second engine, one you presumed was more of Harrow's men. But a motorbike appeared, skidding across the sand and throwing a blanket of dust over the men, who's line of sight was obscured. Then the engine cut off, and you saw a figure running towards you.

"Layla," you cried in a whisper.

"You moved the whole sky?" she cried in a louder whisper, throwing her hands in exasperation as she hid next to you. You held up your hands in defeat.

"Not me," you said, swivelling and peering over the van bonnet. The top of your fingers went white as you clutched the metal, watching as the car slowly towards the side of the van. It was crammed to the brim with cases of bullets, like they weren't just there to kill, but maim beyond recognition. 

The car was coming clockwise, so you and crept clockwise in synchronicity to the van. She slipped the latch off the back of the van and pulled open the door, and the two of you crawled inside, lying on the sticky floor as the beam of light shot across the windows, narrowly skimming over the both of you. 

You rested your head to your left, eyes scanning the assortment of boxes stashed under the uncomfortably rickety bench. Then you saw it. A crate of flares. Why they were in this van, you had no idea, but did you intend to hunt down the person who put them there and thank them? Yes. You slid one out of the hole in the side of the crate intended as a handle, and turned back to Layla who caught the gleam in your eye. 

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" you asked, handing her one, and she nodded. "Wait," you hesitated. "I just thought that would sound cool. What are you thinking?" 

Layla gripped your hand tightly and you felt a new lease of confidence. "I'll distract them," she said, climbing out of the van. You watched her go, astounded that a person could seem so calm in such a situation. You grabbed a second flare, and a third just to be safe, and followed her out, dropping into a low crouch as she ran out from behind the van and lit the flare.

It only took a second for her to be seen. "There she is!" one of the men shouted, and an instant barrage of heavy gunfire was thrown at Layla. She sprinted off into the night and the car engine revved as it followed. That's where you came in. Lighting the flare - something you'd never done before but was no harder than striking a match - you waited until the car had past you and then lobbed the flare into the back of it, where the flammable ignition took to the flame like paper in a wild fire. You covered your face with your hands as the car nearly flipped in the force of the fireball that enveloped it. The evening was already unbearably sweaty and you grimaced at the heat of the fire, taking several steps back.