This story was created for the HIGHLANDER REMIX series in 2005 and is a remix based on the story ROAD RAGE -- by merriman   There are no warnings for sex or excessive violence – just a story.

BUYING TIME

While it might appear that Methos had selected the exact location, the day and the precise time that the accident would occur through a mystical extra-sensory power possessed by some immortals, or maybe through the unbreakable bond between brothers that served to protect and preserve, it had taken a lot of hard work.

Over the years he had learned that there were researchers in Paris who would field his questions about locations of certain immortals without tying the answers together.  The current rapidly-spreading rumor was that “Methos” had turned up in the United States and was working his way west.  He was quite certain that this “Methos” was the same person who had inhabited the sewers of New York City in the 1980’s, but had never verified this to his satisfaction.  He wasn’t interested in confronting that “Methos” anyway, though he knew probably he would have to do it eventually.

Right now his concern was another immortal who was probably trailing this other “Methos”.  Not just any immortal, but Kronos -- his brother, his comrade in arms, the man who represented everything he had tried not to be for now close to three thousand years.  Even after he learned that Kronos had escaped from the well in the monastery, he had been successful in avoiding him.  Like the fake “Methos,” Kronos would eventually have to be dealt with.   He knew he couldn’t kill him, but this carefully concocted plan should buy him a little more time for preparation before Kronos was successful in locating him to kill or to claim.

The freeways across America were a nightmare far worse than any Kronos had had to face in the days when horses had been the fastest mode of transportation.  Kronos would want to make the trip fast and direct -- the ride was always as important as the raid.  Methos was certain that he would be traveling by motorcycle . . . without a helmet.   Bikes were like horses coming in different sizes, temperaments and colors, while helmets restricted the freedom of the ride and the feel of the wind in your hair.  Equally Kronos was the sense of “why bother;” he probably didn’t have a driver’s license either.

Methos studied the roads west from New York City and decided that Interstate 80 offered the most direct route.  It would be easy for Kronos to forego Cleveland . . . though he might stop in Toledo for a Tony Paco’s hotdog.  His computer program then calculated the speed and gas mileage of the large size motorcycle Kronos would have selected, although he could have done it just as fast on an abacus.  Despite the lure of its colorful past, the traffic congestion in Chicago would probably cause him to elect to drive around it.  Considering the ensuing boredom of middle-America, coupled with the aggravation remaining from the windy city, Methos finally concluded that the event should occur somewhere just east of Davenport, Iowa.   Still if any calculation was off, he would have been one hospital too far in either direction.  Maybe it was magic.

There is a rapid turnover in Emergency Room jobs in small hospitals especially those near busy interstates.  The hospital H.R. director barely looked at his credentials -- a degree from a medical school in Germany, years of work in Europe, most of it accurate if you disregarded the first two numbers replaced by the apostrophe.  He took the midnight shift and for the first time in years was up to his elbows in blood and entrails almost every night.  Even though he knew the job was only temporary and that he would be vanishing without collecting a paycheck, there was something enjoyable about returning to medicine and saving a few lives along the way.

The EMS dispatcher reported that the driver had turned his bike sharply across traffic, skidding into the gravel scattered in the breakdown lane.  He had staggered to his feet, unbuckled the bags from the trashed bike and begun walking down the interstate.  He didn’t notice the semi-truck that swerved slightly to the right and knocked him flying into the air.  Seven drivers on cell phones had called in the emergency.

The man with the scar on his face, down through his eye, was pronounced DOA by the squad.   The new young doctor felt that he should take one more look.   Somehow he had detected a very weak heart rhythm the others had missed and a scan revealed brain activity.  The doctor insisted that the man be X-Rayed immediately so that the full extent of his injuries, which should have been fatal, could be determined.  The patient’s head would have to be put in a stabilizing halo and he was placed in a full-body cast.  He shuddered to think what Kronos would say upon awakening, but no matter how unpleasant Kronos got, there would be a nurse to fill him full of sedation and keep him immobile.

In the meantime the wonderful young doctor who had saved the motorcyclist’s life would have disappeared. He would be on his way to Seacouver and his preferred identity as Adam Pierson.  He could reenter the lives of his friends Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod and decide what should be done about the fake Methos.  Even though he knew that eventually Kronos would find him, he had bought himself a little bit of time.

McJude

June 14, 2005