The Veil War

I tore out of my cosy, cardboard, under-the-overpass estate, absorbing the buffeting from the rough terrain with my legs. I cut off a Ford Taurus and accelerated southwards on Dallas Ave. A chill wind cut into my face.

“Where’s the party?” I yelled.

Everything gone to shit just as I expected. I wait for days, in a box, and the fuckhead gets hisself capped less than five minutes after he pokes his stupid head out of his fucking rabbit hole.

Beardman’s voice spoke in my left ear, “Turned east off of Dallas.”

“Awesome. They’re heading for the highway, then. Get someone to take care of Fritz. He’s a little worse for wear.”

Perfect. I wove through the sparse traffic, punching up to fifty on the straights and braking for the intersections. The buildings transitioned from deepest ghetto to just the wrong side of impoverished but still trying.

Traffic thickened as I made my way south. I cut left, jacked hard through the gears on the straightaway. I barely touched the brakes as I blew through the intersection. Ran the gears again and let off the throttle slightly.

I crested a low rise at speed and felt my nuts contract as I floated for a moment in zero-g. The bikers leisurely motored on about a mile or so ahead of me. “Hey, I see the party. Should I crash it or what?”

“Give me a sec.”

Fucking awesome.

“We’ve got air.”

I slowed, not particularly wanting to spook a bunch of people who just dropped a dude in cold blood.

I inched my way closer, keeping my driving relatively sane.

“OK, crash the party. Not too hard. Some of them will need to work tomorrow.”

“Right.”

Local police was in the bag, but only at the highest level. Assuming I didn’t get shot, I had a get out of jail free card. “Let me know if they turn,” I said and made a sudden turn right.

I opened up the throttle. A bit more than a half mile the next intersection lurked, malevolent and waiting to eat me. I punched up to 70, hit the brakes and leaned hard to the left and took the corner at almost 40. Cars honked their horns, and I made the most awesome Pittsburgh left in human history as I threaded the traffic just as the light turned and no one was moving yet.

I roared east again. I cranked it hard, up to a hundred. Industrial facades rushed past. I tucked my head down and raced. “Let me know when to turn,” I shouted.

Tactical Beardman, if he could see the monitor through his facial hair, should be bright enough to divine my plan. I raced down the street, popped left to pass grandma in her town car. The engine howled and I waited.

“Next street” Beardman whispered in my ear.

The buildings and the parked and derelict cars rushed past. I had the oddest sensation that I was standing still and the world was moving west at over a hundred miles an hour. I scanned ahead.

Green light.

Yellow light.

I hit the rear brake hard, downshifted. Took the turn and worked back through the gears. The bike loved me and I loved it.

“Slow down.”

I eased off the throttle. Red light ahead.

“Blue van,” I saw a blue van cross the intersection fast approaching me.

“Then red shitbox, white pick up, then bikes. Thirty foot spacing.” Tactical Beardman might be a complete douchebag but he was, despite it all, Tactical.

A red Dodge coupe from the last century crossed. I gauged the distance to the cross street, added another couple mph.

A white F-150 crossed. Almost there…

I goosed the throttle one last time, popped up on my rear wheel. I screamed.