“Leading the pursuit is Marshal Rufus T. Dimmock,” Bobby-Ray said. “He seems lost in thought here and it looks like it’s unfamiliar territory for him. His colleagues have told me that he’s a lot smarter than he looks, which we’re meant to find reassuring.”
Noticing all the interest in his naked companion, the Marshal’s face clouded.
“Don’t stand there like that, go and commandeer some clothing,” he snapped. “Look at you, you’re a disgrace to your uniform.”
“I’m nude,” the Highway Patrolman said.
“Exactly!”
The Highway Patrolman looked around for some clothes. Most of the men stepped back and pretended a great deal of interest in their shoes, not wanting to catch his eye. As the others melted away, two men were left in plain view – a big beachball-shaped man in short pants and a Hawaiian shirt and a short skinny man in dungarees. They were deep in conversation about whether losing your virginity to a robot really counted and didn’t notice the Highway Patrolman’s interest in them until it was too late.
“Give me your clothes,” the Highway Patrolman said to the little man.
“Not that one, you idiot!” the Marshal shouted. Shaking his head he turned away, muttering. “And they wonder why folk object to these plastic policemen.”
Beside me, Floyd did the harrumphing thing again.
“Who among you fine citizens has a motor vehicle?” the Marshal asked.
The question caught people by surprise and a few half-raised their hands before they realised what lay behind the enquiry. The man who was filming the video must have been one of those who raised his hand. The Marshal looked directly at him.
“You’re not pointing that thing directly at me, are you boy?”
The image swung around suddenly as the young man sought to hide the camera – but he still kept filming. The lens was pointing upwards and the autofocus was trying to get a clear image of the Marshal’s nostrils.
“No, sir,” the young man said.
“Which vehicle is yours, son?”
The young man swung and pointed with his camera hand. The image was upside down, but it was clear enough. He was pointing to a battered old moped that seemed to be missing the cowling from its rear motor.
“Are you trying to be funny, boy?” the Marshal asked.
“No, sir.”
The Marshal looked around, but everyone else with a motor vehicle had scrambled into it and was beating a hasty retreat.
“What are you a paid decoy?” he asked the young man with the camera.
“No, sir. I don’t know what that is.”
“This outfit looks ridiculous,” the Highway Patrolman said. He was wearing short pants, Hawaiian shirt and flipflops.
“You suit it,” the Marshal said. He pointed towards the moped. “Can you take the battery from that thing and put it in your motorcycle?”
“You can’t take my battery,” the young man wailed.
“Yes, I can. This is official police business.”
“I’m going to write to the mayor!”
“You do that, son. Just as soon as you learn how to write. And if you point that camera at me one more time I’m going to take it and shove it somewhere you won’t want to write the mayor about.”
It looked as though the Marshal and the Highway Patrolman would be catching up with us again soon after all.
“Keep an eye out for them in the rear-view camera,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“They’re behind us,” Floyd said.
“Crawford’s guys?” I asked.
“Two men in a pale blue pick-up truck.”
We’d made the most of our head start, but given how short it was they were bound to catch up. Harmony was in the Trekker scouting the road ahead to make sure there was no one lying in wait to ambush us. Floyd and I would have to deal with the men in the pick-up truck.
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to shoot their tyres or something?” Floyd said.
He was right – they always do that in the movies. But I knew from experience that it was nowhere near as easy as they made it look. Hitting a moving target is tricky. Hitting it when you’re also sitting in a moving target makes it super tricky. I checked my revolver – it was fully-loaded. Even if I couldn’t manage to hit their tyres, a few near-misses with explosive slugs might persuade them to give up. I wound down the window and stuck my head out.
My eyes and mouth were immediately filled with dust and grit. I ducked back inside. There’s a piece of sage advice that it’s easy to forget at moments like this – Never spit into the wind.
“Do you want me to do it?” Floyd asked.
“I can wipe my own face,” I said, using my sleeve to clean off the dust and spit.
“I meant the shooting part.”
Floyd’s cannon was sitting on the centre console. He stood a much better chance of hitting the vehicle behind us. But that was the problem. The cannon would destroy the pick-up truck and that might mean fatalities.
“I’ll do it,” I said. This time I would keep my mouth closed. And as for my eyes... I rummaged through the flotsam that had accumulated in the storage bin near the cupholders. My sunglasses had gone AWOL weeks ago but I found a pair that Harmony must have dropped in there.
Floyd looked at me as I put them on. “You look like a drag-queen hiding from the paparazzi,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
I leaned out of the side window again. The breeze buffeted me but at least I could see. Sort of. Breathing was out of the question. Behind us, all that was visible was a massive cloud of dust. The trailer kept swaying from side to side as Floyd tried to prevent the pick-up truck coming past us. There was no way I was going to be able to fire a shot anywhere near them. I’d probably end up destroying the back of the trailer.
Whoever was riding shotgun in the pick-up was obviously better at this than me. Maybe he used to work in the movies. The mirror attached to my door exploded and a splinter of glass nicked my ear. I dodged back inside the cab, swearing.
I looked across at Floyd, thinking that I should let him take the shot. But that would mean trying to swap places with him while the truck was travelling at speed. Again, this was something best left to stuntmen.
“Try and keep this thing steady,” I said. “I’m going up top.” I shoved my gun into its holster.
“You’re doing what?” Floyd asked. I didn’t hear what he said after that. I had the door open and the wind was trying to rip me out and throw me away.
The first foothold was easy, I used the step that was there to get you up into the cab. After that, I was free-climbing on something made of smooth shiny metal that was bouncing around like corn kernels on a hot skillet. The front wheel was a rumbling blur under me and it was throwing up dust and small pebbles.
I was stretched, spread-eagled, across the side of the cab trying to reach the next hand-hold without being blown away. Inside the cab, the living area behind the seats seemed tiny, from the outside it felt as big as a house.
A shot pinged off the metal close to my left knee. Not an explosive slug, fortunately. It was whipped away by the breeze. I eased myself around the corner and into the gap between the back of the cab and the front of the container on the trailer. There was less wind noise here, but the roaring of the tyres on the uneven road and the creaking of the suspension more than made up for it. I took a few deep breaths.
There were some narrow rungs on the back of the cab that formed a sort of ladder. They, like most of the rest of the truck, were rusty and had once been painted black. I tested the first one with my foot and it felt like it would bear my weight. I started to climb.
Sticking my head up above the top of the cab exposed me to the howling gale once more. I would have to leap across from the back of the cab to the container and then pull myself up on top of it. The front of the container was a wall of metal that kept moving relative to the cab, pivoting on the so-called
fifth-wheel. It was only at this point that I realised this plan was even riskier than swapping seats with Floyd inside. I’m slow like that sometimes.
There’s a point at which risking your own life so the bad guys don’t get killed becomes too crazy to contemplate. This was beyond that point. I should have let Floyd open fire on them. Or called Harmony and asked her to come back and run interference with our pursuers. Stubbornness or stupidity made me press on.
I leapt across and slammed face-first into the container. I gripped the top of it with my fingers and hung there for a moment, trying to adjust to the swerving of the trailer. The impact had opened the split on my lip and it was bleeding again. But Harmony’s sunglasses were still in place.
As a thief, I was used to doing the human-fly thing – but doing it on a moving wall was a new experience. I hauled myself up and over the edge. I lay face down on top of the container. It was windy up there but there wasn’t too much dust.
Again, this was nothing like the movies. You see actors – or their stunt doubles – stand up and run along the top of a moving train. Apart from the occasional low tunnel, it looks relatively risk-free. I knew straight away that I wasn’t going to be standing and practising my surfing moves on top of the truck.
“How are you doing up there?” Floyd’s voice asked in my ear.
“It’s going well so far,” I lied.
“Try not to fall off,” he said.
I thanked him for his helpful input. Sort of. As far as I knew, Floyd had no feelings to hurt so I didn’t feel too guilty.
If I was going to fire my gun at the pick-up, I needed to make my way to the back of the container. It looked like it was only about a mile away. Keeping as much of my body surface in contact with the roof as I could, I inched forward. It wasn’t elegant. I had to be careful not to damage the solar panels we had fitted up there.
The journey along the length of the container roof only took a couple of days. In objective time it was probably less than ten minutes. My already aching muscles were so tense they felt wooden. I lay still for a moment and tried to relax them.
You can’t put this off any longer, I told myself. Clinging on with my left hand, I drew my revolver. I peered over the back of the container.
Almost instantly a bullet ricocheted off the metal close to my head. Yikes!
The dust kicked up by the wheels at the back of the trailer was like thick brownish smoke. I could barely see the shape of the pick-up truck. It dodged from side to side as the driver kept looking for an opportunity to get past the truck. He would have stood a better chance if he dropped back a bit, but he knew that would make him an easier target for us. He wanted to stay close. Floyd would see him in the rear-view camera images but he couldn’t curve a shot around the trailer. It would be much easier for me to fire down at them from my vantage point. In theory.
Another bullet whistled past my head. The shooter was leaning out of the pick-up’s passenger side window. It looked like he might be Harmony’s friend Gawain. I felt a sudden urge to fire directly at the pick-up truck and destroy it.
“If you get a clean shot, now would be a good time to deal with them,” Floyd said in my ear. “Permanently.”
He was like the red devil sitting on my shoulder, urging me to be wicked. There wasn’t an angel sitting on my other shoulder urging goodness – I think she’d received a better offer.
Gawain fired up at me, spurring me into action. I brought my revolver around to fire. The way I was being bounced around meant it was going to be pretty much left to chance whether my shot hit the pick-up truck, was a near-miss, or bounced up off the ground and took my eye out.
Spotting my gun, the driver of the pick-up dropped back a little. My first shot exploded in the road between the two vehicles sending up a small amount of flame and smoke and a large amount of dirt. The pick-up braked and swerved.
I aimed towards the front of the pick-up. The trailer bounced over something and the revolver jumped up and hit me under the chin. The shot exploded in the sky somewhere off to the left.
“Trouble up ahead,” Floyd’s voice said.
I swore. I hadn’t dealt with the trouble behind us yet.
The pick-up truck had dropped back further. Maybe they knew about the trouble we were heading towards. I took aim and squeezed the trigger. I would like to claim that the hit was a result of my skill as a marksman. But it was blind luck. I had my eyes closed.
When I opened them I saw fire coming from the front of the pick-up and its hood seemed to be missing. It swerved off the road and into a ditch. The doors flew open and two men jumped out.
Gawain stood in the middle of the road and aimed for the back of the truck. I ducked but we were already too far away for him to hit us.
“They’re gone,” I told Floyd.
“Hold on tight,” Floyd said, “and brace for impact.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I shoved my gun back in the holster and used both hands to cling to the top of the container. I didn’t see what we hit – but I felt it. I was lifted off the roof and had to hang on with my fingertips to avoid being thrown towards the front of the truck. I heard the impact and then grinding sounds of metal being crushed.
Floyd never cursed but I think he came close at that moment. The trailer began to slide out and swing around. It seemed to have decided to try and overtake the tractor up front. It was a truck driver’s worst nightmare – jack-knife. The back of the trailer swung out across the road and all I could do was cling on and hope Floyd knew what he was doing. The tractor and trailer were almost in an L-shaped configuration and I was sliding around on top like butter in a hot pan.
While I’d been driving the truck, the worst I’d had to deal with was a minor loss of grip. Dealing with a slide in a truck was similar to handling one in a car – but on a much larger scale and with a lot less room for error. The number one priority is to get the tractor and trailer back in line – because if you can’t do that there’s nothing else you can do and you’re just going to be along for the ride. The worst thing you can do is over-correct using the brakes and the accelerator – that’s why it’s important to stay cool and not panic. Floyd had an advantage there. It’s often better to take your feet off the pedals altogether and just concentrate on the steering – turning into the skid.
The truck has systems built-in to try and prevent a skid happening in the first place and some to help the driver if one does occur. In normal driving, you can slow down using the resistance of the electric motor in each wheel. The energy is converted to electricity that tops up the battery. In an emergency braking situation, the excess energy can be too much for the batteries and it has to be converted to heat which is then vented through upward-pointing exhausts on either side of the cab.
The brakes on the trailer were much cruder than those on the tractor and they couldn’t slow it down as efficiently. That’s partly why it was kicking out across the highway now. There were a few scary seconds when I thought it would twist along its length and start to tip over, but then I felt it begin to pull back the other way. Clinging to the top of the container I was physically aware of every shift in direction and speed. Finally, the trailer was back in line and Floyd brought the whole rig to a gentle stop.
“Are you still up there?” Floyd’s voice asked.
“Most of me,” I said.
“Sorry about that, there was something in the road.”
“What did we hit?”
“Four tons of scrap metal,” Floyd said. “Before we hit it, it was two police cars parked nose-to-nose across the highway.
“That’s a crazy place to park,” I said. “Did we hurt anyone?”
“No, but they may try to bill us for two new pairs of uniform pants. Are you coming down anytime soon?”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
I was trying to let go of the top of the container but couldn’t release my fingers. Their grip was locked. I think it was some sort of primitive survival mechanism. Only
slowly did feeling return to them.
“Hey, Quin, you there?” Harmony’s voice asked.
“I’m still here.”
“I’ve just had a report of a couple of highway patrol cars in the area. Keep your eyes open.”
“I’ll let you know if we run into them,” I said.
I finally pried my fingers free and made my way back down into the cab of the truck.
“You lost your sunglasses,” Floyd said.
“I almost lost my breakfast as well,” I said. Once I was safely settled in my seat, Floyd set off again. The truck didn’t seem to have been damaged by the recent collision, but then it was a bit of a wreck to begin with.
“Why doesn’t Crawford just put a gunship in the air and blow up the truck?” Floyd asked.
This was a disturbing thought but a good question.
“I’m hoping that the rules of the bet don’t allow him to do that,” I said.
“But he might do it anyway, if he thinks he can get away with it.”
“With Bobby-Ray and everyone else watching our progress, Crawford can’t cheat without being seen,” I said.
“That’s probably true,” Floyd said. “He won’t risk it. Especially when he stands a good chance of defeating us without cheating.”
“You might want to work on that motivational speaking thing,” I said.
“Harmony warned us about the police after we’d encountered them,” Floyd said.
“I noticed that too.”
*
“Team Quincy are now nearly three days behind schedule and looking at the distance they still have to travel, I don’t see how they can possibly reach New Grimsby by the deadline,” Bobby-Ray told his viewers. “They’re going to have to do something incredibly clever if they want to get back on track.”
‘Incredibly clever’ was beyond my abilities at this point. The nearest I could manage was incredibly stupid.
Road Rage Page 17