Flux

by Chris McInally

  “Real fucking brave now, aren’t ya?”

  Looking up just in time, Conn saw Lex’s pick-up take off, kicking up a dense cloud of dust behind it, skidding slightly as its wheels gripped onto the tarmac. Turning the key over, his F-350 instantly started up, its engine giving off a hearty rumble. A moment later, he and Brett were trailing after Lex, barrelling down the highway. Working through the gears, Conn checked the rear-view. He was shocked to find how quickly the small fleet of outlaws had caught up to them. The only plus side to this was he imagined they would be in range of the .50 cal soon. As long as Brett took care of that, he was happy to do the driving.

  As he snatched glances at the encroaching threat, Conn noted the pursuing cavalcade was mostly made up of Harley-type motorcycles, with a few dirt-bikes as well. Few, if any of the riders bothered to wear helmets, let alone any other kind of protection. Drawing nearer, Conn began to make out other details as well. All of the riders had weapons, but only some of them had guns which in one way was a kind of plus, he supposed. One burly reiver in wraparound sunglasses, big and bald like Conn, was swinging a length of chain links, like a cowboy at a rodeo playing with a lasso or a knight waving a morning star. A few of the others had wooden baseball bats, with long nails knocked into them, giving the instruments a vicious, menacing look. Still, as long as the ammo for the .50 cal held out, they wouldn’t be much of a threat.

  As long as it holds out... Conn wasn’t sure how many rounds they had left, since he hadn’t had a chance to check the .50 calibre over.

  Please be enough.

  For a moment, Conn wasn’t sure if it was the same group of reivers they had encountered back in Brookeborough. Then a slender, familiar figure on a bike appeared, racing up from the rear of the pack. This man’s presence confirmed it was indeed the same group. Riding a Harley, with a tall set of ape-bars, the rider had a dense head of jet-black hair, held partially in place by a red bandana.

  Chuck’s little buddy was back, it seemed, and riding his dead compatriot’s motorcycle to boot.

  Weasel…

  Looking down the barrel of the .50 cal, Brett opened up on the encroaching reivers. Pulling the trigger, the big weapon let loose with a devastating barrage of machine-gun fire. The slugs from the big gun, bored mercilessly into targets left, right and centre. Brett watched as one man and his bike went somersaulting, bullets obliterating the rider and his transport. Stray projectiles punctured the tarmac, tearing massive chunks out of the road, causing several riders to swerve, tyres screeching sharply as they manoeuvred out of the way.

  Finding himself some new targets, Brett let off another burst, clipping a young woman on a dirt-bike, who was levelling a sawn-off shotgun in his direction. The front wheel of the red-haired female’s bike gave out underneath her as several bullets tore through the tyre, taking out its thin spokes in the process. The front of the bike- suspension and all- collapsed, bringing the woman’s attack to an abrupt stop. The ginger-haired female face-planted sickeningly into the tarmac; her face- along with the rest of her head- exploding in a gory display as she impacted, the bitumen cracking bones and tearing away chunks of skin and flesh as she went down. Behind her, another rider firing a small pistol, was unable to dodge the wreckage in time, slamming into the obstruction, which sent the reiver flying through the air, to meet a similar fate.

  Trying to line-up another target, Brett swivelled the MG to his right. Six reivers, riding on three bikes appeared; one piloting whilst the other piggy-backed. One of the hangers-on was bucking shots at Brett’s tall profile, the other two clutching baseball bats. The bikes moved in a staggered formation, one slightly behind the other, swooping in from the side, riders and passengers screaming obscenities, as they drew closer. Watching them close in, Brett struggled to understand what it was they were planning to do.

  Are they gonna try and board us? The question suddenly came to the fore of his mind.

  Brett raked them with a sustained burst from the .50 cal. Virtually instantly, the bike at the front exploded, as a bullet ruptured its fuel tank, rider and passenger disappearing amidst the orange-red conflagration that ensued. Next, the flying debris from the ruined bike took out the other bikes and riders behind it. Brett laughed- rather sadistically- at his combination of good luck and shooting. Spinning to the left, he let off more rounds, and two more bikers slammed into the hard, unforgiving bitumen, bodies sliding across the black stretch, leaving red trails behind them.

  Only four left.

  Several seconds passed, before Brett spied a familiar face, emerging from amidst the zig-zagging collection of bikes that made up the remainder of the reiver convoy. It was the young Asian fella from before, he’d forgotten his name. Then again, this wasn’t hard for him to do, Brett had barely been conscious when he heard the man mutter it in his presence. The reiver was riding a Harley one-handed and brandishing a black revolver in the other. The motorcycle was weaving gracefully toward the F-350, deftly avoiding the obstacles around it, its rider clearly comfortable and skilled. Before Brett had a chance to reposition his machine-gun, the skinny reiver fired on him. Unable to do anything else, Brett recoiled instinctively, waiting for the bullets to batter into him-

  -but they didn’t find their mark, despite the close range. Conn for some reason swerved to the right, causing the vehicle to pitch as he suddenly accelerated. This last-second manoeuvre threw off the rider’s aim, who failed to adjust his shot in time. Brett, for his part, could only listen as bullets ricocheted around him. Just beneath him, in fact. The projectiles pinged off the metal chassis, flying around his ankles and about the underside of the pick-up’s tray.

  Holy shit! Talk about a close call!

  Panting hard, Brett grabbed hold of the gun again, moving to fire when he was overcome by a paralysing ache, beginning at the back of his cranium. Brett fell to one knee, holding his head as pain blasted through his skull, bringing tears to his eyes. As quickly as that, Brett was out of the running.

  Conn gunned the engine, trying to outrun the cavalcade of motorbikes, which was proving difficult. They were too flighty compared to his big-bodied vehicle. Still, he knew he had to try. Checking his mirrors and craning his neck, it was like they were everywhere, swarming like a pride of lionesses on a lone bison. The young man felt overwhelmed, panic threatening to overcome him. Bullets rebounded everywhere, peppering the truck’s chassis. Conn was literally just waiting to be struck by one. Beside him, little Ambie continued to shriek.

  “Hold on little one!” Conn tried to reassure the pint-sized reptile.

  Nervously peeking over his shoulder, he intermittently spied Brett firing away with the MG through the rear-view. Conn just hoped to Christ that Brett’s efforts were keeping the reivers at bay. Then inexplicably, Brett dropped down into a kneeling position, clutching his head.

  Conn’s stomach dropped. Has he been hit?

  Unfortunately, Conn didn’t get his answer.

  Without warning Conn’s driver-side window exploded, pieces of shattered glass embedding into his face, stinging him like a thousand tiny needles inserted into his exposed epidermis. In the chaos of it all, Conn thought he heard Ambie squeal. When Conn opened his eyes, his driver’s side window was all but gone, with only a few jagged shards left. Beyond this, the bald-headed reiver was there, riding alongside him. The biker lashed out with his heavy chain, cracking the side of the Ford with it, scraping paint and leaving deep craters in the metal framework. Conn could see quite clearly that the man was trying his damnedest to get at him.

  “Come get some!” Conn spat.

  Then Conn did the first thing that came to mind- he sideswiped the burly reiver. Adrenaline kicking in, Conn jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, slamming into the reiver and his motorcycle. Using the size and weight of the F-350, Conn pushed the man towards the edge of the bitumen. Anticipating that the reiver would try to pump the gas in an attempt to overtake Conn, and thereby save himself and escape, Conn beat him to it. Slamming the pedal to the f
loor, Conn angled the Ford across the front of the reiver’s motorcycle. Cursing, the bandit was forced to slow his progress, lest he crash into the truck. Next- afraid the man would simply slow down further and let Conn overtake him- Conn swung the F-350’s ass-end out, viciously swatting the reiver and his bike, the collision causing the truck to jerk violently. Fearing the pick-up was about to spin out, Conn righted the vehicle, wrenching the steering wheel hard. His opponent, forced to the periphery of the highway, with nowhere else to go, was sent flying off the road. Conn heard the man scream, as he disappeared down an embankment, bike and all, followed by a fiery mushroom-cloud-like explosion.

  Crawling about the truck’s tray on his hands and knees, Brett still couldn’t see. Screaming at the top of his lungs, to the heavens above, the pain was unbelievable. His head literally felt like it was on the verge of splitting wide open. It was as if there was something inside trying to burrow its way out.

  Despite his sudden incapacitation, Brett still felt every single shunt and jolt, as Conn swerved the pick-up this way and that, doing God-knows-what with it. Reaching out blindly, he wrapped his arms around the MG’s support strut and held on for dear life. At some point, Brett heard glass shatter, accompanied by a man cussing and screaming, and shortly thereafter an explosion that scared the living shit out of him.

  At one point, Brett thought he was going to vomit, then the truck suddenly seemed to level-out, its erratic movements easing. With this development, the nausea along with the pain, began to subside. Peeling his eyes open, Brett looked up, surprised to find the little oriental man, with the fierce green eyes, lunging through the air towards him. In the distance, Brett could make out the shrinking figures of the other two remaining reivers, who it seemed had given up the chase, abandoning their leader.

  “What the?” was all Brett could think to say as he watched the little man sail towards him.

  Flying over the tattered remains of the mangled tailgate, the dark-haired man landed like a cat inside the pick-up’s tray, causing the vehicle’s rear-end to buffet. His Harley fell away beneath him, bits and pieces of it flying in all directions, the debris scattering along the length and breadth of the highway.

  Light-headed, Brett got gingerly to his feet, knees weak and legs unsteady. Pushing forward, he approached the skinny Asian man. Looking him up and down, Brett estimated he was a full foot taller than him. Also, Brett’s long arms and legs meant he had a serious amount of reach over him too.

  This should be easy.

  Like the wind, the diminutive figure struck, and Brett barely saw it coming. The smaller man fired out a stiff Kung Fu-style sidekick that landed right on Brett’s navel, winding him, causing him to buckle and stumble backwards. Had it not been for the protection offered by his Kevlar vest and Lex’s bandaging work, Brett was certain he would have been dropped then and there. As such, Brett managed to stay on his feet. Then retaliating, he threw a standard one-two boxing combination. Brett was shocked again when the little guy parried both shots and responded with two of his own; punching to the face and chest.

  Great, a fucking Wushu expert! Brett thought as his head snapped backwards, tasting blood in the back of his throat.

  Brett faltered towards the rear of the truck as the man’s second strike landed, dead-centre in his sternum. Regaining some of his balance, Brett kicked out, the motion desperate and uncoordinated. In response, his opponent blocked the kick with a forearm strike, glancing downwards, followed by another punch to the face. Refusing to give up, Brett lunged forward for another go.

  Conn could see Lex’s vehicle up ahead. Observing her fleeing Ford, he was thankful she wasn’t being swarmed by reivers like him and Brett. Thinking of Brett, Conn craned his neck around to look through the rear window. Conn’s eyes bulged as he looked outside, and saw Brett doing battle with Weasel; or more accurately, Brett getting his ass handed to him by Weasel.

  “Where the fuck did he come from?” Conn exclaimed, watching bewilderedly as the two figures exchanged shots.

  World whizzing past him, wind buffeting in his ears, and senses spinning, Brett stepped forward again. Guard up like a boxer, he gritted his teeth, readying for another go. Brett threw a right cross, followed quickly by a left hook, aiming for the bantamweight’s head. With very little effort, the reiver showed off his martial prowess by slipping the cross, and then weaving underneath the hook.

  “Sit still so I can hit you, Miyagi!” Brett growled indignantly.

  His opponent replied with a solid back-fist to Brett’s stomach that stole the wind from him. Brett collapsed onto his knees, heaving violently as he tried to suck in a breath.

  Stay calm! Screamed a voice from somewhere in the back of his head.

  Looking up, Brett found his adversary towering over him, a self-satisfied smirk painted on the little man’s wan face. His jade eyes were gleaming as he bathed in his victory over his larger opponent. Brett watched, almost in slow-motion, as his opponent raised his right hand, clenching it into a fist. The experienced fighter brought it down like a mace, aiming for Brett’s temple. Desperate, Brett resorted to all he had left: dirty tactics. Firing out a long arm, he grabbed the little man right by the balls, and squeezed until he felt something pop, imagining a sickening squishing noise in his head.

  His enemy squealed and howled, the pain both agonizing and debilitating. It gave Brett the opportunity he needed. Rising to his feet, with both hands outstretched, Brett shoved the man backwards who staggered to a halt, just shy of the truck’s garbled tailgate. The little Asian man was looking down at, and cupping, his abused groin, tears rolling down his usually pale face, now flushed a deep, reddish purple. Brett edged backwards, keeping his eyes on his wounded enemy the whole time.

  “Eyes up!” Brett barked a moment later.

  The Asian reiver looked up from his demolished nutsack to find Brett standing behind the .50 cal. Smiling ear to ear, Brett gave the man a wink before he pressed on the heavy machine-gun’s trigger. The powerful projectiles obliterated the reiver’s nimble frame. It was like taking a sledgehammer to a watermelon- on fast-forward. Chunks of flesh dispersed in multiple directions. Bits of blood and gore rained down all over the truck’s tray, spilling over onto the bitumen below as the Ford raced along the now-deserted highway.

  Brett collapsed onto his rump, laying his back up against the truck’s rear window. Rapping on the glass with his knuckles, he tried to get Conn’s attention. When his driver spun around to look, he gave him the thumbs-up before passing out. Another migraine was sweeping over him, and unfortunately his body just didn’t have any reserves left to fight it.

  22.

  “Now what?” Conn’s voice boomed angrily, as he checked over his dashboard and its instruments.

  The engine was cutting in and out, the body of the pick-up shuddering and struggling to cover more ground. He could feel the truck was slowing down. Checking over his gauges, Conn saw that his coolant was fine and his ‘check engine’ light wasn’t illuminated.

  No problems there.

  Puzzled, he looked to the fuel gauge as a last resort, quite certain that this couldn’t be the problem, and yet his heart still sank once his eyes came to rest on it. It was in the red; just shy of the bottom of the gauge, actually.

  “How is that possible?” It had been three-quarters-full less than a half-hour ago. The team had refilled both trucks the night before.

  The image in his rear-view was all but blocked by Brett’s huge slumped over frame, so Conn chanced a look using his side-view. He made out a long, thin, trail- that he assumed had to be some kind of liquid- following the path taken by the Ford.

  “A fuel leak,” Conn said out loud, “that figures.”

  Must have been a stray bullet from a reiver.

  Conn started blasting the horn and flashing his headlights, trying to attract Lex’s attention up ahead. Lex had a fair lead on her comrade but Conn was hopeful she would see or hear his signals.

  Brett came to, amidst a cacophony of b
laring car-horn blasts. The thunderous noises didn’t do much to help his migraine, although it was receding. Standing up, he began banging on the roof of the Ford’s cabin, screaming at Conn to stop hitting the horn. It was only a couple of seconds later, when the Ford’s engine died completely.

  He felt the pick-up glide underneath him, going on nothing more than pure momentum now. Up ahead, Lex was actually reversing back down the highway, trying to get to them. Spinning around, Brett looked behind the F-350 and found a dark, slender trail lining the highway following the truck’s route. He realized then that they were either leaking fuel or oil. Either way, it wasn’t good for them as they didn’t have the tools to fix the problem. More than likely, they were going to have to abandon the pick-up. Williams was going to be pissed if that turned out to be the case.

  Within the space of an hour, Conn and Lex managed to virtually gut the blue Ford, transferring all of the vehicle’s vital materials over to its grey counterpart. Barely able to keep his eyes open, Brett disappeared inside the remaining truck’s cabin, whimpering an apology as he laid himself down across the backseat. Neither Lex nor Conn disparaged him for his lack of willingness to help. It was obvious Brett’s condition was getting worse, and both of them were growing deeply concerned about him. This sense of unease helped spur them on.

  After emptying the blue vehicle, Lex and Conn also took the opportunity to hurriedly refuel the grey Ford as well as rehydrate themselves, and eat the last of their rations. Finishing up, Conn scuttled off into the bushes, telling Lex he needed to go to the toilet, bringing his duffel bag with him. Lex watched him curiously from the road, as he disappeared beyond the brush line, eyes on the bag.