by Joe Nobody
He gave his steed some gas, zooming ahead and executing through a couple of quick turns. Time is running out, he determined, trying to steer the unfamiliar machine and watch for the police. The longer I stay in this subdivision, the more cops will show up.
He came across another exit, this one blocked by two patrol cars with flashing blue lights. There weren’t any residents trying to exit via this route.
Dusty glanced in the mirror again, the outline of yet another squad car visible several blocks behind him. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he whispered.
He reached to the case behind him and removed the rail gun. The green LED was visible despite his darkened visor. A few moments later, he dropped the steel ball into the breach and then began rolling toward the roadblock.
His first thought was to blow away the two cruisers barricading the road, but as he ventured closer, he hesitated. The cross street beyond was full of cars, probably filled with rubberneckers gawking at the roadblock and speculating about what was going on. Businesses and homes filled the space beyond the obstruction.
The cop behind him was still evident in the motorcycle’s rear-view mirror, moving closer and cutting off any retreat. He was committed. Two blocks away, a panic-induced idea popped into Dusty’s mind.
He slowed the bike and stopped in the middle of the road. Raising the weapon to his shoulder, he centered the cross hairs on the pavement 15 feet in front of the two patrol cars and squeezed the trigger.
A surge of electrical current shot into the first magnet as it rotated around the steel projectile. It pushed the small metal ball forward. The computer-controlled sequence then directed the electrical charge at the second magnet. In less than a thousandth of a second, it pulled.
The sequence continued down the barrel, each magnet pushing and pulling, the steel bullet accelerating so quickly that heat friction turned it into a molten stream of slag before it ever exited the muzzle.
Despite the change of state from a solid to a liquid, the velocity continued to increase, approaching critical mass just a few feet beyond where Dusty sat on the bike. The universe couldn’t allow any object to exceed the speed of light and reacted to protect itself.
A portal opened, creating a channel into a parallel plane of existence – an alternative reality where the speed of light was faster… where the rail gun’s projectile wouldn’t do any harm.
The portal was small, only a few inches wide. But where there had been the matter, gravity, mass and time of Dusty’s reality, suddenly there was a new existence. Two objects couldn’t occupy the same space at the same time, and an expansion occurred, the matter of this universe violently pushed aside. The displacement was more rapid and powerful than even a nuclear detonation.
The pavement in front of the two blocking patrol cars erupted skyward, the asphalt and earth below shoved out of the way by an irresistible force. The surrounding soil was compressed, making room for the portal as it absorbed Dusty’s shot.
As quickly as it appeared, the pipeline into the alternative universe closed, leaving a vacuum in its wake. Just as rapidly as they had been pushed aside, matter and energy rushed to fill the void, and that reaction exponentially amplified the violence.
All along the path of Dusty’s projectile, molecules slammed into each other at hypersonic speeds. The blast wave was devastating.
In the blink of an eye, the front halves of the two patrol cars were lifted into the air as if they were toys. By the time gravity recovered and sucked them back down, a ten-foot deep trench had been cut through the street. Both machines landed hard and then slid into the new ditch. The nearby officers were tossed aside, thrown over 30 feet through the air as if they were merely rag dolls.
The newly created canyon extended past the roadblock, vehicles passing in the street beyond, falling into what most drivers initially believed was a sinkhole.
With the rail gun folded and stashed between his legs, Dusty maneuvered the bike through the smoldering heaps of crumbled soil and pavement, barely squeezing through the instantly snarled gridlock of traffic before accelerating away.
“Dear God in heaven,” he whispered as he passed through the destruction, “Please, please, please. I pray I didn’t just take any more innocent life.”
No one was sure what had happened. Some of the radio traffic indicated a gas main had erupted while others claimed a bomb had detonated. The FBI man knew exactly what it was; Weathers had shot his way out of the dragnet.
Ambulances were already on the scene by the time the FBI caravan arrived. The two dazed officers were being shuttled into the back of the emergency vehicles, paramedics bustling around the injured men.
Shultz flashed his ID and asked, “Can either of them talk?”
“They were both out cold when we arrived,” answered the paramedic. “We’ve stabilized them, but neither is very responsive.”
“I have to talk to them,” Shultz insisted. “Can you do anything at all? A lot of lives are depending on it.”
Another emergency responder appeared, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, sir. I’m pretty sure both of them suffered severe blows to the head. Probably have concussions. I could barely get them to tell me their names before we loaded them on the backboards.”
“I have to talk to them,” he repeated. “It’s that important.”
The two-man ambulance crew exchanged puzzled glances, the senior shrugging his shoulders. “If you insist.” He returned a moment later and broke a small tube under the patient’s nose.
The patrolman’s eyes fluttered, and he tried to pull away, the restraints and neck brace restricting his movements. “It’s okay…. It’s okay…. You’re alright,” soothed the paramedic.
“Officer Kendall, my name is Tom Shultz from the FBI. What happened?”
“Motorcycle,” whispered the patrolman. “He was on a motorcycle… a rifle... and… and… I don’t know after that.”
Shultz nodded at the EMT, indicating that’s all he needed. Before Officer Kendall was wheeled to the back of the waiting rescue unit, the law enforcement networks were busy spreading the word that the suspect was now riding on a motorcycle.
Trying to keep his speed low and blend in, Dusty was having trouble focusing as he steered the bike through traffic. The helter-skelter pace and relentless stress were taking a toll, his brain slowly sinking into a fog of confusion.
Through it all, he could see Kemah Channel bridge in the distance, the high-rise structure a beacon of familiarity. Having no other place to go, he kept steering the motorcycle back toward the familiar landmark.
He finally arrived at the boardwalk, his destination unplanned. There just really wasn’t anywhere else he could think of to go.
The place was bustling, thousands of people milling about, shopping, dining, and enjoying the now packed amusement park.
He pulled the motorcycle to the delivery area of one of the restaurants, identifying a narrow gap between a smelly dumpster and the back wall. He switched off the ignition, just sitting for a minute to gather his wits.
Movement at the edge of the parking lot drew his attention. He looked up to see three police cars rolling into the place and traveling at a high rate of speed.
“Shit!” he hissed, looking around for somewhere to run. There was water on three sides of his location, the only way out now filled with policemen.
Dusty started to panic, hopping off the seat, and stuffing the rail gun back in its bag. The sound of a nearby engine caused him to pause.
The sign on the side of the delivery truck read, “Rio Grande Valley Vegetables, Laredo, Texas.”
It was a typical-looking farm truck, dual axle in the back with side rails surrounding the bed. Dusty could see what appeared to be crates of lettuce and carrots stacked in the back.
“He’s delivering to the restaurants,” he grasped. “There’s my ride.”
But the truck was already rolling, an elderly Latino man behind the wheel.
Dusty gazed about, tryi
ng to think of anything to stop that truck. He realized the motorcycle helmet was still on his head, and then it occurred to him.
Pulling loose the chinstrap, he yanked off his headgear, and then from behind the dumpster, he rolled it like a bowling ball directly at the truck.
The driver seemed quite surprised to see the odd looking, spherically-shaped object bouncing across the parking lot and heading straight for his front wheels. He slammed on the brakes and stopped just as the wayward helmet came to rest directly in his path.
The old farmer looked around as if he was waiting for someone to come and retrieve the missing property, but there wasn’t anyone in the area. Shrugging, he finally took the truck out of gear and opened the cab door.
As he walked to the front and picked up the helmet, Dusty was sliding into the back of the bed, scrambling under a tarp and behind crates stacked with cabbage.
Seeing no one was going to claim the valuable piece of safety gear, the farmer again shrugged and carried his new prize back to the cab.
A few minutes later, they were rolling across the parking area.
The police manning the freshly formed roadblock didn’t perform a thorough check of the vegetable truck, the newly arriving officers still chatting about the odd assignment and speculating on its true purpose. Dusty held his breath as he heard the quick conversation with the driver, who didn’t speak English. In a few moments, they were waved through and on their way south.
Southeastern Texas rolled by as the old truck sped south. Dusty, noting the momentum and breeze, maneuvered to create a slight portal under the tarp which allowed him a nice vantage of the fleeting terrain. Flat, grassy and mundane, he’d spent little time in this part of his home state. “It’s better than the accommodations at the local jail… or a coffin,” he mused.
The journey seemed to pass quickly, his chauffeur making steady time toward the border city and presumably home. Dusty tucked the Glock into his boot, finding the weapon’s presence gave him a sense of comfort.
A few miles outside Laredo, the driver let off the gas, a clear signal he was going to make a stop. Given his morning coffee and the long ride, Dusty hoped it was some place that had a restroom.
Soon enough, the turn signal began its rhythmic clicking, and then they were pulling into the nearly full parking lot of what was a combination convenience store and gas station. Dusty noted the congestion, but the fueling bays were mostly empty, the majority of the traffic centered just outside the retail unit. His limo evidently did need some gas, the appearance of a pump startling Dusty when he suddenly found himself staring at the dispensing handle right beside his peephole. Dusty hurriedly ducked back underneath the tarp and listened as the driver unhinged the hose. The distinctive odor of fuel soon filled the air.
The sound of footsteps indicated the driver was going inside. Dusty peeked out again and watched as the farmer entered the station. He quickly scampered out of the bed, his stiff body sluggish from riding in such cramped quarters for so long.
Trying to act as if he’d just hitchhiked in from the road, Dusty ambled into the convenience store and was surprised to find a long line of Latino men, most of whom were holding paper checks. His driver was one of them.
After using the restroom, he milled around, pretending to shop for snacks and drinks. In reality, he was watching the proceedings, fascinated by what appeared to be a significant banking operation. Why were all these guys cashing checks at a gas station?
He finally selected a cold bottle of water and a nutrition bar for substance. There was a separate line for those who weren’t in need of financial services.
Dusty was waiting on the driver outside.
“Señor,” he greeted, holding up a $20 bill, “could I catch a ride in the back of your truck to Laredo?”
The old farmer thought about it, looking Dusty up and down twice. Finally nodding, he pocketed the money and pointed toward the cab.
The two men were soon on the road again. Dusty waited a bit before asking, “Was that a bank back there? I saw a lot of men coming out and counting their money.”
Misreading the curiosity, the older man said, “They cash my checks there, señor. This time of day there is always a line. That place charges me less than any of the others.”
“Charges less?” Dusty mumbled, already having guessed the station owner took a cut. “Why don’t you use a bank?”
The driver’s brow wrinkled, “I can’t go to a bank; I don’t have a social security number. And the banks in Mexico, they charge more to cash a U.S. check than this place.”
Dusty thought back to the line of landscapers, construction workers and other laborers waiting patiently. There was a longer line here than at most banks, he mused. Talk about an underground economy.
A few minutes later, Dusty was again curious, “I’m not trying to pry, but I receive the occasional check myself now and then. How much do they charge back there?”
“It depends on the check and if they know you. The ones I just cashed were from large corporations that own the restaurants in Kemah, and I frequently cash them at the station. They took 3%, which is much less than typical. For a new customer, they will skim five or even ten percent.”
Amazing, Dusty thought. He’d never considered where the undocumented workers banked. He filed the information away. That might become important for a man living on the dodge.
Their route lead into an even denser cityscape, and before long the driver again slowed the truck. He pointed toward the motorcycle helmet resting on the floorboard. “I found this today. I think it has value. I’m going to see if this pawn broker will buy it from me.”
They parked at the Frontier Pawn and Jewelry, the motorist wasting no time heading inside. Before following, Dusty took a moment and studied the nearby businesses, trying to memorize the landscape in case he had to make a hasty departure. There was a low-end hotel nearby. That’s probably where he’d end up tonight. He also noted what stores and restaurants were close, as he would have to walk for food or any other supplies required. He didn’t really know how long he’d be staying.
When he realized what he was doing, Dusty had to chuckle. “What interesting habits an outlaw develops,” he whispered to the evening air. “I might actually get good at this living on the run.”
He turned and entered the pawnshop, thinking a used laptop computer might help him become acclimated to his new surroundings a little quicker. “Gotta love the internet,” he whispered.
The swarthy, muscular man behind the counter was still consuming his fast food drive-thru hamburger, casting the occasional semi-uninterested glance at the motorcycle helmet the farmer was holding up. Dusty closed the front door, noting the heavy iron bars that secured both the front windows and the doorframe. After glancing around for a few moments, Dusty wondered about the security arrangement.
The fortress-like exterior was an obvious attempt to protect the valuables stored within from burglars and nighttime thieves. The problem for Dusty was he couldn’t figure out exactly why anyone would bother breaking into the place.
Row after row of what appeared to be yard-sale merchandise filled his vision. The assortment included power tools that were well past their prime, rusted wrenches and a shelf of televisions that looked like they had been manufactured in the 1960s. The early 1960s.
“Looking for something specific?” The counterman asked, obviously not that interested in the helmet – or at least trying not to act as if he were.
“I need a laptop computer,” the gunsmith replied. “Nothing fancy, but it has to have wireless communication and a reasonable screen.”
Without moving anything but his head, the man indicated Dusty should look along the south wall of the store. He then returned to examining the farmer’s windfall merchandise.
Sure enough, there were several computers displayed in the far corner, some of them looking to be in reasonable condition.
He heard the pawnbroker offer $20 for the helmet. The old man seemed happy
to accept. After receiving his money, the farmer approached Dusty and said, “I’m not going much further into town. I turn off soon. Do you want to stay or go on with me?”
Considering the nearby hotel and availability of food, Dusty extended his hand to the man, “I think I’ll be good here. Thanks for the ride.”
As Dusty returned to studying the computers, the door opened and admitted another customer. Dusty spied a middle-aged, very attractive woman who was carrying something wrapped in a kitchen dishtowel. Curious, he watched her march up to the counter and unwrap a stainless steel revolver.
“How much can I get for this pistol?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.
“Do you want to pawn it or sell it?” The broker asked, almost like a spider who sensed a fly buzzing by his net.
“I want to sell it… I think. Can’t I get more if I sell it?”
“Sometimes,” came the answer.
“Then I want to sell it.”
Dusty, being a man who earned a living working on firearms, was curious about the impending transaction. He’d caught just a glance of the wheel gun as the lady had unwrapped it, and wanted to get a closer look. He casually meandered toward a display case full of gold and silver, feigning interest in the shimmering baubles while casting side-glances at the weapon.
It was a .357 Colt Python, nickel finish with a snub 2.5-inch barrel. A classic! It’s the pawnbroker’s lucky day, Dusty thought.
After studying the computer screen for several moments, the man behind the counter peered over the top of the monitor and said, “It’s not worth much. Everybody wants high capacity, plastic guns these days. I’ll give you $200 for it.”
It took all of Dusty’s discipline not to shout out in protest. He wanted to find some way to signal the woman that she was being taken advantage of; he knew that weapon was easily worth $3800. This guy was trying to rip her off. He glanced up at the lady, hoping she would make eye contact with him. Her wrinkled brow made it clear she was trying to make a decision, but some inner voice was telling her it wasn’t a good deal. Look at me, Dusty kept thinking. Look me in the eye.