The Last Hercules

by Ron Bender

  Bullets splang off the steel louvers clamped over the rear windscreen.

  She doesn’t move. Her dusky skin is already taking on a dull grey undertone. The lace ribbon I gave her to hold back her hair whips along over her shoulder, covering her face with a hint of black among the windswept cherry red.

  I fight a sense of dread and then I fight my anger. I have a powerful temper.

  The right side rear-cam beyond her slackening legs shows two bikes pulling up one behind the other. I see the wide, dropping lefthander up ahead. I hope they don’t know the road. I block their view of the corner by lifting off the pedal just so. Carlos’s bulk keeps them from seeing what’s coming.

  I keep both of the drivers’ attention on me by weaving a little. Their eyes stay glued on my quarter panel. Only at the last second do I downshift, crank the wheel over, and dump more fuel into the big engine’s thirsty cylinders.

  The wheel skirts welded over the tire-wells grind hard onto the road surface as G’s and heat load the outside front tire and shocks. The bumper plow spits chewed asphalt in a wide arc into the bush on the side of the road.

  Between their panic-brake, the old metal guardrail, and Carlos’s back fender sliding out, both bikes and riders become flesh paste.

  I skim the outside rail for fifty yards, my eyes on the rear-view cams scanning for more bikers.

  Most have dropped back. I count six. The ChronOdo tells me I have another two hours to the next police zone and hospital. I look up again.

  Mercredi is gone.

  I know it for sure.

  I knuckle tears and keep squinted eyes on the winding roadway. The Nulls don’t let up. I try a trick my brothers taught me. I keep my speed even; below what Carlos can actually do. The Nulls surge a few times, but I don’t speed up. I let them think I’m pinned.

  They smell me. They smell a goodtime. They smell a win. Except for them, it isn’t.

  As they rush a fourth time, I hear them trying to get rounds under or through the wheel skirts. They want me in one piece. Mostly alive would be better. When I was young and stupid, I remember laughing at campfire stories of necrophilia and cannibalism up in the mountains. I haven’t laughed about crap like that in a long time.

  The sound of their bullets ring like ominous bells over the choir of the big engine’s pipes. I reach between my knees all the way to the floor and tug on the first of two levers. A compressor behind my seat cuts in. Carlos’s fuel gauge drops a little as a secondary tank fills with pure Texas fuel. I slow for a corner. The bikes cautiously drop back and then surge again. As they come along side, I can see warriors behind the drivers getting ready to make the leap to Carlos’s roof. I dog the wheel a bit to keep them honest. Then I spark the igniters and toggle the second lever. I brake as the high-speed release valve lets the payload of death flush out in under a second.

  “Daddy’s rules; fire stops scarecrows,” I say to Carlos.

  Flames leap out. Fifteen feet of scorched earth erupts from under both of Carlos’s rocker panels.

  The riders, bikes, and warriors turn into burning shit smears along either ditch.

  I watch the rear-view and let Carlos roll to a stop. I set him to idle, and then I unbuckle Mercredi from the copula’s fighting harness.

  The rush of morning mountain air has already made her flesh cold under my hands. I ease her body into her seat and buckle her in. I pull her hair over one shoulder and let it drop through my fingers. I don’t look where her left shoulder used to be. My chest aches. To me, even now, she’s beautiful. She always told me she wanted to be buried inside the Corporate Control Zone of New White Sands City. If she had her wish it would be somewhere with a view of the sea. I promised her I would do it if it came to that.

  I wipe my eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll put you in the ground proper like, someplace inside the zone just like I promised. Someplace nice.”

  A small explosion from the carnage behind me pulls me back. I can’t stop here for long.

  Life is for the living of it. I still needed to live.

  I pull out ‘noculars, stand in the copula, and scan the rest of the road up into the mountains as far as I can see. Then I turn and look the other way. No one else is coming.

  I drop into my seat and ease Carlos backward down the road. I spring the heavy door and climb out.

  “Daddy’s rules,” I say quietly. “Do a walk around before anything else.” I keep my eyes on the few Nulls who are still twitching while I check Carlos for anything that might need attention right away.

  Carlos is a good boy though. He’s got no injuries that wouldn’t rub out, so I stroll back to the wreckage, executing the few surviving Nulls with single shots.

  I can’t claim what I take as salvage if they are alive when I take it. The leader I do last. He looks up at me. His face more like charred hamburger than features.

  I lean down. “Should’ve kept it in your pants. You’d still be whole.”

  He opens his mouth to say something rude.

  I slam my heavy revolver into his face. “You like that? The way that feels? You dumb fuck. Well neither do I.” I pull the trigger.

  I salvage anything from the scene that might have use or value, and then I start the run South, toward the Feral Lands, my promise to Mercredi burning in my mind.

  * * * * * * *

  To get notified when The FERAL LANDS: New White Sands City Cyberpunk Book 4 is available for sale, sign up for the INSIDERS mailing list.

  Also Available in the New White Sands City Series

  SNITCH

  Forces are moving in the high-tech rat race of New White Sands City, and one low-level transporter has an opportunity to make it big if he can survive the dangerous backwaters of corporate espionage.

  This novella takes place before the first book and lays the groundwork for the larger scope of the series.

  Read SNITCH for free by signing up for the mailing list at www.thecyberdeck.com.

  * * * * * * *

  JIMMY the SLIP

  After mostly dying in the arcology incursion, Jimmy’s finding it hard to cope with his new reality. College classes don’t seem to matter anymore, yet he’s avoiding his new boss because he’s pretty sure he never wants to work in the field again.

  Unfortunately for Jimmy, being a hacker prodigy with a reputation means, sooner or later, someone’s going to make that choice for him.

  The question is, what’s he going to lose this time?

  This is a novella in the New White Sands City Cyberpunk series and it spans the gap in the run-up to book 3. Book 1 is required reading and this novella contains minor spoilers for book 2. In series order, this novella is number 2.5.

  Jimmy the Slip is available on Amazon here.

  About the Author

  Ron Bender has been an international business consultant, business process trouble-shooter, and marketing specialist. Besides consulting for the Canadian government and the private sector, he’s had thirty-seven years of RPG storytelling experience. He spent the majority of that time running and designing games using the customizable GURPS system while focusing on gaming as an interactive storytelling forum. Today, he’s happy to present his science fiction cyberpunk e-book series: the New White Sands City Cyberpunk series.

  Ron enjoys watching formula one racing, tracking a wide array of burgeoning trends and technologies, and researching obscure time periods. He can sometimes be found taking in the occasional pint of beer while sitting in one of Calgary’s local pubs.

  For more information about the New White Sands City Cyberpunk series or to get in touch with Ron Bender, visit the official website at www.thecyberdeck.com or connect with him on twitter @AuthorRonBender.

 

 

 
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