The cars keep coming– why do they keep coming?

Something about this had struck Scott all-too-hard as the climactic end of a book– where it is decided whether the hero is a hero at all. He’d pulled himself from the rubble– not too hard, seeing as how a wall had caved to form a perfect ramp into the street. 

As Scott had left, gripping his arm at the spot where it really may have broken, he saw others pulling staring out into the street. The gang-members, their women– all shocked to stillness, but anomalously unharmed.

He’d seen the road ahead of him consumed with the glowing, rushing and noise of dangerous wheels. He’d looked about, seeing the rubble held a great deal of its once-surrounding earth; he located his motorcycle.

She’d been badly dented, covered in earth and tangled in branches besides, and was leaking her gas. But, however briefly it may be for, she would still operate. 

Now, Scott is gaining upon him. He sees more easily, and further without his helmet. Not one car had even dinked the maniac– instead, they were careening into other cars, over the dividing wall.

Behind and ahead of Scott, there are heaps of flaming destruction and noise that would stop traffic half a mile away and yet they are still coming. He had to swerve dangerously to avoid some of the careening wrecks, now.

How long has he been out? Why isn’t anyone coming to help?

Scott’s bike roars defiantly as he grits his teeth and bends past another speeding pair of crashies. He has only this one lane to maneuver! He can’t do this overlong with the traffic coming at him!

Ranov turns, and their eyes meet amidst the chaos between them.

He raises his arms wide, facing Scott fully, as if to say “look upon my works”.

Scott speeds up– one car to the right, juts into his lane suddenly, avoided on twitch reaction. Another, skidding in on his left– he speeds up and avoids taking its nose by a hair’s width. A careening truck, he predicts– before it even falls into his lane he edges himself to its maximum right. He is on the separating line, and feels his elbow-plate pulled off by car mirrors. He edges on row after row of cars speeding the other way.

He avoids the truck, and is but half a minute away from Ranov.

But, the man raises something. A gun.

Scott does not hear the bang amongst the cacophony of rending metal, but he does hear a pop. His bike’s front wheel has been torn apart with a shot from Ranov’s colt walker. He enters a skid.

He’s slowing down, an infinitely easier target now– yet Ranov lowers his gun.

He can read Ranov’s lips, from here:

“Say it!”

Scott is nearly caught between two cars as they pincer around Ranov and nose-first crush into each other. His bike’s back wheel, though, is eaten by their collision.

The wind is knocked clean out of him as the handlebars come to batter his waist. He’s been thrown straight off the bike, and is flying forwards.

He strikes a wrecked car’s hood and lands at Ranov’s feet.

He feels as if his collarbone’s broken. He wants only to scream, but his lungs are empty.

Ranov shoves him to face upwards with a foot.

For a long moment he just looks at the wounded sap.

Then, when Scott’s chest begins again to rise and fall, the smile returns to his face.

Cold iron is pressed against Scott’s temple. It glints and glimmers with the dancing lights of fires and car-eyes.

Ranov mouths the words. “Say it”.

Still nigh-breathless, and feeling himself begin to quake, Scott chokes out “you’re– you’re g–”.

A sharp pain in his leg stops him. Something– mayhaps a piece of shrapnel– just ran up it, cutting as it went. 

“Oh, fuck it.” Ranov moans, proceeding to pull the trigger on a gun made to down horses.

And, just like that, Scott is back on the motorcycle. He sees Ranov in the distance, but he’ll have to dodge some cars to reach him.

Car on the right– swerve. Car on the left– speed up. Truck– hug the right border and pull back your elbow.

He’s almost there– almost there– he meets Ranov’s eyes! Two cars, coming right for him, on either side– easy– just speed up—

And his back tire is crunched. He flies forward off the bike. Instinctively, he pulls back his gut– as to not get belly-shot by the bike’s swinging handles.

He lands at Ranov’s feet, winded. 

Even when he starts breathing, again, Ranov watches him.

“Say it.” the thug says flatly.

Scott feels the iron’s coolness before it touches his head– recognizes the click as it is drawn. He swipes for it!

Two resounding pows.

Back on the bike– dodge, dodge, thought this might be more stressful– hug, pull back, speed up, no, speed up more—

Scott’s back tire narrowly avoids being chewed by two cars meeting nose-first.

Ranov watches the bike zip and whip, flames licking it but not one piece of metal effectively blocking its way. This is too weird. How long has this kid been biking? He’s looking like a stunt-expert out there!

Worse– why doesn’t this feel fun anymore?

Ranov raises his stag-killer and fires three shots. One hits the bike’s already-punctured fuel, one hits the brat’s head. Wait, didn’t he want to keep the fuck alive? Make him admit his power?

The bike comes again. Wait– again? 

Ranov fires as Scott dodges his first car, this time. They are long shots– but on the fourth Ranov hits a sweet bit. The boy falls and is taken by the cars.

Something’s wrong.

No, can’t be scared of the little fuck. Just–

Ranov lines the barrel up with Scott’s head.

–feels like this’s happened before. Way too many times before.

No, wait– he hesitated too long. The bike’s just passed the pincer! 

Ranov fires three shots– one hits the fuselage, one goes straight for the prick’s head– and is blocked by a black plate. The kid just held it up like a shield, as if in reaction– to a bullet?

Too late now– Scott leaps from the bike, tackling Ranov to the ground. 

Blindly, Ranov fires again. It hits Scott point-blank, right in the chest–right where he’d just removed the plate from. 

A fucking heart-shot. Not feeling any deja-vu now, no sir.

Oh, god fuck.

Ranov clenches his eyes tight. He feels like yelling when he sees the bike coming down the lane again.

What is going on? Am I dreaming?

Ranov shoots into the streams of cars to his right and left. That should do it.

Far down the lane from him, more cars than Scott was expecting come at him, horns blaring. He’s eaten.

And, here he comes again. Alright, I’m just going to disable him this time, see what happens th–

That’s new.

Ranov has to squint hard to see the form behind it, but there is a very distinct flashing in the air around Scott, as if from many different cameras. And, at their center, above him, is– something that borderline defies description.

Though Scott does not seem to notice it, his spirit, Signed On For A Sequel, is wisping behind him. It appears as a sheening mass of black recording tape.

“Aright, definitely dreaming.” Ranov mumbles.

Ranov whips his gun up and fires at the apparition. As he’d half-expected, it is unphased.

He grunts, and throws a foot into the rushing traffic to his left. He feels it connect with a car, and sees the daisy-chain of chaos that results. 

Scott is crushed by the whale-sized wave of flipping automobiles.

 Oh, boy, here we go again– saving my bullets this time.

Dodge one, dodge two, dodge the tr– oh, did he just eat it? Damn, he might be getting ‘tired as me.

Is– has it stopped? Are we not fucking restarting? No, I bet he’s just not dead.

“I’ll fix that.” Ranov grumbles.

It takes him longer than he’d like to walk over, but his balls are aching.

The truck now blocks the entire intersection on its side. Ranov sees the bike just before it, as if the boy had been ripped off the seat and it had kept skidding.

Ranov vaults up onto, and steps to the other side of the truck. Examining its undercarriage on the other side, he sees no gore.

He hears a deep, halting rev from behind him.

The first car he dodged. He’s in it. And the headlights are squarely on Ranov.

Scott jams down on the gas, hissing “seems your luck’s run out.”

The car flies at Ranov and its original driver convulses in the passenger’s seat.

Ranov yells and leaps back onto the truck. The resulting crash shakes it, and he stumbles to his elbows.

Scott staggers out of the vehicle, about ready to throw up now. He’s bleeding rather heavily from somewhere on his upper head now.

Ranov draws his gun, ignoring the spirit’s odd movements. 

He and Scott are close, now– missing won’t be easy.

Signed On For A Sequel cracks one of its many tape-appendages like a whip.

Ranov keeps his eyes on Scott.

“You know what? I’ve got a feeling this is it.” Ranov says, pursing his lips. “Say it.”

The spirit cracks its film-whip again, and this time it is the sound of Ranov’s end. Striking the fuel puddling beneath the bike’s fuel-tank, the whip sets it alight.

The resulting explosion sends a plate-sized blade of steel straight into Ranov’s skull. His finger tenses, firing one shot into Scott’s shoulder. It feels as if his arm is nearly taken off entirely.

Ranov crumples. 

Scott falls to his knees. He got him. Took him fifty-something tries, but he got it done.

The traffic around him does not become any less tense.

He sees people asleep at the wheel– choking, smoking, drinking– the worst day ever to be bleeding out on the road.

What rotten luck.