This is Jesse Mach, an ex-motorcycle cop, injured in the line of duty. Now a police troubleshooter, he's been recruited for a top-secret government mission to ride Street Hawk -- an all-terrain attack motorcycle designed to fight urban crime, capable of incredible speeds up to three hundred miles an hour, and immense firepower. Only one man, federal agent Norman Tuttle, knows Jesse Mach's true identity. The man...the machine...Street Hawk.
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Law, what does that mean when all hell breaks lose and zombies destroy civilization as you know it? Don’t answer it’s a rhetorical question. I’ll tell you what I did, my job. I was a cop, I was a federal agent. Yes, at the same time, cop by day, fed by night. I rode an advanced motorcycle. It was armored, armed, and fast. I spent my nights stopping criminals at the behest of my federal handlers. They told me where to go and I never asked why. I just did my job. Then there was no more handler. It became more and more difficult to figure out who was the “good guy” and who was the “bad guy.”
I, like so many around the world, expected the government to come in and fix the problem. Days passed. Then weeks. Months. After a year I stopped pretending. I was on my own. I just needed to survive. I traveled the long roads of the Midwest avoiding gangs, marauders, hordes, mutations, and whatever else was trying to kill me. I found what I could, stole when I needed to and survived.
Then came something I never expected. Cobra.
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Somewhere in the desert southwest of the former United States.
Speeds reach 120 MPH. That’s cruising speed. The rider tucks close to his two-wheeled machine. Tunnel vision keeps him focused on the road ahead. Any obstacle could spell disaster at least for a less experienced rider. But Jesse Mach is not the average motorcycle enthusiast. He was the Street Hawk. Now he’s just another survivor trying to get by. Currently, he finds himself on the way to a wasteland oasis, Dollar Debs. There he can find food, fuel, libations, and entertainment. It’s just him and the road. The Horde’s last known location is nearly a hundred miles from where he is now. Just then a flash in his sideview mirror. It catches his eye.
“What the hell is that.” The flash appears again, several miles behind but fast approaching. He maintains speed watching the glint get closer every second. A form starts to come into view. Another rider. The rider is in all black riding an all-black ride, not unlike Mach. Unless the rider is blind he sees Jesse. Jesse can’t tell if he’s armed or what his intentions are. With the flick of his thumb, he arms a rear-facing firearm. He’ll have 30 rounds to eliminate the rider should he pose a threat.
The rider quickly accelerates, “Here we go.” The rider blasts past Jesse. That’s when he slows down seemingly waiting for Jesse to catch up. A flick of his other thumb and the front weapons are hot. For some reason, he doesn’t quite understand, he lets the rider pace him. The rider flips up his visor, gives a thumbs up, flips his visor down, then puts up three fingers. Three. Two. One. The rider accelerates like a bullet. Jesse doesn’t know what to make of it. The rider ahead begins to slow down. The rider repeats his previous actions: slows to pace Jesse, raises his visor, thumbs up, visor down, three fingers up. Three. Two. Jesse realizes he’s being challenged to a race. One.
The two riders blast down the barren road. 125mph. 130mph. 135mph. 140mph. The two switched the lead position again and again. 145mph. 150mph. Jesse lives for speed and adrenaline is pushing him to push his bike, Street Hawk, to the limits. The computer-assisted engine and controls speed the bike along. 155mph. 160mph. Jesse takes the lead leaving his mystery rider behind him in the dust. Then he hears a scream of an engine and the mystery rider roars past. Jesse tries in vain to keep up as he watches the rider disappear over the horizon.
The rest of the ride to Dollar Debs is uneventful. He pulls up to the gate and goes through the security motions. He enters, checks his weapons, pays for a room with ammunition in calibers he can’t use, and enters the main room. Stepping up to the bar, the bartender a surly-looking mountain of a man with a scar diagonally across his face steps up with a smile, “What can I get ya.”
“I’ll take a beer.”
“One house special coming up.” He takes a glass over to the tap and begins his pour. The sweet aroma of cold beer mixes with the smell of air-conditioned atmosphere, perfume, and food. “Here ya go.” The bartender places a coaster under the beer as he places it on the shining black wood bar. Jesse takes out his Deb Dollars, and the bartender puts his hand up, “This one’s on the guy at the end of the bar.” Jesse looks in the direction the bartender said, there sits a man in a white t-shirt, brown hair tousled. He raises a pint glass to toast Jesse. He returns the gesture. Guess this is for you then, he hands the bartender 10 Deb Dollars. “Thanks, mister.”
“Jesse.”
“Thanks, Jesse. You need anything else give a holler.”
“Will do.” He turns with his drink in hand to take in the scenery. The lights are turned way down. The brighter lights turned toward the stage. There dances one of the many Debs who work and live in the establishment. He takes a long sip of the amber brew, enjoying the cold blend of hops and wheat grown on the premises. He settles into his stool for a well-deserved night of drinking. The mystery man at the end of the bar gets up and takes a seat near the stage without another glance in Jesse’s direction.
After a long night of drinking Jesse makes his way to the room he rented. The sparsely decorated room is oddly inviting. He pulls off his boots and falls back onto the bed. Morning comes. The aroma of bacon wakes him from his dreamless sleep. After taking care of his morning routine he makes his way back towards the bar. A buffet greats him, filled to the brim with eggs, bacon, toast, and a variety of foods that he thought were all but lost in the new world. Grabbing a plate he steps in line. Several people are ahead of him, and more are already seated. A dancer is on the stage entertaining several guys stuffing their faces while placing Deb Dollars down in-between shoveling mouthfuls of food into their cavernous gullets. Jesse grabs a serving spoon and loads it up with scrambled eggs. “That’s some fast bike you got there.” The voice startles him. He turns to see the guy from the night before standing behind him. “I haven’t seen a bike that can hit those speeds outside of the organization in a while.” Jesse sidesteps towards the bacon.
“Thanks, man.”
“Tom. Tom Gonzales.” He extends his hand. Jesse takes a second but reaches out to take it.
“I’m Jesse. Jesse Mach.”
Tom turns towards the buffet, “Will you look at this; eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, yes please.” He loads up his plate eyes focused on the food in front of him. Without looking up, “Seriously that was some great riding. We could use a rider like you.”
Jesse turns to the man, “We?”
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Now the commanding officer of the elite Cobra Coils, a group of high-speed couriers. Outfitted with the latest state-of-the-art pre-zombie motorcycle Jesse rides the roads, clearing any obstacles that may impede his riders.
