Drifter
His foot mashed the pedal to the floor pushing the engine to the red line. The route was the most difficult yet, from The outskirts of Atlanta GA to the former North Island Naval Air Station. He was on former Interstate 94 and had just roared through Clover Flat and was fast approaching Campo. He had to stay on 94 till he was in the heart of San Diego where he’d switch to the 5 South, next would be west on Imperial Beach, then north on 75 till he was at the end.
He had the cargo which meant everyone else was gunning for him. Literally.
His chosen ride, Dahlia, a heavily modified Dodge Challenger, was nearing its limit. Last night he had made it to a checkpoint just as one of his wheels went. He had no more spares. This was day three and he was getting close.
The Races have rules:
1. Deliver the package to the destination at all costs.
2. If you have the package you must follow the assigned route. Any deviation would result in immediate disqualification. If you do not have the package any route is allowed.
3. The pre-chosen checkpoints were safe zones. No violence no espionage no sabotage. There is a five-hour time limit at checkpoints.
4. Any and all weapons were allowed.
No one ever knew what was in the packages and no one cared. He sure as shit didn’t. He just knew the prize that was waiting at the end; 100,000 rounds of ammunition, 10,000 in Dollar Debs Dollars, and credit for 1000 gallons of fuel. Then there was the fame. That’s what really attracted him.
Even in a world torn apart, people wanted to be entertained and the Wacky Races were it. The organizers broadcast the races using hijacked satellite signals and Guerilla radio and television stations. He doesn’t even know if people actually listened, it’s more likely the people in charge just enjoyed the chaos.
He had stolen the package from ASS, the Army Surplus Special, a team of racers claiming ties to the former US military. He rode solo, quite a few did, but there were no rules against teams. Right now another team, the Bullet-Proof Bomb, was hot on his tail. By his calculations, he only had another 60 miles to go. He just needed to stay ahead of the Ant Hill Mob for less than an hour. He was pushing Dahlia to 120mph white knuckles gripping the wheel. He was taking a barrage of gunfire. An RPG whizzed by to his right hitting a stack of car remains. Shrapnel filled the air. A piece hit his windshield with a metallic thunk. It was small enough and had hit in just the right way to get through the viewport he’d left in the armor. It had embedded itself into the inch-thick bullet-resistant glass. “Shit.” He knew he had the speed to stay at arm's length of the racers behind him. What worried him was that there was only one team behind him. He knew several teams had been eliminated but Pitstop, Dastardly, and several others were still out there. Most likely ahead of him. He was going to drive right into one of their traps or an ambush. The broken asphalt churned under his tires as miles passed he looked in his rearview and the ASS had peeled off to the right. He didn’t know what they were doing, but it wasn’t going to be good.
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The black car sped down the road at breakneck speeds. This particular stretch of the road had been cleared of debris for years. The real problem was there was no one to fix potholes. Before the ZomPoc people complained daily about the infrastructure of the country, it had become an unofficial competition between locales over whose was worse. People complained about their various departments of public works. Now, there was no one. Plants pushed up through the asphalt, buckling it until it shattered like a dropped mirror. He did his best to avoid the holes, he’d go off the side into the hard-packed soil if it got too bad. He was headed to The Bizarre.
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The streets and bridges are a mess. Plants growing up through the asphalt, water collecting from heavy rains, and the lack of maintenance have led to a collapse of most infrastructure. The Organizers of The Race didn’t seem to care. Neither did the drivers. Dirt roads parallel most of the old avenues and streets. When forced on the roads, the drivers are laser-focused otherwise they could blow a tire or snap an axle in one of the cavernous potholes. The Organizers did make attempts to clear the way of wreckage, not entirely mind you, they used the burned-out and rusted remains of cars and trucks as obstacles. To keep things interesting, they’d claim.
They also made no attempt to eliminate any undead threat along the race route. They preferred routes that passed by or through large hordes, again, to keep things interesting.
Gravel fills the air like shrapnel as the black Challenger tears down the broken asphalt.
