Acceleration brought instability, pushing the limit.
I was trying to glance back as often as possible, but with the blood rush, I needed to keep a tighter grip than ever, eyes peeled. It was like every car had become violently loose, every change in the asphalt threatening to rip control, every shift in the position of vehicles calling on deadly precise corrections.
Wally turned around to shout at me, his helmet’s expression grave.
I couldn’t make out the heads up, but I knew what it meant as they started.
We cut between a semi and a bus, moving into the middle of the next two lanes over. We had to bide our time till the next off ramp.
This wasn’t normal. Butchers weren’t daft enough to do this.
Not at these speeds.
There’d be nothing to fucking take.
Hold your breath and peek like it’s naughty.
They had moved onto our lane. The frontman dared to shift aside, inches from fiery death by the next car over, to allow the one behind to move up. Two riders, now.
Look forward. Wally was straining to see without throwing Skrimp off or losing his hold. The wind was salty and acidic, and as we continued acceleration, tore at the skin.
There was nothing we could do but drive.
It has to be schizos. Loons. Chiller thrill killers.
I turned back and saw the second rider of the front bike aiming off his friend’s shoulder, a cold steel barrel barely visible between the blinding highway lights. Continue reading