Fast

by Shane M Brown

  It was a wrecking ball.

  King suddenly jerked the steering wheel left. The wrecking ball rolled to one side and teetered precariously over the edge of the truck.

  ‘You’re not serious!’ Forest felt the entire truck list sideways under the weight. The hydraulic legs screeched as they dragged along the floor under the wrecking ball’s weight. Sparks flew up the side of the truck.

  King grinned and wrenched up another control. ‘It’s time for a little experiment of our own.’

  Forest heard the crane spooling its cable into the back of the truck, then King slammed the steering wheel back the other way.

  The wrecking ball rolled off the back.

  Losing its load, the truck instantly lurched up under Forest. A second later the wrecking ball touched down. The impact came right up through the truck.

  Forest stared wide-eyed at the wrecking ball bouncing beside the truck. It rapidly drew off the loops of steel cable.

  It’s drawing off the cable too quickly. It’s going to rip the crane off.

  King released the mini-crane controls and the cable stopped spooling. ‘Hold on.’

  Gobsmacked, Forest watched the last few coils of cable disappear from the back of the truck.

  As the line of cable between the crane and the wrecking ball jerked taunt, both men were hurled forward in their seats. The crane didn’t come off. King kept the gas pedal pumped to the floor.

  The wrecking ball jerked twice then swung in a bouncing arc back behind the truck. The scorpion truck was now dragging the wrecking ball by the crane cable.

  Forest saw the cement ball sideswipe the nearest quad bike. The wrecking ball pulverized the rider without even slowing. The bike flew off through the air.

  King smirked into his rear view mirror. ‘Now, let’s have some fun.’

  #

  Coleman scrambled onto the tray-back.

  The two terrorists found their feet. All three crouched on the orange rope webbing securing the stones. The webbing looked badly stretched from Coleman’s stunt driving. Knee-high boulders slid and cracked against each other in the tray. Vanessa maneuvered to prevent two more riders from leaping onto the tray-back.

  Coleman judged the man crouched on the right as the greater threat. He seemed more secure in his footing. He watched Coleman alertly.

  Both terrorists had tightened their weapon straps to make the jump to the tray-back. Their submachine guns were strapped tightly to their chests.

  I can’t let them use those weapons.

  But the gunmen had no intention of fumbling with weapon straps on the dangerously shifting boulders. The man on Coleman’s left darted his hand through the webbing and drew a long-handled hammer from between the rocks.

  Son of a bitch, thought Coleman. Look at the size of that hammer.

  The truck’s toolbox must have spilled tools over the tray, the large hammer included. Coleman saw a few other loose tools, but they’d all bounced down the back near the gunmen.

  Scanning the webbing under his boots for a weapon, Coleman just saw more bouncing rocks.

  Nothing. What about in the toolbox?

  He fumbled behind himself in the dented toolbox. He found something steel, a small chisel, and hurled it at the man with the hammer.

  The flying chisel clinked off the steel head of the gunman’s hammer as Coleman searched again.

  He found something long and thin. He drew the item from the toolbox. It was a pinch bar.

  Head-cracker. That’s more like it.

  The meter-long steel bar made a sharp U-turn at one end. It was the type of tool used for opening crates or levering rocks into place. This one was painted fire engine red.

  The terrorist swung up the hammer and launched himself at Coleman. The man wasn’t risking his footing on the treacherously colliding stones. He simply jumped with the hammer, swinging the heavy weapon in an overhead arc that descended straight at Coleman’s head. The terrorist’s full flying weight was behind the attack.

  Coleman needed to make sure it missed.

  Even a glancing blow from the hammer could knock him senseless. And he hadn’t forgotten about the other terrorist on the tray-back. The second terrorist was fishing his hand around in the tray, struggling to yank something up through the too-small gaps in the webbing.

  Coleman swung the pinch bar up in a wide circle that intercepted the downward trajectory of the hammer.

  As the two weapons collided, he jerked his body to the left.

  The glancing strike of the pinch bar just threw the hammer off target.

  The hammer whooshed past inches from Coleman’s right shoulder, caving in the toolbox. The terrorist overbalanced forward, his face level with Coleman’s right shoulder.

  Grabbing both ends of the pinch bar, Coleman drove it sideways across his body, ramming the curled end into the man’s head. The stunning blow tore a hunk of cartilage from the man’s ear. His head snapped savagely to one side.

  Before he could recover, Coleman shoved him with the pinch bar.

  The man cartwheeled off the truck and hit the floor badly.

  If the fall wasn’t fatal, then the massive chunk of concrete that rolled over him must have been.

  What the…?

  Coleman did a double-take. King was towing a huge ball of concrete behind the scorpion truck. As King snaked the steering wheel left and right, the massive weight swung like a pendulum behind the truck. King had partially lowered the truck’s pneumatic struts to avoid rolling.

  The quad bikes couldn’t get near the rolling menace.

  Coleman couldn’t tell if King was trying to lighten the truck’s load or if the maneuver was intentional.

  He didn’t have time to make a decision either way. The second terrorist had finally managed to withdraw whatever he had been searching for through the tray-back’s webbing.

  #

  From high in the cab of the A-frame truck, Bora tracked the swing of the huge wrecking ball.

  The ball cut a devastating path across his driving line. It tore chunks from the floor like Morse code.

  Even had he not seen the big Marine jump into the scorpion truck, Bora could have predicted who controlled the wrecking ball. Only one person could be at the wheel of that rolling menace. Few men would even have the upper-body strength required to control the steering wheel. Bora imagined the Marine’s smirking satisfaction as he sent the wild obstacle tumbling around the quad bikes.

  It’s always something with you, isn’t it? It’s not enough just to get away, you have to smash everything to smithereens in the process.

  Bora had never witnessed such a display of merry-mayhem in his life. He was reluctantly impressed. The ball bounced once, twice, and then crashed clear through the corner of the admin hub. The corner exploded in a spray of glass and tangled aluminum frame.

  Bora dropped his foot from the accelerator. He needed to keep the A-frame behind the ball’s destructive path. He knew how quickly the Marine could get the ball back into play.

  Already one quad bike rider had learned the hard way, coming to a pulverizing end under the roaming obstacle. Another had fallen from the tray-back and been smeared like a grape under a bowling ball. Now all the quad bikes buzzed in a loose pack around Bora’s A-frame, only zooming forward to harry the scorpion truck when its massive pendulum was demolishing the amenities on either side of the pedestrian loop.

  Bora ignored the quad bikes and studied how the Marine expertly snaked the truck left and right. He used the truck as a counterweight to keep the cumbersome wrecking ball in motion.

  Bora needed to get around that big stinging tail to bring the A-frame into the action.

  The key to the massive weight’s trajectory was telegraphed by the scorpion truck. As the wrecking ball tore free from the admin hub, Bora saw the driver correct his steering to counter the ball’s momentum and start dragging it back the other way.

  Bora pumped the gas, testing the responsiveness of the giant A-frame. The truck lurched forwar
d with a satisfying roar.

  This baby’s got some grunt.

  Bora tracked the ball.

  Wait for it…wait for it…now!

  As the ball cut back across the A-frame’s path, he punched the gas pedal. The A-frame accelerated smoothly through the danger zone and drew level with the scorpion truck.

  Bora grinned down at the surprised driver.

  He pointed ahead of both trucks towards the tray-back. The tray-back was what the Marine in the scorpion truck was trying to protect. Bora had known it all along.

  Bora pointed at the tray-back and then made the cutthroat gesture with his hand.

  I’m going to kill your friends.

  Powering straight after the vulnerable tray-back, Bora relished the look of impotent frustrations in the Marine’s eyes.

  #

  Coleman eyed the terrorist with the long-handled pick.

  The pick was what the man had been searching for under the webbing. The tool looked even heavier than the hammer. Its curved head had wicked points at both ends. Holding the pick in two hands, the terrorist assessed the bouncing rocks under the webbing, choosing his attack angle.

  Coleman kept his knees bent, rolling with the movement of the tray-back. He waved the terrorist forward.

  Come and get it.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  The man heaved the pick in an overhead swing.

  Coleman calculated the weapon’s effective range. Like the hammer, the long-handled pick could deliver a devastating blow, but was unwieldy and cumbersome. The pick was slowest at the beginning of the attack, and faster and more deadly at the end. Coleman had two options. He could try to dodge the attack, or he could move inside the weapon’s danger zone.

  He stepped into the attack.

  Still holding the pinch bar at both ends, he locked his arms straight up. Crack – the steel pinch bar collided with the wooden handle. The impact jarred down his body. He’d caught the pick at the apex of its swing.

  In one deft motion, he rotated the pinch bar around the handle. The curved end of the pinch bar acted like a heavy knuckle-guard. Coleman rammed it straight into his attacker’s mouth.

  Four of the terrorist’s top teeth ripped from their gums. Coleman had focused the full twisting weight of his body into the surprise counter-attack.

  As the man’s teeth exploded into the back of his throat, Coleman followed through with a shoulder ram. His shoulder caught the man right in the solar plexus.

  The man reeled back, but didn’t go down. He gathered himself, spat a mouthful of bloody teeth onto the webbing, and then launched another frenzied attack, this time making a wide scything swing at Coleman’s neck.

  Surprised by the quick recovery, Coleman jerked back and felt his tailbone crack into the toolbox. Arching his back over the cab’s roof, he just managed to slip under the attack. The pick head grazed the front of his body armor, tearing off a velcro ammunition pocket.

  As the terrorist’s weapon swept past, Coleman rolled onto the tray-back’s cab. Now occupying the high ground, he crouched on the roof and swung the pinch bar sideways like a club.

  The terrorist tensed his arm and absorbed the blow on his shoulder. Before Coleman could swing again, the terrorist swept the pick over the cab at Coleman’s ankles.

  Coleman jumped straight up in the air.

  At the peak of his jump above the tray-back’s cab, he realized he’d underestimated this particular man.

  The frenzied-looking attack was a feint.

  The terrorist held the pick crossways under Coleman’s feet, and just before Coleman’s boots landed, the terrorist yanked his feet out from under him.

  Coleman whumped down onto the roof, flat on his back, spread-eagled like a human sacrifice.

  With the upper hand now, the terrorist swung the pick through a massive overhead attack.

  The descending pick would pin Coleman to the cab like a mounted butterfly.

  He desperately kicked out with both legs, driving his boot heels into the terrorist’s stomach. The kick couldn’t stop the attack, but it didn’t need to. It pushed Coleman further over the cab roof. During the last second of the weapon’s decent, Coleman used every ounce of leverage in his body to squirm backwards.

  The pick pierced the cab right between his legs. An inch from his groin, the pick had punctured straight through the cab roof.

  Vanessa cried out from inside the cab.

  Feeling himself sliding backwards down the windshield, Coleman groped for something to halt his fall. The top of the cab was completely smooth. The pick! The pick’s steel head was embedded into the cab’s roof like an ice-anchor.

  He tensed his stomach and lurched at the pick.

  As his fingers curled around the pick head, everything happened at once.

  Bora veered in from the left and slammed into the tray-back.

  The impact from the giant A-frame felt like a meteor strike. The tray-back careened wildly under Coleman. The passenger-side door crumpled into the cab. The pick-wielding terrorist stumbled towards the edge of the tray. The tray-back veered straight towards the outer wall of the pedestrian loop.

  Coleman felt his fingers slip from the pick head.

  As Vanessa struggled to correct the tray-back’s steering, Coleman slid ass-first down the windshield. He grabbed the windshield wipers. The tray-back was going to hit the wall. The fragile windshield wipers would snap off like dried twigs, but there was absolutely nothing else to hold. He braced himself for the inevitable collision.

  It never came.

  Instead, something flew over Coleman’s shoulder. He raised his head and looked over the cab roof for whatever had just bounced over the hood. It was a cane chair. It spun over the cab and disappeared.

  A split-second later, two more chairs and a cane coffee-table rebounded off the front of the tray-back. Looking over his shoulder, Coleman saw what had happened.

  Bora had rammed them into a side arcade.

  The arcade was just a broad half-circle recessed in the eastern wall. Wall-to-wall shops crammed the crescent arcade. The tray-back ploughed south-bound through the arcade’s central eatery. Coleman judged the entire arcade was fifty meters long.

  Bora had timed the collision perfectly.

  The A-frame truck was paralleling Vanessa’s trajectory to block any escape from the arcade. Bora was using the A-frame as a mobile roadblock. Vanessa would be trapped if she couldn’t beat Bora to where the southern end of the arcade cut back onto the habitation level.

  She saw it too.

  She didn’t slow one bit.

  She tore through the arcade like a mini-tornado. Chairs and tables crunched under the swerving wheels. Coleman’s legs sprawled over the hood. Abandoned drinks rained over his head.

  But she wasn’t going to make it. Bora’s A-frame maneuvered alarmingly well with a driver at both ends. Vanessa’s small gap was disappearing. No amount of wild driving could fit a square peg through a round hole.

  Coleman prepared to clamber over the cab and into the tray. He could see she needed to slow down to avoid another collision with the A-frame, but she wasn’t slowing.

  He peered at her through the windshield, expecting to see the panicked expression of a person speeding towards an inevitable high-speed accident. Vanessa only looked determined.

  Coleman glanced back and saw the southern end of the arcade was now completely blocked.

  She can’t mean to ram the A-frame! She’ll squash me!

  Coleman felt himself pressed towards the windshield as Vanessa laid on more speed.

  The tray-back was heading straight towards the corner of the arcade.

  At the last moment, Vanessa swerved the tray-back and crashed ram-raider-style through the glass front of a clothing boutique. The thin shop-glass crashed over Coleman’s back, and then Coleman was riding the bucking tray-back as it ploughed through the boutique.

  Hardly slowing, she bulldozed through the shop. A stand of display shoes exploded off the left
fender. Shoes rained down over Coleman. A family of naked mannequins tumbled over the hood.

  Coleman had just recovered from the first impact when Vanessa smashed clean through a second glass wall. They were back out on the pedestrian loop, ahead of Bora!

  Coleman shook off the glass and kicked away a naked manikin torso hitching a ride beside him.

  The breakneck maneuver had given them an extra ten meters on the A-frame.

  Where on earth had she learned to drive like that? Coleman dismissed any doubts about Vanessa’s skills behind the wheel. She was driving like a woman with a misspent youth. Coleman remembered the cry from inside the truck and tried to see if she’d been injured. He couldn’t tell, but from his vantage on the hood, Coleman saw three quad bikes buzzing through the arcade. Bora maneuvered the A-frame to ram them again. King and Forest were picking up speed and approaching at an intercept angle across the pedestrian loop, still dragging the massive wrecking ball.

  If Bora moved the A-frame up beside Vanessa, he could easily pin the tray-back against the wall.

  Why doesn’t she cut right while she still had a clear path? She could cross in front of Bora and get away from the solid wall.

  ‘Vanessa!’ he yelled through the windshield. ‘Cut right. Cut right!’

  But she didn’t answer. She was ignoring him! She was talking into the CB radio microphone while she steered the racing tray-back in a straight line along the wall. She had to be talking to Forest and King.

  Coleman peered through the windshield, trying to see what she was planning. The next corner of the habitation level was approaching fast, so she needed to act in the next few critical seconds.

  Vanessa tossed the radio mike back onto the dashboard and nodded towards the scorpion truck.

  Coleman followed her nod. Instantly, everything became clear.

  Their intent was unmistakable. Not to mention crazy. It had to be King’s idea.

  Vanessa was driving into the wrecking ball’s path. King was veering the scorpion truck so the wrecking ball described a huge bouncing arc towards the tray-back and the A-frame.