The Fog of Dreams

by Justin Bell

  ********

  Strickland laid low against the body of the bike as the engine rumbled beneath him, reverberating off the surface of the road. Everything flew by in mixed blurred colors, as the cool Vermont air wrapped him like a frozen blanket. Up ahead, the road dipped into a steep downhill, then veered back uphill before going through an 's-curve.' Already anticipating this in his head, he pushed the throttle to the max on the downward slope to gain momentum for the next stretch. Rising up the hill, he eased the bike into a loose turn towards the beginning of the 'S' and prepared to bring it around the back half of the turn where the fork would lie about five-hundred yards ahead.

  As he neared the fork, however, Strickland could see that things weren't going according to plan. At the bottom of the "V" of the two roads, another Ducati stood parked, leaning up on its kickstand, and a man stood in front of it, in firing position, with an assault rifle clutched in both hands. Strickland hauled back on the handbrake and thrust his hips around, bringing the bike into a tight, controlled spin. The other man made no effort to dodge and only moved when the SCAR thrashed in his hands, tiny sparks spewing from the front of the barrel straight at William Strickland. The first three shots whipped in front of him as he slammed his foot into the road and picked up the rear wheel out of sheer force of will then whipped it around. With the rear tire still spinning, he dropped it down and the bike surged ahead as the next two shots panged off the metal surface of the motorcycle.

  It didn't take long for the shooter to compensate, and he adjusted his aim, roaring off another series of shots. Strickland leaned far to his left, sending the next half dozen rounds zipping past. Tossing his rifle on his shoulder, Sandidge leaped onto his motorcycle and gunned the throttle, taking off after the departing Strickland. Within seconds, he caught up close to the bike, grasped his handlebar tight in his left hand, and slipped a semi-automatic pistol free of its holster with his right. In a bright, whizzing blur, Strickland spun past the sign for the Norwood Pool and two quick cracks signaled a pair of pistol shots that seared past his head. A third shot impacted as he felt a massive crashing thump on his back, sending his speeding vehicle veering across the road into the opposite lane.

  The shot had struck him, but the weapons and gear stuffed in his backpack had prevented any serious injury. He just hoped that the two weapons inside had survived. Glancing back, he saw the other bike narrowing the gap, with the driver lying low on the seat to pick up speed. Strickland did the same. Instead of just trees and hills, they passed fields and houses, and this little pursuit had the potential to get a lot more dangerous. Up ahead, the road went in a gradual uphill, and then crested, heading towards downtown. Strickland tapped the handbrake, leaving little black streaks on the pavement as he whipped around the corner and burst down a slim side street. The chase vehicle was close behind, and squeezed off a few more gunshots. Strickland swerved the bike from one side of the road to the other, and sure enough, he didn't feel any impact; the three rounds had missed cleanly.

  Strickland crested the hill at top speed, and as the road straightened out, he became just a little airborne, the engine roar fading for a split second as he did. The tires slammed down on pavement and his forward motion continued, as the pursuing motorcycle repeated this motion. Up ahead, Strickland saw the intersection where a main road crossed over and would lead them both towards the river joining the two small towns, a major throughway this time of morning. As cars roared past them, they blew their horns loudly, and Strickland accelerated, trying to pull away. The large road was coming very quickly now and to Strickland's displeasure, he saw a steady stream of cars in both directions.

  The dark-colored motorcycle roared forward into traffic, and he squeezed the handbrake, skidding slightly. Hitting the pavement, the bike shuddered left and surged, barely slipping between two cars speeding in opposite directions. He picked up speed and continued between the two paths of vehicles. Just behind him, he heard the second Ducati repeating his process. Seeing a gap between two cars, he yanked the handlebars to the right and swerved tight between them. He found himself driving on the right shoulder on the other side, still picking up speed.

  Ducati number two didn't try that maneuver, but it still flew at high speed in the middle of the route of traffic, his head slightly turned to keep an eye on Strickland's progress. As Strickland picked up his pace, he saw up ahead that a guardrail quickly replaced the shoulder on which he was riding, which didn't lend itself to effective motorcycle riding. Drawing in a quick breath, he swerved left and barely slipped between two more cars, getting him back in the center of the two passing lanes of traffic, just ahead of where the second Ducati roared its engine, drawing even closer. Strickland compensated and brought the bike back around, accelerating again.

  Both bike riders eyed the traffic light ahead, but Strickland was the first to make his move, steering right and striking the curb on the suddenly appearing median, which launched the first Ducati into the air. There was another brief pause of tires on pavement, and then the thump of the bike striking the thickly packed dirt and grass inside the median between the two lanes. Shocked eyes and stunned faces turned towards him as his bike spat dirt behind him, and then the second motorcycle repeated the motion of the first. Red mist clouded over Strickland's vision as he struggled to fight back the surge of adrenaline that threatened to send him spiraling out of control.

  A large curb visible ahead extended up beyond the edge of the dirt and grass, so he swerved and headed towards it. Traffic to his right slowed almost to a stop because of the glut of cars trying to cross the river. He led his motorcycle straight at a spot where the curb extended. With a bone-jarring thud, the front tire hit the curb and lifted into the air, followed quickly by the rear tire, and suddenly Strickland was airborne again. He managed to send the street bike bouncing off the hood of a dark gray Volvo, much to the dismay of the 40-year-old female driver. Leaving a thick punch in the metal of the hood, the bike continued over the front of the car and struck the pavement just on the other edge, where Strickland whipped the bike back left and headed for the sidewalk of the bridge crossing the river. The second Ducati saw this event and surged forward, off the median, barely between two cars, and then followed Strickland to the sidewalk and over the bridge.

  This guy was good. Main Street from Norwood turned into a steep hill leading up into the next town with Strickland still riding on a narrow sidewalk. Ahead he could see the sprinkling of college students drearily starting their day and walking throughout the road, between cars, and over the sidewalk. In desperation, he spun his bike right and ended up bumping over grass and dirt, and skidding between two houses that sat just off the road. Spitting across grass and over the backyard of one of the houses, he saw a thin wooden fence in front of him, but it was too late. Cranking the throttle, he lowered his head and continued forward; the massive bike exploded through the thin wooden fence in a shower of wooden shards and busted fragments. He was airborne amidst a jettison of wood, and he hit a paved side road with a sudden jolt, his bike skidding amongst scattered wooden pieces.

  Just as he leaped forward on the back of the bike, he saw Ducati number two following his path over the backyard and through the collapsed fence. Within seconds, they both streaked up this side road, approaching some larger brick buildings, and a parking garage just to his left. They both flew past this garage and they could see Main Street stretching ahead of them with yet another flood of cars rolling through. Strickland started to shake his head in frustration, but then he saw his chance. The red mist in his eyes had converted from a fine fog to a full-blown lightning storm of red streaks, and he knew he had to end this soon. A delivery truck was at the red light up ahead, and Strickland began the silent count in his head for when the red light would turn green. Growing closer to Main Street, the traffic continued to flow, and right on cue, the light flickered to green, so he gunned the throttle racing forward at dangerous speeds. Behind him, the second Ducati matched the move. Up ahead, th
e delivery truck continued along past the side street, but Strickland accelerated enough to catch up to it and pulled hard to the right, parallel with the large box truck. Right on his heels, the second street bike sped up and veered to the right as well, and the lead bike could almost feel the tires rubbing together. Strickland glanced over at the delivery truck, and eased up on the accelerator to match the truck's speed. He jolted forward suddenly as the second bike rubbed tires with his, growing dangerously close. Strickland moved forward just a little, drawing closer to the front of the truck, his eyes focusing on the traffic behind, once again the surroundings shifting into slow motion between the red streaks of pumping adrenaline in his eyes. He had to do this just right?

  Drawing a breath, he cranked the handlebars hard to the left and accelerated just enough to sweep in front of the truck and cross the lanes of traffic. Horns roared in his ears as he slipped between the vehicles, navigating mere feet of empty space that his senses had calculated on the fly. Seconds later, he reached the other side of the road, and the second bike leaned to the left to follow. He was able to wind around the truck, but before he got halfway across the road, a dark blue compact car blasted into the second bike, lifting it off the pavement and tossing it backwards. As the rider detached the bike rolled over in midair, and slammed into the windshield back first. A satisfied smirk etching his face underneath the dark motorcycle helmet, Strickland veered left, streaked between two buildings, and left the scene behind him. As the motorcycle slowed just a little bit, his eyes scanned the buildings, and locked suddenly on a sign in a small parking lot. Bringing the motorcycle to a halt, he stared, open-mouthed at a row of signs that by some grand coincidence now stood staring back at him. With a quick toss, he flipped the visor open, looking out from beneath the helmet with squinting blue eyes. One particular sign among the row of them caught his eye immediately.

  DNB Employee Parking. Permit Required.

  DNB?

  He slipped off the street bike, hung his helmet on the handlebar, and rolled his right sleeve up to look at the deep gouges in the flesh of his forearm.

  DNB 455.

  Looking up at the building, he saw the words Dartmouth National Bank, with an unfamiliar square logo underneath, encompassing the letters DNB in a stylish design. Glancing around briefly, he wheeled his motorcycle into a dark corner of the parking lot, resting it against a dumpster, hidden from view. He stashed his backpack in the dumpster, once again scanning the nearby area, and then walked inside the bank.

  One short elevator ride later, he exited out into the hallway and walked over the smooth linoleum until he was at the lobby of the bank.

  The bank was relatively empty this early in the morning, and he reached a teller quickly, where he asked to see safety deposit box number 455. His heart throbbed in his chest. Moments later, the teller led him down to the vault, and just a minute after that, she dropped the thick metallic box onto the table in front of him with a deep clunk. Pulling out his keychain, he quickly located the small silver key he hadn't been able to identify earlier, and twisted it in the lock, popping open the metal lid of the box. He wasn't sure what he expected to find, but he knew it was something important.

  Would this box contain all the answers he was looking for?

  Would it lead him to his wife and children?

  Could one small metal box really do all of that? Opening his eyes, Strickland leaned over the open box and regarded the thickly packed stack of papers wedged inside. Right on top of the stack of documents was a mysterious report that simply stated "Operation: Harvest."

  Snapping the metal box closed, William Strickland exited the bank, and a few minutes later was back on the Ducati with his backpack slung over his shoulder, taking a back road towards Norwood once again.