race past a Land Rover and really wish I had time to switch vehicles. My leg is not happy with my pitiful Easy Rider impression, and I’d much rather be escaping in a heated leather seat than on a Yamaha, whose shocks have seen better days.
More shots and I see the bullets hit the asphalt in front of me. I would do that dodge and weave thing I used to see in action movie chases, but my leg won’t take it and I don’t have the control to pull it off. I’d just crash and break my neck. Which might be better and quicker than taking a crazy bullet in the back. But sometimes, you don’t get to choose.
The street has become more and more choked with weeds and plants. It looks like someone’s “decorative” ivy has decided to move across the street , and I see a blanket of green ahead of me. I’m not too worried since I’m riding a dirt bike, which is supposed to be able to handle all types of terrain. Why worry about some ivy?
Then I see it’s not really ivy so much as kudzu gone rogue. Covering the trees and stone mansions just isn’t enough for this overachiever of the plant world. Nope, Mr. Kudzu has to take the street too. But, no worries, right? I have a dirt bike!
But a dirt bike, just like all motorcycles, has open wheels. No hubcaps on a dirt bike. Nothing to keep the kudzu from kicking up and wrapping itself like a tight, green ball inside the wheels as I speed over the greenery. I feel the pull and can tell I’m in trouble just before the bike is yanked from underneath me, and I go flying over the handle bars.
I’m able to tuck my shoulder and roll, but that doesn’t help much. Even though I land in the kudzu, it does nothing against the hard asphalt beneath. I scream as I feel my right shoulder separate. The pain is white hot. Just like the pain from my leg as it slams into the ground. I watch the sky above me tumble past as I roll and roll , and then come to a spine-crunching stop against the (kudzu covered!) curb.
Shit, I’m fucked.
Four motorcycles are coming at me. They’ve seen what the kudzu can do to their bikes, so they stop just before it, grab their various weapons of chains and sledgehammers, machetes and sharpened rebar, and take a casual stroll towards me.
“Oh, you gonna pay,” the lead biker snarls. His skin is so bad that he looks like a serious case of acne is trying to take human form. “You think you can spy and kill ours and not get fed?”
Get fed? Does he mean they’re going to feed me? I am a little hungry. We never stopped to eat. But I don’t think he means that. I’m pretty sure he meant to say that I was going to be fed to the lake of the undead. You know what? Just because the world comes to an end , doesn’t mean we have to let our communication skills go. How did this dipshit speak before Z-day? I mean he couldn’t have been this stu-
The kick to my ribs brings me out of my thought loop right quick. I guess my mind tried to take a vacation from the pain and forgot to tell me. Suddenly , they are all standing over me, their weapons raised and their lips back, showing their less than stellar dental hygiene. Take care of your teeth, people! The world is over, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t floss!
Another kick brings me around again. Damn, mind! Stop trying to check out!
“You hear me, meat?” the biker asks. “We are going to fuck you up and hurt you. But we ain’t gonna kill you. We’ll leave that to the flock.”
“Flock?” I ask. “Of seagulls?”
This makes me laugh. Nothing like some good old-fashioned sarcasm when facing death.
They don’t get the joke and tell me so by lifting me up, punching me in the face, lifting me again, punching me in the gut, lifting me and kicking me in the nuts, lifting me- Well, you get the picture.
This lift and beat routine goes on for a while. These guys are good. They keep me in agony, but don’t let me pass out. Stuart would probably applaud their professionalism. Then he’d rip their throats out.
More shots and I see the bullets hit the asphalt in front of me. I would do that dodge and weave thing I used to see in action movie chases, but my leg won’t take it and I don’t have the control to pull it off. I’d just crash and break my neck. Which might be better and quicker than taking a crazy bullet in the back. But sometimes, you don’t get to choose.
The street has become more and more choked with weeds and plants. It looks like someone’s “decorative” ivy has decided to move across the street , and I see a blanket of green ahead of me. I’m not too worried since I’m riding a dirt bike, which is supposed to be able to handle all types of terrain. Why worry about some ivy?
Then I see it’s not really ivy so much as kudzu gone rogue. Covering the trees and stone mansions just isn’t enough for this overachiever of the plant world. Nope, Mr. Kudzu has to take the street too. But, no worries, right? I have a dirt bike!
But a dirt bike, just like all motorcycles, has open wheels. No hubcaps on a dirt bike. Nothing to keep the kudzu from kicking up and wrapping itself like a tight, green ball inside the wheels as I speed over the greenery. I feel the pull and can tell I’m in trouble just before the bike is yanked from underneath me, and I go flying over the handle bars.
I’m able to tuck my shoulder and roll, but that doesn’t help much. Even though I land in the kudzu, it does nothing against the hard asphalt beneath. I scream as I feel my right shoulder separate. The pain is white hot. Just like the pain from my leg as it slams into the ground. I watch the sky above me tumble past as I roll and roll , and then come to a spine-crunching stop against the (kudzu covered!) curb.
Shit, I’m fucked.
Four motorcycles are coming at me. They’ve seen what the kudzu can do to their bikes, so they stop just before it, grab their various weapons of chains and sledgehammers, machetes and sharpened rebar, and take a casual stroll towards me.
“Oh, you gonna pay,” the lead biker snarls. His skin is so bad that he looks like a serious case of acne is trying to take human form. “You think you can spy and kill ours and not get fed?”
Get fed? Does he mean they’re going to feed me? I am a little hungry. We never stopped to eat. But I don’t think he means that. I’m pretty sure he meant to say that I was going to be fed to the lake of the undead. You know what? Just because the world comes to an end , doesn’t mean we have to let our communication skills go. How did this dipshit speak before Z-day? I mean he couldn’t have been this stu-
The kick to my ribs brings me out of my thought loop right quick. I guess my mind tried to take a vacation from the pain and forgot to tell me. Suddenly , they are all standing over me, their weapons raised and their lips back, showing their less than stellar dental hygiene. Take care of your teeth, people! The world is over, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t floss!
Another kick brings me around again. Damn, mind! Stop trying to check out!
“You hear me, meat?” the biker asks. “We are going to fuck you up and hurt you. But we ain’t gonna kill you. We’ll leave that to the flock.”
“Flock?” I ask. “Of seagulls?”
This makes me laugh. Nothing like some good old-fashioned sarcasm when facing death.
They don’t get the joke and tell me so by lifting me up, punching me in the face, lifting me again, punching me in the gut, lifting me and kicking me in the nuts, lifting me- Well, you get the picture.
This lift and beat routine goes on for a while. These guys are good. They keep me in agony, but don’t let me pass out. Stuart would probably applaud their professionalism. Then he’d rip their throats out.
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