2013-01-27 Highway to Hell, part 7: Interstate 15

(Continued from Highway to Hell, part 6: Las Vegas)

Las Vegas, 06:11.

The weather's settled on an only marginally brisk fifty-one degrees. Slate grey clouds hang overhead, a light drizzle painting Sin City in a radiant glow. Domino's call finally comes through, she has her information and they have a vehicle. The instructions had been clear. 'Parking garage, sub-level 3.' She can handle lugging all of their gear down there. Plus, she had to figure out which car Gambit managed to score for her. It's like playing the lottery with ill-gotten automobiles.

By the time you show up she's still roaming the large subterranean lot with a key remote tucked into a hand, scouring the aisles in search of the one vehicle within the entire state which will respond to her call.

Chirp!

There's a flash of headlights further down, causing Dom to quicken her pace. Almost as quickly her pace slows to a crawl, staring at the impossibly low slung cobalt blue monster that's awaiting her next command.

Saleen. S7. Twin turbo. Currently valued at over half a million American dollars. Domestic, but even she can't complain about this one.

"Shit, Remy. I asked for a car, not a spaceship. So much for inconspicuous."

"Guess we won't be driving -dat- off any cliffs."

Standing next to you, Shift looks upon the vehicle like a child knelt before a well-stocked Christmas tree. His eyes are wide open, fingers twitching as if he couldn't wait to get his hands on the car.

Suddenly, his entire demeanor changes. He turns to face you, frowning. "We sure dis is a good idea? I mean..." He motions toward the car while hissing his concerns in a quiet whisper. "It could get scratched. Stolen. -Breathed on wrong.- A pigeon could shit on it. We'd be half better to sell de damn thing and walk away with our cheddah."

Dom's already throwing the bags into the trunk, everything except for the cut-down .30 caliber carbine. And the tiny 40mm grenade launcher. Considering what she's aiming to do on the road ahead...

As the front-positioned trunk is dropped closed she turns to give you -such- a look. "Gear is disposable. Try not to get too attached. Now we've got a truck that's got a good head start on us to catch, a lot of miles left to cover, and I'd give up five of these things if that's what it took."

"Knowing Gambit it was also won in a private gambling match. Get in, and so help me your music selection had better be worth it."

Thirty minutes later...

A lone coyote scampers about in the desert sand toward the interstate's shoulder, nose to the ground as he single-mindedly trails a scent. Broad ears suddenly perk upright, his head snapping around to stare down the road. Two seconds later he sprints away from the pavement, diving out toward the marginal cover of a nearby shrub.

Right as he makes it there's a shot of blue streaking past, growling with such turmoil that the grit coating the surface of the road dances in tune to its unholy rhythm. Like a bullet out of a gun it's there and gone, the scream turning into a mournful howl as a thin veil of dust whips through the air for some distance within its wake.

Domino's fingers remain welded to the wheel and the shifter, head bowed forward in her own single-minded determination to catch her mark. The speedometer's well beyond triple digits, hitting one sixty and steadily climbing. The engine behind their seats thrums with molar-vibrating intensity, the turbos slamming so much air into the intake that it sounds like a wind tunnel at full throttle.

It's questionable if the radio can be heard at all.

You know those moments where you pull out all the stops, bust out the reserves, go for broke?

This is one of those times.

Shift has been in a lot of sticky situations, and in general, he's made it out of them alright. However, as the machine barrels down the highway at speeds far greater than any sane human being would ever consider attaining, he finally loses his cool.

Just a bit.

Even though they aren't humans.

Sure, he could bust into smoke form at any moment. Sure, his hands are gripping the armrests with deadly strength. Sure, he'd kept the absolute best of his music selection for this final pursuit into the west.

He's still losing his cool.

While the engine screams at his consciousness, he suddenly unfastens his seatbelt and reaches for his satchel behind the drivers seat. Out comes a small vial filled with a powdery, white substance. A lid is unscrewed, upon which is attached a tiny, almost needle-like tube.

Kwabena doesn't look at you, nor does he acknowledge any complaint you might make. Not at first. Instead, he taps the tube twice to remove a bit of excess cocaine, then sticks it up his nose with trembling fingers and gives a good, heavy snort.

Eyes close, a gasp is given, and the cap is quickly replaced. The initial rush only takes two short seconds, but as the ground races breath them, it feels like forever. When the African finally opens his eyes, he seems oddly -relaxed-, as if the sudden surge of energy has actually caught him up to the speed of whats going on.

Hey, he's not the first mutant to hit blow on a job.

"We dere yet?"

Upshift. Accelerator down. The traction control light flickers upon the dash once more, the rear tires combating physics on a positively ridiculous scale. The engine doesn't seem to care, surging forward with enough force to throw the two occupants back into their seats all over again.

Domino doesn't need to watch you to know what you're doing. The sound of you inhaling sharply through your nose is all the proof that she needs.

"Are you sure now is a good time for that?" She could push the matter further, but now is unquestionably not the time for that. She's fed one of her own addictions before setting out, and if hitting the snow is going to keep you focused enough for this task then so be it, she'll push moral complications aside and let nature run its course.

They can discuss the matter in detail later.

Better time could have been made if Dom didn't have to slow down for every cargo truck that's about to be passed, losing just enough velocity to scan the license plate. Anything originating from Florida. So far, no dice.

It gives some others a chance to catch up. Their mark is a lot easier to find compared to a nondescript truck. Five cars, ranging from high-range American sport to the finest Germany and Italy have to offer in a galaxy of vibrant colors, scream out of Vegas with a single-minded goal of their own. Police are alerted to what they suspect is an illegal street race of the millionaires, though their interceptors could never hope to keep up. Even their chopper struggles to keep the insane drivers within sight.

With this much money on the line? This much pride? Nobody cares. The cops can be paid off. The Saleen can be replaced. This isn't about possession, it's about revenge.

They also think that Gambit is the one behind the wheel. Too bad for them.

Back at the S7, Domino glances up to the mirror. It's an instant flicker of motion, but it tells her all that she needs to know. Something within that reflection isn't vanishing from sight. Instead, it appears to be holding pace. Gaining..? Shit, if she didn't have to slow down for that last cargo hauler...

No, they would have caught up with or without that one truck. There's dozens of them rolling down the interstate at this hour, already.

"Look alive over there, kid. We've got company."

Fire seems to have come into Kwabena's eyes, for his coked up brain and the pace of their chase have finally meshed. He rides the upshift in style now, bouncing back once the car has resumed its screaming pace, even leaning forward just so. "Shut it, Lady Luck," he spits back. "You don't want me losing my cool."

Keeping the seatbelt unfastened, Shift stows the little vial of Possession Charges back into his satchel and puts himself between the seats. His mismatched eyes scan back and forth between the choices of weaponry behind them, and he decidedly reaches for the 40mm grenade launcher. "Please tell me now is de time dat we start to blow shit up."

The passenger side window starts to lower, while Shift checks out the weapon. It's loaded and ready for action. Briefly second guessing himself, he peers toward you from across the short distance, one eyebrow perked up into the air. Then, he notices another of those cargo trucks coming up. It's in the right lane. They're in the left.

"Soon as you pass de truck, whip right and I'll fire. Dey'll nevah see it coming."

Domino's eyes narrow at the verbal retaliation that's quick in coming her way. This is how it's gonna be, huh? If the drive didn't take so much of her concentration she would be cutting this one off at neck-level, here and now. Maybe you forgot what happened the one time Betsy had told her to shut up. Maybe you're too psyched out to give a shit. Either way? Definitely not cool.

"They're only going to be a problem," she confirms as you go for the launcher. Another momentary glance is all she has time for. "Try not to lose that one." It's always proven itself to be a wonderful door buster. Besides, what's not to like about shooting explosive shells? "And watch yourself out there, I'm not turning around to pick your sorry ass up."

The instant your window open her ears pop from the difference in pressure, suddenly feeling a tug upon the wheel as the source of drag pulls against the right side of the car. Next truck. License plate: California. With a narrowing of eyes and a tightening of the jaw she drops her heavy boot-clad foot onto the accelerator once more, positively -blitzing- past the truck in a throaty, turbocharged roar. Just as you want, she dodges lanes and lines up ahead of that lone truck.

Time is precious, and Shift wastes none of it. Quickly he unzips the jacket, casts it behind the driver's seat, then unfastens his belt buckle. "Don't get too wet ovah dis," he quips, before leaning out the passenger side window.

The wind screams past Kwabena's bald head but he keeps the grenade launcher cradled carefully in his arms. One foot is braced against the middle console wall, while the other is braced up underneath the passenger side seat. The engine of the semi grows louder in his ears, but he waits until he can see the cab going past before pulling the trigger.

--Lordy I have loved some ladies ---and I have loved Jim Beam ---and they both tried to kill me ---in nine-teen seventy-thr

The crooning of Hank Williams Jr. is suddenly drowned out when a flannel-clad truck driver looks to his left and sees a bald, costumed black man leaning out the window with a grenade launcher in his arms.

"SON OF A BITCH!!!"

A plume of white smoke streaks out from the grenade launcher, sending its payload on a strafing journey down the left side of the semi, leaving a trail of charred paint as it seeks the first of the mutants' pursuers. Not more than a second later, the grenade launcher falls into the vacated Saleen passenger seat, barrel still smoking.

The truck driver looks on with absolute shock as the black man turns into a cloud of thick, black smoke, which summarily bursts forward and smacks against the truck's windshield.

"WHAT THE HELL!?"

The truck driver's arms fly upward, but the smoke is already gone, spurting along the roof of the truck while the Saleen goes tearing across in front of it. "Jesus Christ! I gotta stop eatin' the old lady's meatloaf!"

Shift's gaseous form takes the appearance of dirty engine exhaust being expelled from the truck's smoke pipe. It hovers there in the air while the other pursuing cars approach.

The first car explodes in fiery destruction. Thanks, grenade launcher!

The second car jerks to the side, barely avoiding the flaming wreckage. The driver -completely- misses the fact that the semi truck's 'engine exhaust' just dove down and entered the front grille of his masterpiece. Moments later, however, Shift is reforming in the passenger seat. He looks over toward the driver with a shit-eating grin on his face and says, "Hello, fuuckhead. Welcome to California."

That driver's face gets smashed into his steering wheel, and -that- car goes careening off the side of the road, where it proceeds to flip end over end about seven times before coming to a steaming, blood-filled rest.

Without skipping a beat, Domino snipes back "Too late for that."

The sound of that launcher going off is a sound which is near and dear to the albino's heart. That launcher is the tiny gift that keeps on giving. Modern production, compact size, complete with rail options and a folding stock. The only thing not to love about it? Grenades are expensive.

At least Shift leaves the launcher behind, empty as it is. She doesn't enjoy replacing gear if it can be helped.

Where did Shift go? To a better place. No, seriously. The man just snorted powder and started getting an attitude. It's safer for -both- of them if he's in another car.

Which car?

Dom's eyes dart back to the side, focusing on the reflection of a Corvette Grand Sport cartwheeling amidst a giant fireball with the words 'Objects in mirror are closer than they appear' beneath it.

"Yeah, -that's- reassuring."

Not that car! There, a traditional red Ferrari 458 Italia which now has an unexpected passenger. Dom twists the wheel and spins out into the other lane as, mere feet behind the Saleen's bumper, the Italian beauty starts doing a hundred and seventy mile an hour cartwheel down the Interstate.

Three left. Dom kicks the S7 into a higher gear and goes for it, though someone else in a Pagani had the same idea, suddenly rocketing past her with a high-pitched whine, half on the shoulder as he ducks around the opposite side of the truck. There's still a Carrera GT and a Gallardo behind, one of which has a non-Shift passenger that's readying a submachine gun. It's time to do something about her situation.

"Fuck it, I haven't died in a while."

Clutch in. Handbrake on. It's a stunt only the insane or the suicidal would pull. The Saleen sweeps around, the rear spoiler suddenly providing uplift rather than downforce. Pressure comes off of the rear wheels, losing traction. Preventing friction from the tires causing the car to roll.

The SMG fires. Strikes. Ricochets off the front quarterpanel, rocketing past the Pagani, shredding the tires of a semi trailer further ahead.

The Saleen slams back to the pavement as it finishes its first rotation, grabbing, sliding at a chaotic angle. Further ahead the semi starts to sweep across both lanes, completely out of control.

The Pagani attempts to duck around. Misses. Loses control, slamming into the back of the trailer--

Which jars it enough for the tires to grab, bouncing--

Creating a gap exactly forty-one and a quarter inches tall beneath the sideways trailer--

Right as the Saleen rebounds, slides, and shoots beneath the trailer with nothing more than the backswept antenna getting plucked off of the roof with a comical -Twang!-

Odds of surviving -that- shit: 1 in 1,914,200.

Where did Shift go?

Into the passenger side of the Carrera GT, of course!

"What the hell!?" cries the driver of the GT, who happens to not be the one wielding a submachine gun. After all, Shift isn't the one with the lucky dice.

"OnStar Roadside Assistance," answers the Ghanaian. "You called?"

The driver looks from the road to Shift, then back and forth again, before reaching down to grab a rather dangerous looking pistol from a holster at his side. The driver aims the pistol right at Shift's face, not really thinking about the fact that his new passenger is just -sitting- there, smirking.


 * POW POW POW!*

The sound of gunshots is almost deafening inside the car. In normal cases, it would have been a bad idea - who in the hell wants to be on brain or skull duty later at the hands of Winston 'The Wolf' Wolfe? Not to mention how blood and bits of skull make for extremely difficult driving. Fortunately for the driver, Shift's head isn't really there any more, but not in the way he was hoping.

The GT's passenger window shatters into a hundred pieces, and a little cloud of black smoke reforms into Shift's head, still smirking.

"You're in way over your head, boss."

With a fast, amped up motion, he grabs the gun out of the driver's surprised hand. Pointing it just past the driver's head, Shift fires once and blows out the driver's side window, peppering the man's face with shards of glass. While the driver is distracted, the Ghanaian reaches out to steady the wheel, then quickly aims at the seatbelt. Another loud crack and the seatbelt has been severed, flapping about wildly while the driver grabs at the fresh, bleeding gunshot wound on his ass.

"Hold on!" cries the Ghanaian, cueing the driver to madly grab hold of the wheel, keeping the car from spinning out of control.

"Who are you!?" cries the driver.

His answer comes in the form of a boot to the shoulder. Having dropped the gun, Kwabena has braced himself against the shattered window behind him, teeth snarling as he calls upon his inner demons. The rage comes quickly, hardening his flesh into a consistency tough enough to dent the wall of a tank.

The effect? That poor driver's body just got kicked out the mother fucking window, Rick James style.

Cocaine is a hell of a drug.

Suddenly that Carrera GT is spinning to the side, its tires bouncing and hopping as the car skips down the freeway sideways. With a heavy lurch, Shift leaps into the drivers seat and grabs the wheel, wrestling with it while one foot stomps on the clutch and the other grabs the handbrake. The tires grab and spin the car about in a full circle, but as the road comes back into view (along with all of the carnage before him), Shift throws the GT back into gear and twists the wheel back around. The high performance vehicle does what she was made to do, and after a few jinks from side to side, recovers her forward momentum without flipping.

There's just one problem. Domino has created one hell of an obstacle course.

"Fucking goddamned shit-eating lucky bitch!" Kwabena spits out, while eyes wildly dance about in an effort to find -some- way through the mess. In the end, he merely takes the GT off road, barely skimming past the cabin of that wrecked semi truck while the windshield gets absolutely covered with dirt kicked up by the front tires.

What does a mutant with matter phase changing abilities do? He throws his hardened head into the windshield, shattering it. The shards of glass bounce right off his bald head, and now, he can at least -see- the road ahead of him.

"That's better," he murmurs, before downshifting and gunning the engine as hard as she'll go. Time to play catch up to that bastard with the SMG.

Did Shift just--

At the speed they're going at--

And he -pulled it off- without destroying the Carrera?!

"Think my luck's rubbin' off on ya, kid," Dom undertones with a wicked grin reflecting in the mirror. One left. Lamborghini Gallardo. All-wheel drive. Gonna be trickier to make that one lose control. Engine's in the back, she can't shoot it from up here. Options?

The albino plucks a single frag grenade from her combat harness, popping the pin and letting the priming lever flick off of the arming mechanism.

One.

Two.

"Fire in the hole, bucko."

With the most careless toss imaginable the grenade hops out of her palm and out the window, clicking and tumbling across the pavement as it drifts back from one car toward the next one in line.

-Ka-WHUMP!-

A flash of light erupts from beneath the mid-mounted engine, shredding the fuel tank and engine, blasting the doors wide open, sparking and igniting the fuel as it sends the exotic into an insane somersault down the interstate, hemmoraging scraps of metal and bright orange painted carbon fiber with every rotation.

And Shift thought the semi was going to be a problem!

The Saleen quickly sheds speed as the last of their pursuit is turned into flaming wreckage, both waiting up for the other mutant and making sure that he gets through it in one piece. Heck, now the kids's got a nice car of his own, too. Can't beat those odds.

Mismatched eyes go momentarily wide before an entirely derisive curse is strewn into the shearing wind assaulting the GT's cabin.

"Ssshhhhhit!"

Instinct takes over and Kwabena bends the wheel to the right. Shrapnel starts bouncing all over the commandeered Carrera, ruining its already shredded paint job and making the poor exotic look like a porcupine with wheels. With a quiet fury in his eyes, Shift keeps his eyes glued to the road, trying to guide the GT through the scattering wreckage as best he can.

Then, a long chunk of shredded under-chassis goes right through the hole his head made in the windshield. The next curse word never makes it past Shift's lips, for everything above his neck immediately poofs into swirling black.

That piece of chassis impales the headrest, preventing Shift from reforming. Because, you know, -that- wouldn't work out too well.

There is a momentary pause before a black-gloved hand leaves the steering wheel and begins bashing itself against that chunk of metal, again and again until it is finally torn free and goes flipping end over end out the drivers side window.

Smoke curls into flesh and bone again. "I sweah to God," seethes the Ghanaian, but cuts himself short when Domino's S7 comes rolling back toward his shredded GT.

A quick jerk of the wheel to the right, and the GT pulls up right alongside the S7. With no drivers side or passenger side window, shrapnel sticking out all over the place, and a good hole in the windshield, Kwabena's ride is looking pretty sad.

Looking to the left, Kwabena shoots Domino a particularly wry smirk, before shouting across the way at her. "HOLD YOUR BREATH!"

Legs curl up onto the seat beneath him, and with a vaulting motion, Kwabena leaps right out the window. His body curls into swirling blackness again, only this time, he lands with a bit more practice in the S7's passenger seat, without, you know, losing a couple of fingers in Domino's lungs. Unfortunately, when he re-forms, there's a grenade launcher beneath him.

"SON of a...!" Lurching upward, Kwabena reaches down and snatches the grenade launcher from beneath him, then plops right down with a sigh.

"I should have thought about that."

As if they didn't just destroy four impossibly expensive exotic automobiles, a couple of semi trucks and fuck knows however many other innocent passersby who happened to be driving on the wrong stretch of highway at the wrong hour.

Dom glances back in time to see a large hunk of Lamborghini fuse itself to the driver's seat. Where Shift had been a moment ago. Wince. Just how he pulls that trick off is beyond her, but he's damned fortunate to have such an ability. Without any intervention on her part he tears the piece free and reforms, whole and proper.

When that sorry looking Porsche rolls up beside the Saleen, Dom flashes a toothy grin his way. "Hey, sweet ride!"

Should she move that launcher out of his seat..?

Not a chance. That idiot was snorting cocaine in her car.

By the time you reform she's silently sitting there, eyes forward, one hand on the wheel and one hand on the shifter. -Grinning.-

Another glance is passed to the mirror, watching as the unguided Porsche rolls off of the shoulder and into a ditch, catching and rolling forward only to drop onto the roof with one final cloud of dust.

Make that five impossibly expensive exotics destroyed.

Without looking away from the road, Dom holds out a closed fist your way.

"You do realize we just trashed over one and a quarter million worth in cars back there."

"We've done bettah."

Fist bump.

Shift reaches down to crank the radio back to life, blasting the music they had on earlier. Then, he reaches up to his scalp, scratching at something for a moment. A frown forms on his face, and after picking at something, he pulls out a god damned -tooth- from just beneath his skin.

Looking at the tooth, he winces visibly. "Okay, dat's just fucked up." He holds the tooth out for you to see, the sunlight glinting off its gold filling for just a moment. "Which sorry bastahd do you tink it belonged to?"

Pause. "De Lambo?"

Beat.

"Definitely de Lambo."

Looking back forward, Shift tucks the tooth down into the glove box, then produces a tissue from inside the glove box. Someone thought to put tissues there, which is nice. He presses it up against his scalp and asks, "So, where is dis goddamned truck already?"

Domino takes one look at the lone tooth. "Hey, never know when a spare might come in handy."

It's the gold one. Lucky you.

Six minutes and seventeen miles later...

It sure is a good thing that trucks can only move so quickly at any given moment. Perhaps the only cargo hauler in the state with a Florida license plate, and they find it. Gambit's intel had been spot-on every step of the way. This -had- to be the right truck.

Which is exactly why Domino shoots out the tires and forces it to a very messy, undignified halt.

Moments later the S7 is parked on the shoulder. The albino is on her feet, a ten millimeter pistol filling either hand as she hurries toward the front of the truck, now lying on its side with white smoke hissing out from behind the grill.

Blam-BlamBlamBlam!

The driver is, without question, terminated. The back lock is shot off and the door is flung open, revealing the medical equipment, exactly as advertised.

"Shift?" she asks, passing by the mutant in question with a block of explosives and a remote trigger held out his way. "You know what to do."

While he rigs the charges she climbs onto the truck and crawls in through the window, ripping the GPS right out of the cabin. Still on the screen is the route leading straight to the address she's been hunting for all of these days.

Bakersfield, California.

"Not much further now."

It's like a child in a goddamned candy store.

One by one, the plastics are placed throughout the truck's interior. Shift only gives a few passing glances to the medical equipment, but something about it all seems disturbingly wrong to him.

All the more reason to place those explosives just right. You know, for maximum effect.

Shift climbs out of the truck and heads right back for the S7. "My turn," he offers, while climbing into the driver's seat and carefully perching the remote detonator upon the dash. Domino had made one hell of a trip speeding her way here... the least he could do is let her prepare for the final stop on their journey and enjoy a good pyrotechnics show.

The tires peel against dirt and gravel, leaving a paste of scalded rubber upon the asphalt as the S7 screams off down the highway.

Ten seconds later, the truck goes up in a blaze of C4 glory.

The African's lips peel back into a broad grin as he watches the flames peeling toward the sky in his rearview mirror. "You sure know how to make a man happy, Lady Luck."

(The story concludes in Highway to Hell, part 8: Bakersfield.)

(IC News article: Chaos on I-15 (CNN))