My Crazy Hot Interstellar Affair

37. Study Finds Infinite Chase Scenes Dangerously Boring

Andie screamed as she fell, only to hit hard, shoulder-first, on the steep rock face and roll across sharp pine needles and boulders. She flew off a ledge and tumbled onto something metallic and in motion. "Ouch. Was that necessary?" she yelled, breathing hard and trying not to focus on the fact that she felt like she'd been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.

"Who are you talking to?" Bad Andie said.

"Whoever is running this place."

"You think there's some all-powerful being creating our destiny?"

"In this case, yes. I have a theory."

The hard-moving something vibrated and shook beneath her aching back. There was something familiar about the chugging sound. A high-pitched whistle wailed, followed by a cloud of hot steam. She sat, waving her arms to clear the haze. It cleared enough to reveal a tunnel looming a scant twenty yards ahead.

Quickly, she resumed a horizontal position and imagined herself two-dimensional, careful not to breathe lest the oxygen in her lungs add to her horizontal height. She squeezed her eyes closed for good measure, but even behind the vantage point of her eyelids, Andie could tell she'd been swallowed by darkness. The cold air shrieked past her ears.

Hours passed.

Or maybe it was seconds. Andie had lost track of time, given that each moment was terror-filled. It is a truth universally acknowledged that terror-filled moments are exponentially longer than pleasant ones.

The train exited the tunnel into daylight. This was odd because, on the other side of the tunnel, it was decidedly night. But Andie didn't have half a breath to digest this, because gunshots sounded in the distance. A bullet whooshed past Andie's shoulder.

She rolled off the train and landed hard on a fruit stand.

Apples, watermelons, cherries—a veritable fruit salad—spattered across an ancient market square. "That hurt," Andie yelled, staggering up, shaking her fist at the sky. The fruit cart confirmed her theory. They had trapped her in a chase scene.

The fruit vendor shook his fist at Andie, swore in Italian or maybe Latin, well, some romance language anyway. A motorcycle with a rider, face concealed by a helmet, gunned over the fruity mess, shards of watermelon exploding in its wake. The bike slid into a U-turn, tires screeching, and came straight for Andie. Her head whipped back and forth, looking for somewhere to hide because it was obvious the guy was planning on turning her into shards next. But she was in the middle of an open square with nothing close enough to hide behind before said squashing would occur.

Someone in the crowd whistled. She spun. A woman who looked like Halle Berry, wearing an orange bikini with a white utility belt, tossed Andie a helmet. Another woman, this one in a white bikini, picked Andie up as if she weighed less than a trial balance, and positioned her on a red Ducati. Andie had never driven a Ducati or any other motorcycle, but she assumed it worked the same as on TV.

She gripped the handles with sticky, watermelon-scented hands and revved the engine. It emitted a satisfactory roar. The kickstand retracted. The motorcycle took off, the other bike in close pursuit. Bouncing down narrow cobblestoned alleys, Andie decided, as her ass repeatedly slammed into the leather seat, that cobblestones were overrated as a street surface.

Out of nowhere, the loud, relentless strains of an electric guitar pierced the air, soon joined by a restless drum and insistent timpani. A quick glance over her shoulder told her the other Ducati was gaining on her.

"Do something!" Bad Andie said.

"Shut up and let me drive."

Andie rose off the motorcycle, gripping the handlebars as she rocketed onto a half-constructed bridge. Andie glanced in the rear-view mirror. The unknown driver was only a second behind.