Dusk Harbor 1999

Money

The studded tires of her big, black, custom-built Yamaha tore down the highway after the eight-wheeled white box truck heading North. Lydia's eyes flicked to the speedometer. The orange needle was pointing at seventy. She pulled back on the throttle and sped up to seventy-five. Pulled up close beside the truck. Kept her balance steady as she took one hand off and aimed it at one tire.

A tickly pins and needles sensation pricked it's way through her chest and hiked down her arm. The build-up was always like a tiny mountain climber digging his cleats into her and stomping all around. Scraping down towards her hand. Made it a little painful to use her powers. Over the years she had grown used to it, but sometimes it just plain hurt.

Her teeth clamped together as a beam of ice formed a half inch from her palm and shot out towards the tires of the truck. Summer-like heat tingled in her face and arms. It was a sort of ironic thing, the ice made her overheat. It made beads of sweat trickle down her neck.

The beam became a long spear and stabbed into the front left tire. Punctured right through it. The tire wobbled as it started deflating, and it jumped off into the air. Flew over her head. She watched as a red pick up truck behind her slammed on the brakes. The tire bounced over him and rolled into a ditch.

The truck groaned as it swerved back and forth, trying to maintain control. She fired another ice spear at the second front left tire. It deflated rapidly, and the driver lost control.

The truck veered into her lane and the front rammed into the guard rail. Sparks flew up as metal crunched against metal, and the whole thing tipped over onto its left side with a jarring kabang. Leaving the top of the truck facing towards her. She slowed her bike down and came to a stop at the back doors. Hopped off. Unclipped her helmet and stuck it on the handle. A gust of wind came and further messed up her frazzled brown hair.

She cast a beam of ice at the silver latch holding the doors together, and they fell open.

Inside the truck were a bunch of unlabeled white boxes. All perfectly locked in together so none of them would move around during shipping, or get thrown about in a crash. She stepped inside the truck, walking on the hard metal wall. Strolled up to one of the boxes. Unclipped her black handled pocket knife from her belt. Flicked it open. A beautiful six-inch blade. Gloriously shiny steel. Plain, simple.

She chose a box on the third row, second one in from the left, and stabbed it. The blade was stopped short by something tough on the inside. She knew what it was. Slashed the box open, and there was an explosion of green paper that sent her back a few steps. Hundreds of Benjamins flew out at her and littered the truck. Counterfeited money. From an operation in Columbia. She took a few and studied them. The paper felt just like any other dollar bill. Because it was. They had taken the paper from real one-dollar bills and bleached them. Repainted them with the right kind of ink. A masterful process.

Real professionals had made these. They were crisp, clean, linen-like. A lot of fakes had made their way into the system without anyone realising it. Lydia had only discovered this after stumbling into the wrong abandoned factory and eavesdropping on a group of men. Urban exploration had its perks.

This truck was one of dozens across the country. She couldn't stop all of them, but she could stop some.

There was a loud clang at the entrance of the truck.

She cast a glance behind her.

Illuminated by the light of the setting sun was a tall male figure. He had a black tuxedo and a black half cape with gold-yellow satin on the underside. His face was covered by a roundish yellow mask that had snarling white teeth and thick black smudging around the eyes, like mascara that went running and dried up long ago. On the forehead was a black stripe with a gold line running through the middle of it. The cheeks were prominent, and the eyebrows ran together in a horrifying arch.