Blast Protocol

Chapter 10

SILAS

The bike's engine rumbles underneath me. Slithering dunes streak past with eerie, kaleidoscopic speed. Sands sprays out under the tires, with a consistent crackle and rattle, like beads falling through an hourglass. The cool air running past my body, rippling my clothing, is a slight respite from the intense desert heat.

I blink, trying to focus. Disoriented. Once again—too many times, now—I feel this weird disconnect from this alien body. As if none of this is real and happening.

That memory, of hiding away in the pantry. Why am I so preoccupied by it? Now, of all times? It's as if I lost myself for a second, there. And was that even a real memory? There's something off about it. Something's not right.

Someone's yelling.

"Blast, move!"

Oh. Right.

There's a projectile directly behind us. A long, cylindrical object, like some kind of missile, but in the rearview mirror it's a near perfect circle, growing in size in its approach.

As before, when I took on the giant ball mech, I feel a tugging in my subconscious. An intuition of what I can do, what I need to do. All I need to do is shut my brain off and let the instincts take over.

The rocket whistles loud as it shuttles along, angling downward, as if coming in for a landing.

I tilt the bike, steering hard to one side. I draw the handgun and hold it out behind me, pointing directly back. I squint one eye, using the side mirror to aim. I pull the trigger.

The pistol jolts in my hand, slamming hard into my palm. The bullet glances off the projectile, making a spark. Then there's a 'pop'; a miniature explosion, as the device engages earlier than it was supposed to. Metal parts split off and fall away, and a large net unfurls and shoots past me and the bike, like a grasping fist, clenching down on nothing but a rising tuft of sand.

The Sand Seekers are way ahead of the operative. Hot on our trail, spread out behind and on either side in a V-pattern. Turrets emerge atop the seeking, wheeled bots, and they all open fire at once, as if receiving the same set of commands simultaneously. Automatic gunfire cuts across the sand, sending up disorienting puffs and sprays.

I start to weave in an erratic, serpentine pattern. With so many shooters, I'm surprised they have yet to get in a good hit. Then I realize: they're aiming for the tires. I'm still moving thanks to my erratic driving, the uneven terrain, and probably a decent amount of luck. Luck I sure hope doesn't run out just yet.

This chase is an onslaught on my senses. In the midst of everything, I keep glancing in the mirror, keeping track of the operative. Somehow, I've achieved a complete state of flow. There are no thoughts, only the ebb and flow of my body seemingly operating on its own. One second I've got the bike tilted to the left, by body nearly horizontal to the ground, and the next second I've shifted again, with the bike turned in the complete opposite direction, navigating in circus with the dunes, like I'm surfing the waves of a sandy ocean. Sal has been quiet for a while now, letting me focus. Meanwhile, the Seekers are drawing in close, likely trying to get a shot in at near point-blank range, or to ram into the bike, knocking me over.

Everything's so chaotic, I hadn't noticed we're coming up on the sheer rock wall border. Fast. I can see some of those canal openings Sal was talking about, though. I'm close enough I can see them clearly. And also close enough that I need to manouver the bike now if I want to squeeze through.

I turn right, heading toward one of the openings. I open fire with the pistol, and I manage to pick off several of the Seekers, one after another, causing them to falter, veer off and explode. They've fanned out to the right, trying to head me off before I get to the opening, as if panicked at the prospect that I might slip through and escape.