The Hybrid Cycle: Volume 1

3: The Rest Stop

The black Firebird ripped down I-81 South.

Gasper had pushed a steady 85 since crossing the Pennsylvania line from Jersey.  He had not spotted a single trooper lurking in the crevices for a hundred miles or more.

He wore aviator-style shades and a red V-neck that squeezed his muscles like the costume of a professional wrestler. He checked his rearview every few seconds, waiting for the green Volvo to show itself.

He first made them in rural New York. 

Gasper had felt them tickling his brain's synapses before he noticed the car that waxed and ebbed on the horizon.  Two presences that overlapped– one moderately youthful and the other like a steel-grey icebreaker bounding through tidewater glaciers.

Even though the ESP was an accident of genetic recombination, it seemed to work in a sensible way, almost as if it were the result of trial and error in the court of nature. 

From a distance, he could feel the presence of another mind.  Not every mind, however; there seemed to be a selectiveness at play that snatched relevant information from the ether.  Like a hunting dog that caught the upwind scent of quail through a jungle of other smells.

They had tried their best to be procedural. Relaxed distance. Not too eager. It was too far for him to dig into their thoughts,  but he could feel their intentions like the shank of an icepick.

It was inevitable that Mikhail – or his superiors - would want someone to watch over things.  It occurred to Gasper that they might kill him after he finished with Abraham.  He did a lot of bad things outside the scope of work, even with a monthly allowance of rough trade.

He let up on the gas pedal and eased onto a rest-stop exit. The lot was deserted.  It was a scenic sort of place. Sheltered picnic area with a charcoal grill.  Display stand with dozens of travel brochures.

Gasper waited. A minute later the Volvo pulled in and parked.

As far as he could make out, there were two men. Casual dress. One on the youngish side of his thirties. The other stocky and balding with a face that screamed professional responsibility.  They were still too far to read, but he could feel the buzzing of their minds like the hungry violence of a wasp's nest.

Gasper stepped out of the Firebird and walked to the men's room.

****

Thomas Macklin struck the steering wheel with his open palm.

"That motherfucker has been in the bathroom for half-an-hour. Think he's got a case of the traveler's trots, or is he just flexing in the mirror like The Rock?"

His younger companion glanced from his phone.

"I don't think they call him The Rock anymore. Strictly Dwayne Johnson. Only old dudes still call him The Rock.  Can't put that shit on movie credits."

"What?"

"Never mind. I got no clue what he's doing. Keeled over, maybe? They say his type don't live long.  The ones who make it end up topping out at thirty anyway.  Blood clots and shit.  Nature doesn't like it too much when you start trying to fuck with her."

Macklin considered that their charge might be slumped-over dead on a commode. It bothered him immensely.

"I have to take a look", Tom said.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, fella.  What if he gets inside your head?"

"Not likely, Robbie-Boy. For them, the reading of minds takes effort. It's intentional. Why would he do it to me?  I'm just a regular guy who needs to use the pisser."