PROTOTYPE 17
By Heck



Comments to heck@beadyeye.me.uk

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

We never got to find a room.

Convinced that the FBI would have picked up our transmission, we decided that
it was better to move on, putting as much distance between WKCG and us as we
could. The motorcycle purred through the night. The sharp white beam of its
headlight lancing through the darkness, and by dawn we were nearly three
hundred klicks away.

It had been icy cold, during the night, and I was glad for the warmth of Lucy
pressing against my back. In daylight, though, the temperature soon soared to
forty-eight degrees Celsius by nine o'clock. We were well out into the desert,
the flat surface parched and cracked like crazy paving. I let the bike coast
to a halt.

This wasn't always desert. Within living memory it was green, fertile farmland
with vast fields of waving wheat and corn, but the combination of generations
of intensive agriculture and global warming had put paid to that. It was now a
desiccated dustbowl that supported a few coyotes and buzzards, scorpions, and
a few antelope that nibbled a meagre living from the sparse clumps of tough,
stringy brush.

"Time to make our call", I said, dialling Scott's number. He answered
promptly, his flushed face tiny on the cellphone's miniature screen. I told
him where we were, giving grid references and everything, and he estimated he
could have a chopper to our location inside an hour. I hung up and handed the
phone to Lucy. She cocked her arm and threw it like a Major League pitcher. I
don't know how far she flung it, because it was well out of sight before it
even reached the top of its arc.

"I guess we just sit here". Lucy brushed her hair off her high forehead and
scanned the barren landscape. "There's nowhere to hide, that's for sure".

"No", I agreed, shucking off my jacket. The pits of my shirt were already
stained dark with sweat, although Lucy still looked as fresh as a daisy. I
checked our water; there was enough. "I just hope we're doing the right
thing".

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Scott might just decide that there's more news in tipping off the FBI
than in bringing us in".

"Perhaps, but I don't think so. I think he's enough of a newsman to realise he
can get more from us by playing along". She let go a sigh. "I hope you're just
being paranoid".

"Hey, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you".

My joke might have been ancient, but she gave it the courtesy of a short
laugh.

"Too late to worry about that, now", she said.

Too late, indeed. All we could do was sit at the roadside, watching the
shimmer of heat haze over the featureless plain, and wait. Once, I saw a
buzzard wheel overhead, a bad omen if ever I saw one, but apart from that
nothing moved. No cars. No insects. Nothing.

The hour had come and gone. I was starting to get a bit fidgety, and began to
worry that Scott had let us down. I was about to say so when Lucy held up a
hand.

"Listen".

"What?"

"Helicopter. I can hear it". I strained my ears, but heard nothing. Five
minutes later I detected a faint but familiar 'whupwhupwhup', and soon we saw
the machine egg-beating over the desert toward us.

"That's them", I grinned, picking up my jacket in readiness.

"Maybe", Lucy said, pointing along the road the way we had come. "But that's
not".

Dilemma. Did the cloud of dust being kicked up by the oncoming vehicle signal
the arrival of friend or foe? Would it get to us before the chopper? Could we
afford to wait and find out?

No, of course we couldn't. We jumped on the bike and I gunned the motor. The
machine shot forward with a screech of tyres as I opened the throttle to the
max.

I kept my head down, concentrating on putting ground between the following
vehicle and us. Lucy must have risked a glance over her shoulder.

"They're gaining", she yelled in my ear. I didn't know if she meant the
vehicle or the helicopter, but didn't take the time to find out. I leaned the
bike into a turn that leapt us over the rocky verge and out into the desert
proper. On the flat surface the bike was not hampered at all, but Lucy's
weight, compacted into her lovely frame, again prevented it from reaching its
full potential.

I chanced a backward glance, and my heart sank. The pursuing vehicle had
followed us onto the desert and was haring after us in a plume of dust. From
the wide, squat shape, I recognised it as a Humvee. Those things hadn't
changed in basic design for over eighty years; if a thing ain't bust, why fix
it? They remained probably the most capable off-road vehicle in the world and,
with a huge power plant and superb suspension, could follow us just about
anywhere.

Now the chopper was alongside, and I could see a cameraman leaning
precariously out the door, capturing the whole pursuit on tape. Next to him, a
smart redheaded woman was waving to us, telling us in gesture that they were
going to try to get closer.

This is going to be real spy-movie stuff, I thought. They're going to try to
pick us up from a moving motorcycle. Lucy might have managed it, but I had
serious doubts about my own ability.

The question was moot. A shower of sparks showed where a bullet had ricocheted
off the CNN logo on the 'copter's fuselage. The pilot veered away, concerned
for the safety of his machine and crew.

They had opened fire! The bastards had fired on a civilian aircraft! I could
hardly believe it.

The Humvee was very close, now, and I could see that the big black truck was
heavily armoured, although I couldn't see the faces of the occupants through
the tinted plexiglass. I leaned forward, trying to coax every last drop of
speed out of the cycle, swinging out in wide arcs, hoping to confuse our
pursuers.

A puff of dust kicked up, just ahead. They were firing on us, now, not, I
hoped, to kill. Lucy was too valuable for that. She could do nothing except
hold on, but she was a perfect pillion rider. She leaned when I leaned, and
kept her weight centred right over the bike so it handled like a dream.

More puffs of dust. I hoped the cameraman was getting all this. The chopper
had tried to close in on a couple more occasions, but was met by fire from the
black off-roader, so was forced to keep its distance.

I felt a dull thud behind. The back end of the bike began to wobble, and I
knew they had shot out the back tyre. I let go the throttle and tried to brake
gently, but at that speed there was only one possible outcome.

I felt myself sailing through the air, arms and legs windmilling frantically.
I clearly remember the ground rushing toward me.

Then, blackness.

*

Brackets.

That had to be what they were. There were two strong brackets supporting my
body, holding it against something warm and soft. But then, why was I bouncing
up and down?

I came to in a haze. Lucy's profile, expression set in fierce concentration,
stared straight ahead. What I had thought were brackets were, in fact, her
arms, cradling me securely. The bouncing motion was Lucy running at full tilt,
bearing me across the desert. I looped an arm around her shoulder, to make
myself less of a dead weight, and thought about speaking to her. I decided
against that; she didn't need the distraction. She spared me a quick glance
and a brief smile.

Over her shoulder I could see the predatory shape of the Humvee, not thirty
metres behind. Off to the side, the helicopter kept pace, the cameraman avidly
following Lucy's progress.

I'm no judge, but to go by the ground flashing past under her feet, the cloud
of dust behind the Humvee, and the slightly forward-tilted attitude of the
chopper, Lucy must have been sprinting at around eighty or ninety kilometres
per hour.

I should have been terrified. I was being carried at a flat sprint, across a
barren, rocky desert, in the arms of a young woman. And, of course, I was
terrified; terrified of the occupants of the big armoured vehicle right
behind, but there was a strange feeling of security, of safety, in Lucy's two
strong arms. A feeling of confidence that she wouldn't stumble, wouldn't drop
me.

I didn't know how long I had been out. A cursory check revealed that, although
I was bruised and knocked about, I wasn't injured. There was no sign of the
wrecked motorcycle behind us, however, so we must have covered some fair
distance.

Even a super-human has limits. Lucy had proven herself in many ways, and her
loyalty when, spilled from the bike, she had picked me up and carried me,
sprinting at full speed for God knew how long, was much more than I could have
expected. But burdened with my weight, she could only keep it up for so long.

The Humvee was closing, pulling alongside. A face appeared at the window,
levelling a wicked looking carbine, aiming at Lucy's legs. The loudspeakers on
the truck's roof crackled into life.

"This is the FBI. Come to a halt and stand still, or we will open fire".

"Do it, Lucy", I yelled. "They may not shoot you dead, but they will shoot
your legs".

She frowned at me in annoyance, but I could tell she knew I was talking sense.
She gave a tiny nod, heaving in deep breaths.

A running human can come to a full stop much more quickly than a vehicle, and
this remains a fact even if the human is running at vehicular speeds. So the
Humvee sailed past when Lucy came to a halt. She made to turn and run the
other way, but I spoke up.

"No, Lucy. You can't run any more. It's over. Put me down".

With a throaty sigh of frustration, she placed me on my feet. The Humvee came
around and stopped several metres away. Half a dozen rifles poked out the
windows, fixing us with their cold, black muzzles. The helicopter hovered
nearby.

These guys had obviously been told to treat Lucy with caution. They made no
move to get out of the truck, but addressed us through the P.A system.

"Make no sudden moves", the amplified voice instructed. "Approach the vehicle,
and place your hands on the hood".

We moved slowly to obey, the rifle muzzles tracking us like synchronised
spaniels.

"When I say", Lucy whispered out the corner of her mouth, "run".

I looked at her in puzzlement, wondering what scheme she had cooked up. We
reached the Humvee and positioned our hands as instructed. The nearside door
swung open and a black-clad FBI agent, armed with a long-reach taser and heavy
shackles, stepped out.

"Ready?" Lucy gave me a wink. "Run!"

I turned and sped away, expecting her to be with me. But her hands dropped to
the bottom bull-bar of the truck and, having made only about seven paces, I
turned to see what she was doing.

Corded muscle stood out in her arms and cables of sinew stretched in her neck.
With bent knees, gritted teeth, and a forced grunt, Lucy heaved upward. My
eyes boggled as the front wheels of the massive truck left the ground. The
agent with the taser stood as if transfixed, unable to take his eyes off her.
Shouts of surprise came from the inside as she continued to lift.

At chest height, Lucy shifted her grip. Planting her feet wide, she pressed
upward, raising the front of the Humvee high above her head. Its tailboard
grounded and it leaned at a steep angle, most of its giant weight resting in
Lucy's hands.

The taser-man shook his head and came to his senses. Stepping forward, he
touched the weapon to Lucy's side. She grunted with pain and her knees buckled
a little, but she held on. Tens of thousands of volts must have passed through
her, but she held on.

For a second, the agent didn't know what to do next. His taser would take a
few seconds to recharge itself, so he lashed out with the heavy chain
shackles. They smashed into Lucy's back, causing her to cry out once more.

I'm no hero. I'm definitely not a fighter, and I'm by no means a hard man, but
I wasn't having that. I launched myself at the man, bearing him to the ground
with sheer ferocity, and dashed his head on the ground. I rolled over his
unconscious form, using him to shield myself from any shots.

I raised my head to watch Lucy. She was inching her way forward, walking her
hands down the underside of the Humvee, forcing it higher and higher until it
stood vertically on its tail. Yells of confusion still came from inside, and
one of the doors was lifted open.

With a shout of triumph, Lucy gave one last mighty heave. As if in slow
motion, like the toppling of a giant redwood, the Humvee keeled over backward,
landing on its crumpling roof with a sickening crunch.

I lay dumbstruck, the fallen agent at my side. This was her most astonishing
feat of pure strength yet, and I was rooted in amazement.

"Sean!" Her call brought me back to the present. "Come on!"

Close by, the helicopter hand landed and we dashed over to it, our every step
recorded by the cameraman. The redhead beckoned urgently, and we ducked under
the rotor blades and threw ourselves inside. The camera panned round to shoot
our dirt streaked faces as the chopper lifted off, and the redhead shoved a
microphone under Lucy's nose.

"Lucy Radovic, you have just single-handedly defeated six armed FBI agents in
an armoured truck. How does that feel?"