Sweat was running down Sam's face. A plastic hose ran from his mouth to a
vacuum machine. Wire sensors were taped to his torso and scalp, running to
junctions at his wrist and waist. He felt like a caged rat being pierced and
pricked for his response to a new drug. His discomfort was compounded by the
annoying digital readouts staring him in the face. Two oscilloscopes and a
computer monitored his heartbeat. The routine was nothing new to Sam. These
monthly wellness checks were just another irritating fact of his now
regimented life. All citizens were required to wear dog tags imprinted with
their fat, blood pressure, and cholesterol levels. If they didn't pass these
monthly stress tests, they couldn't purchase fatty foods at the market, order
rich foods from a restaurant, or travel out of the city limits.
Though his feet were pounding the rubber on the treadmill, Sam's mind was
miles away. He was dreaming of escape and thinking about the call he had made
to Starving Students Van and Storage. He ached to ride again. The desire to
reclaim the freedom he once knew was overwhelming. He had to go for it. Red
was right, this could be his last chance.
Suddenly Sam's attention snapped back to the wires and tubes. The repetitive
bouncing motion blurred his focus of the digital readouts, but he could tell
his heart rate was too high. Sam panicked. He knew he needed a clear test in
order to get a vacation clearance. He glanced to his left and saw the wellness
official looking skeptically at the blinking red numbers on the meter. Sam
didn't have much time to bring his heart rate down. His lungs burned.
Perspiration pumped out of every pore. His legs ached.
Then Sam flashed back to a lesson he'd learned in martial arts training about
maintaining his "wa" (an area around his being in which he could control the
atmosphere). He remembered his old karate instructor saying, "Don't let anyone
or anything disturb your wa.."
The pace of the treadmill quickened. Sam concentrated with all his might. He
felt a coolness wash over his monitored temples. Though his feet were flying,
his touch lightened, his grip on the rails softened, and his heart rate
stabilized. As he felt the machine shut down, he jogged to a stroll, then a
stop. The official at his side displayed obvious disappointment at his narrow
success.
"You should have been quarantined," he said rudely. "You were lucky."
Sam looked through him. He had to get out of this web of technology. He
yanked at the belt around his waist and ripped the sensors from his skin.
"Hey, take it easy with the equipment," the male nurse sniveled.
"Just sign off the report," Sam said, tossing the wired wristbands aside.
When Sam returned home, he immediately began filling out the requisition
papers he had received from his Starving Students connection. He was setting
the wheels in motion for his supposed two-week vacation in Nevada. Two weeks
was all the time off he could ask for, and in order to get it, he had to
complete a stack of forms. They needed to know where he was going, why he was
going, and especially, why he intended to take his bike.
Sam told them he was going to sell his bike to a motorcycle museum in Las
Vegas. He knew they'd like that. The authorities took pleasure in any gesture
of stamping out the old ways.
Though the majority of citizens acquiesced to the rules set for them and the
restricted life they were forced to lead, there were some individuals who
refused to conform. In some sectors, these "renegades" had set in motion a
growing current of rebellion. They chose the desert as their oasis of freedom,
and there was talk that some had successfully escaped into the unrestricted
sands between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Others had disappeared from obscure
roads leading through Death Valley into Beatty, Nevada.
In most instances, however, these freedom fighters were caught in their
desperate act of escape. In fact, the captures were televised on a weekly
program called Manhunt. The idea behind the show was to film the capture of
these fugitives, undoubtedly to discourage those watching from attempting a
similar escape. Sam didn't buy into the program, but if the ratings were any
indication, society sure did. No one knew what happened to the people once
they were apprehended, but more often than not the "capture" turned into an
ambush, with the escapees being shot down like hunted animals. The bloodier
the better as far as the viewing audience was concerned. And the continued
success of Manhunt meant bigger budgets for the law enforcement agencies,
which made everyone happy. The cops had developed a seemingly unlimited force
of manpower and equipment, including a fleet of helicopters.
The Starving Students people had warned Sam that, to prevent the cargo from
raising any suspicions at checkpoints, only the bike, secured in a tough,
plastic casing, could be loaded into the van. This meant that anything else he
wanted to bring had to be hidden inside the same enclosure that held his bike.
To prevent any weight discrepancies, Sam dug up the few remaining tools he was
allowed to keep and removed the fat, stock fenders, footboards, and any other
parts he could live without. He packed only essentials, then sealed up the
plastic and waited.
At 6 a.m., the moving van arrived. The movers deftly crated the bike's
museum-like display and loaded it into the van. Sam signed some papers and
they were gone. With one suitcase in his hand and enough paperwork to fill a
laundry basket in the other, he began the tedious process of checking out.
First he had to check-in with his local law enforcement agency. They sneaked
the check-in procedure into law under the guise of a burglary prevention
measure. If you checked-in before you left for a trip, the cops would watch
your house. If you didn't, the mailman reported that your mail was not being
retrieved regularly. Either way, they knew if you were gone. Actually, the
authorities knew when Sam was supposed to leave L.A., when he was to arrive in
Vegas, where he'd be staying, and how long he was going to be there.
Dealing with his employer was the toughest step out. Sam's boss was an
institutional-type who figured no one needed a vacation since the invention of
Simul-Act. He saw no reason to foot the bill for anyone who was dumb enough to
risk getting hurt on the outside. Luckily, Sam's boss was relieved to find out
that he was going to Vegas to sell his "relic" motorcycle, and quickly signed
the forms.
Sam put on his fleece-lined Wrangler jacket, a souvenir from his riding days,
and headed down a long escalator to the bus station. Reserving a seat on the
desert-bound bus was another difficult task. The desert was portrayed as a
drug-trafficking no man's land, subject to hijackings, so few individual
vehicles were allowed to make the trip.
Sam finally boarded his Las Vegas tour bus, which was packed with senior
citizens who were taking advantage of their monthly gambling privileges. An
old, silver-haired woman sat beside Sam, looking at him inquisitively. "If
we're lucky, we'll get to see some of those renegades in the desert," she
said. Sam smiled at her, then looked across the aisle. Another elderly woman
was seated there. She glanced back briefly, then quickly turned away.
The woman seated beside Sam continued to rant about the renegades, talking
about their disgusting beards, long hair, and hideous tattoos. He listened
without commenting, occasionally looking to his left at the silent blue-haired
woman with knowing eyes and a youthful glint, anxiously clutching a large
purse in her lap. Although she was bent in an elderly slouch, and her attire
was loose and flowery like so many of the other women on the bus, there was a
youthfulness about the texture of her skin. Her eyes told a story of longing
and intensity. She seemed to speak whole conversations to him with every
glance.
Finally he spoke to her. "Where are you headed?" he asked.
"To gamble," she said in a soft, shy tone.
"Are you on vacation?"
"Yes, probably my last."
The intensity of her stare bore right through him. At one point he wanted to
reach out and touch her arm. Her features were smooth, but stressed. He could
see the muscles twitch in her forearms as she pulled the over-stuffed bag to
her chest.
"Where are you staying?" Sam continued.
"The Desert Inn," she answered.
The woman's response seemed like a signal, a call for help, or even an
invitation.
The bus lurched forward and rumbled through the line of traffic lights and
checkpoints leaving the city. Sam looked out the window at the long lanes of
graffiti-covered concrete, steel bars which covered the windows on every home,
and new electric transports rolling up and down the streets. The average
citizen was forced to use the electric transports. Only the wealthy could
afford cars, the expensive insurance required to drive them, or the electronic
locking devices necessary to secure them.
Soon the bus lumbered onto the open road as the city lights faded into
darkness behind them. Sam closed his eyes and thought about how much his life
had changed. He'd been a biker for over 20 years before the country fell to
the mercy of the insurance companies. One after the other, his freedoms were
taken away. He'd fought alongside bikers' rights groups for years, but once
the new laws went into effect, their efforts became futile. It was hard enough
to get rights for citizens, let alone for bikers. How could they fight helmet
laws when the government was forcing motorists to wear them also? How could
they defeat mandatory drug testing when the Health Department made citizens
take monthly cholesterol tests? How could they combat police harassment when
local communities supported the use of roadblocks?
Sam's once adventurous existence had become routine and mundane. He got up,
went to his work station, labored for eight hours, went home, and sat in front
of his video screen. Even relationships had become a thing of the past. As
AIDS became a national epidemic, sex was frowned upon. If a man wanted a
woman, he could watch whatever he wanted on video. Why take the risk?
Sam woke to the sound of sirens. The highway ahead was a sea of red lights,
crisscrossed by search beams flashing across the desert. It was a scene out of
a movie. There were enough cop cars to clog a freeway. The bus came to a halt
and the driver got out. Everyone stared through the tinted windows. A manhunt
was taking place before them. This was Sam's signal to move. "I gotta take a
leak," he grumbled, rising from his seat.
"I wouldn't go out there, if I were you," the old woman beside him warned.
He looked to his left and for the first time the brunette's gaze was fixed
with emotion. She reached out and grabbed his hand. "The Desert Inn," she
repeated, squeezing his fingers urgently.
Sam grabbed his suitcase and stepped off the bus. Kneeling, he quickly
scanned the desert. Lights from two helicopters were locked on a man in the
open sand, running for the distant hills. Sam wondered what the guy was doing.
He didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of making cover. The fugitive's
legs sank into the sand, his suitcase swaying back and forth as he struggled
to continue on. Sam watched the man, wishing the stranger could find a break,
a hard spot in the soft sand in which to run from, or a burst of superhuman
energy to carry him across the open expanse to safety. But he knew it wasn't
possible.
Just then, Sam noticed something about the man. The suitcase he was carrying
was the same size and make as his own. Their jackets were similar, they both
wore Levi's and cowboy boots, and they had similar hair. Sam realized that the
man under the lights, running from the armed troops and dogs, was his intended
double. That's when he heard gunfire and someone screaming, "He's got a gun."
This was the kind of action most people who watched Manhunt hoped for: the
armed escapee. This insured that the man would end up riddled with bullets.
The public loved to see someone gunned down. Hell, it was the only excitement
they had left.
Sam crouched down, his knees becoming weak at the thought that the man in the
desert might be dying for him. He shuddered and looked behind the bus for the
Starving Students moving van.
More shouting pierced the dry air. A film crew situated atop a large van was
aiming lights at the figure struggling in the soft sand. Another camera crew
in a brightly colored television helicopter appeared over a wave of several
hundred men in uniforms. The word "fire" filled the air. Artillery seemed to
fly from every direction. Sam's legs quivered and he dove into a ditch beside
the road. When he lifted his head, all he could see of the annihilated man was a smear of blood and fragmented body parts scattered about the desert, like
the remains of a bug splattered against a windshield.
A government official hurried the driver back into the bus and ordered the
vehicle on its way. Sam wasn't sure what to do; his contact hadn't arrived and
the bus was pulling away. It wouldn't be long before he was spotted, and
unless there was something blocking the road, the moving van couldn't stop
without raising suspicion. Sam looked at the bloody corpse lying in the
darkening sand and thought about himself and the commitment he was making. He
raked his fingers through his graying hair and looked back down the highway
toward the city.
Sam saw a vehicle approaching. It didn't have a bar of red lights on top, so
he knew it wasn't official. Police cars were leaving the scene, but a half-
dozen units remained. Officers stood in the roadway, waving through traffic
past the Manhunt scene. The show was over and the officers had no patience for
slow-moving traffic.
The headlights rolled closer, then slowed. Sam squinted and made out the
words "Starving Students" above the cab. He threw open his suitcase and looked
for anything he might need. He stuffed a few things in his shirt, shoved the
case deeper into the ditch, and covered it with sand. He skirted along in the
trench, careful to stay below the line of searchlights. An officer motioned
for the big van to maintain its speed and go by, but it continued to slow
down. Passing Sam, the driver hit his high beams. Sam scrambled out of the
ditch toward the back door. A large, authoritative-looking cop stepped in
front of the white moving van and motioned the driver to halt. The vehicle
lurched to a stop. Sam ran to catch it, then realizing a search might ensue,
dove underneath the tailgate.
He frantically looked for something to grab. In a matter of seconds, six
armed officers had the vehicle surrounded and the driver yanked from the cab,
spread-eagled against the left front fender. His papers were carefully
scrutinized.
"Why'd you slow down?" one of the officers asked.
"Thought I'd catch a man hunt," the driver replied.
"That was over. We were waving you on. You know better than to hesitate. When
we wave, you move."
"Guess I was just tired and needed a break," the driver shrugged.
"Next time you could be the guy in the desert, you know that? You don't want
to be a star, do you?"
"No, sir."
The cop went around to the back of the truck and looked inside. A few minutes
later, he returned.
"Get the hell out of here," he shouted, tossing the driver's clipboard at his
feet.
Never looking up, the driver knelt, picked up the papers and his clipboard,
and climbed back into the cab. Nervously grounding gears, he jerked the clutch
and rolled down the highway.
The truck rolled for another 20 miles until it reached an all-night truck
stop. The driver steered it into an empty bay next to an earth mover. As soon
as the truck pulled to a stop, a couple of men came out from the service area
and threw open the doors of the van.
"Where is he?" the taller of the two men demanded.
"I don't think this one made it. I was late to the pick-up spot. He had
overloaded his container, so they were fuckin' with me."
"Dammit!" the bearded man yelled, slamming the truck door. He spun on his
heels and stared out at the dark desert. "He's out there somewhere. We can't
leave him. You'll have to go back."
"I can't..." the driver began.
A small thud interrupted them and Sam rolled out from under the truck. "Gotta
beer?" Sam asked, looking up at his old friend. He was covered with road
grime. His face was dust brown.
"We don't have time," Red said, helping Sam to his feet. "Load the container
and prepare Chopper for the next leg of his journey. We've gotta keep this rig
rolling."
A large forklift motored out of the service area, hefted the container out of
the van, and dropped it into the earth mover. Another container replaced it
and the van was on its way. From under the ceiling of the service bay, sand
began to fill the earth mover. Two men placed Sam in a coffin, attached a hose
to the wooden box, and placed him in the bowels of the truck. His container
and coffin were placed beside some others and covered with sand. The massive
diesel fired, then jerked and jolted out of the enormous service bay onto a
back road leading into the hills.
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