Further Adventures of the Borderland Biker – Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

Riding off the ramp and onto the dome’s roof gave me permission to breathe; I don’t think I’d taken a breath since leaving the tunnel. Glancing upward I could see where the ramp entered a small cloud innocently surrounded by other small clouds. Glancing to my right I saw as was expected, and heading directly for us, what had been described as Wheelers. Clark said to expect them and that they would arrive as soon as we left the ramp; we weren’t disappointed. There were three of them and I made a point of trying to remember where they’d first ridden onto the dome.

 

“Ride towards them, but don’t hit them; we’re not playing chicken,” said Larry as he pointed his bike at the three approaching Wheelers. “Make no abrupt stops or accelerations, no abrupt changes in speed. The way they came onto the dome will be the way we’ll leave. Remember, they’ll try to provoke you into acting suddenly.”

 

For the first time since leaving the tunnel leading from Gilroy Motorcycle Center I was able to listen to what Larry was saying over my hearing aid size radio; “Looking for an Echo” by Kenny Vance was playing in the background.

 

Coming straight for us were three sportbikes; the two on each side were damaged, the one in the middle not so much. All three riders were joined at the base of their spines to a small cylinder at the rear of their seat. Each cylinder had wires coming out of it and looked to be made of solar panel material. The riders’ butts and feet were fused to their bikes. The two flanking the one in the middle had bodies that were as battered as their bikes; the one in the middle and about ten feet ahead of the other two was in better shape. How they were able to live as cyborgs was a mystery.

 

“There must be some type of gyro connected to their nerves, connected to servos, connected to wireless controls inside those solar powered cylinders that connects everything together; they ride like one unit,” said Larry, watching the three Wheelers make a tight precision loop around behind us with the two most damaged flanking us on either side.

 

“The least damaged one seems to be the leader. Look, I was right about the servos; there’s a thin cluster of wires coming out of the cylinders that connects at the base of their spine. I can’t imagine how it works and frankly I don’t really want to know…and…Geez, I know him…STOP!”

 

Larry and I skidded to a stop causing the Wheelers on either side to instantly cut in front and make a barrier by touching their front tires. Before we could react the leader had blocked any retreat. Hot engine smells mixed in with the smell of barbeque smacked our noses. The Wheeler to our left was trying to say something except that what remained of what’d once been his jaw was wired together. The Wheeler on the right had yellow smoke rising from his cylinder and just stared. Tiny gyros inside the cylinders behind their backs continued clicking on and off making constant adjustments in their weight. As their feet couldn’t touch the ground the gyros kept them balanced. 

 

“I know you,” shouted Larry, “you’re Gary; you raced motorcycles at Laguna Seca.”

 

“Laguna Seca was my favorite track;” answered Gary, “and you two broke the law and I gotta take you in. The law says visitors shall not make any sudden stops or starts. Unscheduled or sudden stops and starts interrupt our harmony.”

 

“We’re not here to cause any trouble;” I said, “we’re here only to help some friends.”

 

“A while back a guy came here on your bike,” continued Gary, nodding at Larry’s Raider, “and tried to outrun us; we eventually caught him. We should’ve brought him back into the dome to be made into a Wheeler like one of us, but because he repaired a few of my friends we let him go.”

 

“Big guy,” I asked, “always smiling, had Clark stenciled on his coveralls?”

 

“Yup; the guy’s a master mechanic. Fact is some of us wanted to keep him here anyway for our personal mechanic, keep him as a prisoner inside our pod. As you can see we’re all in need of some kind of repair. But a deal’s a deal.” 

 

At the same time Gary was answering my question a gust of wind tipped him to the side. 

 

“Damn gyros,” Gary grimaced through clinched teeth, “have been acting up; it’s getting harder to keep my balance when I’m not moving. If I stay still much longer the wind will knock me over, and if a Wheeler gets knocked over that’s pretty much the end of them. When you’re knocked over you’re stranded then the bosses have your machine parts scavenged. After they’ve finished there’s nothing left but what was once your own body. We gotta get back inside the dome, out of this wind. The bosses will want to see you.”

 

As Gary was talking Larry had gotten off his bike and walked to within a foot of him. At the same time he started walking thin metal wires shot out from the two other Wheelers to within a foot of his face. The wires uncoiled like tentacles from the cylinders behind their backs and moved incredibly fast; but why not, they were cyborgs with enhanced strength and speed. Electric arcs danced at the end of the wires warning Larry of a high voltage shock if he even thought of making a threatening move towards their leader.

 

“Look, Gary, I’m calling you Gary as I believe you’re still more Gary than machine. The wind’s about to blow you over, you’ve got a friend with his jaw about to fall off and your other friend, the one with smoke coming from his cylinder, is close to short-circuiting. What say we make you the same deal Clark made with the Wheelers he repaired?”

 

Gary looked tired and in spite of most of the flesh missing from the lower part of what had once been a human face, genuinely sad, “If it were up to me, and I think I can speak for all of us,” and suddenly the coils of high voltage wire were withdrawn, “I’d say you got yourself a deal. The problem is your sudden stop triggered an alarm in the dome; it’s sorta like when a fly touches a spider web. If we don’t show up with you guys the bosses will send up the hardcore Wheelers. We may be ugly half human half machine cyborgs but those dudes make us look like Girl Scouts.”

 

[page break] 

 

I had to ask even though I didn’t really want to know, “Hardcore? Don’t think I’ve heard of hardcore Wheelers. Clark never mentioned anything about meeting something called the hardcore. What are they?”

 

“Picture us but uglier, if that’s possible, and on steroids.

 

Larry cut short any further description of the hardcore that might have been coming, “Hey, we’ll make the repairs; at least we’ll have done some good while we’re here. The three of you aren’t going to last much longer if we don’t.”

 

The wind had increased twofold when a gust more powerful than any that had come before suddenly slammed into us. Gary’s gyros whined in protest but it wasn’t enough. Larry caught him before he fell.

 

“Thanks,” said Gary. “We gotta get inside before the wind gets any stronger. We can’t do anything here and our solar panels limit us to daylight hours outside the dome. Our pod has tools; we’ll go there. The bosses never did me any favors; they can wait a little while longer, read a magazine.”

 

Yamaha Raiders are big bikes, not as heavy as you’d think because of their aluminum frame, but still big bikes. By the time we’d been escorted by the three Wheelers down to a catwalk leading into the dome I’d nearly been blown over twice. How the Wheelers on their lighter sportbikes managed to keep from being swept over the edge by the wind was a mystery. The catwalk began at a point where had we ridden any further down the side of the dome the angle would’ve become so steep we would’ve slipped off; if it’d been raining there’s no doubt we would have. 

 

Rolltop desks have a lattice of corrugated segments that roll themselves up inside each other; the door into the dome looked like a giant metal version of a rolltop desk. Bringing up the rear I was unable to see how it opened; hopefully Larry who was right behind Gary was more observant. When it closed behind us the silence was overwhelming; the increasingly high winds outside had been completely shut out as was the music in my ear radio.

 

At the same time Larry and I were parking our bikes the three Wheelers had ridden into stalls in the opposite wall. Immediately their heads slumped forward. One second later greenish blue lights in the wall blinked on, their engines switched off and their eyes closed.  

 

Their pod was narrower at the other end. The narrow end had a smaller version of the corrugated door but leading into the dome. There were no windows or vents I could see although the light feel of forced air was on my face. 

 

Tools, recognizable metal working tools, were on benches. Robotic tools far in advance of anything I’d ever seen were on the opposite wall. Tracks in the floor led from the robotic tools to each Wheeler’s stall. There were two other stalls. The nearest was empty. The farthest away harbored a small cot and some cooking utensils; stretched across it was an electrical cord, hanging across the cord was a gray blanket.

 

The blanket had been hung, as if trying to shield it from sight, the body of a woman. Curled up on a cot, her face was hidden. Her breathing was shallow and she appeared sleeping. Wearing worn jeans, a prairie-print cotton shirt, tennis shoes and a bandana as a cap, she could’ve passed for a 1960s era hippy out of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury.

 

“She was,” said Gary who’d just opened his eyes and was also looking at the woman, “brought here about a week after I’d been ordered to search for an escaped biker down in the Old Places. Yesterday the bosses question her hard; when she returned she collapsed where you see her. 

 

“I once asked her why she hadn’t been turned into a Wheeler like the rest of us and she said the bosses tried but that the process wouldn’t work on her. She said she’d taken something; however giving it to me wouldn’t reverse the process. She said it only prevented the change not reversed it. She was told it angered the boss of bosses that she couldn’t be changed and that he’d given orders to keep her here until he could find out why. I’ve never met this boss of bosses myself; I just know of him from what I’ve heard.”

 

Larry picked up a worn leather jacket he found on a workbench and covered the woman’s shoulders, “Bikers turned into Wheelers or made into slaves to care for Wheelers; this dome doesn’t seem very hospitable.”

 

Gary seemed more animated, like he’d been given a stimulant, “Making Wheelers, that’s what this dome was built to do. It was designed to join people with machines, to create cyborgs; not just Wheelers but all kinds of cyborgs. Clark was supposed to have been made into a Wheeler but before the hardcore could come and get him he repaired two of my friends. To return the favor my newly repaired friends helped him escape back up the ramp.”

 

Gary looked over at two empty stalls, “The bosses found out, were furious that my friends helped him escape and I haven’t seen either of them since. Clark must’ve later learned that the secret to avoiding capture is to move at a steady pace because he visited the dome a couple more times.” 

 

Gary then nodded at my bike, “The last time I saw Clark was on that bike. We’d been ordered by the bosses to provoke him into making a sudden move but Clark would always stay cool. He’d calmly ride down to and around the dome, even out to the City; the guy must’ve had ice for nerves. 

 

“There was nothing the bosses could do. Wheelers are programmed only to react to panic and we couldn’t get Clark to panic. A couple of times a pack of about five of us were sent out to harass him from the dome to the City’s limits, then to harass him all the way back. He’d always ignore us, stay for awhile, write something in a notebook, and then return. He never left the elevated highway, nor did we ever see him take any of the side roads down into the Old Places.”

 

“Old Places,” I interrupted, “that’s the second time you’ve mentioned them?”

 

“Make no mistake, the Old Places,” continued Gary, “are dangerous; you don’t want to go there if you don’t have to. I went down there awhile back but only because I’d been ordered to look for an escaped biker. 

 

“None of us go there by choice, not even the hardcore. The Old Places are home to what’s left and the cast off; they’re home to what came before the dome and the City. Riders like me that take a wrong turn and became lost in them and end up near the dome are captured and made into Wheelers.

 

“From what I’ve been told everything in the Old Places is connected by a labyrinth of roads littered with vehicles going back to WWI and that this maze of roads branch out to beyond the horizon and pass through abandoned towns. Luckily, as we’re limited to daylight rides, I didn’t have to ride very far; I found the bike but not its rider. The rider had escaped.” 

 

“Escaped;” laughed Larry, “I would’ve thought escaping the Wheelers impossible.”

 

“Gary laughed in return then nodded over at woman, “She even said she knew how to escape into the Old Places and that she was just waiting for the right time. It was right after she said that the bosses, they had to have been eavesdropping, worked her over. I often wondered if I would’ve been able to survive in the Old Places. Could I have found freedom, a way back to where I came back from?”

 

“If the Old Places are so dangerous, why do you think,” Larry asked, “the rider would’ve fled into them?”

 

“It’s the perfect place to escape Wheelers. Our solar panels have virtually no storage so we have to stay near the dome. If we go too far into the Old Places we risk getting stranded there after the sun sets. There are also certain nighttime shadows that act as a web and are able to ensnare you.”

 

“Can you tell me more about these nighttime shadows that ensnare you?” I interrupted. 

 

“Wheelers shouldn’t be out at night anyway. Nighttime shadows inside the dome or even on the elevated highway,” continued Gary, “don’t carry this web neither do daytime shadows anywhere. It’s only certain nighttime shadows in the Old Places that have the ability to snare you. Once you’ve ridden into the Old Places you better make a point of being back where it’s safe before the sun has set.”

 

“What about the shadows,” asked Larry, “inside the City?” 

 

“I’ve never been inside the City, so I can’t really say with certainty. I’ve a feeling neither have the bosses nor hardcore Wheelers been inside either, but then again they don’t tell us grunts anything unless it’s to give orders.

 

“When they sent me back the second time, this time with one of the hardcore, to look for the escaped rider it was in the morning of the next day. It is only when the sun goes down that this web, it either hides in or is part of certain shadows, ensnares people. I once watched one of the hardcore get caught; it wasn’t a pleasant sight. He made the mistake of staying too long.”

 

“Describe what actually happened to him if you can remember,” said Larry.

 

“It happened when they sent me back the second time to look for the rider. I’d found his bike on my first patrol but had been ordered to return the next day with one of the hardcore. He had me stand guard outside the gate of an old shopping mall next to the intersecting road we’d come down on from the elevated highway while he searched inside. I was never told why; information was on a need to know basis. 

 

“I remember him riding through the shopping mall gate and then spending the morning and afternoon inside the mall searching all the halls and shops. It wasn’t until the end of the day when he was trying to leave that he found the wind had blown the mall’s gate shut. I watched as he raced around looking for an exit. There was nothing I could do. The sun was setting and I had to leave for the elevated highway or I’d be trapped down in the Old Places too.”

 

“Larry laughed, “I bet it was you that shut the gate?”

 

Gary started to deny it then smiled. “Yes, I shut the gate. He was one of the hardcore that had originally captured me and then took me to the dome bosses to be made into a Wheeler; he deserved what he got. Hardcore Wheelers are different from us; they’re incredibly strong. Try to avoid them at all costs.”

 

“So what happened after he was trapped?”

 

“He rode to the highest level of the mall. Hardcore solar panels have no storage either and it bought him a few more minutes of sunlight. He must’ve known I’d shut the gate; he was looking at me when he rode over the edge. 

 

“The fall killed him instantly. At once strands, they’re opaque, from certain shadows reached out and wrapped around him. His fleshy parts were gone in seconds.”

 

“How would you,” I had to ask, “describe it?”

 

Gary continued, “As the sun’s setting the bigger shadows absorb the littler ones until there’s nothing left but one shadow. Jack London’s character Wolf Larson described it best, the way bits of yeast behave with each other.”

 

Wolf Larson was a character in Jack London’s book “The Sea Wolf” and captain of the sailing ship Ghost. Larson said the natural behavior between men could be compared to the natural behavior between pieces of yeast; the bigger pieces eating, absorbing, the smaller pieces. “The big eat the little,” said Larson, “that they may continue to move; the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength.” Wolf Larson could’ve been describing the way Corporate America was eating up the Middle Class.

 

“I figured maybe,” said Gary, “the escaped rider didn’t know about the webs within the nighttime shadows.” 

 

“Or just maybe,” said Larry, “he knew of a way of protecting himself from them?”

 

“Gary seemed skeptical, “Maybe?”

 

 “So they never,” I asked, “did find the missing rider?” 

 

“No, and if he’d been ensnared by the webs there wouldn’t have been anything to find. What I’ve learned from the Wheelers that chased him was that he was on the elevated highway leading to the City when he started speeding. But because there’s no way of vectoring onto the elevated highway the Wheelers couldn’t get ahead of him. And because they couldn’t get ahead of him he was able to escape down into the Old Places. Like I said, I was sent to look for him but found only his bike. It’s still there. Speaking of which, his bike looked somewhat like your bikes, but shorter, more compact.”  

 

“It sounds like you’re describing,” I interrupted, “the Road Warrior. It’s similar in some ways to these Raiders.” 

 

“It had,” continued Gary, “those same neon green tennis balls bungeed to its back seat. Later when I asked the bosses if they ever found the rider I was told to not to think so much and to mind my own business. It wasn’t but a few days later this woman was captured trying to climb up the ramp you two came down on. She’s been held captive in this pod ever since.”

 

“Specifically where in the Old Places,” asked Larry, “did you actually find the bike that had neon green tennis balls like the ones on our bikes?”

 

 

 “It’s on the second left road leaving the dome that comes up out of the Old Places to intersect with the elevated highway. It’s parked next to an old truck.”

 

 Larry was pointing at the sleeping woman when he asked, “How old of a truck and how far; and what did you mean when you said the bosses worked her over?”

 

“About a half a mile down the road,” answered Gary, “and really old, like an old dump truck I once saw in a history book about the building of the Hoover Dam. In answer to your second question, the bosses may’ve drugged her to find out how she resisted the change. The bosses were obsessed with breaking down her resistance. Speakin’ of breaking down, the three of us have a lot that’s broken down or in the process of breaking down. You have your work cut out if you’re going to repair us before the hardcore start pounding on our pod door.”

 

Before becoming a studio musician I’d acquired a basic knowledge of electronics by setting up circuit boards for concerts and stage plays. None of those experiences prepared me for what I encountered trying to fix the three cyborgs.  

 

Beginning with the Wheeler who called himself John, the one that had smoke coming from behind his back, Larry and I set to work. High impact blows coming from each side, possibly at the same time, had struck him, snapping wires and breaking off pieces of fairing, some of which had wedged inside his frame. Cords were starting to show where his rear tire was wearing away from rubbing against those pieces. 

 

What could’ve done this to him? Coolant needed to be added to his leaking radiator, which first needed to be repaired so it could hold the coolant. Snapped wires exited from the base of his spine; their broken counterparts exited out the top of the mystery cylinder. I needed to match their colors and sizes and solder them back together. Twenty minutes later Larry had repaired the crack in the radiator and was in the process of replacing the rear tire when I finished soldering all the broken wires together. Amend that to all the wires except for the red one joining the back of his spine to the cylinder. 

 

“At last,” said a voice that sounded as grateful as the Tin Man’s after he was rescued from a prison of rust in the movie WIZARD OF OZ, “I thought I’d never talk again, let alone be able to turn my head. My name’s John and I can’t thank you enough. I’d dance a jig, but I’m part of my bike. I would’ve been scavenged for parts had I broken down, which could’ve been at any time. Actually I’m surprised I even made it back here from the top of the dome with those winds. 

 

“The bosses promise they’ll keep you in repair, but they lie. Not only do they lie, but I’ve seen parts of my friends attached to the hardcore. The hardcore scavenge the best from us then leave what’s left. A buddy of mine went in for a scheduled repair and never returned; I later saw his blue fender on one of the hardcore. I figured they must’ve lured him into the maintenance shop then chopped him up for spare parts.”

 

Larry and I worked as quickly as we could trying to decide what had to be done then doing what we could to repair the three Wheelers; Gary required the least work. We learned the third Wheeler’s name was Dane, and that even after we’d fixed his jaw he still talked with a lisp. What we couldn’t repair we replaced; what we couldn’t replace we jury-rigged with anything we could find in the shop. Larry and I agreed ‘not’ to reattach the red wires leading from the cylinders at the back of their seats to the base of their spines. We guessed the red wires connected them to something that could override their minds. 

 

I found myself looking at the woman and wondering what had happened to her. Gary said she’d not awakened since the bosses had taken her away for questioning. If the bosses had given her something to break down her resistance to being made into a Wheeler how could we help her, and if she knew of some type of antidote that prevented the process that joined riders with their motorcycles would she share it? Hopefully she’d awaken and we could ask her. If Larry and I could find and take that same antidote or at least learn what ingredients went into making it we too might be able to resist being made into cyborgs, into Wheelers?  

 

I was still trying to guess what the bosses did to her when Larry walked to her side, bent down and rolled her over.

 

“I think I may have,” Larry said looking back at us, “just found the rider that escaped into the Old Places. You’ve assumed all along it was a man and have been looking everywhere but under your nose. Your missing rider is this woman. When I rolled her over she coughed up a Yamaha Road Warrior key like it was a fur ball. Jax and I know her.” 

 

I’d first met Elisa at an outdoor café in the Borderlands and then again when she wove a dreamcatcher inside my Wide Glide’s sissy bar. Why she’d ridden into the Old Places and got captured trying to escape up the ramp were questions only she could answer. 

 

“Larry and Jax,” said a groggy and not very steady Elisa, “I never thought I’d see you here. You’ve both looked better.”

 

“You’ve looked better yourself,” laughed Larry as he helped Elisa to her feet. “How’d you get…?”

 

“No time, I’ll tell you later. We need,” interrupted Elisa as she tried to stand on her own, “to get outta here; we need to leave before the bosses come back and before the sun sets. The Wheelers, even the hardcore ones, won’t pursue us into the Old Places after the sun sets and if my watch is correct we’ve less than an hour before it sets.”

 

Rushing to grab her other arm, I said, “Our plan is to enter the City not go into the Old places and you’re not going anywhere but up the ramp and through the portal.”

 

“I’ll take her on the back of my biker” interjected John. “If you two leave for the City just before us it’ll create enough of a diversion for me to get her up the ramp and through the portal. The Wheelers will focus on capturing the two of you. She’s in no condition to do anything but get some help.”

 

Larry had taken the tennis balls from the back of his Raider and fastened them on the back of John’s bike, “You’ll need these to go through the portal. I believe they’ll work on any bike that’s returning. Furthermore I believe the fusion of your body to your bike will reverse once you’re in the tunnel.”

 

Elisa motioned for me to bring her a dented five gallon paint bucket that was nearly hidden in the corner.

 

“Bring me that paint bucket; hurry.”

 

With dried paint coloring its rusty sides, the bucket Elisa was pointing at first appeared filled with nothing but garbage. On second look I could see something hidden under the first layer of debris. It was a canvas backpack identical to ours; in the backpack was a gallon thermos also identical to ours.

 

“Hand me the thermos. Don’t spill it; that coffee’s kept me from being made into a Wheeler and is our ticket out of here. My sister Kate and I were given the recipe for that coffee blend by our grandmother. My grandfather used to say my grandmother was half Kahuna and half Bruja.”

 

“Was your grandmother a good witch,” laughed Larry, “or a bad witch and does your sister happen to work  OD’s?”

“She was good to us,” said Elisa as she filled four plastic quart bottles from the thermos then handed three of them to Larry, “when we were growing up. Although I once remember her telling a neighbor if his pit bull didn’t stop threatening the local children it might attract a predator. The neighbor told her to mind her own business and that his pit bull could take care of any animal that came its way. Two nights later the dog was found torn to pieces by what the Sheriff called, judging by the tracks found around the house, a huge wolf. And how did you know my sister works at OD’s restaurant in Gilroy?”

 

Larry laughed again, “Except for your red hair your sister looks like you and it sounds like your grandmother’s a good witch. After trying to be reasonable with a not very neighborly neighbor, she lost her patience, changed into a werewolf and ate the neighbor’s dog…threat and snack problem solved. Hey, the neighbor’s lucky he wasn’t dessert. So what’s up with this special blend of coffee?”

 

Elisa looked directly at me, “Do you remember the dreamcatcher I wove onto your bike so you could overpower Raggedy Man? Well this coffee blend is my grandmother’s recipe and has that kind of power but in other ways.”

 

“You wouldn’t,” asked Larry, “have one of your grandmother’s dreamcatchers in that backpack?”

 

Elisa smiled but before she could answer a terrible banging started on the small door leading into the dome. Cracks in the metal began to appear. It wouldn’t be long before the door was breached. I could only assume the Wheelers wanting to gain entry were the powerful hardcore Wheelers. 

 

Dane quickly grabbed a floor lamp, accelerated over to the small door and was in the process of wedging its base underneath the bottom of the door when he suddenly stiffened and went ridged. Blue electric arcs were dancing around his already glazed face when he toppled over and was still.

 

“Don’t,” yelled Gary, “touch him; he’s gone. They’re counting on us going to his aid so they can send another lethal charge through the door. They’ll use him as a conductor to electrocute any of us that make contact with him.”

 

“Two,” said Larry as he filled the now empty paint bucket with water, “can play the electrocution game. Everyone get back. Whatever you do, do not step in the water.”

 

Larry ran to the door’s threshold then emptied the bucket of water under it. At the same time, being careful not to step into the liquid, he tapped the door with a broom handle. What happened next was more than we expected. The water, once it touched the wires leading to the hardcore Wheelers on the other side, short-circuited the power they were sending to electrocute us back into their own bodies. The result was they ended up electrocuting themselves and any other Wheeler that may have been in contact with them or the water. The smell of things left on a grill too long drifted into the pod.

 

“That,” I nervously laughed, “should hold them for…”

 

BANG…with more intensity than before…

 

“Hey,” I wasn’t laughing any longer, “I thought your, what goes around comes around electrocution got rid of them?”

 

“It did get rid of them but that didn’t sound like any Wheeler.” Nor was Larry laughing when he turned to Gary, “What just banged on the outside door?”

 

Gary seemed in shock, “If it’s what I think it is, it shouldn’t even be here; it’s the Sentinel that stands guard outside the dome. I thought it was immobile.”

 

“Take this,” said Elisa handing her key to Larry as she struggled to climb onto the back of John’s bike, “it’s the key to my Road Warrior…just in case. You never know what’ll happen once we’ve set our escape into motion. If John and I don’t make it through the portal I won’t need it anyway. Which reminds me; we need to leave…”

 

CRASH…the door to the back of the pod buckled inward.

 

“We’re too late;” shouted Gary, “one more battering and the Sentinel will be inside.”

 

“Maybe not,” Larry shouted back. “Does this Sentinel have any human parts?”

 

“Just a head or what’s left of a human head,” answered John at the same time he opened the door leading to the catwalk, “and it’s enclosed on three sides by metal; only the face is exposed.”

 

The hardcore Wheeler waiting outside on the catwalk to ambush us made the mistake of thinking John, a subordinate, still had his red wire connected and would be submissive. When John’s electrical wires shot out and wrapped around the ambusher’s neck its electrocution came quickly.

 

“That was the only one,” shouted John. “It’s clear to the ramp at the top of the dome and also to the elevated highway leading into the City; but we’ve got to leave now.” 

 

“Everyone get out of the pod; I’ll follow. I’m going to give this Sentinel a greeting he’s not expecting.” said Larry at the same time he started pushing his Raider towards the door where the pounding was coming from. “He wants a warm welcome and I plan to oblige him.” 

 

Larry didn’t have to wait; seconds later the Sentinel introduced itself by breaking down the door. Picture a forklift on steroids with huge claws and a once human head hidden behind metal, a face so covered with machine enhancements it had lost almost all of its human qualities.