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Preview for Masks XI
Dec. 18th, 2009 01:57 pmDon't even have Masks X posted, yet, and already having ideas:
The State Troopers waited at their roadblock. All other traffic was diverted. It was just them and the armed fugitives headed their way at high speed in a hot - in more ways than one - musclecar. The suspects could outrun the police ground vehicles, and even the helicopters, but not the radios. The Troopers stood in the afternoon sun, sweaty, tense and edgy, shotguns and assault rifles at the ready.
There, in the distance of this flat, midwest plain, they saw the first trace of dust, rising from the pavement of the old US Route.
Those in the car saw the roadblock, of course. Out of their minds on drugs and adrenalin, they didn't care. The driver dented the floor, shoving the pedal down. The passengers readied their weapons, rolling down their windows. Pigs would die this day. Mayhem would be done.
The Troopers crouched down, behind engine blocks. The wanted men leaned out their windows. Both sides took aim...
A green blur flashed past the hurtling car, through the roadblock, and on, over the horizon, out of sight before those on either side of the impending confrontation could even blink.
There was a clatter of weapons hitting the ground in front of the road block, and an odd buzzing sound, tracked to a blur of something spinning around an antenna on one of the police cars.
In the musclecar the felons were realizing they had been disarmed. As well as something more.
"Where's the keys?" the driver screamed, looking down at the ignition switch.
The road was straight... but not that straight. With the steering locked, the engine off and the transmission in neutral, all the driver could do was stand on the brakes without power assist as the car began to drift to the right, going off the road.
Back at the roadblock the state troopers slowly straightened, staring into the distance at the anticlimactic - if very dusty - end to what should have been a suicidal charge, as the car rolled to a bumpy stop and the dazed fugitives exited, staggering around in confusion. The whirring noise wound down, and the blur around the antenna resolved into a set of keys, dropping onto the sheet metal.
Over the horizon, the Prince of Speed laughed.
The State Troopers waited at their roadblock. All other traffic was diverted. It was just them and the armed fugitives headed their way at high speed in a hot - in more ways than one - musclecar. The suspects could outrun the police ground vehicles, and even the helicopters, but not the radios. The Troopers stood in the afternoon sun, sweaty, tense and edgy, shotguns and assault rifles at the ready.
There, in the distance of this flat, midwest plain, they saw the first trace of dust, rising from the pavement of the old US Route.
Those in the car saw the roadblock, of course. Out of their minds on drugs and adrenalin, they didn't care. The driver dented the floor, shoving the pedal down. The passengers readied their weapons, rolling down their windows. Pigs would die this day. Mayhem would be done.
The Troopers crouched down, behind engine blocks. The wanted men leaned out their windows. Both sides took aim...
A green blur flashed past the hurtling car, through the roadblock, and on, over the horizon, out of sight before those on either side of the impending confrontation could even blink.
There was a clatter of weapons hitting the ground in front of the road block, and an odd buzzing sound, tracked to a blur of something spinning around an antenna on one of the police cars.
In the musclecar the felons were realizing they had been disarmed. As well as something more.
"Where's the keys?" the driver screamed, looking down at the ignition switch.
The road was straight... but not that straight. With the steering locked, the engine off and the transmission in neutral, all the driver could do was stand on the brakes without power assist as the car began to drift to the right, going off the road.
Back at the roadblock the state troopers slowly straightened, staring into the distance at the anticlimactic - if very dusty - end to what should have been a suicidal charge, as the car rolled to a bumpy stop and the dazed fugitives exited, staggering around in confusion. The whirring noise wound down, and the blur around the antenna resolved into a set of keys, dropping onto the sheet metal.
Over the horizon, the Prince of Speed laughed.
