one side, exhale and squint at the alley. Two large figures advance at a fast clip.
“What are you waiting for? Go, go!” Xave urges, thrusting his hips back and forth, as if that will make the bike go.
The pursuers, two men, are almost out of the alley. Xave curses, puts his hands around my waist and shakes me. My bones rattle. Tense and trembling, my limbs respond in slow motion. My foot slowly shifts to first gear. I release the clutch, one finger at a time. My right hand twists the gas, barely making the red needle jump on the rpm gauge. Every one of my movements is painful. God, the men are only a few paces away.
Furious, Xave curses at me.
“Stop right there!” The men are close to the lonely lamppost on the corner. I can almost see their faces. A faint buzz starts in the back of my head.
“Marciiiii.” Xave’s earsplitting shriek melds with that of the revved-up engine.
Finally, we lurch ahead. The front tire leaves the blacktop. Too much, too fast. Xave and I lean forward and stay that way even after the wheelie dies. Half of my mind fears the men will shoot at us, while the other fights to keep the bike moving away from danger. We swerve from side to side, barely under control.
“Get yourself together, Marci,” Xave screams.
I’m fighting the attack as hard as I’ve ever fought, but it feels like I’m losing, and I’m scared. I speed through a red light. It’s late and there’s no traffic. We’re getting away. No one’s chasing us, but we’re not alone.
I’m not alone.
My muscles ache from being so tense, from fighting. Xave’s body moves with the twists and turns of the road. He’s the one keeping us upright. I’m nothing but an unyielding body, fighting not to be possessed by a sinister, alien force.
“Let me drive,” he yells when it seems we’re out of danger. “Stop the bike and let me drive.”
I want to let him, but my body is still caught in limbo, my mind still cloaked in shadows. Suddenly, we speed up and it’s not my doing. My hand twists the accelerator of its own accord. Window displays, stop signs and parked cars are a blur to each side. Downtown Seattle falls behind as we head north. A humid breeze from Puget Sound presses against me like an invisible force field.
“Damn it. Stop, Marci.” He kicks my foot off the brake. The tip of my boot scrapes the pavement.
Good, I think, except in the next second my limbs fight him, even though I want to stop. Xave applies pressure on the brake and the back tire wobbles. I give it more gas and we speed onward. My foot kicks back to regain control of the pedal.
Xave gives up, knows we’ll splat if he doesn’t. “Please, stop.” He sounds scared now.
I want to tell him I’m trying, but it’s taking all I’ve got to keep this thing from fully taking over. Then something totally shifts inside my head, and I speed even more. Complete recklessness. As we whiz by a dark street, a blue light flashes, followed by the whine of a siren.
“You really messed up this time,” Xave says and his words are carried away by the wind.
The needle in the speedometer pushes above eighty and keeps on. I’m going faster than I’ve ever dared in the city. If there wasn’t something maniacal possessing me, I might even enjoy the ride, the chill in the air and the speed. But I’m terrified.
We speed for a few blocks and I dare hope we’ve left the cop behind, but I’m fooling myself. He can go from zero to screwing-up-our-lives faster than I can. He’ll catch up soon. He’s got his radio.
Suddenly, we take a sharp turn. We barely slow down and still we make it around the corner, missing a parked car by a few inches and eliciting a cry from a bystander. This goes beyond my skills. I haven’t been riding bikes that long. I learn fast, always have, but this feels like something else.
Something else entirely.
I crisscross through alleys and streets I don’t recognize. Some fancy part of town. We’ve lost the cop. As my panic dies down a bit, I try to regain control of my body. I can do it. I’ve done it before. I just need to concentrate.
Concentrate!
As I struggle to find myself, everything goes blank. Suddenly, I can’t see, hear or feel anything. Panic gains a new level. I try to focus, reaching out for my self-awareness. Nothing happens. Everything feels different, far away and utterly desolate. I can’t find myself. I’m right here and I can’t find myself. Desperation sets in. I whirl in an empty space, trying to claim my body and my very mind. But everything is gone.
All my senses are gone. Yet somehow, I know I’m here, pushed to a corner where I’m tiny and inconsequential. I’m weightless. A plundered body, a consciousness without gray matter, nerve endings or synapses. A wisp of nothing.
What is this?
Then I understand. The shadows have won. I’ve lost total control like never before. My brain, my body are gone. I have been … replaced, as if the code that makes me who I am has been erased by a flawless hack. Something else fuels me, and I realize that my lifelong fears are far worse than I’ve imagined. I’m still alive. This thing didn’t kill me. It made me a prisoner, and it’s worse than a thousand deaths at the blade-end of a thousand knives.
No, no, no!
Rage boils fire-red in my secluded corner. This can’t be happening. Not to me. I’m strong. I’m Brian Scott Guerrero’s daughter. I don’t give up. He was a fighter, a decorated officer, a doctor in combat. Brave as a mountain against a blizzard. I’m like him. I’m like him.
With what little I’ve become, I picture a strong body. It has claws instead of hands. I imagine myself tearing through this quiet bubble. I punch and punch until my claws pierce through something. With all my strength, I drag down, ripping, tearing my prison.
Shadows flow into my space and swarm, attacking my imagined claws. But I’m ready for them, ready to let what’s left of me morph, fluid like water. My claws turn to knives that stab, guns that shoot, beams of light that cut through the darkness. Shapeless, changing thoughts. That’s the key. I learned this a long time ago, before I had enough reason to know what I was doing. The specters shriek as I burst into the light. They grasp for my thoughts, but I force them to morph, concentrating on nothing specific.
Multi-core motherboards … Roaring engines.
Wile E. Coyote … Speed.
Cinnamon gum … Xave.
Ideas fall and rise, turn and twirl. Never the same.
Creaking leather. A dark alley.
A cop!
I break out into the open, gasping and shaking. A million needles prick my limbs. The world seems brighter and every sound louder.
Release the gas. Release it!
I do, but I can’t manage much else. Inside, the shadows still threaten to strike, hunkering like thieves in an alleyway. I can taste their gloom, a bitter mouthful of loss and imprisonment.
We’re on a curvy road which I recognize immediately. The bike wobbles. I compensate to the left, but so does Xave. We lose balance, the bike tips over and we hit the pavement hard. The weight of the motorcycle clamps my leg and its momentum carries us forward, slipping, scraping, burning. Heat reaches my thigh through my leathers. The side of my helmet scrapes the road. A horrible screech fills my head.
The bike skids ahead of us. I’m relieved to have its weight off me, but we keep sliding after it. We roll off the road into the supple earth that is more forgiving. Branches and bushes scrape and snap, harmless against my body armor. I hear a loud crash. As I roll and tumble amid the brush, I catch a glimpse of the bike smashed against a tree.
I