The Wanderer

Shit.

My plans were going down the tube. . .or maybe they already had. I was sitting in the stiff, sticky back seat of an unmarked police car, shivering in my wet clothes and staring out the window into the driving rainstorm. The Day-Glo-clad officer behind the wheel caught me walking across the railroad yard, away from the train I had just jumped off, and decided to take me in for trespassing. I did only what I could do to keep suspicion away—I didn’t tell the officer my name—and maybe that’s what made him decide to put me in handcuffs and lock me in the car. Now we were heading down a wide, lonely road sandwiched between the railroad yard and a large, bloated drainage canal.

So this was White City?

It wasn’t quite as glamorous as I had imagined it. A lot of greywashed factories and overgrown lots. Perhaps I had simply jumped off the train on the outskirts of town, and the parts I had imagined were further away. At this point, it didn’t seem like I would be seeing much of them, unless something happened.

They say that you should always be careful what you wish for.

A mile down the road from my original sentiments, a dark Buick—it looked like an older-model Regal—with a trunk rack came to a stop in front of us. The officer hit the brakes and the cruiser slowed until it too stopped. It was difficult to see into the Buick, thanks to the rain and the failing light, so what came next was a complete—and horrifying—surprise.

The driver-side door of the car opened slightly. Almost on cue, the rear windscreen of the Buick exploded, followed rapidly by the windscreen of the car we were in. A monstrous hole opened in the window and blood sprayed the dashboard as a very large bullet of some sort embedded itself into the officer’s neck. He barely made a sound before his head slumped forward and he died, his mouth dribbling blood onto his shirt.

Oh, shit.

I stayed up only long enough to see the door of the Buick open completely and a tall man step out, carrying something shiny in his left hand. I quickly began stepping over the handcuffs while trying to not be seen. The man with the gun was approaching quickly, giving me only seconds to do something to stay alive.

The officer’s foot was still firmly pressed against the brake. Good. I grabbed the column shifter and lifted it to Reverse, then grabbed his gun.

Through the shattered windscreen, I could see the other man raise his weapon to fire into the car. Without taking the time to see if I could, I raised the officer’s gun and pulled the trigger. Then I pulled it again.

Two more holes tore open in the windscreen and I heard a sharp, agonizing scream. When the thud of something hitting the ground reached my ears, I was already slamming the officer’s dead foot into the accelerator, activating the strobe lights and several noises from the siren in my haste. The engine roared and the tires screeched as the car vaulted backward.

But I wasn’t out of the line of fire yet.

The same gun that killed the cop fired again, and I heard the sound of a tire explode. I was suddenly fighting to keep the car under control, and the cannon went off again, this time blasting the windscreen loose and shattering the light box. Sparks, debris and water all rained down on me. The police car yawed left and right at the whims of the flattened tire. More gunshots went off, followed by the sounds of metal piercing metal.
Suddenly, there was a roar as the car plowed through a deep puddle. The steering wheel flew out of my hands and the car hydroplaned left, then right, hurling back into the back seat. But the officer’s foot remained firmly planted to the accelerator, and there was nothing I could do as the car jumped the curb, muscled through a guardrail, and crashed into the violently rushing drainage canal. I was instantly swept away. Water poured in from any opening it could, from the door cracks, from the destroyed windscreen, even the air-conditioning vents.

Fuck!

The car listed sharply to the right, sinking below the surface for a split second, then bobbing back up and striking the side of the canal. I jumped for the door, but realized much too late that the inside door handles were inoperable on police models. The car’s list increased until it rolled completely over, plunging all the way to the bottom of the canal. The water level rose to the steering wheel in an instant, then the car hit the concrete floor and all the windows shattered. I didn’t even have time to take a breath.

I’m about to die.

As the car rolled over and over, I swam frantically about the interior, trying to find any bits that were not underwater. Just a few inches would be enough for me to catch a breath and I would be able to escape between rolls. But with all the windows gone, that was now impossible. I was going to die.

Or maybe not.

The surface appeared in the windscreen once more, and then there was a violent crunch. I was hurled into the door opposite. My head struck something very hard and I saw my own blood appear. Dazed, I look at what the car had just hit.

A bridge pillar.

It got better. The force of the current pushed the destroyed car further above the surface. I moved quickly, clawing through the hole where the rear windscreen had been and atop the trunklid. I slipped about on the wet metal as the car swayed on the pillar, then began to fall off.

Could I make that jump to the edge?

No time to think about it!

Jump!

I sprang, the car slid off, and I hit the water. But I also hit the concrete edge! My legs shot with pain as I lost my balance and fell back into the water, which wasted no time in carrying me beneath the bridge, nearly parallel with the car. I refused to let the current take me out to the center of the torrent, and the car was bumping against the edge again. I pushed off and managed to free myself of the current. I got to my feet and scrambled a few feet up, away from the water. The car rolled up the side until the water obscured it only up to the B-pillar, then it began to disappear again. I caught one last glimpse of the taillight before the dirty side exposed itself to the clouds, and gave up to the canal itself. Gasping for air, I clambered up to road level and slumped against the guardrail.

A long and heartfelt expletive formed in my mind.

I vomited on the curb instead.

My entire body hurt. I shivered, not from cold or wetness, but from the intense fear that I now felt. The adrenaline of the escape was wearing off. It occurred to me that the people who had just attacked me might try to find me and finish me off, but it seemed that I was very far away from where I started. Still, I decided it would be a good idea to start moving again, to find somewhere to patch myself up and move on.

Not the best way to start off a new life.

After forty minutes of walking, I found a small pharmacy on a street called Heinlein. The small toolkit I had was somehow still in my pocket. I grabbed the small soldering rod, bent it slightly, then inserted it into the keyhole for the back door. It took several tense minutes, but I eventually managed to pick the lock and get the door open without a hitch. There weren’t any security cameras that I saw, so I started raiding the place.
I first assembled a first-aid kit of sorts that consisted of two rolls of sterile gauze, a large bottle of antiseptic, some good waterproof tape, a small pair of scissors, several bandages, and a bottle of eight-hundred-milligram ibuprofen. Next, I used the mirror glass at the back of the candy display to treat the various cuts I had sustained during the escape from the car. Finally, I stole a twenty-ounce Coke from the cooler and used it to down one of the painkillers. Feeling slightly better—or maybe just assured that I would feel slightly better soon—I collected my materials and put them into a cloth bag I had found. There was no money in the cash register to steal, and I didn’t have the time or patience to crack the safe.

Self-treatment out of the way, I strode down Heinlein Street. The rain had finally stopped. My tattered and wet clothes clung to my body like plastic. At least three buttons had been torn from my shirt. My shoelaces were very loose. It could have been worse. I looked around at the vehicles that passed.

“I just look like a hobo,” I said aloud to myself. “That’s all. Just a wanderer trying to find a dry place to crash.”

I thought briefly about home, way back in Mont Rouge, where I had nothing to live for and nobody to love. I wondered if all that would change. As far as White City was concerned, I was a totally new person, with a fresh slate under my arm and a fresh perspective to start a new life.

Anything could happen now.