Escape
Mark's foot slammed down on the accelerator and he wrenched the steering wheel to the left. The BMW left elevenses on the tarmac as it leapt out of the parking space and out into the middle of the road. Unfortunately every other car did exactly the same thing. Mark was thrown around in his seat as a racer collided with his back bumper and then another on his right side. Out in front, the Mustang and Gti had disappeared in the wave of cars scrambling to get down the hill. The police shot out of their hiding places, smashing into the cars closest to them and swerving around to inflict as much damage as possible. Suddenly one of these cruisers braked sideways and came to a stop merely a few yards ahead of Mark. At this speed and with no time to stop, it was a guaranteed head-on crash. But before he could react a streak of orange flew by on his left side as a sedan overtook him at high speed. Not seeing the obstacle and far too late to avoid it, the car slammed into the cruiser with a bone-shattering crash. While the remains of the sedan limped to a stop at the side of the road, the cruiser had flipped, disappearing over the steep inclined road ahead. A moment later Mark was also on the incline.
As soon as he was facing downwards, he pressed down on two buttons on the steering wheel. From which an electric signal was sent through the car to the back. The current sparked a connection between the exhaust and pipes connected to two large canisters in the boot. The pipes jerked as nitrous oxide was forced through them from the canisters into the exhaust pipe. Here it ignited, combined with fuel residue coming from the engine. Mark was propelled forward in a newfound burst of speed as blue flames erupted from the back of the Beemer. All four tires were kept on the road as the car shot past several others, including the battered shell of the police cruiser which had come to rest halfway through a shop window. At the bottom of the street a collection of cruisers had come together to form a makeshift blockade, trying to cut the racers off from any exit roads. However the blockade proved to be too short as racers swerved by them, some even going on the pavement to not risk damaging their precious rides.
At the top of the hill, a red Aston Martin and a purple custom had appeared and were making their way down, cautious to not make contact with any of the wrecks that now littered the street.
Passing the blockade and racing through a back alley, Mark quickly looked down as he heard a beeping noise coming from the passenger seat. The tablet had turned itself back on and was now showing a map of North America. Zooming onto the Western side a pulsing red dot appeared in the middle of Nevada State, along with the numbers 150.
The message was clear. Mark had to be in the top 150 racers when he reached the small town of Jasper, otherwise he would be disqualified from the race. Drifting out of the alley he began to make his way South through the city. The car's tires screeched as corner after corner drifted by. Every now and then another racer would appear, sometimes followed by one or a few police cars.
Eventually a junction to join the main highway came into view in the distance. The plan was to go left and follow the highway out of San Francisco and into the parks. Mark was just about to get into position when he saw something that instantly made him slow down and hesitate. With a roar of its V10 he saw a black Lamborghini hurtle by on the overhead pass also heading south. Mark watched it go by, knowing exactly who the driver was, and what he was capable of doing. Suddenly he heard the sound of approaching police sirens from behind. He didn't have time to find another route through the city, and he wouldn't dare follow the Lambo. Making a split-second decision and praying to God that he wouldn't be too late, he pulled away and turned right, heading North on the highway towards the bridge. As he sped along he saw several race cars heading in the opposite direction, and looking in the rearview he could see a collection of others following him. And not far behind them, four speeding cruisers.
Three miles ahead, civilian cars were being forced to slow down to an obstruction. Porsche Cayennes, or 'rhinos' as they were called, were the brutes of the SFPD, only called in on the rarest of occasions. The five of them blocked every lane on the highway and there were no gaps to speak of.
The BMW swerved onto the yellow lane and stayed there. As for the other racers, some had opted to do the same while the rest were playing daredevil, weaving in-between the cars as if within an elaborate maze. Inevitably for some, it ended in the unmistakable sound of a rear-end collision.
Meanwhile back at the highway turnoff, the red Aston and its' companion had arrived at the intersection and seemed to ponder over which route to take. After just a moment both cars created smoke as they spun off to the left, heading south to the parks. And at the top of Nob hill, two new cars had appeared at the starting line. A bright yellow Camaro with black stripes running down its hood, and a white Lamborghini Reventon sporting red and green tribal markings. They began to descend the hill at speed.
Back on the bridge the blockade was coming into view. Mark grimaced at the sight. He was expecting to come across some sort of problem but not in the form of rhinos. If he rammed it, he would most certainly be killed. But he couldn't stop either. Looking behind he saw that he was tailed by two other racers with a police car behind them. If he braked, the car would crash into him and jackknife him at high speed into the stationary traffic. Suddenly he saw an opening between two vehicles appear in the adjacent lane up ahead, creating a space big enough to pull into. Applying some nitrous he extended the gap between him and those behind them, and making sure that the two racers blocked the police cars' view of him. The roadblock was less than 200 meters now.
Mark slammed down on the brakes. Smoke began to billow out as his cars' rear tires locked up sending him drifting forwards. Wrenching the wheel to the right Mark skidded into the space with near accurate precision. A second later both racers screamed by. Another second later, the police cruiser passed too, accidently taking off Mark's side mirror in a twisting snap of broken metal and glass. Mark watched as the two racers reached the roadblock. Obviously they had been expecting Mark to make an opening for them at the cost of his car, but he hadn't, and now they were going too fast to stop. Mark watched as the first, a red Challenger, ploughed nose-first into one of the Cayennes. The 4x4 was tipped over as the Challenger buried itself in its side. The second racer then ploughed into the remains of the Challenger. There was an explosion as the three cars disappeared in a ball of flame, the force of which creating gaps in the roadblock as the surrounding rhinos were blown back.
Mark saw his chance. Lifting off the clutch he was back in the yellow lane hurtling towards the ruined roadblock. He shot passed the now-idling police cruiser and in a coincidental (though in retrospect intentional) move, took off the cars right side mirror. He passed the flaming wrecks and entered the center lane of the highway and accelerated.
San Francisco was a mess. Wrecks of cars littered the streets; fire hydrants gave off a continuous shower of water after having being pulled up from the pavement, and the constant sound of police and rescue vehicles sirens echoed between the buildings. Outside on the city limits, sports cars began to disappear into the countryside. A select few would opt to find their own way to the California border, but the majority would stay on the Altamont Pass leading into Yosemite.
Mark decided to stay on track and go on the Pass, as would no doubt his two colleagues, Laura and Kato. As for Matthew Keller, he could only hope to avoid him. Looking back down at his passenger seat the tablet was displaying a number. 189. His position. Forcing the accelerator pedal into the carpet, he began his journey towards the mountains.
An hour later on the Golden Gate, the Camaro and the Reventon passed the burnt-out shells of the three cars. The police had cordoned off the scene and were now allowing cars through. The two sports cars received no attention as they rolled by, as there were more important things to attend to. Now that the racers had left the city, the state troopers had been called and they were now taking control of the situation.
No-one noticed that there was only one driver between these two cars.
And as the red Aston Martin and its purple companion drove South of the city, no-one noticed that neither of these cars had drivers at all.
The race was underway.
To be continued…
