Ride The Night
Jonny Ride can’t be contained. Jacked up on pep pills and Polar Pop, he maneuvers the rain-slick streets scanning for Artificial Residents, commonly called duals. The GPS in his borrowed SUV demands one route while he follows another.
“I’m certainly not going down that road, dear.”
The Last Curfew is ending in an hour and Jonny needs to get to I-169 before midnight. After that, the National Brigade will be the de facto law organization and government, banning rock music, left-wing political writing, and craft beer. He’s got a 6 am flight out of Nashville for LAX, and it’s sinking in that he’ll never be home again.
How did it come to this? The neocon businessman elected president promised to help the poor and bring manufacturing back to America. Almost a year into his administration, he’s nullified every social program and infrastructure increase. Minimum wage, while embarrassingly low already, has been wiped out. Poverty has risen tenfold and the morale of the country is as dark as it’s ever been.
Getting closer to downtown, Jonny’s silver metallic Toyota C-HR dodges pedestrians and police. He’s got RealCode numbers on his fake enforcement plates. The vehicle is fitted with an UltraBand radio so Jonny can listen for the latest updates, arrests, and road closings. He’ll have to give his older brother, George, a special gift for supplying him with proper transportation and tools. Hell, a bottle of 23-year-old Pappy and a case of Jefferson’s Ocean might be a start. George worked for Toyota in Georgetown for a decade following a twenty-year career as a Lexington cop. He’s got connections and will help his baby brother out for the right reasons.
Jonny imagines living in Seattle or LA, far away from the New Confederacy. With the US fractured into five zones, he figures the West Coast is the only source of sanity and will ultimately prevail over the backward thinking and regressive laws of the NC Congress. Resistance groups out there are growing in numbers and strength. They’ll be a natural fit for him.
Saving the country will have to wait though because what he really wants and needs right now is a catfish po-boy and an IPA. Since the Brigade is shutting down Hopkinsville Brewing in a matter of minutes, they’re giving away pints and selling growlers for a buck. At least that’s what he heard some local cops talking about at the last roadblock. Now, if Quincy’s is still open and he can get that fish sandwich to go, Jonny will be the happiest boy on the planet.
A row of black Toyota Land Cruisers is lined up in the next lane blocking his way to the brewery. Their engines are off and the officers behind the wheels are wearing black helmets with plexiglass visors protecting their entire face. Whatever’s about to go down, Jonny wants no part of. His GPS is demanding a turn, oblivious to a major traffic violation if he should obey.
“Yeah, not now. Are you going to bail me out of jail?”
Jonny slows down and tries to decide how to get to his destination. His best friend, Dale Strand, always drove down Suffolk Street, over to Bishop Court, and through Fulcher Alley, even though it was narrow, gravelly, and full of potholes. Nobody goes that way anymore because there are no streetlights and a gang might jack your ride. Since this police-issue truck is a lot tougher than Jonny’s old Honda, he’s made a decision.
“You know what, we’re going Dale’s way.”
The GPS goes crazy. “Renavigate! Renavigate!” Halfway down Suffolk, the UltraBand beeps. A rough, deep voice demands attention.
“Car 771, come in. Over.”
Jonny can’t ignore the call or he’ll be caught for sure. He thought he’d removed his location tag, but a traffic sensor must have read his bar code and transmitted it to Central Satellite. The sandpaper voice calls again.
“771. Identify your route. You’re off territory. Over.”
Jonny turns onto Bishop Court and puts his vehicle in park. He regrets not waiting for a black SUV, but his brother said some of the new Guard are going for silver. Nervously, he responds.”
“This is 771. Jon Rideout. Federal Guard Quad 4. Experienced faulty GPS signal. Will be back on territory in approximately 7 minutes. Over.”
Now he’s being tracked. There’s no way out of town if you’re signal locked. Jonny decides to find a dual and offer them a great deal. His dream of flying to Los Angeles tomorrow is dead; wasted plane tickets and effort. Before he can be depressed, an AR gang surrounds his C-HR. Can it be this easy, Jonny thinks.
A young tattooed man with a shaved head knocks on his window. A dual is an exact copy of a human being except for their dead black eyes, and this version has acquired the street thug personality. Another dual taps on the passenger window with an enormous ring. There are two skinny men in front of his headlights and at least one behind the vehicle. The steady drizzle is becoming warm rain. Jonny’s potential attackers are getting drenched.
“Hey, pig. Let us in. Want us to break the glass?”
All law enforcement SUVs come with standard Axis glass. Unless these punks have an over-the-shoulder missile, they have no hope of getting inside. In approximately three minutes, the Satellite will dot his car for being stray, lost, or stolen. It will immediately be confiscated or destroyed, depending on the Commander’s mood and how well his evening is going. If Jonny wants that beer, and be alive in the morning, he needs to get out fast. He unlocks all the doors and the tattooed man smiles. His gold teeth gleam.
Jonny says, “How am I supposed to get home if you take my ride?”
Mr. Tattoo punches him in his face. “Crawl like a baby,” he growls. “On your hands and knees.”
The rain and pain blur Jonny’s vision, but he can still see the gang get into the Toyota. Moving quickly away from them, Jonny hears a high-pitched drone screaming through the night sky. He barricades himself behind a rusty storage building and listens as the SUV engine is started and annihilated at the same time.
Watching the rain hit smoldering metal, Jonny is pumped and deflated. He needs to make a new plan and find a place to sleep tonight. Walking down Fulcher Alley, a Red Line taxi almost runs over him. The car stops and a recognizable figure emerges.
“Rideout? What the hell are you doing out here?”
A grin forms on Jonny’s face. “Dale? You almost killed me, man.”
“Let me make it up to ya.”
Dale proudly holds up two growlers.
“I made a pit stop on the way home. Did you know that the brewery was basically giving these things away? Got a Nightrider Stout and some kind of IPA. You thirsty, hungry? I picked up Subway too.”
“Yeah, I can wash that crap down with good beer.”
“Alright then. Let’s go to my house before the Curfew starts.”
Jonny gets into Dale’s taxi, thinking about those beers and having a flashback from his youth.
