Ignition
Flash Fiction
A submission for Iron Age Media’s Prompt: The Pursuit
Another body sat strung apart in the rubble like strings of pasta on the neck of a guitar.
“EXPERIENCE FIVE, EXPERIENCE FIVE, CONGRESS TOOK DOWN ANOTHER PERP!” announced one of the Enforcers bolting down the highway, chasing after the haze of multiple fleeing subjects.
Alone, reaching a safe house wasn’t easy. Furthermore, for the satisfaction of the crowd, convicts -declared so by an immoral mob- were pitted against each other, obstacles voted on by Congress for the road, their own doubts, and the law enforcement of this hellish and ignoble order.
By law, speed was the name of the day forbye a chance at freedom, and in each day dissidents like those often found in the aforementioned rubble were forced to accept that not everyone was going to make it to a finish line alive.
The only haven for those doomed to this fate were safe houses mandated by Congress to serve as stop-gaps before a convict’s fight to the next finish line.
Each safe house was a green flag, a moment of respite in the middle of an eternal hurricane.
Should a convict survive ten laps, he or she wins the vaunted freedom that was once championed in a bygone age.
In fifty years, not a single convict has achieved this goal, what is legally termed “Decimation”.
In order to win, the hornet’s nest had to not only be shaken up, but stirred with a baseball bat covered in C4.
One silver mist just barely squeezed between a closing gate on the edge of the bridge, with the chorus of half a dozen thuds, another division of hunters as well as the hunted were thwarted, and large sums of money were secured yet again for the most concerned party, he who could win ten times for the first time, thereby robbing Congress of its racket.
Not more than five miles later, that cloud of silver foreboding came to an eventual halt in the desert which acted as livery for the local safehouse, multiple men holding yellow canisters each marked with a black trefoil ran to the rear of the proverbial steed, presumably to refill the harrowing chamber responsible for the last march of gore.
“AND THE RUBBER BARON HAS DONE IT AGAIN!” announced one of the Enforcers, parked on the roof of the Safehouse, with a large LED leaderboard flanking his makeshift announcer’s nest.
Armed guards and an entourage of that same immoral, yet celebratory host of ruffians heralded their supposed hero of the day, the Baron of those oily and raspberry wrecks belonging to those foolish enough to chase his wake, like Icarus getting too close to the Sun.
“That’s my ninth payout.” demanded the victorious Baron of the road, and it was a demand met with executive haste, leaderboards all over showing that he indeed won a ninth time, the second ever in fifty years to get this far.
As he spirited away the contents of a glass of coffee down his gullet, a warning was delivered from one of the Baron’s sympathetic party, one of those he hired to work on his vehicle after his second victory. They turned their backs to the crowd and walked to the beat of grim news.
“Word is if you die in the next run, wife and kids kick the bucket too. Worst yet, Congress is voting to ban future convicts from hiring their own road crew, you want to save yourself and your family? You’ll probably be the first and last to stiff Congress out of such a successful run.” the haggard grease monkey said.
The Baron did not reply at first. He did not control the terms to which Congress held his family hostage. Stoically, he simply vaulted the hood of his ride which gleamed in the amber hue of the evening horizon and turned the key, waking the sleeping giant of an engine that could potentially power a solar system all to itself in addition to his family’s salvation.
Jolting his head back to his mechanics as well as the hungry crowd, he shouts against the howl of his beastly jalopy.
“I want my prize money in CASH ONLY!” the Baron said, prompting strident ovation from the same immoral mob that feasted off the mayhem.
A while after the Baron stepped on the pedal to his final goal, he considered the words of that mechanic yet again. His skull steers from side to side whilst ambition bubbled forth from his core.
“The survival of my family is not up for a vote.”
Prizefighter, adrenaline junkie, or desperate. Men like the rubber Baron were usually at least one of the three.
Not bad. Could use some fleshing out, but for a flash fiction piece, it isn't bad at all.