“Now Playing: SPARK IN THE PARK by MANTORQUE.” The cassette player read. Not that he paid it attention.

  Just as the opening rift began, he got the revs up and dumped the clutch; performing a U-Turn to start the escape.

  First gear. 8500Rpm.

  Shove the clutch in.

  Throw it into second gear.

  Release the clutch. Floor it.

  Each shift was perfect as he got up to speed in the blink of an eye, his all-terrain tires gripping the ground like a blacksmith's hammer.

  100Kph. He checks the rear view mirror, the Station-Wagon still approaching. The sensation of the motor’s exhaust spewing fury into the atmosphere. The absolute control of the gears. The speed. Direction. Angle.

  It was just as intoxicating as piloting a MeKSUT, yet it makes him feel so much more alive. Even as death follows.

  He needed a plan to get his bearings.

  Far away, directly in front was a massive tower. The tallest of North Platte, visible even before the light beacons. He knew it was at the center of the city. He knew he came from his right.

  And so he throws the steering wheel to the left, modulating the throttle to drift around the corner.

  As he does, the eurobeat of the music finally drops.

  Masterful. Raw. After he got straight, he threw it back up a gear.

  He looks in the rear vision mirror, the Station-Wagon even closer.

  It flew through the corner like it was attached to rails.

  “It's a race then!” John shouts, letting his subconscious take control of the wheel.

  The music was a soundtrack. The motor was an instrument.

  The tires were his lifeline. The outside world was his race track.

  The road was a massive straight, the city an uninspired grid.

  He checks again. Shit. The Station-Wagon is barely a car's length away. His subconscious acted for him. He shoved his foot on the break, letting the Station-Wagon fly past. As it flew past, the road of its engine was made apparent. It had a distinctive, screaming tone. John notes it's as he loosens the rear end, making it slide out for another U-Turn.

  He floored it again, banging through the gears effortlessly. He looks behind him, the Station-Wagon still slowing down.

  “A weakness.” He thinks, turning back onto the road that led to the massive tower; the Station-Wagon finally stopped as he broke line-of-sight with it, punishing the pavement ahead.

  The beacons of light illuminated the lower clouds as he guns it towards the tower; down-shifting to help the engine brake for the next corner. The cassette blasted the song, an anthem of the chase.

  The marriage of rift and beat yields to the beat’s raw solo.

  The last left he could've possibly taken before slamming into the foundations of the tower soon approached, and he drifted around it to avoid.

  Not because he needed to. But because he wanted to.

  Because the ecstasy of the drive commanded it.

  The engine spewed high-revving symphonies from the exhaust while he modulated the throttle; another upshift as he stabilized for another straight.

  His bearings grew greater. A clear red light grew in front of him, in the rapid distance. It magically turned green just as he flew through; perhaps the universe responding to his car.

  The rest of the traffic drove in slow motion. The rain reflected the light as if they were diamond stars at warp speed. There was another red light. It turned green a moment later.

  As he flies through, the memory of the superhighway calls to him from his right. Yet he turns his vision to the left, seeing the Station-Wagon lying in waiting.

  He downshifts. He slows down. He swings the wheel to the right as the Station-Wagon starts rocketing forward in chase.

  “Come over baby! Come kiss me all night long!” The lyrics of the song taunted. His guts hit his throat as the turn gave way to a steep off ramp which yielded to another highway below.

  The city, a labyrinth of layered grids and enticing blues. Six lanes, both sides. This wasn't the one he sought, yet it is the one he will take for the chase.

  Third gear. 135Kph and climbing.

  He speeds past a mass hauler, veering past to it between him and the Station-Wagon. He looks in the mirror once the maneuver is complete.

  It didn't work. The Station-Wagon fast approaches still, sticking to whatever lane he goes to.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  His mind is dry for ideas as it closes. He brake-checks it; the Station-Wagon plummeting into his rear bumper. The shock boomed through the cabin, throwing the whole car off balance as he caves into an uncontrollable skid.

  A mass hauler misses him by just a hair as it flies past, blaring on its horn. During his spinout, he sees the Station-Wagon barely scratched. Yet it spun just as he did.

  He shoved the clutch in and let off the throttle, letting fate take the wheel as the vehicle regained grip. Alas, fate treated him well. Another car flies by, barely missing his outer mirror.

  The Versa, not long after, would finally spin straight. He chucks it into third. He dumped the clutch again, making the wheel chirp as it propelled him forward like riding lightning.

  He looked behind as the Versa blazed forward, seeing the Station-Wagon had now recovered. It was unfair how fast it accelerated. It felt like something massive was watching, routing for John's escape.

  Fifth gear. 268Kph.

  The Station-Wagon still approached, but its march was more of a crawl at this pace. Another weakness, John thinks, while an overpass grows in the distance. He looks up to see it has only eight lanes. This is not the one he is looking for.

  John maintained the speed, not daring to go faster.

  Not yet. Not with this traffic. The Station-Wagon still approached like a lumbering omen, and he was running out of options to take. It almost looked like an autocab tried to cut it off as it got even closer. Then another. Then… another one? But, they all failed.

  His time is about to run out.

  “I'll race you to the deepest, darkest place.” The song warned, the course having cheered him on. He blew past enforcement in what must've been a blur from their sight. They didn't even bother to make chase.

  With the Station-Wagon now only a couple tires away from his rear left fender, John tries a hail mary.

  He shoved it into fourth gear, sending the revs to just under 7500Rpm.

  An opening in the barriers towards the opposite lanes grew, and he took it. White they were filled with much less traffic, it flowed in the opposite direction. He looked back as a car flew by him, hesitation apparent in the Station-Wagon as it begrudgingly followed.

  Every passing car was a world-ending asteroid. Considering his speed and the road's speed limit, each car flew by at least close to 400Kph.

  They zipped by like ballistic missiles, each swerving on the rainy road of carrion light a gambit against certain death. And he was winning.

  The Station-Wagon was trailing behind, losing distance as it lost its confidence.

  John was happy with the new margin and merged back onto the right side of the road. As he left the incoming traffic, another overpass approached overhead. Twelve lanes either side.

  “This is the one.” John screams over the motor and music.

  John slowed for the on ramp as he prepared for a sweeping turn up, yet his enemy was a menace. It barreled towards him through the traffic, closing the distance with a suicidal pace.

  He stepped on it. Third gear. The circular on-ramp approached.

  He got the car sideways as it entered. The drift became a battle of fates as the Station-Wagon joined him.

  Screaming tires. Projectile rainfall.

  The wipers made sure his vision was clear.

  The drift— or more accurately, power-slide— was perfect. It was maintained all the way to the top. The Station-Wagon had the audacity of mirroring him on the way up, trailing behind in a perfect sync.

  A wheel-grinding battle of the ages.

  “Like a spark, at the park! Like a spark, in the dark! No matter where we stop or we run! No matter where we fuck or we park!”

  The lyrics and the volume shouted. The ramp reached its zenith, two-hundred and seventy degrees from the bottom.

  The interstate highway was almost devoid of life in comparison to the city’s. He checked the rear vision mirror, the tower springing behind him as he floors it on his straight out of there.

  As his engine reached the rev limiter once more, he shifted up again.

  Fourth gear. 200kph. He looked behind.

  The Station-Wagon was struggling to gain control as it came off the ramp. But it does, and so he looked forward.

  Almost at the limiter again; into fifth gear. 270Kph.

  It was a drag race to escape the city now. He was only focused on the dials as his speed slowly climbed to 7300Rpm.

  He entered sixth gear. 300Kph. 6100Rpm.

  He looked now in the mirror again. The Station-Wagon’s march brought it closer. And closer. And closer. But… it's slowing.

  Closer. Closer. Yet slowing.

  Then… to come at an equal pace to him, still not far behind. Then… it started falling behind. Then further behind. Then even further.

  317Kph. 6370Rpm.

  The Versa can't take much more of this, John thinks.

  And so it is now a fight for endurance. A short-lived one at that.

  He watched as the Station-Wagon began falling behind rapidly. Over the next couple seconds, it shrunk to be a dot behind him.

  320Kph. 6440Rpm.

  He finally lets his foot off the throttle, the engine thanking him as the revs begin to lower. The chase was over. The Versa has won.

  The song ended with a closing celebration of the rift it started with.

  “Like a spark!” It said, the darkness of the interstate yielding way to the lambent road markings. John breathes a massive sigh of relief. He had just experienced the best high of his life, a flight of pure excess and flair.

  A fight for survival. A fight… for happiness?

  The interstate carried him for the next couple hours. He would slow more as the enemy grew more distant in his mind. He falls back to contemplation as he reaches the lonely expanse of the rural interstate.

  “This is only just the beginning.” He thinks.

  The battle is won. A war has just begun.