SwimBikeRunStLouis

Spike Bike

1989 by Robert Fishell

Part One

With all the acrimony that's been passed around about bikes vs. cars, I thought it would be a good time to talk about a really interesting ride....

It was a Friday. Fridays are usually good days because you have a lot of teenagers drinking and driving, plus a lot of people who are in a bad mood and in a hurry to get home from work. The factories usually pay on Friday, so you get a fair number of beer-commercial types cruising around in their 4X4s looking for some butt to kick while they're knocking back a few brews. A cyclist's paradise.

I stuck a full mag in my MAC-10 and put another one under the saddle. The gun fits into the water bottle cage pretty well, and it's fairy light. I stuffed a couple of grenades in my jersey pockets and slipped my Rambo-knife into its sheath on the front fork. Just for good measure, I grabbed a thermite grenade and dropped it into the remaining jersey pocket. This is a little more weight than I usually carry, but it was Friday night after all.

I caught the first one just a mile from home. It was a type-A, businessman-yuppie-semi-psychotic in a BMW, who didn't like the fact that I was occupying two feet of the lane in front of him. He let me know with his horn and his middle finger. It's pretty hard to hit a moving car from a moving bike, even with a machine gun. I must have fired four bursts before I put one in the gas tank and the "Bimmer" erupted into flame. Fortunately, this bozo managed to get the car off on the shoulder before it blew up, so I didn't have to find a detour around the fire.

The next one didn't come along for another five or six miles. This was a couple of punks in an old Camaro. They pulled alongside me and the passenger barked out of the window like a dog. Then the driver floored it and screeched off in a cloud of burnt-oil smoke. I got lucky for once. The punks got caught at a stoplight, so I didn't need the gun. I pulled into the center of the road so I would pass the driver. As I rolled past, he started talking some punk talk. I don't know what he said, because he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw the grenade go through his open window into the back seat. I caught a glimpse of both of them frantically scrambling after it just as it went off. It looked like some of the glass and shrapnel did some damage to the car ahead of them, but it couldn't be helped. Every war claims some innocent victims.

I'd had enough of the city traffic, so I headed out into farm country. As I went past a barnyard, two enormous Dobermans took off on an intercept course. I dropped them both with one burst, and put a couple of rounds through the farmhouse windows to remind the farmer about the leash laws in effect everywhere in the county.

A short time later, I heard the roar of knobby tires behind me. I looked back to see a huge Ford pickup truck, one of those jacked-up monstrosities with the undercarriage about three feet off the road. As it pulled closer, I heard loud country music blaring over the din of the tires. There were two men in the cab. They both wore Stetsons, and they were both drinking beer from cans. An archetypical redneck-mobile.

I felt like just blasting them right then and there, but I waited to see what they had planned. Sometimes these guys just pass you without giving you a hard time. Not this pair, though. The guy in the passenger seat had a Styrofoam cooler full of icy water, which he was preparing to dump out the window on yours truly. That was all I needed. As soon as the truck pulled even with me and the guy started to toss the water, I put a burst through the window. This brought trouble, though, because the cab was so high that I didn't get the driver. The truck continued down the road, and I tried to finish them off through the blood-spattered back window, but wouldn't you know it, the mag was empty.

I couldn't reload while I was rolling, and the driver of the pickup had by now stopped the truck and was turning around to come after me. I had, maybe, two seconds to make up my mind what to do. I reached into a jersey pocket and pulled out the other grenade. Then I did a time-trial turn, pulled the pin, and looked over my shoulder at the truck which was now speeding towards me. This would have to be timed just right. I let go of the handle and dropped the grenade, then sprinted for everything I was worth. I heard the blast and felt something graze my right arm. Turning around, I saw the truck in flames and out of control. It did a spectacular flip as it went into the ditch, then overturned. There was a second explosion as the gas tank went up.

I decided to cut my ride short, since my arm was bleeding. The wound was superficial, but it was nasty enough to cause a lot of discomfort. I thought back to the ammo I'd wasted on that turkey in the BMW, and regretted it. One of these days, I'd have to get some tracer bullets for the MAC to help me aim. Oh, well. I reloaded the gun since I was bound to come across a few drunks & punks on the way home.

A few miles passed and I heard a siren behind me. I decided to play it cool, hoping they weren't after me. I was disappointed. The sheriff's car slowed behind me and I heard an amplified voice telling me to get off the bike and lie face down on the ground. Damn. I hated the thought of wasting a cop, but if they'd go out and do their jobs, I wouldn't have to ride around doing my part to rid the area of its rat population. But I had an idea. I still had a thermite grenade. I yanked it out of my pocket and tossed it on the hood of the patrol car. I'd hoped for the element of surprise and got it; the two deputies inside the car were too startled to shoot at me. The grenade went off and started burning its way through the engine compartment. The deputies managed to stop the car, and by the time they got out, I was a good quarter mile down the road. I heard shots behind me, but they'd never hit me at this range with .38 Smith & Wesson's.

My escape was short-lived, though. I saw two more sheriff's cars up ahead with riflemen crouched behind them. I heard more sirens from behind. This was it. I pulled out the MAC and fired wildly at the roadblock, crouching to make a smaller target. If I had to go, I was going to take some of them with me. It had been a good life. I'd had some good times. I just regretted that they were getting the wrong guy. I felt something hot tug at my shoulder. I reached up, expecting to pull my hand away bloody, and found my office-mate's hand instead. "Bob..Bob!.. Wake up! You fell asleep at your desk! C'mon, it's Friday afternoon. Time to go home!"

I went home, firmly resolved never to eat that cafeteria chili again.

Part Two

[The year is 1998. The Federal Government is the puppet of a consortium of the 20 large corporations which run the country. State and local governments have been completely taken over by real estate developers, whose goal it is to turn America into one giant suburb consisting of subdivisions, apartment complexes, shopping malls, and office parks.

Bicycles have been all but outlawed. The Bicycle Act of 1992 made it illegal to appropriate tax dollars for bike lanes, paths, etc., and included a provision that "those persons riding bicycles on public roads do so entirely at their own risk." The law was originally intended to stem the flood of imports of Japanese bikes before foreign trade was cut off entirely in '94.

However, the ramifications of this law were much more serious. If a cyclist were to be injured or killed by a motorist, the motorist could not be prosecuted or even sued. It is open season on cyclists. One man fights back....]

A cloud of brown dust stretched as far as the eye could see along old route 126. From my vantage point behind an old barn, I watched the grim parade. For the third time in less than a minute, a huge gravel truck rumbled past, spewing acrid, black smoke and kicking up more of the brown mud-dust and spreading it all over everything.

Including me. I'm Spike Bike. I hate cars.

Taking out a tractor-trailer rig isn't easy. You might be able to get a grenade into the cab, but if it bounces back at you, you're finished. You can sometimes shoot out all the tires on one side of the tractor and the truck will jackknife, but it takes at least half a mag, and half the time you won't get all the tires. I had to face the fact that a MAC-10 submachine gun and a few grenades just weren't going to do the job against these monstrosities.

My weekly raid on the old Joliet Arsenal yielded what I needed: a bazooka and a couple of crates of armor-piercing rockets. As usual, the morons the Army has watching the place didn't see anything. All the approaches to the arsenal are pretty well guarded, but nobody expects a guy on a mountain bike sneaking up from the river bank. I slung the bazooka over my shoulder, stuffed all the rockets I could carry into a set of panniers and a backpack, and slipped away unnoticed.

Back in the garage, I set about converting the bazooka and some old Reynolds tubing into a bikezooka. When I was finished, it looked pretty much like any other fat-tube bike, except your every-day Kleins and Cannondales aren't capable of firing antitank rockets out both the front and back ends. The bike handled a little funny, but I wasn't going to do any criteriums on this baby.

I had to ride along 126 for a couple of miles before I got an opportunity to test it. There wasn't a gravel truck in sight, but I spotted an enormous flatbed carrying a bulldozer. Both the truck and its cargo were filthy, covered with mud and chipped paint, just the thing to make my blood boil. He tried to run me into the ditch, but I'd expected that, and I dodged him easily as he rumbled past. He gave a blast on his air horn that meant "I'll get you next time!"

There wouldn't be any next time. I waited until he was about 200 feet ahead and let the first rocket fly. It scored a direct hit on the rear axles and blew the wheels clean off. The truck collapsed on the roadbed and the 'dozer broke loose from its restraints to lurch forward and crush the cab. My second shot ignited the truck's fuel tank and set both the machines ablaze. I had a weapon!

My first opportunity to take out one of my primary targets came a few minutes later, when I spotted a gravel truck a quarter mile behind me. It was big and ugly and loaded with dirt-- a fat hog to be butchered. I loaded a rocket into the nose and flipped the firing mechanism over so I could launch the round out of the back of the bike. I waited until he got closer, almost too close. I heard him downshift to get more power as he headed straight for me. I let him have it. The missile struck the radiator just above the bumper. The entire cab exploded and blew off the undercarriage. With the steering box destroyed, the truck promptly and violently jackknifed, turning over in the ditch and spilling its entire cargo of dirt, rocks, and debris off to the side of the road. It lay a smoking ruin as I pedaled on.

I'd only brought along four rockets for this test run. I'd hoped to get a chance to hit another truck, but it was after 5, and most of the truckers had gone home. The remaining rocket didn't go to waste, though. On the way home, I spotted a big, gaudy, new Pontiac pulling out of one of the myriad construction sites along 126. A foreman, maybe; he smoked a cigar and wore a yellow hard-hat. He roared up at me from behind, hoping to clip me in the side, but he didn't realize who he was dealing with. I feinted towards the outside lane, then quickly cut back to the shoulder, and he missed me entirely. I could see him flipping me the bird out the back window as I fired the final rocket. There wasn't time for his expression to change, but I'll bet he saw the back blast just before the warhead blew his car into small metal scraps. I had to carry the bike over them for sake of the tires.

It had been a long day. I headed home and went to bed early. The construction crews start at dawn.

Part Three

[In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile...]

The image of a white panel truck grew ominously in my helmet mirror. The vehicle's speed and the faces of the two men inside left little doubt as to their intentions. As they got closer, I saw what they had in mind. The passenger had a four-foot section of heavy water pipe stuck out the window, intending to play a little polo with Yours Truly's skull. This would call for perfect timing, but then, it always does. I faded towards the right shoulder, and the van did the same. But then, at the last possible moment, instead of going off the road, I darted in front of the van and went off on the left shoulder, into the grass, throwing the bike into a controlled skid. The driver reacted the way I'd hoped. He cut the wheel sharply to the left, still intent on having his pal brain me, and lost it when he hit the brakes to avoid a utility pole. The van skidded wildly, rolled onto its side, and slid to a halt 100 feet down the road. I picked up the bike and rode over to the wreck, tossed a grenade through a shattered back window, and sped away. The explosion was spectacular, as the grenade touched off something, a propane tank, maybe, inside the truck.

It gave me no satisfaction. This was the third one today, and I'd only been out a couple of hours. My mood blackened, just as the smoke from the plumbing truck blackened the sky. When would it end? "Spike, m'boy (I said to myself), you need a vacation." I headed home, packed up a few things, and caught the next flight to Calgary.

I needed to pick up a couple of Dura-Ace gruppos, anyway. Canada had no Bicycle Act and no Japanese trade restrictions, unlike what was left of the States, and I was really looking forward to getting to my cabin and putting in a few days of mountain biking without having to bring along an arsenal. After a couple of hours of tearing up and down the trails, I found myself on the road, heading down the mountain and into town. I could do with some breakfast. I heard a roar behind me, the unmistakable sound of knobby tires. I looked back to see a jacked- up Jeep Cherokee following me down the twisting, gravel road. Nothing to worry about, I thought, this is Alberta, after all. I hadn't lost my instincts though, and I kept an eye on it. As soon as it was close enough for me to see the Illinois plates, I sprang into action, heading for some rocks near the edge of the road. He barely missed me, and put some big gouges in the side of the Jeep as he sideswiped the boulder I cut behind.

It was two men, American men. Just my luck. Goddam tourists, and drunken ones at that. They didn't stop to inspect the damage, just threw a bag of empty beer cans and cigarette butts in my direction, and sped off down the road. I didn't have so much as a firecracker with me, and I stood there, impotent, shaking with rage and frustration.

A clear head soon returned, though. There were no motels in the little town at the foot of the mountain, just a grocery store and a couple of restaurants. They could only be staying at one or two places, campgrounds up the mountain. They would be back, probably soon. I made a few preparations down the road and doubled back to the spot where I first encountered them. No more than 45 minutes passed before I once again spotted the roaring blue Cherokee coming up the road, laden, no doubt, with beer and junk food for another day's revelry. I hefted the bag of garbage they'd tossed out before and waited behind a rock. As they roared past, I hurled the bag at the driver, shouting "hey a****le, you dropped something!" It hit him in the head.

As I expected, he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, manhandling the Jeep to get it turned around on the narrow mountain road. By the time he got it straightened out, I was a good 200 yards ahead of him, which was all I needed. I kept him in sight, making sure he wouldn't lose me, as I headed down the old fire road from which I'd removed the barricades. The surface was bumpy, barely navigable for both me and the Jeep, but it would get a lot worse-- for them. I spotted them closing in behind me, nearly bouncing out of their seats. That's it, butt-brain, watch me and not the road. Just a little farther. Atop a sharp rise, a chasm 10 feet wide and perhaps 40 feet deep cut across the old road. The bridge had long since collapsed, but I'd laid a foot-wide plank across the abyss. I shot across with the Jeep nearly on my back wheel. As the heavy vehicle lurched over the edge, the plank snapped like a toothpick and it and the Jeep tumbled to the floor of the ravine.

After a while, I peered over the edge. The only sound from below was the babble of the little stream at the chasm's floor, which now ran streaked with red from under the wreckage, carrying away beer cans and little scraps of trash. What a shame, to pollute such a pristine wilderness. Before I headed back to Chicago, I would call the RCMP-- anonymously-- and tell them about the mess. In the mean time, I had a couple of days to take it easy, breathe the clean mountain air, and get in some more trail riding. After today, though, I'd tuck my 9mm Browning into one of the panniers, just in case I ran into some unfriendly critters, like bears. Or more tourists from the States.

Part 4

[In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile...]

"DROP YOUR WEAPON AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" An amplified voice roared from somewhere beyond the blazing wreckage of the delivery truck that had chased me in here. Instinctively, I fired a burst from my MAC-10 in the direction of the squawking and sprinted off. I heard bullets grazing off the pavement behind and winced at a loud ping from the rear wheel. The bike swayed crazily as I leaned it around the corner of a building, and I went down at the top of a ramp that led down into a loading dock. I scrambled for the only cover available, a narrow, filthy space between the building and a large dumpster. I heard several cars screech to a halt as I dove into the gap. The voice repeated, "THROW OUT YOUR WEAPON! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!"

I answered with a burst of submachine gun fire. My situation was grim, but it could have been worse. I had a defensible position, two and a half mags of ammo, and four grenades. They wouldn't get me without paying dearly.

They weren't real cops, of course. There weren't any real cops left, just security guards employed by The Twenty. Cities contracted with them to have their goons patrol the adjoining roadways, which supposedly saved tax dollars. It was a laughable system. It was all these idiots could to to keep from shooting each other, and cooperation was virtually nonexistent. It was one of the reasons I've been able to operate for so long. But now, they had me in a spot. Perhaps it would all end here. How did it begin?

I was born Spiro Bikopoulis on February 14, 1965 in Oak Park, Illinois, the eldest of six children. My father was a prosperous importer of foods and specialty items from his native Greece. I played football and soccer in high school, then did a stint with the Marines, where I taught hand-to-hand combat and automatic weapons at the U. S. Naval Academy. After the Service, I picked up degrees in Physics and Metallurgical Engineering at Caltech, where I started building bike frames as a project, and later for the racing team I captained.

As a bike racer, I moved up rapidly, particularly after word got around that bumping me on purpose was a mistake. I even got to the Olympic trials in '92, but I was disqualified when a California race official detected traces of Tylenol in a surreptitiously obtained sample of my urine.

"I had a headache," I told him. "besides, I took it after the race!"

"Don't serve me a plateful of irrelevant arguments, you fool!" the official countered, "it's right here on page 387 in volume 3 of the USCF rule book (revised 1992). You're out! Finished! Disqualified!"

I left the race official with volume 3 of his rule book stuck in a most uncomfortable place, and quit sanctioned bike racing forever.

That was when everything started to go to hell, anyway. The Economic Holocaust had begun, first with import restrictions, then the repeal of anti-trust and conflict of interest laws. A group of giant corporations known as The Twenty soon emerged, crushing all competition and gaining a strangle-hold on the Government.

In 1992, the Congress passed all kinds of ridiculous laws designed to curb the demand for Japanese goods. One such was the Bicycle Act, which cut off federal highway money to any state that didn't strip bicycles of any claim of right of way on the public roads. Shortly after it was passed, reports of bicycle fatalities all around the Country rose sharply. The same hotheads, rednecks and hell-raisers who used to just harass cyclists had upped the stakes to what amounted to legalized murder. The nation's roads became a living Hell. As The Twenty expected, bicycle sales, and hence imports, dropped off to nothing. The nation's highways were ruled by motor-driven hooligans who killed for sport. It had to stop. I, Spiro Bikopoulis, alias Spike Bike, would make the roads a living Hell for them.

My old Marine uniform and some forged orders got me into the Joliet Arsenal, where I learned the place's weaknesses and established my secret entrance. I soon had an extensive collection of military ordnance-- and I knew how to use it. I began my campaign around rowdy roadhouses and construction sites in my native Illinois, leaving a wake of blood, fire, and destruction, as driver after driver, trying to turn me into road kill, discovered too late that I wasn't defenseless. Soon the attacks diminished, not only on me, but on the die-hard, crazy cyclists who still braved the roads all over the Chicago area. Word was out. Bikes weren't sitting ducks any more.

That was 5 years ago. Since then, I've been all over the country, hitting areas at random, leaving my grisly signature on roads in every state, and everywhere I've been, brave souls have ventured out on bikes again, to find that drivers give them a wide berth, knowing that any one of them could be me. Bicycles have become a symbol of the growing Anticorporate Movement. It is the beginning of the end for The Twenty.

Unfortunately, it might also be the end for me. Crouching behind the dumpster, my reverie is shattered by a volley of gunshots clanging deafeningly against the heavy steel. Four of the goons are charging my position, concentrating their fire to keep me pinned down. I pull the pin of one of my grenades and lob it into their midst. I hear the blast, and the gunshots stop for but a second. The hail of bullets resumes and shadowy figures stir through the smoke. How many of them are there? And where am I? A sign on the loading dock door confirms my worst fears. I'm in a facility belonging to the Chrysler-Ford General Motors Corporation, President Iacocca's own company. The delivery van I took out hadn't chased me in here by happenstance. I'd been set up, and I'd fallen for it! I fire wildly into the smoke, enraged as much at myself as any of the uniformed hooligans out there. How many are there? How many?

Part 5

[Synopsis: Pinned down behind a dumpster by armed security guards, Spike recalls his past: his privileged childhood as Spiro Bikopoulis, son of a wealthy Greek importer, his tour with the Marines, his college days at Caltech, his bike racing career, and the Economic Holocaust-- the emergence of a consortium of giant corporations, known as The Twenty, who control the Government and nearly every aspect of American life. He recalls the passage of the Bicycle Act, which, in essence, gave America's "rednecks, hotheads, and hell-raisers" a license to kill, and how he became an armed, two-wheeled guerrilla, who would purge the roads of mechanized murderers and strike terror into the corridors of power in Detroit.

In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile. Now, he fights for his life...]

Bullets rained against the heavy steel of the dumpster and chipped away the concrete of the wall next to it. I was in-between, in a two- by-six foot pocket of cover which would be my coffin when my ammo ran out. I lobbed one of my three remaining grenades over the top of the dumpster at where I thought the fire was coming from. I must have gotten lucky, for the onslaught broke up. I took advantage of the lull to slip a peek around the corner. Through the smoke, I counted seven bodies, two of which were moving some, and spotted two more men diving for cover behind parked cars. Perhaps six more of the gray-uniformed goons received them there, crouching with pistols drawn.

My situation seemed hopeless. I'd taken out almost half of them with just two grenades and a few rounds of ammo, but they wouldn't be foolish enough to try a frontal assault again. They were too far away for me to get a grenade behind their cover without exposing myself, and I could not slip away unseen. They would wear me down, or keep me besieged, awaiting reinforcements armed with something heavier than the .38 revolvers that were standard CFGM Security issue.

CFGM-- The Chrysler-Ford General Motors Corporation, largest and most powerful of The Twenty, and the most ruthless. They controlled all transportation in America, including cars, trucks, rails, ships, barges, and airlines. Their CEO was also President of The United States, and lately, I'd been on his agenda. I'd been hitting bigger and bigger stuff, like that fleet of construction trucks back home, and I was a huge embarrassment to CFGM and the Government. Last week, a group of demonstrating Anticorporatists rode bikes around the White House, and no one had touched them. Iacocca must have given the word to get me at all costs.

That must have been how this bunch had trapped me. I suspected that CFGM Security forces all over the Country had been instructed to lure or chase bicyclists onto CFGM property, where they could be apprehended and held for questioning. This bunch just got lucky-- or so they must have thought. Luck had run out for a truck driver and seven security guards when they'd tangled with me. It was the remaining eight, watching my dumpster through the sights of their pistols, that I had to deal with now. A thought occurred to me: they wanted me alive, if they could get me that way, although I'm sure they'd been told to get me any way they could. Perhaps I could parlay that into an advantage.

I tore a sleeve away from my white jersey, and waved it gingerly past the edge of the dumpster. I heard a voice ordering the goons to hold their fire. An instant later, the same voice came over the squawk-horn.

"THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP," he intolled. Didn't he have anything else to say? He was beginning to annoy me.

"Stick it, Butt-brain!" I shouted back, "Just come and get your wounded. I'll hold my fire!" A few moments passed in silence. "Come and get them, they're bleeding to death!" I insisted, and added, "Just leave that bike where it is!"

My bicycle, its back wheel collapsed after a stray round had fractured the hub, lay near the top of the ramp, among the fallen men. There were eight more grenades, a .44 magnum, and several magazines of ammo in the panniers, one of which had ripped open to partially display its contents. If I could get to it, I could hold out much longer, maybe even blast my way out. But if they got to it first, they could take me out with my own grenades.

After a moment, two men emerged, empty-handed, from behind the row of ugly grey Plymouths the guards drove. They made motions toward the wounded man nearest them, but then quickly darted for my ruined bike. One man scooped it up while the other produced a gun from behind his back and opened fire on my position. As they retreated, the others fired to keep me pinned down. The wounded men lay unattended on the asphalt. The two who'd ventured out ducked back behind the cover with their prize.

Long ago, I'd vowed I wouldn't be taken alive, and that I'd get whoever and whatever got me. To that end, every bike I built had a little extra weight: two pounds of plastique in the down tube, with an electronic detonator linked by radio to a monitor strapped to my chest. If my heart stopped, the bike became a bomb. I had flipped the arming switch during my encounter with the delivery truck. All that remained was to make the bike think I was dead. I drew as far back into my hole as I could, put my head down, reached under my jersey, and ripped the monitor away from my chest. Within seconds, a powerful blast shook the ground, and debris rained down all around me. There was no gunfire as I emerged from the filthy hole that had nearly been my tomb.

I surveyed the havoc I'd wreaked. The row of cars my adversaries had used for cover lay twisted and blazing in a disorderly array around the smoking crater the bike-bomb had made. One of the wounded men who'd been abandoned by his comrades was still alive. He groped weakly towards his fallen pistol, but I sprayed it with a burst from my MAC-10, driving it away like a leaf before a garden hose. The man looked at me with terror in his eyes. I looked at him with pity in mine. He was a conscript, no doubt, some poor, dumb slob who couldn't get an honest job. I holstered my weapon, removed his belt to make a tourniquet for his leg, made him comfortable, and picked up a small object from the ground to stick in his shirt pocket. It was the hand-tooled silver head badge of a bicycle, twisted and charred, but still intact. It was inlaid with the caricature of a bulldog with a steering wheel clenched in his teeth. The name on his collar was "Spike."

"Give this to your boss," I told him softly.

Sirens approached from the south. I found an undamaged security car and made my getaway. 30 miles away, I rendered it to scrap metal and walked the rest of the way to the airport. I would go back to Illinois, rest up for a few days while my road rash healed, and outfit another bike. I had much to do.

Part 6

[In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile]

I heard it before I saw it. An ancient Cadillac convertible was closing very quickly from the rear. There was nothing ancient about its electronics; at least 1000 watts of amplifier power screamed raunchy C&W from god knows how many speakers. It sounded even worse for the Doppler shift; he was doing at least 100. That was stupid. He would try to clip me in the side, because people in snazzy cars always try to clip me in the side, and at that speed, he wouldn't be able to maneuver. I feinted to the left when he closed to within a few hundred feet, then cut right abruptly when he'd committed himself. He missed me by a good four feet. As he roared past, I opened up on the tires with my MAC-10, shredding them. The Caddy swerved crazily, rolled over twice, and slid off the road upside down. Crazy as it seemed, that godawful music was still blaring out from the wreckage. I fired another burst into the gas tank, and the racket stopped as the wreck went up in a huge ball of orange flame. The driver's Stetson hat lay in the road perhaps 50 feet away, virtually undamaged-- unlike the driver, who had no further use of it. I emptied the rest of the mag into it, chasing it down the asphalt, cutting it to scraps. Sure as shootin', I was in Texas.

I'm Spike Bike. I hate cars. I don't care much for C&W, either.

I'd been to Texas before. The rednecks in these parts are as stubborn as they are mean, and that's meaner than most. This time, though, I had come for one man, and it wasn't that bozo in the Caddy. I'd never met Earl Josiah "E. J." Ross, but I'd heard plenty about him. He was a millionaire oilman who spent much of his time hunting since Standard Oil bought him out. It was said he hunted rattlesnakes, coyotes, and wild horses. These days, he also hunted bicyclists. My Anticorporatist contacts in Lubbock said he'd run down at least 20 of them, and those were only the confirmed kills, the ones there were accident reports on. I'd come to see that there would be no more.

I arrived at the Yellow Rose Cantina at about 11:30 in the morning. I counted three cars and two pickups in the dusty gravel parking lot, plus a couple of cars out back. It was more than I'd expected, but not too much of a problem. I leaned the bike up against a crumbling adobe wall and went inside, bracing myself against the assault of darkness, smoke, and Tex-Mex blaring from the jukebox. I paused near the door, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, and checked the place out. Three men sat at the bar, and two more played pool in the adjoining room. A tired-looking waitress set out ketchup bottles on the empty tables. There was a big, middle-aged redneck behind the bar. I guessed that there was some one in the kitchen, but I couldn't see much through the tiny round windows set in the door. That would complicate things.

As my vision cleared, I noted that all eyes present were on me. I wore black lycra shorts with a red stripe, and a red three-pocket. I surmised that this was not suitable attire for this place, but then, I wouldn't be staying long. I crossed to the bar.

"A glass of beer" I ordered.

"Ain't got no beer, boy." This brought chuckles from the men seated at the bar.

"How about a sandwich, then?"

"Ain't got no food." More chuckles.

"What time does E. J. Ross show up?"

"You a friend of E. J.'s?" The chuckles gave way to raucous laughter.

"Didn't know the son of a bitch had any."

I casually strolled over to the jukebox, studied it for a moment, and viciously yanked the plug out of the wall (Who the hell was in the kitchen?). The twangy music abruptly stopped.

"Awright, get the fu** out of here, sissy-pants!" The bartender had lost his grin.

"I said, what the fu** time does E. J. Ross show up?"

"'bout half past noon, but y'all ain't gonna be here that long."

He was out from behind the bar, lumbering towards me with an unopened bottle of Lone Star beer in his hand. When he closed to within a couple of feet, he brought it up in a wide arc.

"I thought you didn't have any beer" I commented, as I threw a block to his wrist and brought my knee up into his groin. As he flinched from the pain, I snap-kicked him in the face and he fell back. He and the beer bottle he'd wielded hit the floor about the same time, and ended up in approximately the same condition. The sleepy-eyed waitress screamed, dropped her tray and retreated into a corner. The three men from the bar advanced on me, one of them hurling a bar stool in my direction. I ducked aside and blocked it away with my wrist. Coming up from the floor, I fan-kicked the nearest of the three in the jaw, spun around and threw a fist into the adams-apple of the next man. Both collapsed. The third held back, circling, looking for an opening (who was in the goddam kitchen?). The pool players had entered the room by this time, brandishing their cue sticks menacingly. I thrust a side kick at the third man from the bar and caught him off balance. He hit his head on the corner of a table as he fell. A pool cue came around at my head, and I ducked, grabbed the man's arm, and felt his elbow crack as I twisted. The pool stick flew out of his hand to crash into the row of bottles behind the bar. The other pool player realized his situation and wisely dropped his stick, retreating with his hands out to the sides.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flood of light from the kitchen door, saw a blur, and heard the sound of a shell being chambered into a pump gun. I instinctively reached for the 9mm Walther I had concealed under my jersey. In one motion, I chambered a round, took aim, and fired. The mercury-filled slug tore through the cook's skull and he fell back. The scattergun discharged as it hit the floor, and a lighting fixture shattered overhead. I quickly swung around to cover the people who were still standing, and backed towards the door.

"Tell E.J. Ross I'm looking for him. I'll be up the road a ways."

Two plumes of smoke intertwined in the air above the Yellow Rose Cantina. Before leaving the parking lot, I'd fetched my .44 magnum from the mountain bike's panniers and fired a round through the radiator of each of the cars and trucks parked around the dump. Two of them caught fire as the heavy slugs ripped through the engine compartments. I'd taken care to cut the phone lines, but I didn't want any of the survivors going for help. The ones I'd left breathing would recover. The one I'd left with his brains splattered all over the kitchen door wouldn't be needing help. Now, I watched the Cantina through powerful binoculars from a mesa half a mile up the road.

My friends in Lubbock told me that every day, E. J. Ross stopped at this dive for a bowl of Texas chili and a few beers on his way back from his Lubbock office. The bartender had told me he'd arrive at half past noon. Sure enough, at 12:30 sharp, a cloud of dust near the horizon portended his arrival. I took some time to study his vehicle as it pulled into the Yellow Rose's parking lot.

I'd heard about the E. J. Special, but I had to see it to believe it. It had stared as an enormous Chevy pickup, but thousands of E. J.'s dollars had transformed it into a rolling monument to bad taste. It was mostly a glossy black, with elaborate desert scenes airbrushed onto the side panels. The windows were tinted very dark. The grille was from a Rolls-Royce, or a good imitation. Headers protruded from beneath the running boards, to come together and elbow into stacks that rose three feet above either side of the cab. The license plate read

  ----------
  |KICK ASS|
  ----------

All the brightwork was plated in 14K gold. The antlers of an authentic Texas Longhorn steer embellished the hood. Under that hood, I knew, was a finely-tuned, 454 cubic inch V8 that didn't bother with emission controls.

E. J. himself was as audacious as his truck. He was big, at least 6'4", and 350 pounds if he was an ounce. He wore a white suit and matching Stetson, with mirrored sunglasses, a string tie, a hand-tooled Navaho belt with an enormous gold monogrammed buckle. His correspondingly enormous belly hung over it. On his feet were ornate Texas boots with gold caps on the toes. Gaudy, expensive rings embellished each of his pudgy fingers. A huge stogie jutted out from his mouth.

I regarded him through the binoculars, wishing for a moment that I was peering through the telescopic sights of a .30-06 Winchester; one squeeze of the trigger and I'd make happy ladies of each of his ex- wives. No, that would be too easy, too quick. I wanted him to know it was coming, and who it was who brought it.

A small crowd had formed in the lot beside E. J.'s truck: the bartender, the frumpy waitress, and a couple of the men I'd dealt with earlier. I could not hear their conversation, but I surmised they weren't talking about the weather. One of the men gestured up the road, in my general direction, and I thought it was time I announced my presence. I fired the magnum at the side of the building, not expecting to hit anything in particular at this distance, but I was pleased when a window shattered. The report echoed several times from the sides of the nearby hills. All but E. J. hit the ground or scattered. He merely looked up, trying to pinpoint my location. I hoped my red jersey made it easy for him.

E. J. got into his truck and started up the road. I stuck the magnum back in a pannier and hurried down the slope to meet him. I waited behind a rock for the E. J. Special to round the bend, and took off up the road, certain I'd been spotted. Timing would have to be perfect. That monster could go from 0 to 60 in less than 9 seconds, despite its size, and it had already killed at least 20. Surprisingly, he gained on me very slowly. So that's how he did it; let them sweat a little before the kill. I let him close to within 50 feet before I made my first evasive move, cutting across the center line and darting through some rocks. I abruptly spun the back wheel around in a controlled skid as E. J. brought the truck to a halt, and I took off in the opposite direction. The truck did not turn around, but screeched after me in reverse, much faster this time. As it closed to within a few yards, I sliced off to the left and rode up the steep slope of the embankment. At the summit, I paused to make certain E. J. knew what direction I took.

The road wound through a canyon cut into the low mesas that dotted the countryside. I had scouted it carefully earlier, but it was going to be tight. I sprinted over the uneven, rocky surfaces towards the bend in the road where I'd hoped to intercept him. I arrived barely in time. planting myself in the middle of the road, I just had time to draw the MAC-10 and cock the receiving bolt. The E. J. Special roared around the curve, 200 feet up the road. I took aim for the driver's side of the cab and looked for his face, found it, met his eyes. The huge pickup bore down on me like a hellhound, but I waited for his expression to change, his jaw to slacken, his eyes to widen in fear with the shock of realization: that's right, you son of a bitch, this is a machine gun, and you're going to die! He got an arm half-raised before his face and cut the wheel sharply to the left as I opened fire. I held the trigger and fanned the barrel in a narrow arc, exhausting the full magazine. The windshield disintegrated and both the side mirrors shattered before the truck ran aground against the embankment and turned over on its side.

Five miles down the road, I could clearly see the column of smoke rising from the remains of the E. J. Special. A well-placed satchel charge had taken care of it, the road, and part of the adjoining hillside. E. J. Ross was no more; 20 lost souls were avenged, and Texas was just a little safer for bikes now. Perhaps E. J. had been the worst of the men I'd faced, perhaps not. At least I'd known his name, unlike most of them. And I'd had time to hate him. The satisfaction was fleeting. E. J. and his ilk had always been there, murderous intentions just below the surface, hatred and intolerance held barely in check. The real evil was the system that allowed the E. J.s to emerge, and I and all my guns, grenades, and bombs had no more effect on that than spitting on a forest fire.

All that would change some day. I had to believe it would. I'd killed two men today, and I'd seen their eyes. You don't forget the eyes. You feel them watching you when you wake up shivering, pillow soaking wet, with the sound of your own hearbeat shattering the night. How long?

Part 7

[In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile...]

A cold November rain beat against the window. The hour grew late. Yawning, I had set down my book and started off to bed when a knock came on the door. I warily crossed the room to peer through the door peep. It didn't look good. There were two grim-faced men in cheap suits outside. I caught a glimpse of more men in the gray uniforms of CFGM Security just on the fringes of the fish-eye view. This wasn't a social call. My 9mm Walther was in my right hand. My left rested lightly on a control panel next to the sill. I spoke into the intercom:

"What can I do for you fellows?"

"Spiro Bikopoulis?"

"Yes?"

"United States Secret Service. We'd like to talk to you."

"I'm all ears."

"Open the door, please"

"I can hear you just fine. Modern electronics, you know---"

I saw the taller of the two men motion to the goons. Two of them came into view, ready to kick in the door. I threw a switch on the house's security controls. Instantly, a barrier slammed across the threshold of the front door, and the house shuddered as similar barriers simultaneously covered the remaining doors and windows. It was a metal-polymer laminate I'd developed during my years as a metallurgical engineer. Inch for inch, it was nearly twice as tough as armor plate, yet it weighed only a quarter as much. It, and the reinforced construction of my little ranch house would give me but a few minutes. If they'd come for the reason I suspected, they'd have brought some heavy firepower. I heard bullets thudding against the other side of the barrier. They would try a battering ram next, then explosives.

I ran down to the basement. The sequence I'd set in motion upstairs had already opened the sealed door to the secret room I'd built five years ago. I threw aside my bathrobe and pulled on a rugged jumpsuit and mountain bike shoes that awaited there. A gun belt and flack vest followed. I hopped on the black-anodized mountain bike and opened the heavy door to the tunnel that led down to the river bank, 300 yards away. The chill and dank air seized me as I entered. I paused inside and tapped out a code on the keypad just outside the door. It quietly closed behind me, and I knew I'd never see my little house again. The bike's powerful headlamp stabbed far into the darkness of the tunnel, and I sprinted hard into its depths.

Halfway down the tunnel, I heard the muffled explosion behind. I had set the charges to gut the house without causing too much damage to the immediate area, or any innocent bystanders nearby. If, by chance, any of the goons had bashed or blasted their way inside, though, they were toast by now; those charges had been high-temp incendiaries. In any case, they would not follow through the tunnel.

Opening the hatch at the tunnel's mouth, I was nearly overwhelmed by a rush of knee-deep water. The heavy rains had swelled the river beyond its banks. I tried to get the camouflaged hatch closed again, but it was hopeless, jammed with mud. The tunnel would be easily visible. Hoping to at least cover my tracks, I rode through the shallow water for perhaps 200 yards before climbing up from the bank.

I rode along the river for another half mile before I saw the chopper. A powerful spotlight swept across the landscape, paused, and darted up and down the river bank in the direction I'd come from. They'd spotted the tunnel, no doubt, and were trying to decide which way I'd gone. The chopper turned to and headed my way. I offered a silent curse and took off at a right angle to the river, into the back of the railroad yard. I needed to get to cover fast. There! A freight train was pulling out of the yard, and I sprinted to match speed, pull alongside, and catch the open door of a boxcar. I struggled to get myself and the bike inside before the chopper spotted me.

I didn't make it. The light played over the door and instantly returned. The powerful beam followed the boxcar, and I heard the chopper descending. I extracted a drab green cylinder from the mountain bike's heavily laden panniers, extended the fore and aft tubes, and took aim at the spotlight. A squeeze of the trigger and the LAWS rocket found its mark. The chopper exploded and a huge fireball fell from the sky.

The train did not stop, but continued to roll out of the yard, picking up speed. It was evidently a robot locomotive, and it would not stop until it was programmed to do so. I didn't know where it was going, but any place was better than here right now. I closed the car's door and pondered my situation. In my bike's panniers and packs were my usual armament of a MAC-10, 12 grenades, a .44 magnum, and extra ammunition. But this particular bike had been especially prepared for this occasion. I also carried two, make that one, LAWS rockets, two satchel charges, and a sawed-off, 16 gauge pump shotgun. The rest of its cargo was less destructive, but perhaps more essential: Dry clothing, dehydrated food, $20,000 in small bills, some forged documents, and a pint of Jack Daniels. I cracked the seal on the last item and took one swig against the chill, replaced the cork, and set the bottle aside. This bike and the gear it carried were now all I owned, and I had to make the best of it.

I had known they might close in on me some day, but I had to learn how. That and many other questions burned in my brain. But first, I needed to sleep. I would need a clear head in the morning, wherever I might be then. Where?

I awoke from a light sleep as the lurching of the cars made me aware the train was slowing down. Through the space under the door, I could see it was still dark outside. I opened the door a crack. The weather had cleared considerably, and it was quite cold. I examined the skyline silhouetted against the stars: Detroit. That was just about perfect; just get across the border to Windsor and I could make my way to my Alberta cabin to decide on a course of action.

How had they found me? More importantly, why now? Corporatism was finished. It had been a failure on all counts, social, political, and economic. The early boom years, when the executive-politicians had had the support of the people, had been financed by speculation, riding on false hopes. Lately it had been falling apart. Economic growth had ground to a halt, some consumer goods were growing scarce, and services were deplorable. Dissension was widespread among workers at all but senior management levels, despite harsh policies by employers-- The Twenty-- to ensure loyalty. The "workfare" labor force, which amounted to a pool of cheap conscript labor, could not absorb any more fired workers, and the threat of losing your job if your district voted the wrong way became meaningless as the quality of life deteriorated.

Though the Presidential election was still two years away, the midterm Congressional elections and several key gubernatorial races spelled disaster for The Twenty. Voter turnout had been unprecedented. Despite lavishly orchestrated media coverage and huge PAC funds, nearly every Corporatist candidate had been resoundingly defeated. The Enterprise Party, the political party of the Anticorporatists, would be firmly in control of the Congress and most of the states beginning in January. My contacts in the Party had told me that impeachment proceedings against the Iacocca Administration would probably be the first act of the new Congress.

I had rejoiced in the news. The long nightmare was nearly over. I could soon go back to being Spiro Bikopoulis. Now, that dream was shattered. My cover was blown. I'm Spike Bike, now. I can no longer be any one else.

The train had slowed to perhaps 15 MPH. I slid the door open, dropped the bike out, and jumped. I was just outside the railway yard, near a crossing. I decided to take a chance on the road, at least for a little while, in order to cover ground quickly while I still had the darkness. It was early Monday morning. I would have to get near downtown, dump the bike and the heavy weapons, taking only the cash and my forged papers-- on foot-- to the bridge which led to freedom.

I covered about 5 miles before the morning glow made it too dangerous for me to stay on the main roads. Now I wound my way through alleys, through the poor neighborhoods near the downtown area. I would ride for another half mile or so and then change into street clothes and hoof it for the bridge.

My hopes were dashed. A block ahead, a dull gray Plymouth skidded to a stop, blocking the alley. Almost immediately, another duplicated the maneuver at the corner behind me. I immediately cut across a back yard, through the narrow space between two dilapidated garages, and emerged with the MAC-10 drawn and ready for action.

This came immediately. As I rode out into the street, two of the CFGM Security cars converged on my position. I sprayed the windshield of one, and it changed course abruptly, crashing into a tree. The other was closing fast behind me. I rode up onto a yard, between houses, and into the alley paralleling the one in which I'd been spotted. To the west were two grey Plymouths, and I cut hard to the east. I grabbed a grenade and waited for the cars to close, but they kept their distance.

Up the alley ahead, I could see the walls of skyscrapers. I was only a few blocks from downtown. As I crossed a street, I saw three more of the CFGM cars closing in, but the way ahead was still clear. Finally, I ran out of alleys beneath the heights of the tallest building in Detroit-- the CFGM building. To the left and right of me were roadblocks. I had only one place to go, the parking garage under the skyscraper. I darted inside, my machine gun ready for an ambush, but I found no one waiting. I looked around for a place to make my next move. I felt a sting in my leg. Looking down, I saw a small dart protruding from my thigh. I reached down to pluck it out, but my hand wouldn't obey. The world tilted crazily and went black.

At first there was only a blur of agonizing light and a noise like a buzz-saw ripping through my skull. After a few moments, the blur became a face, and I realized it was speaking.

"---ming around, Mr. Bikopoulis. Can I offer you a drink?"

A pail of icy water was thrown into my face, and I sputtered for air, choking and nearly throwing up. It began to clear my head though. As my vision returned, I observed that I was in an opulent office. Before me was a heavy mahogany desk. On it were my MAC-10 and a drab- looking suitcase. Behind, a panoramic window displayed the city lights of Detroit-Windsor, seen from the exhilarating heights of what I realized was the top floor of the 103-story CFGM building. The last fringes of twilight glowed in the west. It had been early morning the last I'd been conscious.

I was bound to a chair with duck tape, uncomfortably tight across my wrists and ankles. I had been stripped to the waist. A glance assured me that my heart monitor was still there. Looking around the room, I saw my specially-equipped mountain bike leaned against a wall, its armament intact. My gun belt and flak vest lay beside it.

"Yes, the bike's here," my host offered, "We know about that little electronic gizmo of yours, but we didn't have time to figure out how to disarm it. We thought it wise not to fool with anything, in fact. It was easier just to keep it in range of the transmitter for now. You're quite ingenious, Mr. Bikopoulis. Or is it Spike Bike?"

"That'll be Mister Bikopoulis to you, Butt-brain." A mistake. That brought knuckles across my face.

"You should show proper respect for authority, Mister Bikopoulis. Don't you know who I am?"

I knew who he was. Ames Morgan, Secretary of Transportation and Executive Vee Pee of CFGM, Iacocca's right-hand man. It was rumored that Morgan was the real boss of the Corporatist government. What was an important cabinet member doing smacking me across the face?

"The face and charming manner are familiar. You grunt for the Prez."

"The President of the United States is rather upset with you, Spike."

"The American People are rather upset with him, so I guess he's entitled. But why does he care about me? Senator Crisp..."

"Joseph Crisp is merely the political leader of this disloyal rabble. You're their folk hero. You inspire them. You're too much of a nuisance to have around."

"Somehow I think it's Mr. Iacocca who won't be around, at least not much after the 3rd of January. Is it true that they're just going to impeach him, or are they going to throw his ass in jail, too?"

"That's rather outlandish, coming from a terrorist."

"Terrorist? I'm just a concerned citizen, doing my best to keep our highways free of trash."

"Terrorist. Particularly after the little stunt you pulled in New Mexico Thursday."

"I was in New York Thursday, filling out reams of your goddam forms just to receive a shipment of Metaxa from Greece."

"Quite the contrary, Spike. You shot up a top-secret government installation. We've got it all on video tape. Killed thirteen people, including a janitor and a couple of secretaries, before you got away with this."

He placed a hand on the suitcase sitting on the desk. He removed a panel to reveal an array of switches and displays. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a key and inserted it into a slot in the control panel. The displays jumped to life.

"The CIA whipped this up. Quite clever, really, only thirty-six pounds, and most of that's the shielding."

"What is it, a crystal set? Captain Video decoder, maybe?"

"I thought you were a weapons expert, Spike. It's a thermonuclear device. Oh, it's just a little one-- thirty kilotons, maybe-- but enough for you to do a great deal of damage to this fair city and its distinguished guests."

I suddenly saw what he was getting at. It was monstrous.

The Enterprise Party had fittingly chosen Detroit's Cobo Hall as the site for its first Transition Planning Conference. Every important member of the Anticorporatist movement would be in attendance. The conference was to open this evening. So that was why they'd timed my capture for this date! They intended to destroy the cities of Detroit and Windsor, and make it look like an act of terrorism, with me the perpetrator. A quarter mile in the air, this office would be ground zero. We were half a mile from the convention center. None of the delegates would survive, and hundreds of thousands of innocent people would perish with them.

"You're insane!" I hissed. I tugged and jerked at my restraints. Morgan leaned back in his chair, placed his feet on the desk next to the Bomb. His laughter filled every inch of the spacious office.

Morgan's laughter died down and my struggles ceased-- partly because I'd managed to partially free my right leg, and partly because I needed a cool head to size up the situation. I was alive only because of Morgan's maniacal ego. He'd conquered Spike Bike, and couldn't resist confronting me, just to gloat. I studied the device on the desk before me. One of the displays on the suitcase Bomb was changing. It read:

3:58:21... 3:58:20... 3:58:19...

I had to keep Morgan talking, to find out what he had planned, and to divert his attention from my quiet struggles with the leg restraints. He evidently hadn't realized the strength in a cyclist's legs. As I exerted steady, concerted pressure, the strands of tape tore slightly on the squared corners of the chair legs. Eventually, they would break and my legs, if not my arms, would be free.

"You'll never get away with it. Even Iacocca wouldn't approve of nuking an American city."

"Actually, he doesn't know anything about it. He's mainly a figurehead, anyway. Past the age of retirement, you know. In any case, four hours from now-- make that three hours and fifty-six minutes-- your friends down there will be radioactive vapor, and the people will have to look to the only government they have-- us-- to see them through the ensuing international crisis. And you, my friend, will go down in history as the most infamous terrorist of all time."

"The bomb goes off in four hours?"

"10:00 PM sharp. Senator Crisp should just be finishing his speech to the convention around then. I'll be long gone by then, driving west toward Chicago. Couldn't take a chance on the airlines. You, on the other hand, will be right here, snoozing away on another dose of aneprazine-- that's the stuff we shot you with downstairs. You'll have the whole building to yourself. We gave the cleaning staff the night off-- not much point in mopping the restrooms in the middle of ground zero, is there?

"Well, Spike, it's been nice meeting you in person, but I have pressing matters to attend to. It seems there's no way to disarm this thing once the countdown has started-- which it has-- and Detroit is fast becoming a crummy place to be."

He extracted a hypo from a briefcase on the desk. My legs were not quite free. I had to stall him a few moments more, fan his ego.

"One more thing. How did you find me?"

"The computers did it. Took us a long time. Seems you always traveled under assumed names, paying with cash for your airline tickets. But you used your family's business shipments to transport your weapons and bicycles by rail and truck to the areas you hit. It was just a routine audit of our shipping records, anything to get a lead. When we found out that Spiro Bikopoulis, former bicycle racer, was shipping merchandise to areas that were shortly thereafter visited by Spike Bike, we had a pretty good idea who you were.

"That business you pulled back in Illinois confirmed it. Incidentally, that was a half-million dollar chopper you blew up. Fortunately for us, the pilot radioed your situation just before you smoked him, so we had the train diverted here. Quite a stroke of luck for us; we got some nice pictures. The security cameras caught your entrance downstairs and got a nice close-up of your face before we tranked you. It was not strictly necessary, but it will add credibility to the story of the world's first nuclear terrorist. In a few days, the tape will be on every TV screen in America, along with the stuff we got in New Mexico."

"You got a ringer for me."

"Remarkable likeness, at least from a distance. Good with weapons, too, an ex-Marine, like yourself. Down on his luck, poor chap. He was more than happy to work with us after we got him off death row in California. He took to a mountain bike like a natural. Did a great job for us in New Mexico. We need more men like him. Pity you don't work for us, Spike. Well, Spike, I could go on for hours, but I really should be going. Have a nice nap."

He prepared the hypo and crossed from behind the desk. My legs were free. I would have just one chance. As he drew close to administer the shot, I rocked back on the chair and kicked up violently with both legs, catching Morgan in the rib cage. The thrust hurled him through the air several feet, until his back crashed through the expansive, mural window. They say that from 103 floors up, you're dead before you hit the ground. I always thought it was a myth, but I didn't hear him screaming the whole way down, just 50 floors or so. Maybe there's something to it after all.

My hands were still bound. I lay on the heavily carpeted floor, alone with the Bomb.

3:42:01... 3:42:00... 3:41:59...

The silent, florescent display counted down the seconds until an inevitable 30-kiloton nuclear blast. Morgan had said the Bomb could not be disarmed, and he'd had no reason to lie.

I got myself turned around and managed to get on my feet. My hands were still bound to the arms of the chair. I gingerly hobbled over to the shattered window, through which poured the chilly November air. The jagged glass cut through one of my bonds, giving me a gash across the wrist in the process, and soon I was free of the chair. Glancing down to the street, I saw tiny flashing red lights converging on the area where I knew Morgan's remains must be splattered. Not good; I'd hoped to get out of here unnoticed. The surrounding streets would be crawling with CFGM Security by the time I reached the ground floor.

I turned my attention to the Bomb. Within just over three and a half hours, it would have to be taken to a place where it could be detonated with relatively little harm. There wasn't time. Morgan and his henchmen had kept the theft of the Bomb a secret from the public, and I could not deal with CFGM Security, which policed the city. It could not be exploded on the surface anywhere in the populous East. A fast military plane might get it to the Nevada desert in time, but how could I convince the Air Force or the Navy of the urgency of the situation? And how could I trust them? I had no idea how extensive the conspiracy was. Searching my memory, I thought of one place it could be taken that might suffice: the extensive salt mines under the city. I knew I would have to take it there myself.

I retrieved my MAC-10 from Morgan's desk and checked out the bike. It was undamaged, and Morgan had been afraid to tamper with its extensive array of armament. That was good; I had a feeling I'd be needing it. I patched up the cut on my wrist and replaced my flak vest. Then I set about lashing the 36-lb Bomb to the rear rack. It was more weight than I was used to carrying, but I was able to maneuver the bike around the room. I boarded the private elevator which connected Morgan's office to the parking garage under the skyscraper. A brief, sinking feeling assured me I was on my way. On the way down, I broke all the lights in the car's interior. I readied the machine gun, prepared a grenade, and straddled the bike as the elevator slowed to a stop. As the door opened, I saw two gray Plymouth sedans waiting outside.

I burst through the doors firing in a wide arc. The guards crouched behind the cars instinctively ducked, and did not return fire for a critical second while I sprinted past the roadblock, tossing the grenade as I passed. One of the guards got off a shot before the blast, and I felt something hot laid across my shoulder. The wound was superficial, but bloody. I waited for more fire, but none came. The next wave would be at the garage's entrance. There was no time for stealth. Repeating my bold move at the elevator, I sprinted up to the street. The Bomb's weight slowed my progress up the ramp, but I still burst out of the door with enough speed to maneuver. Fanning the machine gun at the row of gray Plymouths just outside, I cut towards the alley I had come out of this morning, right between two of the Security cars. This time, none of their shots connected. A second grenade went off behind me and the guns fell silent. A block away, I knew I had made the first hurdle, but I could not get far this way. A mountain bike has tremendous advantages in rough country, but it's not much help on city streets. I thought for a moment about where I should go, and had the answer.

I wound my way through the alleys toward the sea of light four blocks from the CFGM building. There was one place in this city where I might find friends, but there would not be any time to explain. Firing into the air, I burst forward into the light. A stretch Lincoln limousine was just pulling up in front of the glittering entrance to Cobo Hall. It would do nicely. Riding up onto the sidewalk, I grabbed the first person in reach, a terrified woman. I hated to do it, but I needed to hold off the guards while I got the limousine door open. I rolled the bike inside and dove in after it, releasing my hysterical hostage. There was a distinguished-looking man inside, rubbing his knee. The bike had jostled him some.

"Senator Crisp, I presume."

"So. I finally get to meet Spike Bike."

I instructed the Senator's driver to get away-- fast. The Bomb silently counted away the seconds.

3:08:18... 3:08:17... 3:08:16...

"... and you're sure the Bomb can't be disarmed?"

"We can't afford to try. We've got less than three hours, and I have a feeling the people who built this thing won't help us much. No, Senator, the mine is our only chance. You have to help me get it there."

The Senator finished bandaging my wounded shoulder. He'd been reluctant to volunteer any help at first, but I had convinced him of the urgency of the situation. I turned my attention to the limousine driver. Could he be trusted?

"Your driver, Senator. Secret Service?"

"Yes, but..."

I held the muzzle of my MAC-10 against the driver's neck. I told him to pull the car over and struck him sharply on a well-chosen point at the base of his skull. He slumped over unconscious. I pulled his limp form into the back seat.

"You'll have to drive Senator. I'm going to be busy back here. Is this heap bullet-proof?"

"No, it's just an ordinary limo," the Senator replied as he took the wheel and sped off. I tied the driver's hands and then busied myself with smashing out the back window. Flashing red lights pursued from behind.

"Step on it, Senator!" I implored. Several CFGM Security cars were gaining on us. I waited until they were just in range and opened up on them with the MAC-10. The lead car went out of control, creating a spectacular smash-up. Only one car came through the chaos to continue pursuit. Bullets struck the limo and I felt it swerve. I turned my head to see that Senator Crisp had been struck in the arm. It was only a scratch, but it proved that our pursuers were not overly concerned with the Senator's well-being. I took careful aim at the driver's side of the Security car and hosed the windshield. It veered crazily off the road and crashed into a utility pole.

"Are you all right, Senator?"

"It hurts like a bitch, but yes."

"We've got to get help. The CFGM Security force is loyal to the Corporatists. They'll kill us both. Is there any one you can trust?"

"Maybe. There's a mobile phone in the back seat. Give it to me." Crisp thumbed a number, spoke a few words to the person who'd answered, and turned to me.

"The Coast Guard is sending up a chopper. The Base Commander and I go back a number of years."

I hoped the relationship was a congenial one. Up ahead, a few miles yet from the entrance to the mine, was a massive roadblock. More gray Plymouths approached from the rear. We could not stop, and we could not turn back. I reached into my ATB's bag of tricks and readied my remaining LAWS rocket.

"Put it to the floor, Senator!" I opened the door and leaned out, took careful aim at the center of the roadblock, and squeezed the trigger. The explosion blasted a hole through the roadblock, setting the vehicles ablaze and taking out most of the guards who'd awaited with pistols drawn. The limo crashed through the inferno and continued down the road towards the mine. I had to hand it to the Senator; he was a hell of a driver!

A flood tide of red lights was still in pursuit. My MAC-10 was empty, and the extra mags were in the bottom of one of the panniers. I didn't have time to hunt for them. I extracted the 16-gauge sawed-off from the bike's arsenal and took aim at the center of the parade. It would not be enough. So close, dammit, so close. Another mile to the mine entrance, but we wouldn't make it. I pumped the scattergun again and again, but they kept coming. As they were almost on us, a bolt from the heavens struck in front of the lead car. The Coast Guard chopper! The Security cars scattered to the roadside and gave up pursuit as the chopper engaged them with rockets and machine guns. The way to the mine entrance was clear.

More resistance no doubt awaited at the mine. That chopper was busy; I had to deal with it myself. A quarter of a mile from the mine entrance, I bade the Senator to stop the car.

"Thanks for the lift, Senator. Sorry about your wheels."

"I think the taxpayers can afford it. What now?"

"I take the mine. You've got to get as many people as you can out of this area. The mine should contain the blast, but there will be a hell of a shock."

"Good luck, Spike."

"You're the one who'll need that, Senator. You've got to put this Country back together. All I've got to do is dispose of some of the last Administration's garbage, here." I patted the deadly suitcase. Its flickering blue display continued the silent, businesslike counting.

1:58:33... 1:58:32... 1:58:31

The Senator sped away and I mounted the bike. I could not try the main gate, it was too heavily guarded. I would have to get onto the grounds some other way and find my way to the entrance to the mine shaft. Though time was of the essence, I would have but one chance to do this right, so I took my time in careful preparations. I blacked out my face and donned black gloves. I taped together the remaining MAC-10 magazines and tucked them into pockets in the fresh black jumpsuit I'd obtained from the panniers. Six grenades hung from my belt.

I scouted the perimeter of the grounds until I found a stream bed which ran under the chain-link fence. It was a tight squeeze, but I got through, dragging the bike after me. The area into which I emerged was isolated and poorly lighted. The mine shaft was located on the other side of the complex. To get to it, I would have to cross an open field and wind my way through huge piles of salt, thence across a brightly lit yard. It was not going to be easy. A force of about 25 CFGM security men guarded the mine complex, and they had by now been alerted that I was in the area. I rode through tall weeds parallel to the fence for a ways, staying out of the open until I could cross the field to the salt mounds at the narrowest point.

I spotted a jeep patrolling the perimeter service road, sweeping a spotlight over the fence. I laid the bike down in the weeds and kept low. The light did not come near, but the jeep stopped when the guards passed the breach in the fence. One of them got out to look more closely, shining a flashlight along the stream bed. He abruptly drew his pistol when he spotted the crushed weeds that betrayed my arrival.

I could wait no longer. I tossed a grenade at the jeep and opened fire on the flashlight. Both the grenade and the burst found their targets, but I no longer had stealth to my advantage. I sprinted hard for the salt mounds, darting between two of them as I caught sight of headlights flickering and heard gunfire from several points.

The salt mounds covered an area of three or four acres in an irregular pattern. It would be easy to get lost winding my way through the maze-- on the ground. I shifted into a granny gear and started my way up the steep slope of a large mound. I took a spiral course around the mound, staying just out of sight of the gray Plymouths that prowled through the grounds.

At the mound's crest, I had a much better view. I could see the entrance to the mine and was able to pick out a course through the salt mounds. Below, three cars systematically searched the mound area, supported by half a dozen men with flashlights. I would need a diversion.

I readied a grenade and observed the progress of one of the security cars. As it drew behind one of the mounds adjacent to mine, I lobbed the grenade over the top with a throw a major league outfielder would have been proud of. I don't know if it hit its mark, but after it went off, the searchers converged towards the area of the blast.

I rolled down the mound at a reckless speed, fighting to keep the overweight bike under control. As I neared the bottom, I caught sight of a lone searcher. He swung his flashlight in my direction; too late, I was on him. There was no time for either of us to shoot. I ran the bike squarely towards him, with all the momentum of my quick descent behind me. At the last moment, I pulled back on the handlebars and the front wheel left the ground to catch him perfectly in the chest. The bike skidded crazily as he went over, but I kept it up. No gunfire followed as I made the first turn through the course I'd scouted.

The last hurdle was yet ahead. Emerging from the salt maze, I sprinted for the entrance to the mine. To the left and right, two gray Plymouths sped towards me. I took aim at the windshield of the nearest, fired, and watched the car spin out of control. The other car spat fire from the passenger's window. I felt something thud solidly against my flack vest and nearly lost control of the bike. Bringing it around, I fired again, off balance, but I hit one of the Plymouth's front tires. As the driver fought the wheel to regain control of the car, I opened up on the passenger's window and the return fire fell silent.

I reached the entrance to the mine shaft as the security force began to regroup near the salt field. I rode straight into to the elevator, slammed the doors, and threw a switch which I hoped was for "down." Reassuringly, the car began to sink.

Several minutes passed before the elevator lurched to a halt. I wondered what awaited me outside. I threw the doors open, submachine gun ready, but saw only a few startled, unarmed men. I bolted through the door, into their midst.

"Everybody into the elevator! You have to get out of here!" To convince them, I fired a burst into the air. Salt rained down from the high ceiling. The frightened workers packed the elevator.

"Is this everybody?" I snapped.

"We're all there is. Most of the mine's automated, now. We're just a maintenance crew, going off shift"

"Then get the hell out of here! And don't bother punching out. You won't be working here tomorrow."

The doors closed and the elevator began to rise. The adjacent shaft would bring the other elevator down, teeming with armed men. I would not be able to deal with them directly. I set one of my satchel charges at the bottom of the shaft and rigged it to explode when the car contacted it. In the mean time, I had more urgent business to attend to.

I saddled up and headed down a tunnel. There was a fairly steep grade; good, I was getting deeper and deeper into the earth. After perhaps half a mile, I reached a large chamber at the tunnel's end. I did not know if this was the deepest part of the mine, but it would do. I detached the suitcase-Bomb from the bike, set it down, and examined my surroundings. This was evidently a center of operations. There were tracks and conveyers leading through various tunnels, and there were crude offices set up.

That's where I found this terminal. The mine, like everything else these days, is run by computers. This one has an operating system I'm familiar with, and it was fairly easy to get an outside link to access the main computer at Bikopoulis Imports. I brought up my diary file and began typing.

This, you understand, will be my last entry. I heard the satchel charge go off a few minutes ago. It had to be done in order to seal the mine shaft and contain the blast. It also leaves me with a problem. That was the only elevator. When the Bomb detonates in thirty-nine, make that thirty-eight minutes, Spike Bike will be no more.

Men like me are, I suppose, an inevitable consequence of harsh times. But when the times change, we are out of place in the World. I am a killer. The men I've killed were trying to kill me, but they're still just as dead. The Bicycle Act freed them to act on their basest instincts, but it allowed me to do the same. I hunted them, baited them, and killed them without compunction. Some kind soul may argue that my motives were noble, that the ends I achieved were for the greater good, that what I did was for the benefit of everybody who claims the right to ride a bicycle. I told myself all of this often enough. But the quest for justice isn't enough to make a man kill. I am driven by a rage that is neither good nor evil, but animal. Again and again I have felt it boil over, surge through my nerves, and burst forth in a stream of fire and lead. It sickens me now. I am sick of rage, sick of killing. It is well that it should end here.

Do not lament. I have longed for this day. Although it is an end for me, it is the beginning of everything I've fought for. But the fight isn't mine any longer. It must be won with law and order, not guns and bombs. Make it happen for me. I never made it to the Olympics. Let Spike Bike go out a winner.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I've still got a pint of Jack Daniels stashed away on the bike somewhere. I've got about half an hour to kill, and I could sure use a belt. It's been a long day.

Epilogue

It was Spiro Bikopoulis's wish that his diaries be made public in the event that something happened to him. Had I not known Spike, albeit briefly, and seen the climax of this adventure unfold, I might not have believed the fantastic accounts recorded on the diskettes that were sent to me by the Bikopoulis Family. I am honored that he chose me to be among the first to read it.

The nuclear blast was well contained by the deep mine. There was considerable structural damage from the shock, but little radiation escaped, and Detroit-Windsor has remained safe for habitation. Casualties were minimal, and an international crisis was averted, thanks to Spike's sacrifice.

We do not know, as yet, how widespread the Morgan conspiracy was. We are searching for Morgan's accomplice, the man who, posing as Spike Bike, stole the Bomb that was almost the end of us all. He should be able to tell us much, if we ever find him.

President Iaccoca resigned in lieu of impeachment. We decided not to pursue criminal proceedings against him, in deference to his age and satisfactory evidence that he knew nothing of the Morgan affair. Vice President Turner has resigned as well, although there are charges pending against him. The Cabinet has, of course, been dissolved.

House Speaker Trump has resigned in scandal, leaving the job of U.S. President to me, as President Pro Tempore of the Senate. It is with great reluctance I have accepted the Office. Spike was right; I'm going to need some luck.

The new Congress has a staggering agenda. The Corporatists did an incredible amount of damage, and it will take more than a decade to overcome it all. Yet Spike was wrong about a few things. The first Act of the new Congress was a unanimous resolution to repeal the Bicycle Act of 1992. The legislation left in its place provides for a nationwide effort to improve the roads to better accommodate bikes, and outlines severe penalties for motorists who engage in "willful acts of hostility" against cyclists.

Attached to the bill was a resolution, passed by acclimation, granting a general pardon to Spiro Bikopoulis, a.k.a. Spike Bike, for "all crimes and misdemeanors, known or otherwise," committed during the years the '92 Act was in force. It also ordered that a medal be struck in his honor. However, the Cities of Detroit and Windsor have upstaged us. On an artificial island in the center of the Detroit river stands a statue of a man astride a mountain bike. Twenty feet tall, it is appropriately larger than life, as was the man it honors.

Respectfully Submitted,

Joseph Crisp
President of the United States
July, 1999

Part 8

[In the year 1989, one man rails in futility against the tyranny of the automobile...]

Springtime in northern Illinois comes late, too late for me to wait for balmy breezes and sunny skies to begin hard training. I can't stand my wind trainer, and the trails are often too icy for off-road mountain biking, so I've been hitting the roads. Sometimes I can get a partner or two, but mostly, I'm out there by myself, friendless and defenseless. Just me and THEM.

In the winter of 1980, I quit smoking. A month or so later, I decided to do something about the ravages thirteen years of tobacco addiction had inflicted on my body. I considered jogging, nearly threw up on myself just thinking about it, and bought a bike instead. It was a 32-lb department-store super-clunker, but it had ten gears and drop handlebars. It was to change my life forever.

I'd not had the bike for long before the pattern was set. One: I was hooked. Despite its massive, water-pipe frame, flimsy steel rims, 80-PSI gum-walls, pot-metal brakes, and all the other frailties junk is heir to, this amazing machine gave me a sense of freedom, an exhilaration I thought I'd lost along with childhood. I knew right away this was for me, and that I'd be doing it until the day I die. Two: I discovered that day could come prematurely. I'd already encountered some of THEM. I was thus forced to make a decision: I could cower in some health club, buy a set of running shoes, and let THEM dictate how I enjoy my free time, or I could defy the bastards and maybe get slaughtered in the process. As you all know, I took the latter option, and I've been living with it ever since.

Every year that decision gets harder and harder to live with. Every year I ride more and more miles, 4500 in '87, 6000 in '88. I've set a goal of 7500 for 1989, provided I survive. Every spring I think about the close calls of years past, about the impermanence of human flesh, and about the weak law of large numbers and all those goddamn CARS. Maybe only one driver in 100 gives me any real trouble, but there are so, so many of them. So many of THEM.

It gives me the heebie-jeebies when I think about it, so I don't think about it. I've made my decision, and I will not go back on it, the increasing risks notwithstanding. I'm not going to have my life run by a bunch of hotheads, rednecks, hell-raisers, and half-dazed morons who don't even watch the road half the time, let alone look out for bikes. I hate them. I hate them all. Mile after mile I ride on, seething with hatred and contempt, ever-vigilant and wary of every mechanical monster that comes within my sphere of awareness. Watch and hate. Listen and hate. I have to hate THEM, or they'll scare me out of my shorts. Hate is a strong emotion. Stronger, even, than fear.

Last spring I dropped into a local sporting-goods store to pick up a supply of those terrycloth sweatbands that vanish without a trace in the laundry. A display case in the store caught my eye: GUNS. There were hunting rifles, target pistols, even an imposing Redhawk .44 magnum. One piece in particular prompted a closer look: a double-action .38 Smith & Wesson revolver with a snub-nosed barrel. It was perfect. Small and easily tucked away in a jersey pocket, it could be drawn and fired in a split second without having to fuss with a safety catch or a receiving bolt. You could keep one hand on the handlebars to steady your aim. Perfect. And it could be had for a few hundred bucks, well within the means of any credit-card-carrying yuppie such as myself.

I don't know how long I stood there looking at it. The reality of that cold steel mingled with eight years' accumulation of a hatred that borders on paranoia, and something dark and ugly stirred within me. On the other side of the glass was a fistful of revenge, and all it would take was a little bit of paperwork and some of my disposable income, and it could be all mine. That thought scared the crap out of me. I quickly fled the gun department, bought a handful of the sweatbands I'd come in for, and left the store feeling very shaken. Days later, I was still disturbed about it. For just a moment, perhaps for just a split- second, I'd actually felt the impulse to do it, to call the salesman over, plop down my Visa card, and do something that would almost certainly ruin my life-- and could very well end it. I know now, as I realized then, that as long as I own a bicycle, I must not own a gun. Having made that decision, I felt a whole lot better.

The incident brought into focus a peculiar problem, though. I need my hatred to give me the courage to ride, but I have too much of it left over, pent up. I needed an outlet. I'd already settled the matter of my carrying a gun, but it seemed such a shame to let the idea go completely to waste. I conjured an image of a man who'd made that decision the other way, and the result was a story called "My Wild Ride," which I posted to rec.bikes some time in May of last year. The character in that story was to disappear in the bursting bubble of a daydream, but he would return a few weeks later as Spike Bike. I already had the idea of a vigilante cyclist who would wreak vengeance on the dregs of motorized society. All I needed was the proper setting to put him in. In what sort of society might such a man emerge? I didn't have to think about that for too long.

I chose our own society of course, making just a few minor changes here and there. I had a little fun with it, getting ideas from current events: ruthless corporate takeovers, trade protectionism, political corruption, and rampant urban sprawl. But the central premise of the Spike series was the Bicycle Act of 1992, which formally strips cyclists of all the rights which have been informally stripped away already, i.e., now, in 1989. That's right, 1989. Now. Today. We have no rights.

Don't take my word for it. If you want to discuss your rights, ask that son of a bitch who just honked you, cut you off, and flipped you the bird. Ask Officer Rupp. Ask your State representative, who will dismiss you as a crank and subsequently ignore you. The only reason we get to ride at all is that there aren't quite enough of THEM to get bikes outlawed. The fact is, most people just don't give a damn one way or the other. Certainly not about us. But to the extent that's changing, it's changing for the worse. Bike bans are more and more prevalent, e.g., Sheridan Road here in Chicago. By 1992, there could very well be a law to get us off all the roads.

There may be some hope nevertheless. The Spike Bike series ends with his society moving in a positive direction. The bicycle becomes a symbol of opposition to the forces of Evil. Inspired by Spike Bike, people take to the roads in ever-increasing numbers, in spite of the risks. It's the same in our own society. If you want to be able to ride tomorrow, ride today, and take a friend with you. Better yet, take two friends, not people who ride all the time, but people who've, maybe, just quit smoking and are looking for a way to get in shape. You see, the more of US there are, the easier it will be to deal with THEM.

Spike began to understand this, too, near the end. He realized that one man could do little to change things, despite all his resources and skill. Benevolent creator that I am, however, in the series' climax I gave him an opportunity to be a real hero (and gave myself a neat way of wrapping things up). The world Spike saves is better than the one he shoots full of bullet holes; it is better, even, than the reality of 1989. Perhaps I'm an optimist, or perhaps I just don't like to tell depressing stories. You get enough of those from the Ten O'clock News.

The Spike Bike series was cathartic for me. I had something to get off my chest, and to all of you who enjoyed the stories and encouraged me to write more, I offer my heartfelt thanks. I'm no Hemingway. I'm just a hack engineer who harbors a frustrated writer within, and it's nice to have a way to let off a little steam, to indulge in a little fantasy, and know there's somebody out there who gets a kick out of it. It was fun. Thanks for coming along.

I'll be away from my office for a couple of weeks, so I'll be off the net for a while. I'll leave all of you with a couple of things to think about, though.

Spike did something after he arrived at the salt mine's control center. What did he do, and why would he do it?

Spike logged out half an hour before the Bomb went off.

Part 9

Prelude

American life in the Year 2000 is not what the futurists of the late Twentieth Century had predicted. With the Western economy nearly wrecked by the remorseless profiteers of the Corporatist era, conditions are sometimes harsh, problems and unrest abound, and a fledgling Government struggles to steer America back to a course of prosperity and growth.

Times are hard, but improving. In many ways, it is a better world. Most Sundays, bicyclists ride freely up and down the streets and avenues of American cities, secure in the knowledge that they are no longer flirting with suicide.

Optimism abounds as the new Millennium approaches. People have grown kinder, more tolerant, even happy. Most people, that is. In the year 2000, one man cannot forgive the lowly cyclist for getting in his way. Another cannot forgive himself.

Fate is to bring them together.

Prologue

The smell of the new upholstery exhilarated him. With a lot of people out of work, it meant something to drive a new car. It was not just a cheap little econo-crate, either; this was a top-of-the-line mini-van, with a V-6, air conditioning, stereo, power windows, the works.

He drove out of the congested city into the abandoned roads south of town. This would be a good place to open it up, see what it could do now that it was broken in. Just over the hill and .. NO! Just his luck, a goddamn bicycle. One of those arrogant wimps who were responsible for those spineless bleeding-hearts in Washington. Things had been good when the Corporatists were in charge; there was money, and you could buy a new car every couple of years. Now he had to work a second job just to make the payments on this fine machine.

He followed the bike at a distance until the shoulder of the road gave way to a bridge abutment. That would be the place. Okay, you little bastard, it's pay-back time. He pushed the accelerator to the floor...

I lay on the shoulder of a dusty Texas road, my feet hopelessly tangled in the toe straps of my wrecked bike. My arms felt like lead. E. J. Ross towered over me, his great bulk quivering as he laughed.

"Gonna whup yo' ass, boy. Teach y'all to fool with me!" E. J. moved closer, reached for me. I managed, lamely, to get an arm raised, and I tried to throw a punch at his jaw. My fist drifted slowly through the air, barely dented the pudgy flesh of his jowls, and fell back. I could not raise it again. So weak...

E. J. gripped my shoulders in two ham-like fists and pulled my face close to his. His breath stank of whiskey. He was no longer laughing. He squeezed my skull against his forehead and I felt my head begin to split. I could not breathe. I could see nothing but his eyes.

"Gonna whup yo' ass, boy."

I awoke with stifled scream lodged in my throat. My pillow was drenched. The chill air of the cabin impinged on my awareness as I lay among knotted bedclothes tossed askew in the night. Shivering, I turned the pillow over and pulled a heavy quilt up around my neck. My head hurt. After a while, sleep returned. E. J. Ross did not.

A beam of morning sunlight glinted from the half-empty Jack Daniels bottle next to the bed. The cabin was awash in daylight, terribly bright, driving needles into my eyes. I sat up groggily and reached for the jug, for the hair of the dog. Raising it to my lips, I was seized by a pang of revulsion as the peppery-sweet fragrance bit my nostrils. I hurled the bottle into the fireplace, where it shattered and fell among the other shards of glass there. I regretted the gesture immediately, for the whiskey stench now flooded the room. After a few agonized moments, I rose to my feet.

A light June snow had fallen in the night. With the bright sunshine, it would be gone by mid-morning, and by noon, I would be able to split wood outdoors without a shirt on. Such weather was not uncommon in the Canadian Rockies, but even after nineteen months, I had not grown indifferent to the unpredictability of this place. It helped to mark the passage of time-- time which was too slowly healing the wounds of a life ended under the streets of Detroit back in '98.

The day's first coherent thoughts returned to that night, as they often did. Another morning, another day's life drawn on a bankrupt account.

I didn't deserve to live. Sitting there alone in the mine, I tried to recall how many men I'd killed since I awoke only that morning. I'd lost count. Multiply that uncertainty by five years and it added up to a load of guilt which could be expunged by death alone. It was the right time, the right place to die.

But I did not want to die.

I'd had the better part of an hour to work with the mine computer. It took little time for me to activate one of the conveyers which carried salt to the surface, half a mile above. After completing the last entry in Spike Bike's diaries, I prepared my escape. To lighten the bike as much as possible, I removed all the heavy armament, keeping only the grenades and my 9mm Walther automatic. I then donned a dust mask and hefted the bike and myself into one of the hoppers. At precisely 9:30 PM, as I had instructed the computer, the conveyer lurched to life and I began the painfully slow ascent.

When I emerged , I had but ten minutes to get away. I used the remaining grenades to blast the conveyor tunnel I'd used to escape, hoping to contain a bit more of the radiation from the impending nuclear blast. Then I jumped on the bike, pointed it at the main gate, and sprinted away. Fortunately, I ran into no resistance. Senator Crisp must have been successful at evacuating the area.

I got, perhaps, two miles from the mine entrance when a brilliant flash lit up the sky. A moment later, the pavement buckled violently and I was thrown into the air. I landed hard on the broken asphalt. I looked back towards the mine, half-expecting to see a mushroom cloud, but I saw only the glow of scattered fires. The flash I'd seen had been merely the result of a transformer explosion. It was over. Ames Morgan's plot had been foiled; what was to have been a major nuclear disaster had become a second-rate earthquake.

The bike had landed hard enough to collapse the back wheel. It was totaled, and I was not far from being totaled myself. I hadn't broken any major bones, but my left wrist was sprained, and the bullet wound I'd received in my shoulder earlier had long since opened up, oozing blood down the front of my flak jacket.

I armed the plastique charge in the bike's down tube, tossed the bike into the culvert, and simply walked away. When the radio-linked heart monitor I wore was out of range of the bike's receiver, the charge went off, rendering the evidence of my survival to slivers. Spike Bike was dead.

In the pandemonium following the blast, it was easy to slip across the border into Ontario. I had discarded my remaining weapons, keeping only my Canadian papers and some cash. Some time early Tuesday morning, Michael Resnick, of Caroline, Alberta, Canada, checked into a Windsor hospital and slept for two days. The doctors did not challenge my story about getting my injuries in a gas line explosion, although I don't think they believed it, either. In any case, I was discharged after a few days, to make my way to the only home I had left, taking the only identity I had left.

Michael Resnick was born April 17, 1965, in Vancouver, B.C. He died of severe birth defects on April 18. He had been my cousin. His birth certificate was among the effects my mother inherited when Michael's parents died in a plane crash in '67. I used it to obtain other Canadian documents, including a passport and driver's license.

I established the Resnick identity during the years I fought the Act. Canadian citizenship made it easier for me to move around north of the border and helped to cover Spiro Bikopoulis's movements. To the Canadian government, Michael Resnick was a geologist, a mining consultant who spent most of his time in the States. But that was just for the benefit of the authorities, and the bankers and lawyers in Calgary. The people of the little town of Caroline, Alberta, where I kept my post office box, didn't care what I did for a living. I was just a hermit who came down from the mountains only to get whiskey and supplies.

I'd have to go this day, as that jug I'd smashed had been my last.

I didn't get drunk every night. Why, just two weeks before, I'd gone to bed after only a couple of good ones. Well, maybe three. It's not that I needed the booze. It just helped to dim the stares of a hundred dead men. I could handle the rest of it, memories of the flames, the twisted metal, even the blood. It was just those damned eyes.

My cabin cannot be reached by auto, even by 4WD, which is why I like it there; it cuts down on the riffraff. There are two ways to get there: on foot or by ATB. I prefer not to walk.

The bright June sunshine had already melted the night's snow from the trail, leaving only mud, but I was used to that. I rode the mountain bike effortlessly down the five miles of familiar trail (riding back up with full panniers would be more taxing) to the Timberline Trading Post.

At 6500 feet, it was well below the timberline, but it was the last outpost of so-called civilization for the tourists who passed by on their way to the campgrounds up the mountain. They were willing, if not happy, to buy their groceries, eggs, and notions at the Timberline's outrageous prices if it would save them the 20-mile haul into Caroline. As for me, I got a substantial discount, inasmuch as I half-owned the place. My partner, Jack, kept most of the obscene profits in return for not involving me in the day-to-day operations of the establishment. I got my eats and supplies wholesale, and I got to use the Timberline's ancient Jeep CJ when I had to go into town for stuff Jack didn't sell, viz. American bourbon.

I pulled into town around 2:00. I stopped by the post office to get the month's mail. It was the usual stuff: bank statements, junk (even assumed names can't escape mailing lists), and a couple of letters from my mother, forwarded by my lawyer in Calgary. My family knew I was alive, but not where I was. My lawyer knew where I was, but not who I was, and I paid him enough not to ask.

My next stop was Snuffy's Tavern, one of Caroline's less-classy saloons. Snuffy kept in stock for me an extra case of Jack Daniel's, which was my usual monthly supply. Stepping into the dark, smoky bar, I noticed something shockingly new: a 120-cm, wide-screen, high- definition, surround-sound, plasma-display television set. I had long ago forsaken such banalities, but I was snared by a close-up shot of a pitcher winding up. A "C" emblazoned on his jersey told all: the Cubs were playing, at Montreal. What's more, they were actually leading by four to one in the bottom of the eighth.

I guess it's something about growing up in Chicago. The bums hadn't won so much as a division championship since 1984, but Cub fans die hard. I sat down, ordered a beer, and watched the rest of the game, which, of course, the Cubs lost on a grand slam homer in the bottom of the ninth.

During the post-game wrap-up, I observed that the program originated from Chicago's WGN-TV, and was being picked up here in Alberta on a satellite dish. Snuffy had really gone overboard with this rig. I was just about to pick up my whiskey and head back up the mountain when the program broke to the local news. An attractive female announcer deadpanned:

"Two more bikers killed in Oak Lawn. Details next on News Nine." Typewriter music faded into an inane beer commercial. I sat down again. Snuffy reached up to change the channel, but I gripped his arm. He gave me a startled look and backed away from the set when he caught the expression on my face. After an eternity of drivel, the announcer returned.

"Two Oak Lawn teens are the latest victims of a hit-and-run driver. The bodies of sixteen-year-old... "

The screen flashed high-school photos of the two victims, a boy and a girl. I was struck by the girl's pretty, white teeth and engaging eyes [at this point, the reader will notice, the narrative descends to contrived, manipulative hate-mongering, a cheap ploy to gain the sympathies of the reader and make his blood boil at the same time.-- Fish]. The announcer continued,

" ...the youths were the fifth and sixth victims of what police believe to be the work of one man, seen fleeing the scene of this morning's tragedy in a late-model Ford mini-van.

"Despite severe federal penalties, it appears, at least in Chicago, that the streets are still not safe for bicycles."

The newscast switched to local politics. The announcer's voice faded into the rest of the background noise: the clinking of glasses, the murmur of the other patrons, the rickety ventilation fan. I sat in numbed silence, no longer watching the screen. Something familiar and yet new stirred inside me, a feeling I'd not had in years.

After a while, I got up to leave. Snuffy called after me:

"Hey, Mike, what about your booze?"

"Pass it around when business picks up. Tell 'em it's on me."

It was near nightfall when I got back to my cabin. I sat staring at the fire, sober for the first time in nineteen months. Their eyes were gone, along with their accusations, their hatred, their fear. The sons of bitches h