2 AM - Olympic Exclusion Zone - Outer Zone
I kill the engine, close my eyes and sit back in my car seat. The wind and rain batters the protective outer shell of my car, threatening to lift it off the ground and toss it down a ravine at any moment.
“There’s no such thing as a ‘Cursed Wheel’” I tell myself; and I believe it, I really do. It must have been my judicious use of the handbrake or driving a little too fast over a small pile of stones or a little too close to the Hot Dust 200 yards back. That’s why my front left wheel is loose for the fourth time on this excursion. It’s not Cursed.
I believe this despite being frequently pursued by semi-sentient balls of possessed trash and flying robots that want to steal my car. I believe this despite the existence of the Friendly Dumpster and the enigmatic-but-useful Pacemaker. I believe this despite every single piece of evidence to the contrary. There is no such thing as a Cursed Wheel.
Leaving it is an option. I can drive for miles without tending to it, I might even make it home if the conditions are perfect. Conditions are never perfect. A rogue squall could drift across at any moment and I could be left trying to repair so many more issues under a battering of acid rain or a confusing storm of Bollards and Shakers throwing my car and my self around like toys. Best to deal with it while the weather is only pre-apocalyptic.
I slide out into the maelstrom and tighten the wheel. It’s literally a moment’s work, even with my tools haphazardly thrown into a side-storage container. I even check around the car for any signs of weakness in the vehicles doors and panels, it’s the kind of thing that can save your life in the Olympic Exclusion Zone. All good, I slide back into the driver’s seat, soaked but satisfied. It’s time to head home.
I pick an exit point (why do they have to be so far away?) and all hell breaks loose. The real storm is coming and I am going. Fast. Tearing across the terrain in the near pitch-black at 100, 120, 140 km/h, squinting through the pouring rain. While my back was turned, exploding Tourists have drifted into the road causing me to veer into a ditch and mow down two dozen saplings before colliding with a tree. I check the dashboard console, no serious damage but the hold-up means that the initial storm has overtaken me and the worst is still to come.
Pulling back onto the road and flooring it, I can feel the true nightmare breathing down my neck, my exit point so near and yet not-near-enough. It’s a damn good job I dealt with that wheel.
An alert chimes on my dashboard.
There is No Such Thing as a Cursed Wheel
I kill the engine, close my eyes and sit back in my car seat. The wind and rain batters the protective outer shell of my car, threatening to lift it off the ground and toss it down a ravine at any moment.
“There’s no such thing as a ‘Cursed Wheel’” I tell myself; and I believe it, I really do. It must have been my judicious use of the handbrake or driving a little too fast over a small pile of stones or a little too close to the Hot Dust 200 yards back. That’s why my front left wheel is loose for the fourth time on this excursion. It’s not Cursed.
I believe this despite being frequently pursued by semi-sentient balls of possessed trash and flying robots that want to steal my car. I believe this despite the existence of the Friendly Dumpster and the enigmatic-but-useful Pacemaker. I believe this despite every single piece of evidence to the contrary. There is no such thing as a Cursed Wheel.
Leaving it is an option. I can drive for miles without tending to it, I might even make it home if the conditions are perfect. Conditions are never perfect. A rogue squall could drift across at any moment and I could be left trying to repair so many more issues under a battering of acid rain or a confusing storm of Bollards and Shakers throwing my car and my self around like toys. Best to deal with it while the weather is only pre-apocalyptic.
I slide out into the maelstrom and tighten the wheel. It’s literally a moment’s work, even with my tools haphazardly thrown into a side-storage container. I even check around the car for any signs of weakness in the vehicles doors and panels, it’s the kind of thing that can save your life in the Olympic Exclusion Zone. All good, I slide back into the driver’s seat, soaked but satisfied. It’s time to head home.
I pick an exit point (why do they have to be so far away?) and all hell breaks loose. The real storm is coming and I am going. Fast. Tearing across the terrain in the near pitch-black at 100, 120, 140 km/h, squinting through the pouring rain. While my back was turned, exploding Tourists have drifted into the road causing me to veer into a ditch and mow down two dozen saplings before colliding with a tree. I check the dashboard console, no serious damage but the hold-up means that the initial storm has overtaken me and the worst is still to come.
Pulling back onto the road and flooring it, I can feel the true nightmare breathing down my neck, my exit point so near and yet not-near-enough. It’s a damn good job I dealt with that wheel.
An alert chimes on my dashboard.
There is No Such Thing as a Cursed Wheel