Motor Crazycycle [2/4]
anonymous
March 2 2010, 20:03:37 UTC
The man on watch cocked his rifle, and fired. The rider simply swerved to the side to avoid the pellets, leather bomber jacket whipping furiously in the wind, star-spangled bandanna around his neck fluttering against their neck with each sudden change in the jet stream. The rider brought the bike back under control effortlessly, the old Indian obeying every subtle command with ease. The rider’s grin widened, stretching lightly freckled cheeks.
The men leaning out the windows began to fire now, and the rider swerved back and forth to avoid the shots, and to throw off their aim. The rider didn’t seem troubled though, and the smile stayed on his face, despite the obvious danger he was in.
One of the men reloaded his gun hastily as the others continued to fire. The rider took this opportunity to get closer to the truck, and grabbed the canvas on the back with one hand, and feathered the brake leaver with the other, yanking at it as he slowed down slightly, trying to tug the canvas free. The man in the back of the truck yelped, and tried to stop the rider. He fired several times, but the rider simply swerved to avoid them, pulling at the canvas all the while, using the seesawing motion to yank it even more free.
Now things got trickier for the rider. He was limited in his manoeuvrability as he held onto the canvas, and the gunmen in the truck were trying their best to get a good bead on him. The rider managed to avoid most of it by staying low, practically laying over his gas tank. He didn’t like this position, because it obscured his view of what was going on, and it also made avoiding the bullets more difficult. However, he could feel the canvas slipping off the cargo more and more, and he kept feathering the brake to keep pulling it away further and further. The man in the back of the truck lost his grip on the canvas sheet, and stumbled back a bit, but cocked his rifle anyway and shot wildly. The pellets went wide anyway, but the rider yanked to the side. The canvas pulled at the rider, and he threw the bike back towards the other side of the road to try to correct it, finally pulling the last of the canvas sheet free, exposing the cargo.
Barrels of water. In the dying town and surrounding area, this resource was more precious than gold. The rider grinned, knowing full well now that these guys were his targets.
The sheet flared up, and the men couldn’t see the rider for a moment. But then, the sheet was blown away, and the rider was visible again, only this time, his grin was different. In his hands were two Desert Eagles, a ridiculous feat for someone to attempt, but it seemed natural on the rider. His feet were jammed into his handlebars, toes working the brake leavers, his boot heel just right for adjusting the throttle pitch. He looked as though he had done this before, on countless occasions, and that was probably the case. The light off of his sunglasses was blinding, and made the guns that much more deadly looking in comparison. He seemed calm and focused, his arms steady, his legs unshaking, the bike moving in a straight line still, despite what physics and sanity were both telling everyone.
The moment seemed to stand still, breathlessly passing in achingly slow increments, every movement seemed to last an eternity. The men in the truck went to re-load their guns; the drivers chanced a glance back at the rider, their faces paling; the rider with his sure smirk and steady hands setting up his perfect shot, all while keeping his bike on-track and stable with nothing more than his weight and his feet.
The first shot from the rider was directed at the ropes holding the water barrels. Even though time still seemed to be moving in slow, the shot was true, and the rope snapped, setting the barrels free to roll off the truck bed and tumble to the road behind. The rider didn’t even seemed phased, having calculated this already, and had set up another shot to go through the truck’s back window, and through the cab and out the windshield without harming anyone.
The men leaning out the windows began to fire now, and the rider swerved back and forth to avoid the shots, and to throw off their aim. The rider didn’t seem troubled though, and the smile stayed on his face, despite the obvious danger he was in.
One of the men reloaded his gun hastily as the others continued to fire. The rider took this opportunity to get closer to the truck, and grabbed the canvas on the back with one hand, and feathered the brake leaver with the other, yanking at it as he slowed down slightly, trying to tug the canvas free. The man in the back of the truck yelped, and tried to stop the rider. He fired several times, but the rider simply swerved to avoid them, pulling at the canvas all the while, using the seesawing motion to yank it even more free.
Now things got trickier for the rider. He was limited in his manoeuvrability as he held onto the canvas, and the gunmen in the truck were trying their best to get a good bead on him. The rider managed to avoid most of it by staying low, practically laying over his gas tank. He didn’t like this position, because it obscured his view of what was going on, and it also made avoiding the bullets more difficult. However, he could feel the canvas slipping off the cargo more and more, and he kept feathering the brake to keep pulling it away further and further. The man in the back of the truck lost his grip on the canvas sheet, and stumbled back a bit, but cocked his rifle anyway and shot wildly. The pellets went wide anyway, but the rider yanked to the side. The canvas pulled at the rider, and he threw the bike back towards the other side of the road to try to correct it, finally pulling the last of the canvas sheet free, exposing the cargo.
Barrels of water. In the dying town and surrounding area, this resource was more precious than gold. The rider grinned, knowing full well now that these guys were his targets.
The sheet flared up, and the men couldn’t see the rider for a moment. But then, the sheet was blown away, and the rider was visible again, only this time, his grin was different. In his hands were two Desert Eagles, a ridiculous feat for someone to attempt, but it seemed natural on the rider. His feet were jammed into his handlebars, toes working the brake leavers, his boot heel just right for adjusting the throttle pitch. He looked as though he had done this before, on countless occasions, and that was probably the case. The light off of his sunglasses was blinding, and made the guns that much more deadly looking in comparison. He seemed calm and focused, his arms steady, his legs unshaking, the bike moving in a straight line still, despite what physics and sanity were both telling everyone.
The moment seemed to stand still, breathlessly passing in achingly slow increments, every movement seemed to last an eternity. The men in the truck went to re-load their guns; the drivers chanced a glance back at the rider, their faces paling; the rider with his sure smirk and steady hands setting up his perfect shot, all while keeping his bike on-track and stable with nothing more than his weight and his feet.
The first shot from the rider was directed at the ropes holding the water barrels. Even though time still seemed to be moving in slow, the shot was true, and the rope snapped, setting the barrels free to roll off the truck bed and tumble to the road behind. The rider didn’t even seemed phased, having calculated this already, and had set up another shot to go through the truck’s back window, and through the cab and out the windshield without harming anyone.
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