Author: D L Richardson
Publisher: Etopia Press
Description: Ethan James, Florida Bowman, and Jake Inala need organ transplants. When they receive the organs of a dead CIA agent, Dylan Black, they take on more than the task of completing the mission of deactivating bombs that threaten millions of lives. Kidnapped, their lives under threat, the memories stored in the CIA agent’s mind begin to awaken within each of them, except the one piece of information they are abducted for - the location of the bombs.
Wednesday, November 9th, Ethan James
AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” blared through the speakers. Apt music considering the weather conditions. Rain pounded the windshield of the Lamborghini. Crushed beneath the noisy rain, the music took a beating, too. I flipped the volume control to the max, drowning out the steady slap of water on the roof.
The dark shroud of night cloaked the striped lines to my left and right. Street signs blasted yellow warnings to drivers to slow down on wet roads. I ignored them.
Instead, I pushed the car to 120 miles per hour. Coming around a curve in the road, I flew up on a van and sharply jerked the wheel to avoid ramming the Lamborghini up its rear end. I owed my life to my quick reflexes.
I drove for another half mile at suicidal speeds, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the guitar riff. Another half mile. Then another. Just when the buzz of the ride plunged to a level of indifference, the car hit a pothole, veered me across three lanes, and like a punch from nowhere, it was game on.
A tsunami-sized wave of water fell from the sky. Momentarily blinded by the useless wipers, I sucked in my breath when two rows of lights cut through the haze. Two white lights on the bottom and six or more yellow ones on top—the bright circles headed straight at me.
Semitrailer. Not good.
Gritting my teeth, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The truck swerved at the last second, missing killing me by about half that length of time. The driver blasted four long bleats of the horn.
I laughed out loud as I spun around.
I accelerated till the car caught up to its former 120 miles per hour. The chorus kicked in, and I helped with the backing vocals. “Thunder. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na. Thunder.”
Whether driving under a dome of blue, or a sky darkened by storms like tonight, I liked to push cars to their limit. It didn’t matter what sort of car, but slow cars tended to break apart sooner under extreme pressure. Fast cars handled the punishment of driving at stupid speeds much better.
Speeding made the rush last longer. It filled a void and carried me to a place where I let go of the angst over a waste of a life spent waiting to die of kidney failure. The rush reminded me that seventeen-year-old kids should wish for a professional ice hockey career instead of wishing to still be alive by Christmas.
The song ended, and in that second of silence, my thrill took a dismal nosedive. Images of the hospital I attended every week flickered across my vision. So, I increased the speed. Bad enough the bleak place filled my head and haunted my dreams, but to interrupt my fun—not going to happen.
The next song on the CD kicked in, and it did the trick of hauling me back to the driver’s seat, where I replaced the hospital corridor for a rain-slicked freeway. I figured if I had to die young, I’d do it on my terms. No doubt the doctors would have something to say about this philosophy. If I crashed the car and ended up in the hospital, I’d tell them I reached out to touch life. Better than dwelling on my postpubescent life spent hooked up to a dialysis machine.
I’d probably get pulled over by the cops first, and I couldn’t have that. Aside from speeding, I’d stolen the Lamborghini from a mall parking lot half an hour earlier, and I didn’t have a license.
A crack in my concentration appeared like the lightning bolts streaking the sky. The car drifted into the next lane, and I let it go. A set of lights rushed toward me, and I expertly got the car under control, but at this speed, and despite the car’s sporting capability, the Lamborghini was all over the shot.
Buzzed from pushing the car, I kept going.
At 120 miles per hour, streetlights floated like satiny, white ribbons. The rain-slicked road made it impossible to judge the lines marking the lanes. Curves were hard to anticipate.
Sometimes I oversteered; sometimes I didn’t steer enough and had to yank the wheel to the left or right at the last second. Other drivers blasted their horns. I didn’t care about the rules of the road. Rules were for pussies.
For each minute I survived this suicidal cruise, I’d get two points. So far, I’d accumulated over two hundred. Fifty were up for grabs, if I made it home alive. I had a lot to lose if I crashed the car. I had nothing to lose if I killed myself.
I jumped in surprise when a car came up on my left and honked its horn, whizzing by in a blur of chrome. “I don’t think so, buddy.”
I accelerated. If the cops wanted to stop me, they’d have to use air support. Getting myself on TV only added to the thrill of the chase.
Concern over my reckless driving should have registered, but it didn’t. The speedometer now read 140 miles per hour. AC/DC screeched about “Hells Bells,” and the rain didn’t lessen. If I lost control now, I’d smash into the concrete barriers lining the highway. It’d be game over. No way I’d survive the impact. What a shame this last train of thought wasn’t on whether I’d survive or not, but on whether I’d care.
Lightning bolts exploded across the sky and lit up the windshield. In that brief flicker of visibility, I spotted the plane on fire, blocking the highway—and the spaceship blowing up a bridge with luminous green laser beams. I let go of the wheel, idly watching the Lamborghini plow into the concrete barrier. Metal fragments and orange flames danced in front of me. The sound of something exploding boomed through the speakers. The words GAME OVER flashed across the television screen.
The plane had been okay, but the spaceship insulted me. For sure, the makers of the game reckoned it’d be a hoot to throw unrealistic obstacles in my path.
I tossed the Xbox controller aside and scratched my numb backside. My life couldn’t get any worse…might as well go to school.
Now for a special treat!
Thank you Identity Discovery for bravely publishing this confidential interview so that others can read about the cover up of the conspiracy to take over the world.
This is the transcript of the interview Ethan James gave to the CIA the day after he saved the world alongside Florida Bowman and Jake Inala. This interview was classified top secret and was not allowed to be included in the finished novel.
Agent X: Did you recognize the man who abducted you as Hank Miller, CEO of Sunraya Pharmaceuticals?
Agent X: Did he tell you why he abducted you?
Agent X: He didn’t mention his theories around Feedback?
Agent X: Let me rephrase that question. What do you know about Feedback?
Ethan: When an event form part of a chain of cause-and-effect that forms a circuit or loop, the event is said to "feed back" into itself.
Agent X: That’s not the sort of feedback I’m referring to.
Ethan: It’s the process in which information about the past or the present influences the same phenomenon in the present or future.
Agent X: That’s still not the sort of feedback I’m referred to.
Ethan: Guitar noise from audio feedback? Survey responses for companies to gain positive feedback? A sellers reputation on ebay which is made up of comments and ratings left by members? Unless its’s one of these things, then I don’t know what you mean.
Agent X: Are you aware that hindering government investigation is a federal crime?
Ethan: Yes. But I’m telling you what I know so I can’t be hindering your investigation, nw can I?
Agent X: How did you deactivate the bomb?
Ethan: Excuse me?
Agent X: We searched Hank’s files and discovered he was about to release deadly bacteria into the air which would have affected millions of lives. The bombs never went off. I’m wondering how you managed to accomplish that.
Ethan: Wasn’t me.
Agent X: How did you know where to find the bombs to disarm them?
Ethan: Don’t know what you’re talking about.
Agent X: We know that Hank Miller manufactured three bombs and that he planted them in highly populated areas. We know that you, Florida, and Jake weren’t in the factory when the police showed up to arrest Hank. We know that the bombs didn’t go off. What we don’t know is how you knew where they were located?
Ethan: Sorry, can’t help you there.
Agent X: Your father signed the release form. He declared that you’d tell the truth. Maybe we’ll arrest him instead.
Ethan: For what? I don’t know anything about the man who abducted us or the bombs or anything else you think you know.
Agent X: Have you ever heard of a man called Dylan Black?
Ethan: Should I?
Agent X: Answer the question?
Agent X: You do realize that in a few minutes you’ll be hooked up to a lie detector and you won’t be able to lie to me?
Ethan: Who says I’m lying now?
Agent X: I know a lie when I hear one. I also know you’ve been trained to pass the lie detector.
Ethan: How would I know how to do that?
Agent X : You tell me, Ethan. You tell me.
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