From pyramid!decwrl!labrea!rutgers!att!ihlpa!fish Tue Feb 21 09:03:27 PST 1989 Armageddon in Detroit (Part 2 of 7) [Synopsis: A knock on the door of Spike's home brings trouble in the form of the U.S. Secret Service and CFGM Security. They know that Spike Bike and Spiro Bikopoulis are the same person, and Spike must escape. He flees down a tunnel built for this purpose, but is spotted by a helicopter as he, with his heavily-armed mountain bike, boards a freight train. He destroys the chopper with a LAWS rocket and seems momentarily safe as the train gathers speed pulling out of the yard. Spike Bike, fugitive, ponders his situation. In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile...] --- 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 accross 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 procedings 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 grey Plymouth skidded to a stop, blocking the alley. Almost immediately, another duplicated the maneuver at the corner behind me. I immediately cut accross 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. * TO BE CONTINUED * -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish