‘Let’s start the countdown!’ Wilson shouted into his microphone. ‘The flag is up! Doktor Elektron’s easing off the brake, aaaand…’
The starting pistol fired, and the flag came down again. Elektron’s semi-truck shot forward, aided by the enormous rockets mounted on its rear bed.
Ahead, the gate lifted to let him pass through the security fence. By the time Elektron’s truck reached it, it had become shrouded in flame and smoke. All flash, no grit, thought Dutch.
Figueroa and Wilson competed for a while longer, but it soon became clear Wilson had won by virtue of more powerful amplification. Dutch finished her fries and watched from beside the Coupé while the rest of Figueroa’s people settled in for the long haul, chanting and raising signs where they knew the cameras could see them. A few had already pitched tents close to the shore. Figueroa had always been a canny operator in Dutch’s experience; every time he and his protestors found a way onto Teijouan, viewer figures spiralled upwards. She suspected that was why security was never quite tight enough to keep him out.
Then, at last, came her turn.
Nat appeared from the direction of a comms tent where he’d spent most of the day conferring with Wu by remote link. They nodded to each other without speaking and got inside the Coupé. Dutch placed her hands carefully on the wheel and worked at keeping her breathing shallow and even, her mind a storm of elation and panic. Once they were past the fence, they would be on their own.
Across the Security Zone, the gate slid upwards like the blade of a guillotine.
‘Dutch McGuire, imprisoned for life in Russia, but free again to drive in the Devil’s Run!’ Wayne Wilson screamed into his microphone. ‘McGuire is the only person to survive seven—count them, seven—consecutive Runs, but has never once come in first place. Will this be the year that turns her into a surefire winner? Or is her luck going to run out like it has for so many others before her? With so much money hanging on this year’s race, you have to wonder what she should be more scared of—hungry Kaiju, or her fellow drivers. But after that stunning win in the time-trials, all bets are off. Whichever way the race goes, this girl has nothing to lose!’
Dutch peered out through the windscreen at Wilson up on his perch on the roof of the apartment block, surrounded by sandbags, radio techs, TV cameras and microphones. She wound down the window and gave him the finger, raising it high to be sure he could see it. He looked her way and responded to the gesture with a grin and a wave.
‘That’s the spirit!’ cried Wilson. ‘I’ve got no doubt Dutch McGuire and her navigator are in with a chance this year. Their Ford Falcon Coupé is a thing of beauty, ladies and gentlemen, real old-school—and now they’re heading for the starting line. And the countdown has started! It’s a clear and sunny day, and reports show that the coast road is quiet. Even the d-field is showing low levels of activity for this time of year. We’d better hope it stays that way for our live transmissions from the blockade! But should we lose signal, rest assured we’ll get as much as we can on film and ship it to the technicians waiting on our support vessels. Oh! And here it comes…three…two…one!’
Dutch worked the gas. The wheels shrieked against the tarmac, the Coupé fishtailing for the briefest moment before it sped up hard towards the fence and through the gate.
Guns, Cars and Kaiju
Beyond the Security Zone lay nothing but ruins and highways that were crumbling apart with no one brave or foolhardy enough to maintain them. The fence receded from view behind them, Nat unfolding a paper map and spreading it across the dashboard. Dutch glanced towards it, seeing dozens of tiny corrections showing where the road had become blocked or crumbled away entirely, along with a plethora of potential detours.
‘Christ,’ Dutch muttered, returning her attention to the road, ‘five years makes a lot of difference, huh?’
Nat peered ahead, then back down at the map. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Last time I drove here, I kept the pedal to the metal for the first fifty, sixty kilometres of the Run.’ She swung them around and past bushes sprouting from the broken tarmac. ‘The road’s gone to shit since then.’ She nodded at the map. ‘How long before we reach Takau?’
Takau was a small city further north. ‘Couple of hours, factoring in detours.’ He studied the map. ‘Says here sections of the coast highway showed signs of slipping into the sea during the last race. That might delay us.’ He looked back up and frowned. ‘Hey, is that smoke up ahead?’
‘Wondered when you’d notice.’ A dark smear rose into the sky from behind hills several kilometres to the North. ‘Keep your eyes out for anything that moves,’ she added, tightening her grip on the wheel.
They passed a garage collapsed on one side, a fading sign in Chinese still about readable. Dutch glimpsed the ocean through tall bushes that grew wild alongside the highway. She saw that a blockade ship lay anchored a mere two hundred metres from the shore—close enough its Captain risked getting his onboard electronics screwed up by the constantly fluctuating derangement field. Chances were he considered the risk acceptable: camera crews on board were undoubtedly tracking them at that moment and uploading the video to an audience numbering in the hundreds of millions.
Nat tapped the d-meter mounted on the dashboard. ‘Reading’s climbing.’
The ground on their right grew steep, becoming tall hills coated with dense forest. Dutch steered past several rusting vehicles abandoned on the highway close by a former evacuation point, and she glimpsed the rusted-orange hulk of a former
