his tail. The guy won’t even get a chance to climb on that thing before —
The Australian’s dirt bike engine coughs.
‘No.’
Then splutters.
‘No!’
Then dies.
‘Please no!’
It’s out of gas.
‘Oh no no no! Not now! Not now!’
But that nice old Malaysian man said: ‘Yes, fuel enough, yes!’
Well, clearly not.
The bike freewheels, then slows, and the parachute flies on, drops lower but doesn’t touch down. It’s thirty, forty, fifty metres ahead now. It just keeps on gliding towards the thicket and that motorcycle.
‘Dammit!’ Billy jumps off the bike, lets it drop to the grass, then sprints after the parachute. It’s so bloody fast there’s no way he can catch it. Now he wishes he had his pistol so he could shoot it out of the sky. But he doesn’t so he can’t. And running with this mask on is a pain in the arse too. It’s made of solid wood, smells like old bones and cuts into his face like the facehugger from Alien. This whole situation is unravelling very quickly. What the hell does he do now?
There. He sees something that might save the day. He veers across the fairway, cuts through a line of trees and sprints hard.
~ * ~
An old couple slide their golf bags into the rear of the golf cart —
It’s electric motor spins up and the tiny vehicle lurches away as quickly as a golf cart can, which isn’t very, and leaves them behind. Billy feels terrible and looks back at them: ‘Sorry! It’s an emergency!’
‘Ahhh!’ The old couple recoil in horror.
Billy thinks the reaction is a tad melodramatic, then he remembers the scary mask he’s wearing and raises a hand apologetically. ‘Bring it back in a sec.’
He drives on and quickly realises the cart isn’t as fast as he had hoped. He’s not even sure it’s faster than running flat out. His eyes lock on the parachute as it swoops low, picks up speed, skims the ground for twenty metres, then smoothly touches down.
~ * ~
Happy to be on solid ground, Red looks back along the fairway, searches for the bare-chested devil on the white motorbike —
There he is. Mask still on, it seems he’s swapped the dirt bike for an electric golf cart which buzz-whines towards Red.
But why? And why is he wearing that mask?
None of that matters. What matters is getting out of this chute and making a clean getaway. In a flash the chute’s harness is off and Red runs to the motorcycle, kneels beside it. He deposited it there late last night and is glad to see nobody has messed with it. That might have something to do with the fact it’s chained to the tree and secured with a combination lock. 3-7-4 is the number to unlock it. He works the three rollers and pulls down on the barrel —
Clunk. It doesn’t open. Christ. He looks back to check where the golf cart is. It’s closer but still a good fifty metres away. He turns back and checks the numbers on the combination lock. 3-7-5. That’s not right. The 5 is adjusted to a 4 and the barrel is pulled down again —
Click. It opens. Red drags the chain through the back wheel, discards it, grabs the motorcycle by the handlebars and push-runs it onto the fairway. Red planned the route out of here meticulously, though at no point was being chased by a shirtless man wearing a devil mask driving a golf cart figure part of the scenario.
Red glances at the guy again. Oh, he has exited the golf cart and now sprints towards him. Red climbs onto the bike and kick-starts it.
That guy will never catch this.
~ * ~
Billy’s so close to catching this Schumacher bastard he can taste it. He’s decided to call him Schumacher from now on, along with his mates Hunt and Senna, just to make everything simpler. Strangely, he finds the names easier to remember than the colours.
Billy abandoned the golf cart because it was too slow and now he’s running as fast as he can, almost too
The Australian’s dirt bike engine coughs.
‘No.’
Then splutters.
‘No!’
Then dies.
‘Please no!’
It’s out of gas.
‘Oh no no no! Not now! Not now!’
But that nice old Malaysian man said: ‘Yes, fuel enough, yes!’
Well, clearly not.
The bike freewheels, then slows, and the parachute flies on, drops lower but doesn’t touch down. It’s thirty, forty, fifty metres ahead now. It just keeps on gliding towards the thicket and that motorcycle.
‘Dammit!’ Billy jumps off the bike, lets it drop to the grass, then sprints after the parachute. It’s so bloody fast there’s no way he can catch it. Now he wishes he had his pistol so he could shoot it out of the sky. But he doesn’t so he can’t. And running with this mask on is a pain in the arse too. It’s made of solid wood, smells like old bones and cuts into his face like the facehugger from Alien. This whole situation is unravelling very quickly. What the hell does he do now?
There. He sees something that might save the day. He veers across the fairway, cuts through a line of trees and sprints hard.
~ * ~
An old couple slide their golf bags into the rear of the golf cart —
It’s electric motor spins up and the tiny vehicle lurches away as quickly as a golf cart can, which isn’t very, and leaves them behind. Billy feels terrible and looks back at them: ‘Sorry! It’s an emergency!’
‘Ahhh!’ The old couple recoil in horror.
Billy thinks the reaction is a tad melodramatic, then he remembers the scary mask he’s wearing and raises a hand apologetically. ‘Bring it back in a sec.’
He drives on and quickly realises the cart isn’t as fast as he had hoped. He’s not even sure it’s faster than running flat out. His eyes lock on the parachute as it swoops low, picks up speed, skims the ground for twenty metres, then smoothly touches down.
~ * ~
Happy to be on solid ground, Red looks back along the fairway, searches for the bare-chested devil on the white motorbike —
There he is. Mask still on, it seems he’s swapped the dirt bike for an electric golf cart which buzz-whines towards Red.
But why? And why is he wearing that mask?
None of that matters. What matters is getting out of this chute and making a clean getaway. In a flash the chute’s harness is off and Red runs to the motorcycle, kneels beside it. He deposited it there late last night and is glad to see nobody has messed with it. That might have something to do with the fact it’s chained to the tree and secured with a combination lock. 3-7-4 is the number to unlock it. He works the three rollers and pulls down on the barrel —
Clunk. It doesn’t open. Christ. He looks back to check where the golf cart is. It’s closer but still a good fifty metres away. He turns back and checks the numbers on the combination lock. 3-7-5. That’s not right. The 5 is adjusted to a 4 and the barrel is pulled down again —
Click. It opens. Red drags the chain through the back wheel, discards it, grabs the motorcycle by the handlebars and push-runs it onto the fairway. Red planned the route out of here meticulously, though at no point was being chased by a shirtless man wearing a devil mask driving a golf cart figure part of the scenario.
Red glances at the guy again. Oh, he has exited the golf cart and now sprints towards him. Red climbs onto the bike and kick-starts it.
That guy will never catch this.
~ * ~
Billy’s so close to catching this Schumacher bastard he can taste it. He’s decided to call him Schumacher from now on, along with his mates Hunt and Senna, just to make everything simpler. Strangely, he finds the names easier to remember than the colours.
Billy abandoned the golf cart because it was too slow and now he’s running as fast as he can, almost too
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