OUTCAST Ops: Red Ice

PROLOGUE

Billy Dyachenko’s eyes widened as the methamphetamine hit his system.

It was Alec W. who had shown him what this new drug was. Billy’s dealer, an Asian with multiple facial tattoos, had sold him the reddish-tinted powder. “New and improved,” Alec had said. “It’s called Red Ice.”

Billy hadn’t been convinced until Alec had given him a free sample. The high had been intense and much longer than normal. When he finally came down, he knew he had to have more.

Alec had smirked when Billy had shown up at his door. “Thought I might see your ugly mug again. Check it out. New form of Red Ice, even better than before,” Alec had told him, handing over a strip of skin patches after Billy gave him the cash. “Suppose to be quicker into the bloodstream and last longer than smoking or snorting it, plus it looks like a nicotine patch, so the cops won’t be looking for it.”

Billy was disappointed the drug wasn’t exactly the same as the last batch he took, since that was such high quality stuff. But if Alec said it was better…He didn’t want to wait. Twenty minutes after leaving Alec, Billy pulled into a parking garage on the corner of Beach and Powell Street, found an empty parking spot for his three-year old Ford F-150, and took out the skin patches. He peeled one off and stuck it on his left wrist over the veins.

As the drug coursed through his bloodstream, he leaned back and let the rush flow through him. He felt so good, smart, confident, better than anyone else. Better than his father and his grandfather who had been longshoremen on the San Francisco docks. Better than his boss, a red-faced jerk who yelled at him every chance he got. Better than his ex-girlfriend, who had walked out on him. He howled and drummed the steering wheel. He’d show them all, including those repo bastards!

Billy hadn’t been home in three days, as he knew the repo men were waiting him so they could steal his truck. He’d been sleeping in the truck cab and, with the exception of only a couple of quick trips to the bathroom, the convenience store, and the gas station, he hadn’t been away from his vehicle. He was six months behind on the payments, but he wasn’t going to give her up without a fight. He just needed a little more time to get those payments together…

Then the truck spoke to him again.

Stay with me, a female voice whispered. Be with me always.

Billy smiled. She had begun speaking to him right after the first Red Ice dose hit his system. She was his only friend, the closest thing he had to a lover these days. It didn’t yell at him, didn’t call him worthless or useless. In fact, it sang to him!

Don’t let them take me, she cooed sweetly. I am yours forever.

He began scratching at his arms, feeling the bugs under his skin begin to move.

They’re coming for me, she said, suddenly sounding fearful. They’re coming to take me away from you!

He glanced behind him and saw two men walking toward a car. They were dressed in suits, but Billy knew it was a trick. Repo bastards were cunning; he’d seen the reality TV shows. They’d do whatever it took to make a buck.

He started the truck, slammed his foot on the accelerator and reversed out of the parking spot as fast as he could. With tires smoking and squealing, the truck slammed into the two disguised repo men, knocking both to the ground. Billy drove over them, and then the rear bumper struck a Honda Prelude hard enough to cave in the smaller car’s side. He jammed the transmission into drive and floored it, burning rubber and sending thick acrid smoke out behind him. He barely felt the bump as he ran over the repo men again.

Billy sped through the parking garage, sliding through the turn and smashing into several more cars. He exited the garage the same way he came in, smashing through the wooden bar and out onto Beach Street, making a hard right turn and sideswiping a Subaru in the process. By the time he shot through the intersection with Powell Street, he was doing forty miles an hour.

Yes, she sang. Save me!

He passed several cars, ignoring the honking and screeching of brakes. Traffic was light for early afternoon, but Billy didn’t care one way or the other. By the time he reached the intersection with Jefferson Street, Powell and the Embarcadero, the F-150 was doing sixty. He shot through the intersection against a red light, clipping a compact car and sending it spinning into the path of a double-decker tour bus. While the bus wasn’t traveling fast, its mass was enough to total the little car.

They’re coming! The truck said. They’re right behind us!

Now on Embarcadero North Street, Billy turned the truck’s wheel to the left, following the road. The truck shot between two lampposts onto the sidewalk, clipping a trash can and slamming into three people who never saw the truck coming. Billy increased speed, watching in glee as more people scrambled to get out of the way. A few were too slow, and the F-150 stuck them, either knocking them out of the way or dragging them under the truck’s wheels. All the while, Billy was laughing, giddy with excitement. Those repo bastards would never get his truck!

Running out of pavement, he swung back onto the street, plowing into a family too slow to get out of his way. He shot past the ferry terminal, clipping several cars and rear-ending a Kia Elantra. He yanked the wheel to the right, sending the truck up onto the pavement again. He saw Pier 49 ahead of him. Why was that familiar to him?

He shot through the open iron gates, smashing through a group of people. The space between the warehouse on the left and the water on the right was wide enough for two F-150s, and people scrambled to get out of the way. Some chose to dive into San Francisco Bay, while others hurled themselves into warehouse doorways.

It wasn’t until he shot past the submarine anchored to the pier that Billy remembered where he was. The sub was the U.S.S Pampanito, a World War Two memorial. Which meant the ship anchored up ahead was the Liberty ship, the SS Jeremiah O’Brien. He had been on both when he was a child, on a class field trip. He never noticed the three women and two men he ran down while he mused about that long-ago trip.

They’re right behind us! His truck sang. We must escape!

He was doing eighty by the time he reached the O’Brien. By now, most of the people who had been on the dock had gotten out of the way, but a hand-in-hand couple were too slow and they were struck and flattened under the truck wheels. Still moving forward, the F-150 smashed aside signs about the O’Brien.

We’ll be safe soon, the car crooned.

That was the last thought Billy Dyachenko ever had, as an artery in his brain ruptured and flooded his gray matter with blood. Trapped in a sea of pain and rapidly weakening eye sight, he was almost unaware of the F-150 launching itself off the end of the pier at ninety miles an hour, flying thirty feet before slamming nose-first into the cold waters of San Francisco Bay. By then, Billy was unconscious.

He was dead before the truck sank to the bottom.