I'm sick. I'm riding my motorcycle down a long dark road. I'm cold and shaking and hollow. The wind shield is broken and jagged like the jaw of some child's nightmare. I'm fleeing from something, racing through damp fog, throttle fully engaged but still asking the bike for more, escaping. I'm frantic and desperate and only think of speed. The headlight is dim and I see nothing past a few feet of tarmac. The road is empty.
There was some kind of accident. At a hospital or laboratory. I have no white blood cells, no immunities. As I tear through the night I can feel various viruses peel off and latch on to my hobbled frame. I think it's like AIDS but it's not. It was some experiment, some experiment gone wrong.
I get weaker, I cough up black sludge. I think faster gotta go faster I think I can outrun this thing at the same time I think there is no way I can outrun this thing. I know I am going to die, wracked by diseases which a child can normally fight off. I can feel microscopic things squirming and biting and wriggling inside me, my muscles loose strength, I loose will.
I ask the bike for more. I plunge on. Desperate and alone.
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