21st Century Bogatyr

Friday, August 21, 2020

I Squinted and Stared Through it All

"There was nowhere to go but everywhere." Jack Kerouac

This is Part 10 of a fictional work in progress. Links to the rest are at the bottom of this.

by Zvi Baranoff

I drove south-east out of Chicago and left Illinois, crossing into Indiana. The hinterlands are dotted with cornfields and silos, the all-night juke joints with shitkicker bands and cheap corn whiskey, soulless diners with bland and tasteless food, low budget motels and even lower budget robot bordellos.

I pulled my car within sight of the hyperloop station and found an out of the way spot to just sit for a while.

I was in no hurry to jump down the hyperloop. Just thinking about it was making me queasy. I watched for rollers and other potential hazards and contemplated the situation.

I thought about the days before the hyperloop and the old Interstate Highway System. I tried to imagine a world without the hyperloop and I attempted to visualize it away. I felt a shimmering sensation as I wished the monstrosity to disincorporate. It shimmered for a while but it refused to fade.

I stared at it some more and it shimmered some more and then, it was gone.

I was driving an old Chevy with balding tires that badly needed a tune-up. The Chevy bumped and clunked and belched smoke and the car probably was down a quart or two for oil, as well.

The rain kept coming, on and off. The windshield wipers were worn out and long overdue for replacement. They scratched the windshield as they rhythmically flicked the water aside. My vision was extremely limited. I could still see the black ribbon of asphalt directly in front of me and I did what I could to stay between the white lines, which I could only see on and off.

The indicator needle for the gasoline was barely hovering near the bottom of the red. Neither my traveling partner Greg nor I had any cash and we had already squeezed all the loose change from the hitchhikers in the back seat, a nice hippie couple with backpacks, a guitar and a large smelly and muddy dog.

We pulled off the Interstate at the next exit. There was the Golden Arches of McDonald's on one corner and an ESSO gas station on another. I parked by the arches and told everyone in the car to see what they could do to rustle up some gas money, and maybe a bite to eat. We each took up a compass point around the burger joint and did the best we could to appear to be in need - which was the easy part - and also worthy of a helping hand, which was a significantly harder sell.

After more than a couple of hours of that, we had enough money for a little over a gallon of gasoline, and we had trash picked a few half eaten sandwiches. We gave the kid at the ESSO station a pile of coins and he squeezed enough gasoline into the Chevy to push the gauge up to the middle of the red.

I drove into the small town that was there by the Interstate. It was a town mostly passed over by time. There was a diminutive church with a steeple. There was a Main Street consisting of a couple blocks of stores. There were neighborhoods with wide streets, houses with yards, sidewalks lining the streets and cars parked by the curb. It was late and the town slept.

I turned off my headlights and I drove at a crawl and we cruised those streets, looking for the right combination of circumstances and conditions. On a through street lined with large trees, I pulled up to a car that was parked at the curb.

My buddy got out of the passenger door, but was back in a flash. "No good. Locked," he told me. I cruised further down the street until I found the next car with trees obscuring the view.

The second car I pulled up on, the gas tank was on the wrong side but the third car was a score. There, easy pickings, was a large Cadillac, ideally situated, with a very full tank of gasoline. We siphoned all we could into our Chevy, spilling very little and leaving that Caddy with likely a quarter tank. I spun around, put my foot to the pedal and turned my headlights back on. I tuned the radio to a rock station as we jumped back onto the Interstate.

I had the highway mostly to myself. I barreled on through the darkness and rain. The hippies in the backseat slept peacefully. The dog snored and farted.

The radio went static and we lost our signal and I turned the damn thing off. My buddy in the passenger seat hummed and sang songs for a while and then his head was weaving for a while and the sounds became less coherent and then he dozed off.

I drove on through the night, through the starless blackness on the unending ribbon of black asphalt. The windshield was fogged over. I squinted and stared through it all.

I couldn't tell you who was awake first. The car was no longer on the highway. We were in flight, somewhere within the bowl-like buffer between the northbound and southbound lanes. The hippies in the backseat were screaming and the dog was howling. In the rearview mirror they looked like floating cosmonauts more than bouncing balls because the time was stretched out and elastic.

The car rolled completely over and then righted itself. I hung to the steering wheel and stared in amazement and horror. The car did figure eights in the medium and then we were somehow back on the highway, rolling in the opposite direction that we were traveling before I fell asleep. I pulled the car to the right hand lane, slowing the car as I regained my bearings and stabilized my breathing. A highway rest stop materialized and I drove in and brought the Chevy to a full stop.

The windows on the driver's side were smashed out. The doors on that side of the car were sealed shut, smashed closed. The hippies and the dog exited the car from the opposite side. The hippie chick was throwing up and the dog was shaking and peeing as I climbed out the driver's window. Greg was already out of the car and smoking a cigarette.

I felt a jolt and I heard a sound that reminded me of a freight train. As soundly as I was then sleeping, it woke me and disrupted my dream. I opened my eyes to see what certainly appeared to be a tornado crossing between me and that Indiana hyperloop station.

I saw cars and trees and sheds and building supplies and bicycles flying through the sky. My car was shaking and moving in reverse. I clung to the steering wheel, simply out of habit.

My car was blown backwards and crammed between the mangled wreckage of other cars, a delivery truck and a very large, and seriously damaged, tree.The entrance to the hyperloop still stood in front of me, unmoved and without damage. The shaking of my universe and the demonic howling of the wind had stopped. I had just enough space to open the driver's door, so I did. I climbed out scratching my head and looking around at the chaos and debris that surrounded me.

The tornado had left a significant mess in its wake. I was alone with all that mess. I suppose that everyone else in the bars, restaurants, motels and robot bordellos were either sleeping or drinking or fucking or eating through all that damaging wind.

I surveyed my situation. My car was, to all outer appearances, relatively undamaged. A few small dents and some new scratches didn't much matter to me. The car's computer was working normally and the display information declared all electronics to be functioning. Nonetheless, the car was wedged in pretty damn good and needed to be disentangled, preferably before cops or anyone else added their influence to this pandemonium and balagan.

I bounced and wiggled the car from both the front end and from the rear. Then, with a combination of the hydraulic jack, a cable and a winch, the electric engine whining and me cussing and pushing, I untangled my car from the pile.

I rolled forward twenty or so feet and put it back into park, approximately in the same place where I was before the tornado blew through, and before that dream about that accident so long ago. All told, I am not sure if the dream hadn't disturbed me more than the tornado.

It had been Donkey Ears since that night, decades upon decades and then some more. The memory had been long buried. The dream was as if a reenactment of the night, a total replay as vivid as the original experience.

I felt thoroughly cooked in the time soup, this stew of circumstances, the jambalaya, the goulash, the cholent of space and time. How did I end up at that place at that time to take a spin through the blender like that and live to think about it after all these passing years? Life certainly has its twists.

Perhaps high school was too easy. I was able to get by without trying. Although I didn't excel, I certainly did well enough to go off to college if I had been so inclined, but that path lacked appeal. Jobs weren't very appealing either, but there were plenty of them back then with very low entry bars, particularly part time work, and everybody needs some money.

I found myself a gig in the pressroom of a weekly newspaper outfit in the Jersey suburbs, sometime towards the end of the first summer after I escaped high school.

Newspapers were printed on paper back then. Forests were clearcut and wood pulp was processed into paper at large smelly and fuming industrial plants.

Large rolls of this low cost and low quality paper were shipped to printing presses all over the country. What passed for news, and sometimes real news, and the advertising that paid the bills and provided a rationale for all this industrious behavior, would be printed on this paper and circulated to homes and businesses on a daily or weekly basis. All of the newspapers, of course, were just excess after a day or so, only good for wrapping fish or lining bird cages, not that it served much of a purpose even when hot off the press.

Thin metal plates would be made for each edition. They would be installed by hand on rollers. The paper would feed through the rollers as ink was steadily being injected and the paper would be imprinted with content.

A printing press for such an operation was large and the process was loud and dirty and the air was filled with dust and ink. A printer and a couple of assistants ran that particular press, with a couple of flyboys at the very bottom of that pecking order.

I worked three or four nights a week as a flyboy. The flyboy would catch the papers as they came off the folder, which was the last step in the printing process. The flyboys jostled the papers into a bundle, tied them with twine with a machine that stood at his side and stacked the bundle in a rolling bin. I worked on one side of the folder and Greg worked directly across from me, with the folding machine spitting out newspapers and us trying to keep up.

This operation printed multiple suburban throwaway weeklies with slightly varying content, so the press would be stopped and a few plates would need replacement. The rolls of paper needed to be replaced as the paper was used up. Sometimes the feed would tear and the press clunked to a stop and the paper needed to be refed by hand before starting up again. Occasionally, a paper would jam in the folder and that would grind everything to a halt while they troubeshooted the whole kaboodle.

While the printer and his henchmen took care of such, Greg and I would sit in the break room drinking bad coffee and eating junk food from the vending machine.

We soon learned that it was easy enough to flip a paper into the folder whenever we wanted a break. We took turns doing this and I suppose we had gotten somewhat cavalier about it.

I don't remember which one of us got caught but one of us got fired and one quit and we took our last checks and bundled ourselves into my piece of shit Chevy and set off to see the world.

Links to the earlier posted parts of this story, Chapters 1 - 26.

Part 1: Grace and Mercy If Luck Holds

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/05/grace-and-mercy-if-luck-holds.html?m=1

Part 2: Everything Was Fine Until It All Went Sideways

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/everything-was-fine-until-it-all-went.html

Part 3: I Blink In & Out and Awakened In the Zone

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/i-blink-in-out-and-awakened-in-zone.html

Part 4: Out Of Time

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/out-of-time.html

Part 5: Even Without Clocks

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/even-without-clocks.html

Part 6: Cerveza & Barbecue Before I Go

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/cerveza-barbecue-before-i-go.html?m=1

Part 7: Heading Towards the Exit

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/heading-towards-exit.html?m=1

Part 8: A Sign, Divine Guidance & Moxie

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/a-sign-divine-guidance-moxie.html?m=1

Part 9: Somehow We Kept Breathing

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/somehow-we-kept-breathing.html?m=1

Part 10: I Squinted and Stared Through it All

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/i-squinted-and-stared-through-it-all.html?m=1

Part 11: Riding a Wave

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/riding-wave.html?m=1

Part 12: Some Relief Amongst the Chaos at Woodpecker Flats

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/some-relief-amongst-chaos-at-woodpecker.html?m=1

Part 13: A "Classy" Operation in the District of Columbia

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/a-classy-operation-in-district-of.html?m=1

Part 14: In the Shadow of the Dome

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/in-shadow-of-dome.html?m=1

Part 15: Hidden Places and Dark Corners

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/11/hidden-places-and-dark-corners.html?m=1

Part 16: On the Jersey Shore

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/12/on-jersey-shore.html?m=1

Part 17: Dreaming at the No Tell Motel

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/01/dreaming-at-no-tell-motel.html?m=1

Part 18: The Coffee Didn't Help

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/the-coffee-didnt-help.html?m=1

Part 19: Like Two Drops of Rain

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/like-two-drops-of-rain.html?m=1

Part 20 : Chased by the Devil

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/03/chased-by-devil.html?m=1

Part 21: An Arcade and a Penny for Your Thoughts

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/an-arcade-and-penny-for-your-thoughts.html?m=1

Part 22: We Have to Talk, She Said

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/we-have-to-talk-she-said.html

Part 23: She Climbed Out of the Water

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/12/she-climbed-out-of-water.html

Part 24: Passions, Fires and Unfinished Business

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/04/unfinished-business.html

Part 25: The Book Trade Hasn't Killed Me Yet

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/05/the-book-trade-hasnt-killed-me-yet.html?m=1

Part 26: A Detour Through the Fire

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/12/a-detour-through-fire.html?m=1

Thursday, August 13, 2020

Somehow We Kept Breathing

"If you done it, it ain't bragging."

Walt Whitman

[This is Part 9 of a work in progress. Links to the rest are at the bottom of this page.]

by Zvi Baranoff

In the Zone, time, as we mostly understand it, had been abolished. Most of the rest of the world measures time by the nanosecond where it is bought, sold, rationed and mourned accordingly.

In the No Man's Land that we were moving through, every breath inhaled was an eternity and every breath exhaled was the infinite void that exists between eternities and each breath seemed to be mysteriously unlikely to have occured whatsoever, much less to repeat itself. Somehow we kept breathing and somehow we soldiered onward.

We crawled on mostly level ground until we reached a jagged cut. We crab walked down to a creek and followed that water upstream, sometimes on one bank and sometimes on the other. On occasion the only choice was right in the middle of the flowing water and we tried to splash as little as possible. Then, we climbed rocks that served as steps, where we left that creek behind us.

We went under and through barbed wire. We carefully went over a couple of tripwires. We crawled through tall grasses and thorny bushes. We slithered through more mud. Maria signaled a stop and we squeezed ourselves downward, as if trying to be at one with this seriously unaffectionate and unaccepting piece of the earth.

As we sprawled there we could hear something, someone or a combination of things and someones approaching. Maria cupped her hand and moved it slightly up and down and then pointed to the left. Indeed, I lifted my eyes just enough to see the sumbitch jerk-off foot patrol moving in our direction.

I think that we may have temporarily stopped breathing altogether. There were a half dozen of them, in fatigues and military boots with short rapid fire weapons cradled in their arms which they swayed back and forth. It reminded me of mamas rocking babies, in a most disturbing way.

Through the weeds that camouflaged and hid us, we watched the black boots tramp just beyond arm reach or so in front of us. We continued to hold our breathing to a minimum and those in the boots continued their march, trading their time for a salary, performing assigned tasks in defense of whatever they were hired for, which would likely include killing us right there, face down in the weeds if we were seen by any of them. The boots, and the pendejos in them, kept going. After a while so did we.

We crawled through a thick wall of tangled growth full of nasty thorns that tore at us as if with intent. We burrowed to the center of this vicious bramble. We were surrounded by as much, perhaps, antagonistic and threatening conditions that I could imagine Mother Nature cooking up if she was in a really bad mood and then we broke through to a cleared path through the middle of all that natural harshness. Mother Nature, or any of her associates had not laid that path. It was the handiwork of the Salvagers.

The Salvagers of the Zone had manicured a relatively comfortable tunnel through that hellish mess of thorn bush. About a meter or so wide and about the same height, all of the growth had been cut back and the ground had been smoothed out. We had a straight path in front of us and enough room for crawling, which was far more comfortable and extremely less stressful than anything we had done since we squeezed through the fence and left the Zone.

Onward we went, our hands and knees carried us and our breathing normalized and we went forward because at that point forward was the only option. There was no sky and no horizon. There was nothing but this tunnel and it was as dark and as silent as a tomb or a womb. We crawled like this and our knees hurt and our hands were bruised and we continued to crawl.

Decades passed, for all I could tell, with the uniformity and consistency of eternal sameness until, well, we ran head-on into a wall, so to speak. More exactly, a wooden fence. Maria used a penlight to look for a toggle, released a spring and a small doorway opened for us. We crawled through and stood up.

"Welcome to Chicago," she said with a coquettish smile and what I probably would have described as a 'girlish gigging' if that sound had emanated from anyone other than this tough Sherpa that had just guided me through the In and Out.

My body was sore beyond any comparison on this side of Hades. I continued following my Sherpa in the back alleys of Chicago as the first signs of daylight began to break through the clouds. It was that time of day that was reserved for milkmen and paperboys so very long ago when I was a child. Now, it is the hour of vampires and other sorts of parasitic creatures. We walked upright but we didn't let our guard down.

There were multi story buildings lining both sides of the alley with fences and security gates. There was a nondescript sameness to it all, except for small plaques that designated addresses.

Maria entered a security code into the electronic lock of one of the gates and it opened for us, letting us into one of the back courtyards. She entered another code at the door to the building, which also opened for us. We walked the hallway to the elevator where there was another electronic password needed to proceed. We took that elevator to the fourth floor. We exited the lift and headed to the left, passing several doorways until we were nearly at the end of that hallway. There, the security mechanism read Maria's palm and scanned her iris before opening this last door.

We entered a Spartan studio apartment. The walls were painted white with no adornment whatsoever. There was a very small functional kitchen with an electric stovetop, a microwave oven and a miniature refrigerator. There was a bathroom with a shower. The only furniture was an old style kitchen table, a couple of straight-back chairs, three army cots and some crates stacked against the wall. A police scanner sat on the table and staccato bursts of police chatter emitted from it at a low volume.

"We are safe here," Maria told me. "Mi casa su casa. We can rest up some-some, shower, eat…" The words trailed off. This was the first time I had ever seen her appear to be tired, and she was evidently totally fatigued and exhausted. She sat at the table and held her head in her hands.

I retrieved my cell phone and gave it the once over. I checked the date to see how much time had passed while I was adrift in the Zone. I had lost nearly three weeks between being unconscious and recuperating from the sonic attack.

When I set out from home, I had planned on doing the round trip in twenty-four hours or so, if possible. Allowing for the normal sorts of snafus, I figured three days as a worse case scenario. Yep. Go ahead and figure and see what good it does you!

We were in a Salvager Safe House. Salvagers had several of these sorts of units. They used them for storage and staging of their smuggling operation.

I asked Maria if a trip through the In and Out was always like the night that had just passed. She sighed. "Sometimes it is more dangerous," she told me. "That passage went well."

I guess that Salvagers live by the same adage as pilots used to profess. Any landing that you walk away from is a good landing. Indeed, we made it through with just a few scratches and bruises. Nobody was maimed or killed, so it went well.

They had various routes through the gauntlet, she explained to me, and the Salvagers referred to all of them obliquely as the In and Out. The routes shifted, changed and evolved. Sometimes a route would be abandoned. On occasion, a particular pathway was busted by the Federales. Sometimes they got washed out by storms or floods or earthquakes. They also sometimes made 'deliveries' into the Zone with balloons and also by catapult. All told, it was a complicated and sophisticated operation. Just hearing a little about it at that point was exhausting and I was already worn to my bones.

I decided to just put my head down on a cot for a few minutes before showering. I closed my eyes. I slept for thirty-six hours straight. I must have been tired.

I dreamt and wandered between worlds and times. When I awoke, Maria was sitting at the table, monitoring the police scanner. There was a steaming mug of coffee and a recently opened pack of Humboldts on the table. She had a lit reefer hanging from her lip. There was a solitaire game laid out on the table and she was holding the Jack of Diamonds in her left hand.

Maria played her card, shifted the reefer to her left hand and spoke without turning her head. "So," she said, "you decided not to expire in your sleep. Good. In that case, you probably want some coffee and maybe something to eat. The coffee is hot, right there on the counter."

I groaned and sighed.

"I am really glad that you are not dead," she continued. "It is a lot of work disposing of a body and I did not want that responsibility." She sipped her coffee and turned over another card. I helped myself to coffee and sat on the other chair.

She turned over another card and continued her extrapolation concerning the complications of getting rid of a stiff. "In the Zone, I could bury you anywhere. There is lots of soil. There are gardens and orchards that would appreciate the nutrients. I have friends that can help dig holes. Here, on this side of the border, it's all concrete and asphalt and all sorts of superstitions about death and weird customs about private property." She turned her hands palm up and sort of shrugged.

Great, I think. I am glad that I hadn't inconvenienced her by dying in my sleep, here in this Salvagers Safe House in Chicago. I sipped at my coffee.

"And, there are just no simple solutions. It's not like I could just slip your body in a dumpster and be done with it. Someone would find your body and it would bring grief and difficulties into their lives and that would not be right. I sure wouldn't be carrying a stiff back through the In and Out just to bury it. If you were dead here, I would have to find some place to put your body where no one will find you."

She paused and smiled sweetly. "I am glad you are not dead," she said again and smiled once more. OK. Me too. "If you are hungry - and you certainly should be famished - there are some frijoles In that pot on the stove. You can reheat them if you like."

I had finished my first mug of java and went for a refill. I looked at the leftover beans, found a spoon and ate them cold, straight from the pot. The police scanner continued to chatter in the background.

Maria continued playing cards. She lifted her eyes in my direction and wrinkled her nose. "You smell like you crawled through shit and slept in your clothes and maybe a rat is in your pocket that died. You need a shower and your clothes need a once over through the Speedy Wash & Fold." Of course, she was just stating the obvious and I headed for a well deserved and seriously needed bath.

The bathroom was small but thoroughly modern. There was a wall unit Speedy Wash & Fold, a decent shower with multiple dial up options including various therapeutic choices, a drying lamp, and big, fluffy towels stacked on a shelf.

I peeled out of my clothes and shoved them into the wall unit, dialing in the temperature and detergent settings and Rapido processing. I considered the therapeutic bath options and settled for a mild opiate solution added to the water.

By the time I was done bathing and drying myself, the Speedy Wash & Fold beeped to signal that my clothes were done as well. It did a good job of washing and drying and a pretty half-assed task of folding, but since I was just putting them back on, I was not the least put out. Of course, the opiate solution in the bathwater takes the edge off of everything.

Clean, dressed and mildly medicated, I was looking forward to getting back on the road, and I checked my phone to find the coordinates of my car. I was pleased to learn that the car was parked just a short walk from where we were hiding out.

Suddenly, the staccato from the police scanner had increased in emphasis and agitation. There was an active riot further east and a raging gun battle to the north and all that mayhem seemed to please Maria.

Maria insisted that all of that chaos would serve us well by keeping the cops busy. The Mercantile Mercenaries would be busy guarding storefronts from looters and Los Lobos would stick to their dens until everything settled down. It couldn't be better for us, she insisted. By this point, I was not going to argue with that kind of logic. We headed on out.

It was, indeed, a quick and uneventful walk to the carpark. Along the way, Maria pointed to a spot on the sidewalk. "That's where I picked you up. You were laying there with your huevos cupped in your hands and whimpering," she told me. I think she may have held back and covered up a giggle by snorting.

I paused, gave her a look, and asked her how she got me off the streets and to the Zone while I was in that condition.

"I gave you a sedative and tossed you over my shoulder. I couldn't leave you there to die," she said and that was that. She believed that she needed to save my butt, so she did.

We reached the carpark and took the elevator up to where my car was stashed. I deactivated all the security apparatus and unlocked my ride.

From the car's storage compartment, I pulled out one of the smaller packages that Marcel's boys had wrapped for me and I handed it to Maria. She held it briefly between her hands as if she were a scale and then slipped the package into her bag. She then handed me a wad of Euros, another wad of Hong Kong dollars and a pile of Mexican pesos. I was most pleasantly surprised and truly grateful.

"I have a present for you, Tío," she told me and she handed me a half kilo package of that wondrous coffee that she and Abuelo prefer. It would be considered a luxury anywhere in North America.

"Come visit some-some. Don't be a stranger. We are always glad to have you," she said somewhat formally.

I looked at her, a bit confused. "How would I get in for a visit?" I queried.

She handed me a folded piece of paper. "When you get to Chicago, check in at the Hilton or the Ritz and send a correo electrónico text message to this cell phone number. Tell me what hotel you are at and the room number. Some-some I will be out of the Zone, I will pick up the electrónico message and come get you and be your Sherpa through the In and Out."

This was all very sweet and touching. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I couldn't imagine a set of circumstances that would lead to me voluntarily making the journey through the In and Out, ever, as much as I had grown to like both her and her Grandfather and appreciated their hospitality. At that moment, I couldn't even imagine a reason for me to ever be within a thousand miles of Chicago for that matter. Of course, I did keep that number, just in case.

I offered her a ride to anywhere she wanted in North America, which she declined. She kissed me on my cheek and slipped away into the shadows. I got my car down the elevator and steered my ride out of Chi-town and towards the nearest hyperloop station.