I keep going. The bikers who chased me through the sporting goods store won’t be far behind. I pick up some speed, kicking the ground to add momentum and sail around the corner into the front parking lot on my skateboard.

It’s pandemonium.

People are running, motorcycles are milling around like chromed vultures. A few people are getting into cars though I don’t see how they’ll be able to get anywhere.

One of them’s backing up slowly out of its space twenty feet ahead of me. I hurry up and latch onto the bumper, forcing my fingers between it and the body of the car for a good grip, channeling my inner Marty McFly. I keep low to keep out of sight of the driver just as much as the bikers.

The car pulls forward in fits and starts as its path gets crossed and recrossed by fleeing customers and once when a bike shudders past. I get thrown against the trunk again and again, but it’s not too bad. We’re going pretty slow.

I hear the roar of engines revving up behind me and turn to see three bikes accelerating my way through the lot.

The car I’m holding onto has reached the end of the aisle and is speeding up into a turn. I let go and use its momentum to speed me into the next aisle down, then zip into the narrow space between vehicles where I have to duck side mirrors. It takes me less than a second to cross the next aisle but I see gang members tracking me, following my path.

I pass through another aisle and then another, but on the third a biker is there, racing toward me, and I know I won’t be able to get clear in time. I turn toward him and send my deck into a powerslide to slow. The bastard has a length of chain in his hand. He means to rake me with it as he passes or loop it around my neck and drag me to death.

I turn my board and do a simple pop up run out. I give a little hop and let my feet leave the deck which flies up into my hands. I’m running, bleeding momentum. I push my luck, duck, and swing my skateboard’s edge at the bike’s handlebars.

The chain whines over my head.

The board hits the bike and the force of the blow added to the speed he was traveling means I hit it hard. The front wheel turns and the bike and rider start to tumble past.

I’m back on my board and headed back the way I came to try and confuse my pursuers, feeling sick, thinking I might’ve just killed that guy.

Something blocks out the sun.

I look up.

A large sedan turns in the sky, the side of it crushed out of shape. I swerve and zip down an aisle as the Cadillac swan dives on top of the cars to my right, showering me with broken glass as the windows burst.

I see bikes turning in on both sides of the main aisle and make for the narrow space between again. This time, though, I’ve chosen poorly. The guy on the left parked over the line and I won’t fit.

I do another pop up run out, the board coming up into my hand, as I leap up and get a foot on the side mirror. It holds long enough for me to get onto the hood before it breaks off and I stumble.

Now I’m sprinting from roof to roof. Gunfire erupts around me like the world’s angriest popcorn machine. I have no idea where I’m going. I’m just going.

Too late, I notice that the next car is a ragtop convertible at the same time something hits me in my right shoulder, turning me. I tear through the material and end up sitting in the passenger seat.

For a moment I think my shoulder is on fire but when I look down at it all I see is red.

Not on fire then. Only shot.

There’s a sound like King Kong popping a balloon made of glass and metal outside. A truck is upside down on the little Prius.

Good. More cover.

I reexamine my shoulder. There’s a bloody furrow creasing my trapezius less than an inch wide. A graze I think it’s called in the business. Hurts, but nothing to worry about.

There’s no movement outside. No more cars flying overhead. Maybe they think they got me or they’re not sure where I am.

I need to think. I’ve just been running in a panic. I keep doing that and I’m dead. I’m in a parking lot full of criminal, murdering, magic knight mother-fucking psychopaths. Innocent people are running around out there. I wonder if anybody was in any of those cars they threw at me.

I need to get away from here. Out of the parking lot. Either way, I need help or a diversion. Something.

Where's Ochoa?

I look back toward Applebee’s just in time to see the agent's car tip over the edge of the restaurant’s lot and nose its way down the hill. It fishtails and I push. I can see it turning too far and starting to roll in my mind’s eye and I’m terrified, but she rights it. Then she, um, lefts it to pull it straight. She smashes a few bikes out of the way with the front of the car when she reaches the base of the hill and all four wheels leave the ground when she moves over the grass between this lot and the bar’s. Her wheels scream and smoke as she spins the car to a rocking stop, passenger's side out.

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There’s the whine of feedback from a megaphone and I hear her voice say, “You will cut it out right now or I’ll kill you all dead. Drop your weapons, stop your bikes, put your hands in the air, and shut the fuck up!”

If anybody complies, I don’t see it. Instead, she starts taking fire. Bullet holes appear in the side of her car. The passenger side window explodes. The driver’s door opens and Ochoa appears, the top of her head peering over the engine block.

I have to do something.

I open the glove box in front of me to find a long-handled flashlight nestled among some napkins, paperwork, and other things. I take it. Damn thing's as long as my forearm. One of those that doubles as a club for self-defense, maybe. Feeling hopeful, I hit the trunk release and open the car door staying low, the skateboard tucked under my arm.

I hear gunfire from Ochoa’s direction.

I look up. She’s got a long gun to her shoulder, shooting back. She’s aiming it toward where the thrown cars were coming from.

I look that way and see Maceman staggering, three smoking holes in the armor over his chest. He falls.

I get to the rear tire of the convertible and duck when I hear motorcycles getting closer. I shrug and reverse the flashlight so that the light is toward me. Calling once more upon my movie lore, I jam the end of the flashlight through the spokes of the front wheel of the bike as it passes. Trapped in the spokes, the flashlight hits the part of the frame holding the wheel, stopping it from turning, throwing the bike and its rider high into the air.

In the trunk, I see a long lug wrench, snatch it up, throw my board down, and hook the wrench into the apparatus of the other motorcycle that’s slowed to dodge around his somersaulting buddy.

The wrench seems pretty well lodged in something behind the seat. Maybe caught in the suspension? I don’t know. I decide to hang on and stay low for a bit and see where this goes.

The gunfire doesn’t stop. I see the metal fellow with the spear go down.

Both of those big white vans are still on the move. Both have bullet holes appearing regularly and I realize the metal men and the bikers are also fighting each other. As I watch, the nearer van’s windshield spiderwebs in front of the driver, and the vehicle careens into some parked cars to come to a hissing stop. I can see the shadow of the driver, slumped over the wheel.

The motorcycle I’ve hooked onto makes a swift turn and now I'm back in front of the sporting goods store.

Ochoa sees me, her eyes going wide, but her finger never leaves her trigger.

I give her a wave but her passenger’s side front tire explodes then and I decide not to distract her further.

My motorcycle turns up the next aisle which is good because the wide open space in front of the store is much too exposed, but I see bikers in the parallel aisles come even with us, signaling to my driver, pointing back at me.

The bike wobbles as the asshole driving turns. He flinches when he sees me, then grins and says something I can’t hear. I see his foot slam down and the bike lurches forward.

I see the van pulling up in front of us before he does.

The biker hauls his ride to the right, going into a slide.

I lose my grip on the lug wrench and I’m hurtling right at the driver of the van. He’s got his window down so I can see him clearly. He’s not wearing a helmet, his expression's all business.

I push my luck hard and jump, grabbing my ankles and now I’m flying sideways in the fetal position at, like, twenty miles an hour.

I sail right through the open window when the bike plows into the side of the van, setting off the airbags.

I bounce around a little but come comfortably to rest in the passenger seat, surrounded by big white pillows.

I hear a pop to my left.

The driver has torn the airbag with his gauntleted hands. He doesn’t look at me as he wrenches open his door which whines in protest as he gets out. There’s a long-handled sword in his hand. He’s moving quickly. I see his shadow moving around the front of the van.

I get the door open but the damn airbags make that tricky and I wind up falling out onto the asphalt. A good thing too. The driver’s sword hammers into the door frame around the window, shattering it and once again I’m covered in glass. If I'd gotten out in traditional fashion, I'd be in half.

I scramble to get up, to find some cover, to get away.

I see my skateboard and snatch it up.

I hear a footfall, spin, and see the sword slashing at my head.

I knock it away with my deck.

I block the next blow and push the following thrust away. It’s purely defensive. His sword has a foot more reach than my board.

He pauses and gifts me a smile. He’s a redhead, hair cropped close to his skull. He’s wearing a steel breastplate with strange sigils etched over his chest. His camo pants look like they might be armored.

He holds his sword out to the side in one hand. He twists it. There’s a flash that lights up his cold features and his sword is alight with dripping flame. The drops, when they hit the ground, keep burning. He’s ten feet away from me but I can feel the heat of his blade from here.

Think.

The only think I can think to do is to close my eyes.

Black envelopes the space where the driver of the van stands. Dark shapes flicker around me, tendrils reaching and searching. The light aethings are few and far between.

It’s less noisy. The motorcycles are leaving. At first, I think it’s because this guy’s going to kill me but then I hear sirens. There’s no more gunfire.

The pulsing shadow of the driver takes a step and raises his sword across his body. He’s too far away to hit me with the blade. He’s going to splash me with fire.

A thin line of pale aethings appears on a slant in front of me and I let myself fall to the side, spinning into the space indicated.

Heat washes past me.

I hit the ground and roll, trying to get to my feet. Before I do, a white space opens up low and to my left. I lurch for it only to be brought up short.

I open my eyes to find I’ve collided with a parked pale blue sedan. I’m on my knees by the front wheel.

The driver stands above me, still smiling.

He thrusts for my heart, both hands driving the sword forward. He’s going to pin me to the engine block.

I get the skateboard between us and manage to deflect the burning blade past my right arm to sink deep into the side of the sedan.

There’s a tremendous crack and the man is flung away twenty feet to embed himself into the rear of his van. He hangs there, smoking, limp, and unmoving.

Ochoa steps around the side, glances at me, but keeps the barrel of the gun aimed at the driver. She pokes him with her rifle but there’s no reaction. She takes his pulse.

I’m fine right where I’m sitting, thank you, now that the sword’s extinguished. It turned off or whatever when he let go, though little puddles of fire remain all around me.

Ochoa drops her hand and relaxes. She looks at me, looks at the driver, looks at the sword, then peeks at the rear of the sedan. She nods once. “Tesla,” she says. “Sword must’ve hit the battery.”

“I won’t touch it then.”

“Probably gonna start melting soon,” she says. “Nice board.”

The skateboard is beside me, charred and smoking, but fine otherwise.

“Thanks. I stole it myself.” I laugh. It’s either that or start crying. Or screaming. I’m starting to shake.

“You know I’m a cop, right?” She helps me up and we both sit on the trunk of the Tesla to wait for the authorities.