Throttle

————————————————————
-Transcript-
————————————————————

(A motorcycle engine revs to life.)

The open road.

Endless Possibilities.

Livin’ on a whim.

Ya know, some people look and wonder why waste your life away on the back of a bike?

They need to get the stick out their ass, and remember what it’s like to have some fun.

I mean guys like you sit there, 8 hours a day, every day, in your little suit and tie.

Some corporate bitch.

And pass judgment on us?

You don’t know what it’s like to be alive.

We’re free.

I’ve only got three rules to worry about.

Don’t be a rat.

Don’t rape women.

And don’t kill anyone without a reason.

The rest is fair game, man.

And it’s all about a good time and that sweet blacktop.

And let me tell you, there’s nothing better than the smell of fumes mixing with hot asphalt, the wind beating against your face, and the hum of that engine underneath you.

That is, being almost completely deaf, to me, it’s more the low rumbling vibrations.

The hammering of that muscle.

The feeling of that torque as you grip the throttle.

——————————Act 1——————————

The names Deacon.

What do I do for a living?

I think we had a misunderstanding. I do whatever the hell I want.

Typically, we cruise around until we hit a bar.

Party a couple nights and then fuck off.

What do you mean?

Not many people tell us no.

Listen, you’re gonna have to look at me when you talk to me, I read lips.

It’s fine, just don’t make me repeat myself.

Uh- how long we stay depends.

One time we threw a rager for the record books, lasted five maybe six days.

But he last shithole we pulled over at, a couple of townsfolk didn’t like havin’ around, and a little disagreement broke out.

Only stayed about two hours.

So, like I said, depends.

Robbery? Nah. that wasn’t us, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Look man everything’s legal, now do you want to hear what I fuckin’ saw or not?

Okay.

So we were on a run.

Cruisin’ next to the east coast.

We were somewhere real scenic and shit.

Lots of nature.

The road wasn’t as straight as what we’re used to, you know?

Weaving between hills and trees.

Gotta say, at first it felt like a nice change of pace from the desert…

… that is until that fuckin’ thing ran out of nowhere.

(The sounds of a deer galloping are followed by brakes skidding.)

It’s funny how much presence of mind you have during an accident.

Split-second and it’s over, but during that short window, it’s like you make decisions in slow motion.

There was no time to swerve, was definitely going to hit it, so I slammed the brakes as hard as I could. I’m talking white-knuckled ham fisting the fuckin’ lever.

My front plates had less wear than the back, so the bike started lifting off its ass, poppin’ a wheely. At that point, you know you lost control.

I put my hands in front of my face and braced myself for impact.

But just as I’m about to slam into that dumb animal, I notice its skin…

A rotting green color, peeling off muscle in spots.

Its physique distorted with growths, jagged from protruding bones, and…

…and covered in what looked like barnacles.

Then I went flying.

(Motorcycle crash.)

And all this in probably 4, maybe 5 seconds.

Trippy shit man. I’d love to live on that time.

Short while later, I woke up in the breakdown lane.

The gang cheered, they were standing over me like I’m the second coming.

You’d think they’d take me to a hospital, but nah. Too much liability. I’m sure I’ve got a warrant out somewhere.

They told me when I hit the thing, I did cartwheel mid-air with my bike, some circus Olay shit.

Luckily I landed in a bush and the cycle cleared over me.

Somehow, got away with only a couple scratches and bruises.

Can’t say the same for my bike.

It was totaled.

Like losing a child, man.

What a fuckin’ miracle though, right?

——————————Act 2——————————

The gang left the prospect with me on the side of the road while they drove into the nearby town looking for a burner I can ride.

What?

Tch- You don’t drive bitch as a biker. Even a recruit knows that.

I swear we need a fuckin’ hangout with a 4-by-4.

But whatever.

So they left us behind, we were just us, chillin’, waiting, killing time.

Weather wasn’t bad. The salty breeze felt refreshing.

A real fuckin’ vacation.

We figured all that’s missing is some tunes, you feelin’ me?

When the prospect flipped the radio on on his bike, everything instantly felt less… nice.

Something… something man. The wind shifted, the temperature changed, a single gray cloud cast some shade over us. I can’t explain exactly what. But something immediately felt off.

That’s when for the first time since I lost my sense of sound all those years ago… I heard something.

Like white noise… but it was wet.

I use the term “heard” lightly because it was more like it broadcasted inside my head. The same way your thoughts do… but louder…. drowning everything out.

The timbre of it was velvety. Tickling your eardrums.

In the distance, a faint wailing melody rang along with it.

But that wasn’t playing from the radio.

This sounded like it came from the sea.

Like a siren’s call.

I got chills. I’m getting goosebumps just talking about it, see?

I shouted at the prospect to turn it off, but he just stood there swaying around, his hand stuck to the dial.

So, I got up to switch it off myself…

But as I got close, he lost it, charging at me like an animal, tackling me to the ground.

Then he just… started fuckin’ laying into me.

Punch after punch.

His eyes were wide, frantic. Bloodshot.

Words were useless. Nothing was getting through.

Flashes of white blinked with each impact.

I thought I was gonna die.

Twice in one day, am I right?

They say bad shit comes in threes.

I managed to tuck my legs under him and sprang the bastard off.

He stumbled backward before regaining composure. Then the motherfucker pulled a switchblade on me!

He paused a moment, real crazy like, like a tweaker...

…and charged at me.

I was in arms reach of the shotgun strapped to his bike.

Good thing he keeps it loaded.

I REALLY didn’t want to get stabbed again.

(Shotgun shot rings out.)

Knocked him down like a carnival game.

Almost popped out of his shoes.

But didn’t kill’em.

Poor bastard laid on the ground convulsing, spitting up blood.

His muscles strained to get him up, but at that close range, they were shredded to hell, he wasn’t going anywhere.

The fucked up part… he didn’t stop moving until I turned the radio off.

I didn’t know what the hell was happening, but I knew I had to find the others.

I dragged the body out of sight, for the time being, took the prospects bike, and followed the road down

The peacefulness of a small fisherman’s city clashed heavily against all the events leading up to now.

“Newburyport” read the sign.

Sounded like a tourist trap.

But this place was a ghost town.

Its affluent aesthetics felt eerie with the empty streets.

Thankfully it’s not hard to find where a dozen bikers stopped.

And of course, it was a bar.

Jim Pesto’s Bar and Grill.

All the bikes were all there. A couple across the street at the burger joint.

But both were empty.

You don’t just leave your ride behind and go off somewhere.

So where the hell is everybody?

The silence was so loud a deaf guy could hear it. No pun intended.

Something felt off. Just like before on the side of the road when the prospect flipped the radio on.

That’s when that sound started buzzing around in my head again.

Pushing all the thoughts out.

It was coming from inside the bar.

So, I crept forward, loading the gun with what little focus I can summon. Fighting off a trance.

Toward the back of the joint by the restrooms, I could see a fleshy mold covering the floors and walls.

It smelled of the ocean and pulsated in a steady rhythm that mimicked my breath.

Fuck you! I don’t care if you believe me!

The shit was everywhere.

The slimy meat globbed down, slowly creeping, and expanding.

One of the doors was barred shut with a pipe from the outside, and as I got closer, it started violently shaking on its hinges.

I’m telling ya, I wasn’t ready for this horror shit, man.

Whatever was in there… had a pair of vocal cords I could feel in my bones.

Low guttural noises shook the floor, and the vibrations crawled up my legs.

Whatever it was.

It was pissed.

But how bad could it be, I had a pretty big boom stick.

So I inched further, approaching the door.

“Swing it open, fire… swing it open, fire.” I kept repeating.

Could fire through the door… but curiosity is like your old lady. It’ll make you do things you don’t want.

I stood before the jammed handle.

The door was dancing like crazy.

The pipe holding it all together.

I reached with my left hand to unlock it and-

(Shotgun shot rings out.)

Someone put their hand on my shoulder.

I turned to see Crazy ol’ Dave.

Scared me so bad I shot the fucking ceiling

“Don’t open the door!” His lips said.

When the dust settled I saw thin strands of red seeping from each of his ears.

Crazy bastard gouged his fuckin’ hearing out.

“It’s the radio, it’s the radio.” He kept mouthing over and over.

I told him to get out of there and asked where the hell everybody was.

He pointed me towards the lighthouse as he hightailed it out of there.

——————————Act 3——————————

I made my way towards that damn lighthouse.

Along the shore were dozens of shipwrecks.

Freight, tugs, and even commercial tour crafts.

I’m talkin’ lines of beached boats stood scattered around like gravestones.

And there was nobody around. Not a soul.

The metal husks stood there, lifeless. Foreboding.

Storm clouds began to gather. Their rolling thunder shaking my bones.

Again, it was like somethin’ out of a movie, man.

I stood before the tower, the sea grew angry, crashing against it.

Part of me wanted to run.

But I’m not one to back off.

So, I kicked the lighthouse door in and barged up the stairs. Caution to the wind.

As I climbed upwards, radio equipment started lining the walls.

Cabinets with knobs, flashing buttons, antennas, cabling, real technical shit.

At the very top, in the room with the beacon sat a skinny paling man in front of a large console.

His skin was a greenish hue, covered in barnacles like the deer.

I raised the shotgun to my shoulder as he stood from his chair and faced me.

His physical demeanor seemed jagged, hunched over, no longer human.

We met eyes, his were ashy yellow. They bulged out of his skull.

He tried to speak, but his mouth curved around his head. The gap unnaturally long, hanging open from ear to ear.

Around his neck were several slits, their flesh protruding outward with each breath like gills.

It was fuckin’ nauseating. The air smelled of ocean rot.

In his arms, he clutched a mysterious object. Some sort of golden sphere.

I told him to put it down, but that just made him panic.

In one swift motion he jumped at me, tossing the ball over my head, and out of the window.

The sudden movement…

(Shotgun shot rings out.)

…caused me to fire.

Point blank.

Deader than a doorstop.

I glanced outside to try and spot the thing he chucked, but it was useless. It went straight into the sea.

Here’s where it gets really fucked.

As I gazed through the window, along the beach I saw people. Hundreds of people.

Some among them my friends.

They stood mesmerized, looking towards the horizon.

Then one by one, they began marching into the water.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

In a couple minutes, they were all gone.

I booked it out of there faster than a fuckin’ jackrabbit.

Before I left, I wrecked all the equipment in that lighthouse, and took what looks like the mysterious man’s journal.

It seems the guy I shot in the lighthouse was a radio pirate. He had a station with some… less than favorable political content.

Was eluding the FCC for years by running his operation from a small houseboat.

Here, I have it with me.

No, you can’t fuckin’ have it.

It’s the only proof that… that… just listen to these two entries.

March 24th, 2002:

“Full moon tonight. Had to move the boat to a new location. The coast guard is making it difficult to continue broadcasting. Of note, as I was idling about 40 klicks off Newburyport, on the surface of the water I saw a bright glowing orb. Upon closer inspection, it was neither a buoy nor fender, but some sort of rock, oddly resembling the color and shape of the moon that night. It was very heavy but didn’t sink. I fished it onboard with a net, and upon touching it I heard a strange sound. It came from nowhere and engulfed all other noises. It didn’t play a melody, yet its tune was addicting. The longer I’d lay my hands on it, the less I wanted to let go. Such a curious object.”

And March 25th it just reads…

“20 years to prepare for it’s coming. I must share this sound with the world.”

I don’t know what any of that means, but uh… can’t be anything good.

We done here? I’m fucking starving.

Don’t come looking for me again, I want nothing to do with you people or that thing.

I’m out.