by The Eurostar
Edulcore Cicciotto:
The sun is rising above the horizon, above the Atlantic that separates this crazy land from my country. I wonder when I will be able to see it again.
We have driven all night, for hundreds of miles, with no sign of any of our pursuers. Turner is confident we'll be able to sail to La Perdita from Miami without any fuss with the border police or the coast guard.
"Uh-oh," whispers my friend.
I turn. Through the broken rear window, on the empty highway far behind us, there is something like a distant dust cloud, and a strange noise, becoming louder and louder.
"They've finally found us," says Turner, and he is nearly smiling.
A few minutes, and the dust clouds are revealed to be produced by the most incredible array of pursuers: there are pick-ups of Mafia henchmen right beside a dozen police cars, and behind them all black cars of some secret services, CIA or something even more secret, and some of these are U.S. military jeeps. Above them, a few helicopters head straight for us.
I can't describe what follows. I simply haven't the right words. Maybe even in my native language I wouldn't be able.
I am at the driver seat, one eye on the road and one on the map. Jacksonville, Daytona Beach, Merrit Island, Vero Beach, Fort Pierce.
Turner has torn off the car roof with his bare hands, and now he is standing on the car, among the flying bullets, all lit by his metagene, throwing bolts and magnetic pushes at our pursuers. Helicopters, one after one, have hit the ground. Car after car has jumped off the roads.
West Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, Hollywood, Miami Beach.
For every car Turner is able to destroy, for every helicopter he makes crash, ten more join the fray.
Coral Gables, Homestead, Key Largo, Tavernier, Isla Morada. Now the land is nothing more than the road and a few dunes, with the sea on both side. We are in the Florida Keys.
Turner is visibly tired, worn down by the monumental fight he is handling all by himself. I bet it was hundreds of cars he has destroyed, but many more are arriving.
Landon, Maraton, Big Pine Key. In the distance, the sky is turning violet. A hurricane is approaching.
We are nearing the end of the land. Finis terrae. Turner is kneeling over the seat, still sending bolts, but at a slower pace. The pursuers are now mere yards behind us. They have stopped to shoot at us; they know they will be able to take us alive. Will it end like this?
Saddlebunch. Boca Chica. And finally Key West. The end. I drive through the Old City to the west, toward the open sea. The car flies off the road and stops on the sand of the beach. The wind is powerful, the waves breaking on the beach, spraying over us.
We both get out of the car. The many dozens of cars of our pursuers brake and stop at the rim of the beach. Policeman, SWAT teams, soldiers take a line in front of us, aiming at our heads.
Turner looks at the many people arriving. I hear the names he whispers: "Tony... Frank Grassia... General Forrest..."
For my part, I clearly recognize Giorgio, the one Turner completely destroyed at Area 51, alive and well like nothing happened to him. I wonder what it can be, and whether there are several of them, each using the same name. Is Giorgio a title, a designation, and not a personal name as I had assumed?
The wind is heavier any second that passes, stronger, welcomed.
I spread my arms, feathers out, and fly! Turner wraps his arms around my legs, and we are up. Up, up, up, and away.
Caught in the hurricane, the people below us aim their guns and shoot, scream, and swear. But now we are in the sky, and America is far below us. America is behind us, and all our enemies.
Turner, who has the bag of money under his left arm, smiles. "I suppose I'm too heavy to let you fly to Cuba, Ed, huh?"
He knows. He sees that we are losing height. Out of the hurricane, we are heading straight for the open sea, and to a sure death.
"I guess now I should just let myself fall," whispers Turner.
"If only we still had the UFO," I whisper. And, like in the best fairy tales, the UFO appears, and the door opens, and we are safely inside.
Turner wipes his face with one arm. "Humidity from the clouds," he whispers. I am plainly crying.
It seems I have complete control of this beast. I can summon it, make it fly, and who knows what else. "To La Perdita!" I say.
The road is near its end, just like this story. I have crossed all of America. What I have gained? A new friend, a lot of money, and a pet UFO.
Not bad after all, don't you think?