Page 19 of The Cauldronball Run (Outlaw Country #2)

N ew Mexico

J.J.

The convoy of supernatural misfits tore across the New Mexico desert like a migration of very loud, very illegal birds. J.J. had Farrah back where she belonged, the partial bond humming between them with her relief and his overwhelming need to never let her out of his sight again.

"All teams, this is Flame Rider," Torch's voice crackled through the CB. "We got company. Sheriff Buttface is approaching from the south with enough backup to invade a small country."

"This is Secret Agent," Bondo's cultured Roger Moore impression cut in. "I've acquired intelligence that he's commandeered additional resources. Also, my martini shaker has come loose from the dashboard."

"You hot-glued a martini shaker to your dashboard?" Farrah asked into the radio.

"Shaken, not stirred, requires actual shaking during pursuit situations," Bondo replied with dignity.

Through his mirrors, J.J. could see the dust cloud rising behind them. Multiple vehicles were closing fast. At the head of the pack, a patrol car that looked like it had been modified with military-grade pursuit equipment and what appeared to be a park bench welded on as a spoiler.

"This is Father Darkness. The Lord works in mysterious ways, but Sheriff Grizz works in obvious ones. We count at least twelve vehicles."

"How's he catching up so fast?" Farrah asked, checking the GPS.

"Probably stole a better car," J.J. muttered, pushing their speed past one hundred. "Grizz isn't above commandeering federal vehicles when he's in hot pursuit of 'justice.'"

The radio burst with panicked chatter:

"He's got helicopters." Bondo's pretentious accent cracked slightly. "Wait, no. Those are news helicopters. My mistake. Though they're still compromising my cover identity."

"What cover?" Blaze shot back. "You have '007' painted on your doors with white-out."

Sure enough, J.J. could see the aircraft now. The news helicopters must have been drawn by reports of a high-speed chase involving supernatural criminals. This was about to become a very public spectacle.

"This is Father Mayhem. Should we be concerned about the ice cream truck that's joined the sheriff's convoy?"

"The what now?" J.J. grabbed the radio.

Through the mirror, he could indeed see a Mister Softie truck somehow keeping pace with the pursuit vehicles.

"The pixies are having technical difficulties," Torch announced.

J.J. looked ahead to see the Tesla flickering. The rear of the car was completely visible while the front had vanished, making it look like half a car was floating down the highway.

"We went through a car wash," one of the pixies explained through static. “It short circuited a few things.”

“I think I’ve got this,” the other pixie said.

Reality warped and a howling mass of air pulsed over the road.

J.J. barely managed to keep the ambulance on the road.

The dragons went flying off their bikes, but they flapped their wings to get airborne.

The helicopters whizzed off into the distance, their pilots frantically maneuvering for control.

The pixies’ Tesla was still there, but Grizz and his twelve vehicles had disappeared.

“Are they really gone or just invisible?” Farrah asked.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” J.J. said and continued to drive.

Oklahoma Border

J.J.

J.J. was checking his mirrors when a centaur suddenly appeared alongside their ambulance, galloping at seventy miles per hour like it was a casual morning jog. A beat-up pickup truck followed close behind.

"What the hell?" J.J. muttered, staring at the impossible sight.

"Where did they come from?" Farrah asked, equally stunned.

The CB crackled to life. "This is Wildcard Team," came a gruff werewolf voice from the pickup. "While the rest of you clowns have been screwing around getting arrested and stuck under bridges, we've been taking this race seriously."

"You've been racing this whole time?" Torch's voice came through, sounding offended.

"Since New York, dragon boy. Some of us actually want to win."

The centaur never broke stride, his hooves pounding the asphalt in perfect rhythm. Through the pickup's passenger window, J.J. could see the werewolf driver focused grimly on the road ahead, clearly the practical half of their partnership.

"This is Secret Agent," Bondo's cultured voice cut through the chatter. "I'm currently utilizing enhanced surveillance techniques to monitor law enforcement positions ahead."

"You mean you're using vampire super-hearing?" Farrah asked into the radio.

"I can neither confirm nor deny the supernatural capabilities at my disposal," Bondo replied. "However, I can report that there's a significant police presence near the state line. I recommend evasive maneuvers."

Through the windshield, they could see Bondo's Aston Martin moving fast through traffic, the vampire's enhanced reflexes allowing him to navigate gaps that would be impossible for normal drivers.

"All teams be advised," Father Darkness's voice crackled through with obvious strain. "We've been pulled over for excessive speed. Attempting to negotiate with local authorities using our theological credentials."

“How’s that working out for you?” J.J. asked.

“Apparently there isn’t an Archbishop called Beelzebub,” Father Mayhem replied.

The delay was creating chaos on the highway. Behind them, J.J. could see the pixies' Tesla flickering in and out of visibility as they grew impatient with the slowdown.

Meanwhile, Troll one’s voice boomed over the radio. "The bridge ahead is too small for RV. Will make bridge bigger."

"Don't make the bridge bigger!" multiple voices shouted simultaneously.

"Should we make RV smaller?"

"How are you going to do that?" a pixie asked.

"Good question. Will think about this while driving under bridge anyway."

The sound of scraping metal and breaking glass came through the radio, followed by triumphant troll cheering.

"Bridge is now bigger. Problem solved."

The banshee's hearse glided past the entire mess, somehow finding a path through the chaos that no one else could see. Her radio channel remained silent, as always.

"She's going to win this thing," Farrah observed, watching the silent hearse disappear ahead.

Arkansas

Farrah

The Ozark Mountains had turned Highway 40 into a winding nightmare of supernatural chaos, and Farrah was starting to think the ice cream truck might actually be the sanest vehicle in their convoy.

Pop Goes the Weasel had been playing at maximum volume for the past thirty miles, the tinny melody echoing off the mountain walls like some kind of demented battle hymn.

The Mister Softie truck was trapped in the middle of their racing pack, its desperate driver honking frantically as supernatural vehicles weaved around him at illegal speeds.

“The mobile confectionery unit provides excellent cover for our operation. I recommend maintaining current position," Bondo said over a non-secure channel.

"I’m not part of your operation. I was just trying to sell ice cream,” Mr. Softie said.

The pixies' Tesla flickered in and out of existence around the ice cream truck, their dimensional instability apparently triggered by the musical assault. Every time Pop Goes the Weasel hit its crescendo, the car would vanish completely, reappearing seconds later in a different lane.

"The music is interfering with our cloaking frequencies," a pixie reported over the CB.

"Turn it off," multiple voices shouted.

"I can’t,” the ice cream driver said. "It’s been broken since Oklahoma."

Meanwhile, the centaur was somehow keeping pace on the winding mountain roads, his hooves finding purchase on asphalt that seemed impossible to navigate at this speed. His werewolf partner's pickup truck followed with its hazard lights flashing as they weaved through the supernatural traffic jam.

“Please let me off the next exit,” Mr. Softie begged.

"Ice cream truck plays happy song. We like happy song,” Troll one said.

“You’ll come with us to New Jersey,” Troll two said.

The dragon bikers were having the time of their lives, their engines harmonizing with the ice cream melody in a way that created an oddly stirring musical arrangement. Torch had started breathing flame in rhythm with the tune.

Farrah stared out the window at the chaos surrounding them with a mixture of disbelief and delight. The ice cream truck was now flanked by a flickering Tesla, an RV and the dragon bikers.

And that wasn’t the weirdest thing going on right now. Thundering passe them, going the other way on the highway, was a line of semi-trailers. Chrome grills gleamed and leading the charge behind the wheel of a Peterbilt was none other than Bigfoot himself.

He blasted his air horn and saluted her as they sailed on by the Cauldronball run racers.

Tennessee

Grizz

Grizz had his patrol car pushed to its absolute limit on Interstate 40, the engine screaming like a banshee with its tail on fire.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, and his badge was gleaming with the righteous fury of a man who'd been made a fool of one too many times.

"That green sumbitch thinks he can outrun the long arm of the law," he snarled to himself, watching the distant taillights of the racing convoy disappear around a mountain curve.

"Well, Sheriff Grizzley T. Lawman didn't get where he is today by letting' criminals make a mockery of proper law enforcement. "

His radio sputtered with updates from various units, most of them useless as tits on a boar hog.

"Sheriff, this is Highway Patrol Unit Seven. We lost visual on the suspects near Knoxville."

"Well find 'em again, you simple-minded fool. They're in a damn convoy. How hard is it to spot a pack of supernatural freaks tearing' ass through the mountains?"

"Sir, there's also reports of an ice cream truck playing music at dangerous decibel levels."