Thomas’ red 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle stood out from the surrounding self-driving Ampere cars like a cheetah from a pounce of housecats. In his youth he had on occasion used to enjoy the admiring glances and jealous pouts it used to gain him, not that he ever admitted it to anyone. Back then a car like his was associated with qualities deemed desirable, such as power, adventurousness, and confidence. But many things had changed since the beginning of the 21st century, the least of them being the appreciation of muscle cars. Now the sight of his car usually triggered either a look of worry, the type a person gets while watching someone unsteadily balancing on a ledge, or sometimes even an aggressive sneer, the wide-held belief now being that person-controlled cars were a threat to their drivers themselves as well as the surrounding populace.

“I thought nobody liked a backseat driver but living with one 24/7 has become the norm.”

If social media was to be believed, especially children were under constant risk of being run over by selfish, careless drivers who endangered all around them by their refusal to let their car be operated by an infallible AI. “Deadly accidents waiting to happen,” one staunch supporter of computer-driven cars had stated on widely circulated video clip a few years back, and public opinion hadn’t improved since.

“Not that I get many looks of any kind these days,” Thomas mused, watching as the passengers of the cars around him stared into their smartphones, touchscreens integrated to the dashboard or worked on their laptops while their vehicles maneuvered on their own thought the morning traffic. Not being one to follow trends or easily pressured by outside opinions he had stuck with his trusty Chev and had no plans to make the switch, quite the contrary.

Thomas turned the signal on, switched to the lane for left-turning traffic and stopped to wait for the green light. He watched the oncoming traffic get their turn, the cars starting forward at the exact same time and speed while the cars behind them held the distance from bumper-to-bumper a constant. The steady, mechanical movement reminded him of the factory belt his father had used to work on, before he was replaced with a mechanical arm doing the same job faster than a human ever could. In the Ampere to his right the man sitting on what used to be known as the driver’s seat was sleeping with his mouth open as the car scanned the traffic and lights of the intersection, waiting for its turn. As usual, the sight annoyed Thomas. The light turned green, and Thomas roared his engine needlessly loud when starting forward. The startled jump of the suddenly wakened man brought a hint of a smile to Thomas’ lips, which wasn’t lessened by the disapproving stares of other nearby commuters.

“Let them stare,” Thomas thought, “at least they’re paying attention to something for once.”.

Thomas’ drive to work was brought to a stop by a demonstration marching through the streets. His upper lip curved in distaste as he watched the discordant assembly flounder forward. No unison between the members of the mob was visible to the outside observer. In the days of old a mass of people like this had usually gathered together only to champion a common goal, but these days most people had no definite goals that could be put into coherent sentences, much less the hordes they formed.

He honked the horn of his car and waited for the throng to pass. The blare was answered by a disposable coffee cup hitting his windshield and plastering the window with coffee. He turned on his wipers, his brow furrowing further. Watching the passing people bemoan their problems – climate, debts, perceived discrimination – he wondered what they hoped to accomplish. A unified front with a clear message could have accomplished something – and this was as far away from that as one could get. A swarm of rabble voicing their personal grievances as loud as they could to no one in particular – the only thing that could be gathered was that they were discontented, the reason lost under the varying shrieks and cries. Maybe they did not know the underlying reason themselves?

But the discontent was clear, and it ran deep. Every now and then—becoming more common by the month—the cesspit of resentment that was the public opinion of the city overflowed, filling the streets with the dregs better flushed down to the water treatment plant. The multitude flowing past his car was steeped in that stagnant vox populi from the crib till the grave and seemed warped by it, their bodies bloated and misshapen, sickly countenance and eyes as murky as a forgotten backwater swamp.

Some of the marchers closest to him suddenly pointed in his direction with alarmed expressions. Thomas put his car into gear and prepared for a sudden takeoff if the throng turned its vengeful attention on him. He had just barely time to register that it was not him they were pointing at when a white van came barreling down just beside his Chevrolet, crashing into the assembly like a stone thrown into a stream, hurtling the protesters like sacks of potatoes. It cleaved its way into the body of the riot like butcher’s knife through fat. What had been disorder descended into complete chaos with people tackling anybody in their way and stampeding the fallen. The shouts of outrage turned to screams of terror, and people rushed away from the bloodied van.

The van backed up and turned to face perpendicularly to its original orientation, so its right side faced him. The driver was hidden behind the bloodstained, cracked windscreen. The car stood still among the victims and abandoned picket signs.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and was about to get out of the car when the van’s windshield wipers turned on, rubbing aside the blood, and revealing the driver. Even from a distance Thomas could see the fixed grin on the man’s bearded face, his eyes covered behind large-framed glasses. He was breathing deeply and seemed to be collecting himself. He grasped the steering wheel harder with both hands and the car started forward, picking up speed fast. Right towards a mass of fleeing protestors.

Without hesitation Thomas put his car in gear and floored the gas, aiming to intercept the madman. He managed to buckle up with one hand while steering his ride with the other. The van’s driver noticed him and instinctually jerked the wheel counterclockwise trying to avert collision, but Thomas wasn’t so easily avoided. He hit the van on the right side of the hood and the vehicles met with a resounding crash, rocking Thomas against his seatbelt. For a moment, all seemed still, the sounds distant. He gritted his teeth and shook his head and the world around him cleared, the screams of the protesters as sharp as the glass of the shattered windshield which had showered him in the crash. He craned his neck and saw the van’s driver much in the same shape as himself. The man stared at him, enraged, but quickly refocused his attention on the retreating crowd and frantically put his car on reverse to maneuver around the kamikaze roadblock.

Thomas was over his wooziness and rushed out of his vehicle, opened the van’s front passenger’s door and grabbed the man’s collar, dragging him from his seat. His adversary snarled his hate and pummeled him ineffectually, Thomas easily blocking the inept swings with his free arm. A right cross of his own rocked the man’s head back and broke the Ampere smartglasses on his head and he went limp, his resistance ceasing. Thomas heaved and the dazed man tumbled from the vehicle, faceplanting onto the street. He didn’t get up.

Seeing that the immediate threat had passed, Thomas surveyed the scene around him. He was the last man standing in an asphalt field of carnage. The people hit by the van lay still, some in clumps of bodies while others had been thrown further away to rest mangled in pools of their own blood. Among these primary victims of the attack lay the secondary casualties, the people trampled by the madly fleeing herd. Their moans and howls were quickly being drowned out by the approaching wail of the sirens. Still further away, some protestors had stayed at the fringes of the affair and were now filming with their smartglasses, getting as close to the casualties they could without getting any stains on their clothes. He crouched by a woman laying on her back and checked for breath, but she was dead. Her life leaving her body much have taken her earthly grievances with it as her expression was peaceful, almost contented, which was something not seen on the various faces of the protesters.

“You bastard,” growled the man on the ground, getting up on his knees and elbows and wiping blood from his nose. “You will pay for your insolence.”

Thomas turned his attention back on the man. “Insolence? What the hell are you talking about?”

“If only you knew how important I am, how crucial my mission. You would not dare to oppose me like this.”

Apart from the fanatic look in his eye the man was perfectly average and indistinguished. Somewhat overweight and clad in basic clothes in muted colors. The type of person one could talk to and not remember ever having met them the next time they come to chat.

“Is that why you did this?” Thomas asked, gesturing towards the unmoving bodies with his arm. “Because of your ‘mission’?”

The man spat bloody spittle at his feet.

“Someone like you could never understand. And you were too late. I have already succeeded. I was chosen to herald in the perfect world, and this will be more than enough.”

The armored police vehicles had finally broken through the ranks of people massing around the perimeter, and officers in full body SWAT gear were jumping out as soon as their transport stopped, gathering in formation with riot shields poised, their heavy boots thumping as they ran.

“You’ll be watching your perfect world from behind bars or within a padded cell, you damn lunatic.”

The herald grinned, his teeth bloody.

“I never planned on getting away. Why would I? I will be freed soon enough. I will be rewarded in the new world. The world the likes of you will never see.”

“Lie down on the ground immediately,” the amplifier on top of the police vehicle blared as the riot police began advancing in formation. Thomas put his hands up, and reluctantly kneeled and lowered himself on his stomach. Next to him the man kept grinning his bloody smile.

“Welcome to Jack’s High Gear – THE dealership for classic auto enthusiasts,” bid the flashing neon sign as Thomas turned to the parking lot of his workplace. One of the lightbulbs of the sign had burned out again, now leaving about a dozen dark spots in the bright orange letters. Sometimes he felt that the lights were counting down to the end of the dealership and the end of automotive culture as he knew it, leaving him no place in this world.

“Well at least that day is still far of,” Thomas thought with a humorless smirk. “There are still plenty of lights left.”

Under the sign on a pedestal stood a black T 1970 Dodge Charger with the engine supercharger sticking out of the hood. He raised his hand to the sign-spinning high school dropout at the front of the store and glided to his reserved parking spot with his surname—Walker—painted in white on it. The parking spots next to him were already filled, from right to left with a Humvee, a BMW and a station wagon standing in front of the dealership. He alighted, habitually lowering his head when stepping out. He slammed the car door, but the crash must have bent something, so it bounced back and refused to be shut. He examined the dented hood and the empty frame where the windshield used to be and left the door open.

Walking through the sliding automatic doors into the climate-controlled foyer and pushing open the swinging saloon doors he was in the reception area. On his left lining the wall was a row of chairs which terminated at stands where one could find flyers for different insurance companies. At the end of the room was a table with a spurting coffee percolator and some snacks. Next to it stood a pinball machine playing a cheery jingle. Finally, on his right, was the reception desk, behind which the owner of the station wagon and their longtime secretary Naomi Green greeted him with a smile. She had used to be a self-styled model, meaning she had posted pictures of herself with airbrushing filters online. She had enjoyed a decent following in her early twenties and had even managed to earn a living through her social media work which had encouraged her to pursue a career as a top model, waiting for her big break. The break never came, and her place was taken by younger would-be catwalk stars before being made obsolete by customizable virtual reality characters, leaving her with little savings and close to zero marketable skills. She had ended up working at Jack’s which was better than most people in her position could have hoped for, most jobs requiring little education having been taken by machines years ago. Of course, progress had made having a job unnecessary years ago, but she had chosen to stick around. Even now, in her early middle-age, in that smile one could easily see what had allured so many people in the years past. Thomas always made sure to return the smile. His day was usually downhill from here.

“Morning, Tom,” Naomi said, swiping away a loose strand of her blond hair which dangled in front of her cat’s-eye glasses. “You’re late. That’s first.”

“Traffic was a real killer.”

“Ah. Did you see Jason on your way in?”

Thomas nodded: “I think he’s gotten the hang of it”. Jason was Naomi’s nephew, doing odd jobs such as spinning the sign and polishing windshields for the summer. Naomi smiled.

“Make sure to work him to the bone, I want to scare him back to school, remember?”.

“If there was one thing this place excelled at, it was making people think long and hard about their life choices, ” Thomas thought but instead replied: “I know just the task.”

“Oh, and speaking of work, boss was looking for you,” she added as Thomas was turning towards the percolator. “He’s at his office.”

Thomas raised his hand to his temple in a tired salute before heading off from the desk. These types of sudden calls from Jack usually ended with Thomas wanting to quit and drive away without looking back.