“Shots fired, Tulane and Canal,” buzzed the radio, popping with static. “You shits there yet?“

Grinding my teeth, I tightened my grip on the throttle and eased it forward. Behind me, the Dornier-Fusaka powerplant roared to the redline. At these speeds, it didn’t take long. Red put her hand on my arm, pointing out of the window.

I kicked the throttle back, pitching us forward against our safety harnesses, and brought us over the scene in a slow winding circle. The intersection was clogged with stopped traffic, and one vehicle was rolled completely over, flames licking at open air.

“There,” Red said, pointing again. It was an old building, a gas station from the previous era that had been retro-fitted into a drive-thru dinette.

“That place won’t hold us!” I protested, already wincing.

“Don’t have to. Skim it, I’ll get off.” She winked at me and removed her harness, moving between the seats to strap on her bullet-proof vest.

I steered us towards the diner, watching the scene unfolding below.