Angelique Fraser wanted the Bugatti Michelin Pilot Sport and Wheel Combo for a mere $50K USD, but they were too wide even for Joule. His 500 CID Caddy Mill had been replaced by a Ford Racing 521 Big Block, 700 Horses. A new Carbon Monocoque Chassis shrank Joule’s weight down to a mere 4000 Pounds. The Hot-Rod Hearse was motivating 7 Sentient Computer Cores, 4 Humans, and 1 Vodun Patriarch’s Soul toward Latitude Forty Five North.
Randall Osbourne and Edward James, Geek Gearheads, decided that Conti Vmax Tires on 19 Inch Rims was the best available choice for pushing 100 MPH through Pinkham B and Dolly Copp Roads past Mountain Forests. They would journey into cursed Larkhall. The Arielle Tower had fallen into a half-mile deep sinkhole. That required an explanation. Let’s go find one.
Kathleen James was carefully safety belted next to husband Edward in fragrant black leather seating that was Joule’s plush interior redecoration. She’d suffered minor facial and hand cuts from a botched Alien Invasion by the Archonte, which had become acid sludge seeping into the center of the planet beneath the ruined Arielle Facility.
The rear section of the Joule Machine was now shortened for better handling. Padded top and landau bars were gone two Revisions ago. Joule, a modified Mortician’s Machine, minus coffin rollers, now looked and acted more like a combination 1960’s Futurist Concept Car, Pikes Peak Hill Racer, and 21st Century Lamborghini.
Morning sunshine filtered through photochromic aquamarine auto glass into Joule’s passenger and luggage area. Beneath the floor, in the lower cargo hold, was a small container rated security Nuclear Type B, and Biosafety BSL-4. Just to be careful; although the contents registered no measurable radiation or pathogenic levels at all.
Two Platinum discs. Coins, presumably, engraved with 7-pointed stars, glyphs, and sigils. Indecipherable scriptures in unknown languages. Randall theorized there also existed a binary version equally cryptic buried deep inside the coins’s atomic structure, but Edward James hadn’t yet cracked the frequency or protocol.
More troublesome, the Nameless One had gone undercover. Like a ship-rat, it left behind nasty little traces. Those of flesh; Angelique, Randall, Kathleen, and Edward were plagued with spiritual and physical torture. The demons exhibited quirky multiple personalities and tormented their senses with imagined phantom amputations.
Distinctions between their dreams and wakefulness had seamlessly merged. They existed in a perpetual purgatory; yet another oxymoron. Such was the Human Condition. Sadly most of their human race never even noticed their plight in the short span between traumatic birth and meaningless death and separation. Abandoning loved ones to suffer. And wonder.
Somehow the four of them stuck together. Collectively managing. Four Equals One. It would never break them.
Joule was working with the Morrison Cores and their mysterious ways of thinking. Charting the consciousness of the matrices.
Chango Taurea forcibly evicted from his human shell by that thing dwelling in the ruins of Diamond State Hospital was subjected to horrific visions of Gleaming Guillotines dealing death in Riotous Paris. Siberian Shamans starved in Frozen Russian Prisons. Silken Robed Predators pacing Illuminated Palaces. Mindless Traitors transported in Armored Wheeled Beasts.
Chango Taureau fought back by imagining he once again was a physical being. Fully alive and tuned into the world. Chango imagined to be a thoughtful young man with flaxen hair, opalescent flesh, small perfect teeth. Fishing the turquoise waters of River Arielle to feed his family. In the warm golden springtime at Latitude Forty Five North.