The steady roar of the engine resonated into the cockpit of the Civic as he sped along the interstate. He was bound for any city but the one he had just came from. All of a sudden, the cops had suddenly became concerned that their jurisdiction had become overrun by racers and started cracking down. It had started thirty two days before when they had busted some of the head racers and had escalated to where if anyone was in a suspicious car, it was impounded and they were arrested. Bayview had turned into a hell hole.

He had head rumors that the "Street King had left months before in search of a new town to rule. The King had fled to the east coast, supposedly; so that's where he was headed.

He shifted up a gear and noticed his gas meter was almost on empty. He pulled off on the next exit and coasted into a nearby gas station. He pulled up to one of the pumps and stepped out of the car. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his brown leather wallet. He flipped it open and slipped out his debit card and was about to insert it into the card slot on the pump but stopped just before he did. He retracted his hand and looked at the card. He figured that it was better if he didn't use it, just in case the police were possibly tracking it. He closed his car door and walked inside of the station and bought a Monster BFC energy drink and a pack of Twix. He walked up to the counter and set them down. He grabbed a Five Hour Energy shot and asked the cashier to ring it up with thirty dollars for pump five. The older woman behind the counter nodded and rang it up and charged him thirty eight dollars and ten cents. He thanked her as she put his stuff in a bag and walked out to pump his gas. As he stepped outside and began pumping the gas he remembered how he had been forced out of Bayview.

It had happened at noon earlier that day, he had been sitting down, eating his lunch when his cell phone rang. He didn't answer it in time and received a voicemail. Instinctively, he picked it up and listened. It was the exasperated and panicked voice of one of his fellow racers screaming at him to run, because the cops were making a raid on his house that hour. He was told that they almost caught Rachel Teller and other big shots. His friend explained that he was currently running from the cops on foot. He then had heard the sounds of voices yelling over the phone to stop running and put the phone down. There was a sharp click as the line had been disconnected. The next thing he did was sprint to his living room window and looked outside. He head sirens in the distance that were drawing closer. He turned and ran to his bedroom, grabbed his butterfly knife and his Kershaw flip knife. He reached under his bed and grabbed a black plastic case. He set it on top of the bed and opened it. Inside was a Walther P22 pistol and two magazines. It was really, in other people's opinion, under powered for a Walther, but to him a .22 pistol could do enough damage to put someone into a hospital. He grabbed the magazines, slid one into the handle and stuck the other in his pocket. He put the gun on safety, even though no round had been chambered, and jammed the gun into the back of his belt. He grabbed a T-shirt, hat, sunglasses and a pair of black Dickies cargo shorts. He ran down to his garage, dumped it all into his back seat and ran back to grab what ever he could. He got his laptop, charger and accessories. He glanced over at his Xbox 360 and was torn. He had just bought it and had gotten all the Achievements on COD Modern Warefare 2. He was frozen… He finally ran back down, deposited the laptop and went back to get it. He found a space to put it into his trunk without hitting any of his sound system. He then pocketed his cell phone, but switched it off. He ran into the garage and grabbed some tools for his car, a pair of socks from his dryer and his keys. His heart had been beating almost out of his chest as he started the car and hit the garage remote. Thankfully he had filled the gas tank the night before. As the door lifted the entire way, he floored the pedal and blasted out of the garage. He looked into his side mirror and saw black and white patrol cars chasing close after him. He had never been so scared in his life…

Just recollecting it made his pulse spike as gas flowed from the nozzle of the pump and into his tank. Even though he was only nineteen, he felt like he had aged five years in the past six hours. He sighed loudly as the pump beeped and stopped. He got into his blue 1999 Honda Civic. He keyed the ignition and the engine roared to life. He drove slowly out of the station and back onto the interstate, heading East. Once he was at cruising speed he opened the Monster and took a sip from it. It was refreshing and brought a little energy back into him. He knew he couldn't stop now, it was now East Coast or bust.

As he drove along, he finished the Monster and ate the Twix bars. He was doing a steady 100 MPH, just to be safe as he figured that the state police were on the look out for racers exiting Bayview. Though he was well out of the county and city, he was still slightly paranoid. Trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible, he switched off the blue flashing underglow. As the sun went down he went as far as he could on the five hour energy shot and then went off the road and found an abandoned warehouse just off the main drag of a small highway town. He pulled the large, rusty doors shut after he parked inside. He got back inside the car and reclined his seat as far back as it could go. He fell right asleep.


He was woken up by a sharp rapping on his driver side window. He shook his head and sat up. He rolled down the window to find a revolver shoved into his face. "Get the hell out of the car!" the person in street clothes said loudly. As he reached for the door with one hand, with the other he hid his Kershaw knife into the long sleeve of the button up shirt he had worn the day before. He stepped out of the car and faced the guy, with his hands up. The knife was clipped onto the cuff of the shirt sleeve that was resting on the back of his hand. The other man grabbed his shirt and shoved him away from the car. "Your car is mine, Bitch!"

He stepped toward the carjacker, saying in a calm voice, "Hey, buddy, I'm sure we can work something out. But I need that car." The other man turned and smashed the wooden/metal grip of the pistol against his temple. He saw stars for a second as he fell to the floor. This guy means business! He stood back up looked his attacker in the eye. The thief swung the gun at his head again, but was stopped with his left forearm. He flipped the Kershaw open and put it up to the other man's neck. He twisted his arm around the thief's and yanked up as hard as he could at the elbow joint. There was a sickening crunch as the joint broke and a clack as the thief dropped the gun. He picked up the gun and dropped all the bullets out of it and threw the gun across the warehouse. He quickly ran to the other man and dragged him by the neck of his clothes to the side opposite the gun. He closed the knife and he then sprinted to the warehouse door and pushed it open and got into the car and drove off as fast as he could.

He quickly moved back onto the interstate and sped along toward his destination. He stopped at a small diner when he got hungry and gassed up when he needed to. After five days of staying in parking garages and abandoned lots, he was almost to the east coast. He woke up on the fifth day to receive a message on his car's SMS. It was from Rachel Teller to all of the Bayview racers still out of jail. It read "This is Rachel, don't come anywhere near Bayview, I suggest you get out of the state like I did. Good luck to those out there." He touched the screen and sent a message back to her that read: Rachel, where did the King go, I think we all could have a better chance if we find where he is.

He drove Eastward for about an hour before there was a reply that read, "The last he spoke to me was about three months ago and he said that he was going to see what the racing scene was like in Rockport, Massachussets." He typed back a thank you and checked the GPS for Rockport. He set the destination and headed off.


He reached Rockport two days later. He drove through the downtown of the city marveling at the skyline and the general street set up. In his mind the city seemed to be built for racing. He stopped at a Burger King to get some food and came out to find two cops studying his car. He felt adrenaline rush to his body as he saw them. He walked up and said, "'Morning officers." One of them turned around and shook his hand and responded, "How are you. This is a nice Civic you have got here, it looks almost race worthy." He took a step toward the car after thanking the officer, but was stopped by the officer's hand. "You had better not be racing in this town, for your own good." On that note the cops walked off to their patrol cars and left. He ate his burger and fries and emptied the energy drink cans and junk food wrappers from the trip into a nearby garbage can.

Once satiated, he pulled out of the BK and started to head north to where the small suburban district of Rosewood was located. He reached Rosewood easily, even by obeying the speed limits. He reached a stoplight and a black 2006 Eclipse pulled up beside him. The window on the right side of the eclipse rolled down as the driver of the other car revved the engine and shouted over to him, "How much do you bet I could smoke you all the way to the fifth stoplight down the road?" He lowered his own window some more and turned down his stereo system to reply, "How much d'ya got?"

The other racer held up two Benjamins, so he pulled out two hundred from his wallet to match the other man's. He nodded and they looked forward to wait for the green light. He revved his engine, which was slightly louder than the Eclipse's due to the larger aftermarket exhaust. The car rumbled to the engine as it revved up and down.

After what seemed like an eternity, the light turned green. He threw it into gear and floored it. The torque on the wheels made them burn out, leaving two long black marks on the asphalt road. He flew forward shifting up when the Tachometer hit red and he sped across the stretch of straight road that was just over a quarter mile long. He out shifted and outraced the eclipse. Once he hit the fifth light, he slowed down and let the Eclipse catch up to him. They pulled off to a nearby parking lot and the guy driving the eclipse handed him the two hundred dollars and said, "Hey, dude, you race pretty good, I think you should meet some friends of mine." He agreed and followed him in the black eclipse to a rather large warehouse near the shipyards just outside of the Camden district. He waited inside of his Civic as the eclipse driver got out and knocked on the door of the warehouse. The door slid open and several men stepped out and looked over at him as the guy who drove the eclipse pointed over at him. Obviously they didn't quite agree, but after a short argument the skinny guy waved for him to follow in.

He drove in, and saw a huge interior filled with about thirty something street tuned cars, driven by both men and women. He followed the Eclipse and found an open spot for him to park. He exited the car, took the keys and waited. The guy got out of the Eclipse and said, "Yo, you've got to meet someone, so follow some more." He shrugged and obeyed. As the other man turned, he noticed that there was a tattoo of the Biohazard symbol on the man's right deltoid. He walked after the man and was brought before an average sized white guy who was fairly muscular and working on a black and red Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution. The skinny guy tapped him on the shoulder and said, pointing him out to the guy with the EVO, "Hey, this guy just out raced me during a drag from 54th to 59th street and beat me by about four seconds." The other guy turned around and smiled as he crossed his arms. He could almost feel the guy sizing him up and was squirming on the inside. The muscular guy said in a rough monotone voice, "So you smoked Johnny here? That's a pretty big accomplishment, considering he is usually good a drag racing. So you like racing, man?" He nodded, and shook the guy's hand. The other guy continued on in his monotonous voice, "You can call me Rog. That guy you beat is Johnny, and this is what's left of the Rockport racing scene, well at least for the next three to six months, depending on how many infractions the head guys got nabbed for. I take it you are good with cars, so you should fit in just fine here. So what do we get to call you?" Rog waited for a response, so he replied, "My name's Chris, Chris Evans." Chris shook Rog's hand and then Johnny's. Rog laughed and said, "Well, Chris Evans, welcome to Rockport! Here, I'll give you some heads-ups on what it's like here…"