Free The Nervous System by Nathan Larson

vehicles and spinning it sideways, we’re past them, the two crabs laid flat, a cop getting out of the Chevy and ducking back in quick because:
    The chopper comes in low and close, very close, and hangs on our bumper, its runner about six feet off the blacktop, risky business. It could cut loose with the gun (fuck, or missile) at any time, no problem.
    The vibe is ill ; the vibe is overkill, headed downhill quick. I drop into the wheel well.
    â€œOh Jesus. Aw shit,” says my companion, saying it for me, he’s really sweating now, gripping the steering mechanism. “I don’t think they’d—”
    Ah, but they do, they open up on us with the chain gun, “bulletproof” tinted plexiglass absolutely everywhere, All-America is hit countless times, I have to gag as his blood Pollocks my face and suit (thankful the suit, as mentioned, is a dark brown, thankful for my mask, these small things), even as I’m reaching for the bottom of the steering wheel to steady us I’m thinking blood on wool, blood on wool , it’s going to be a bitch to clean, and I lean across the sputtering soldier trying to speak through half a face, red bubble where his mouth was, throw open his door and give his soon-to-be-lifeless husk a solid shove, we’re moving at a good clip and he folds up without protest, tumbles sideways, and is gone, helicopter lets loose another volley of bullets, perforating the front windshield but not shattering it, leaving a polycarbonate sieve, weird, me pushing down the gas pedal with my right hand, trying to steer with the pinky of my left, also trying to maintain a hold on my pistol, keeping my dome low, only as the noise of the chopper banking up and back hits me do I realize I’ve not been hearing anything since the first round of fire, fuck, we jump the curb, I’m up in the driver’s seat and see only rustcolored masonry rushing up at me, jerk the wheel blindly to the left and the vehicle skids into a wall side-on, I note the words RESIDENCE and MARRIOTT and am then hurled through the driver’s window, something smacks my mouth hard and lands in my lap.
    All movement is sucked out of my world, and I am still.
    It’s a nice moment. Meditative even. My ever-flowing lip wound is open again, and I lick at it, metallic and salty. On automatic I fish out a new face mask and swap it leisurely with the old one, blood-misted and nasty.
    Facing north up Sixth Avenue, a Cyna-corp helmet covering my crotch. Now the front window gives, just sort of sloughs apart in an understated way like melting ice, and small chunks plexicarb/glass mix quietly, spread out across the dashboard, the seat. I take a breath.
    Not sure if I’ve hit my head. I watch the black helicopter idly, a block down, describe an elegant turn, on its way back … to me.
    Snap to, Decimal.
    I hustle out a pill, lay it on my tongue, and choke it back. This is far more ultraviolence than I anticipated. An x-factor is in effect here. Under normal circumstances these people are highly disciplined—hell yeah, they’re killers—but they tend to fuck you up more by their tenacity than sheer wide-net mayhem.
    Well, let’s make some lemonade.
    My CZ is still grasped loosely in my left paw. Look around, look around, a few things I could grab, up above the windshield is a racked shotgun, this I jerk free with my right hand, very very little time so I’d better make some good decisions, I’m extremely calm and can see the ridiculousness of my situation, all this unnecessary ruckus over little decrepit me and some prehistoric political sex-murder, slide my ass across the front seat under the assumption that I am not injured, and knock the passenger’s door open with my shoulder, which is painful, falling out onto the street, lose my footing for a moment as my hands are full of guns, steady, spin a full circle in accordance with the System (left turn, left turn), now hoofing it