Horse hooves reverberated along dilapidated roads, singing to the hover-cars dotting the constellated sky. Abraham, buggy reigns in hand, trotted down the Old Roads in a shrouded carriage – gazing upon the empty Lincoln Highway while igniting a fresh tobacco pipe. When he exhaled, the smoke littered from the buggy window, sputtering into the moist, summer breeze.
The Old Roads were abandoned since the advent of InCellect’s PROTON-Chip, which allowed artificial intelligence to maneuver hover-crafts through Federally designated skies – with proper identification, of course. Rendering roads useless, the technological advancement provided both benefits and complications for the Pennsylvania Amish, who traveled by horse and wagon and Christ.
The black stallion trotted by Federal farmlands harvested by InCellect Sentinels: humanoid bots with an unrivaled passion for industrial farming, obeying orders, and occupying meager repair costs. Abraham turned his gaze and clenched his fists. The sentinels never acknowledged his presence.
“A barn needed building,” he thought, “and what a better man for the job!”
It was true, Abraham’s father built barns, and his father before him, father before him, and father before him, father before him, and… father before him. After Abraham’s wife milked the cows, walked the dogs, cooked family breakfast, and prepared his clothes for a difficult day’s work, he kissed the foreheads of his nine children, before boarding the buggy, and leaving for the barn, leaving for the Lancaster Highway – the Old Roads.
However this time he was not alone.
An emerald laser protruded from the Old Roads, zipping country corners, whipping over hilltops, before relaxing into a speed of one hundred and thirty miles per hour. 2120 Ford Mustang. With the InCellect’s AI-powered, “Jerry Driver”, autonomous operating-system removed, the muscle car disregarded speed restraints, and the emergency steering was deployed and accessible.
The driver removed the cap from a glass bottle sitting parallel in the passenger seat – Jim Beam, ancient spirit, trusted companion, he thought. One hand on the wheel, the driver lifted the bottle to his lips, opened his throat, and drained the amber river.
No DUI checkpoints on the Old Roads, no Federal cruisers, no CCTV drones, no thermal traffic monitoring beams. Instead, Lynyrd Skynyrd, a bottle of Jim Beam, and the open road.
The Lincoln Highway vomited gravel and asphalt underneath rubber tires, as the driver tossed the bottle onto the empty passenger seat, fishing for the hand-rolled cigarette tucked into his shirt pocket.
The driver spent two decades fixing the family heirloom, emerald 2120 Ford Mustang, like his father before him, and father before him, and father before him, and… father before him, Jim Beam and all. He shook his fist violently at the hover-cars, searching for the cigarette with his right hand.
“I’d like to see you pull me over now!”
The driver chuckled, whiskey evaporating from his breath.
He failed to see Abraham or his buggy.
The Ford Mustang hopped over disfigured concrete, skipping cracks and crevices, soaring above the horizon, until the driver caught a shadow in the corner of his eye. Too Late.
“YEAAAAAAAaaaagghhhh,” the driver torpedoed the black stallion, an implosion on impact. The horse legs twisted and catapulted underneath the moving vehicle, torso rupturing, and ribcage spearing the windshield before disintegrating into raven hair and plasmic dust.
A sanguine mist, horse bowels, and the steel buggy frame infiltrated the Ford Mustang, ferociously penetrating the driver and propelling the automobile from the Lancaster Highway and into an Oak tree, spewing steel shards and broken glass, before erupting into flames.
Abraham yanked himself from the bloodied asphalt, incisions tracing his palms.
He leaped just in time, leaving his stallion for a lesser fate – a carcass painting the Old Roads like an Amish Cherry pie.
In the distance, Abraham noticed the Ford Mustang, emerald paint crackling underneath the hovering Oak tree, flames marching towards a Federal farm.
InCellect Sentinels ceased their work, producing water cannons from their palms, extinguishing the emerging fire. However they did not drown the engulfed Mustang or the Oak tree, as these coordinates fell outside Federal property.
Emergency services no longer operated the Old Roads. Now he was alone.
Abraham would not build a barn that day, like his father before him, and father before him, and father before him, and… father before him.
THE BADBOOB 