fade to white
by Tom Koperwas
Eighteen-year-old Billy Torrent, dressed in black Klim Dakar pants and leather jacket, exited his parent’s house in the ’burbs and strode over to his new motorcycle sitting in the driveway: a light grey Kawasaki Ninja H2. Freezing in his tracks, he stared in disbelief. “Looks like the bike’s changed colour somewhat!” he exclaimed, examining the machine. “From grey to off-white. Huh.”
The tall young man with a square jaw, furrowed brow, and long black hair turned his slate grey eyes skyward and scrutinized the boundless white cloud-sheet hanging over the sky, obscuring the sun. “Must be some kind of optical effect,” he muttered to himself.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he depressed the button on the remote fob and fired up the powerful, supercharged hypersport bike. As it warmed up, he listened appreciatively to the rumbling exhaust note of the world’s most powerful factory street bike. All he had to do was disengage the safety features of the advanced driving support systems. With no clutch, brake, or traction controls, or cornering management function, the raw experience and uncontrolled thrill of the Ninja were his to enjoy to the max. Mounting the machine, he headed out of the neighbourhood, up the ramp onto the highway.
Shifting rapidly through the gears, he sliced through the high-speed traffic, weaving in and out of the busy lanes. Popping wheelies, he raced past the vehicles as if they were standing still, heedless of attracting the highway patrol. None of them, after all, could outrun a bike as fast as his. The miles flashed by like greased lightning; then he exited the highway and headed to the quiet, shady street of his girlfriend’s place.
Turning up Dire Avenue, he passed a small white ghost bike* festooned with flowers, chained to a tree in the middle of the boulevard. Ignoring the haunting memorial, he continued up the street to the arts and crafts house where Kathrin Dred lived with her parents. The tall, slim sixteen-year-old girl with high cheekbones, long graceful nose, intelligent green eyes, and thick dark hair stood waiting in the driveway in her goth-inspired long-sleeve blackline dress.
Pulling up next to her, he shut off the bike. Removing his helmet, he smiled and said, “I’m going for a coffee at the Satellite Drive In. Want to come along?”
“Uh-uh!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “You drove your old bike like you had a death wish. And now you’ve gone out and got yourself a crazy fast motorcycle as white as that ghost bike down the street!”
“White?” cried Billy, looking down at the Kawasaki. “Well, what do you know? It does look sort of white now. A kind of dull white.”
“Drive carefully,” she whispered, giving him a gentle kiss. “See you when you get back.”
Billy fired up the bike and headed down the street, laughing dismissively at the silent ghost bike. Back on the highway again, he opened the throttle wide, leaving the high-speed traffic far behind, ignoring the sun’s glare shining in his eyes. Up ahead, he sighted a bridge he had to pass under. In the corner of his eye, he made out what looked like a large white dog running out onto the highway from under the shadowy bridge abutment. He hit his brakes, but it was too late; he was going too fast to avoid hitting the animal. There was a loud noise, and he felt himself flying through the air. Then everything went black.
****
Billy opened his eyes. He was sitting in the Satellite Drive In, a steaming cup of coffee standing before him on the table. Staring at the hot drink, he knitted his brows and concentrated. Something had happened to him, but what?
The bright overhead lights shimmered in the coffee. Examining the surface of the brown liquid, he realized he couldn’t see his reflection. Reaching for the cup, his hand passed through its paper surface and the liquid inside as if it were unreal and insubstantial. Stunned, he closed his eyes tight. When they opened, he found himself standing in the center of the Satellite parking lot. Mystified, he cast his eyes about the shadowy asphalt. The outdoor lights were shut off and the lot was empty except for a lone motorcycle, idling quietly, as if it were waiting for someone to drive it. The white machine, faintly resembling his Kawasaki Ninja, glowed as if it were florescent, while its headlight cast an unearthly beam of blue light.
Billy felt drawn to the strange bike. Without hesitation, he put on the helmet that was sitting on the seat. Mounting the bike, he raced out of the parking lot onto the highway, green flames and sparks pouring out of the exhaust pipe. Up ahead, he saw the flashing lights of an ambulance parked next to a smashed motorcycle lying under a bridge.
Smiling, Billy tore past the wreck, racing full speed toward the full moon rising over the highway. As the bright white bike accelerated, its exhaust howled like a wild banshee in the night. Faster and faster he went, until the bike merged into the lucent moonlight; fading to white...
THE END
* A ghost bike is a white-painted bicycle placed at the site of a fatal bike accident that serves as a roadside memorial for the dead.
Photo of Thomas Koperwas
BIO: Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His story Vacation won a Freedom Fiction Journal Top Crime Editor's Choice Award 2024. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in: Anotherealm; AntipodeanSF; Jakob’s Horror Box; Literally Stories; The Literary Hatchet; Literary Veganism; Bright Flash Literary Review; Bombfire; Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; The Sirens Call; Yellow Mama Webzine; 96th of October; Underside Stories; Danse Macabre; A Thin Slice Of Anxiety; Androids and Dragons; Chewers & Masticadores; Masticadores Canada; The Piker Press; etc.