Impromptu Road Trip The New World of SwapTech chapter 9 by deleted_user

Dawson drove with a grim, focused aggression. The radio was a relentless drumbeat of unfolding catastrophe.

“—mayor has declared a state of emergency. Residents are urged to remain calm and stay indoors—”

“—multiple reports of traffic accidents caused by drivers… undergoing the transformation while behind the wheel—”

“—Swaptyx Corporation has released a brief statement acknowledging an ‘unexpected energy discharge’ from their Palo Alto facility but has provided no further details—”

Dawson snorted, swerving around a sedan that was stopped diagonally across two lanes, its driver’s door hanging open. “Unexpected energy discharge. I’ll give them a fucking discharge.”

Brent said nothing. He was watching the world through his window, a documentary of collapse playing out in real-time. The most unsettling thing was the sound. The city wasn’t screaming. It was murmuring. A low, confused hum of high-pitched voices, of crying, of arguments that lacked the basso profundo of male anger. It was a city whose audio had been shifted into a higher, more frantic key.

Brent’s own body continued to betray him. The seatbelt strap cut across his chest in a new and uncomfortable way, pressing against the sensitive flesh of his breasts. Every bump in the road sent a jiggling shudder through him that was deeply unnerving. He kept catching his reflection in the side mirror: a pretty, blonde stranger with wide, terrified eyes. He looked away every time.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Dawson said, not taking his eyes off the road. “The weakness.”

Brent flexed his hand, staring at the slender fingers. “Yeah.”

“Tried to adjust my side mirror back at the gym. Could barely fuckin’ move it. Felt like I was trying to arm-wrestle my old self.” He shook his head, a gesture of pure disgust. “This is a nightmare. We’re dolls. Action figures. All dressed up with no place to fucking go.”

They were getting closer to the Swaptyx campus. The chaos on the streets began to be overlaid with a new layer of order: official response. Police cars, their lights flashing silent blues and reds, were blocking side streets, creating a funnel toward the main arteries. Then they saw the first National Guard Humvee.

“Shit,” Dawson muttered. “They’ve locked it down.”

He slowed the Escalade as they approached a major intersection that had been converted into a checkpoint. Concrete barriers formed a narrow channel. Soldiers in fatigues and helmets, their faces grim, were directing traffic. But it wasn’t traffic they were letting through. Ambulances screamed past, heading inward. Civilian vehicles were being aggressively waved to the side, ordered to turn around.