Rage (23 page)

She wanted to trust this man. So she did.

What did she have to lose?

“Sit down with me,” she said. “I have something to tell you. And then—we’ll see.”

And she ducked under the bar and led Raine to a table near the back of her dimly lit place.

Before she could even begin, two more customers came in. Somebody from Mick’s shop, all greased up from working under a buggy, and one of Black’s deputies.

She hurried back to the bar to get them drinks, and then returned to Raine.

She kept her voice low.

“People are starting to come in. So, we’ll talk quietly. Got it?”

He nodded.

“I sponsored someone. Named Jack. Good driver. Had a custom Cup.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, confused.

“A Cuprino. Fast, best armor, great steering system—most of it made by Jack himself. Sometimes he won, sometimes he came real close.” She looked away, then back. “We were together. Y’know.”

“Got it.”

“But I guess he started to win too much. Most of it went into his vehicle … but he also bought me things. We even talked of getting away from Wellspring.”

“That even possible?”

“People talk of places. Beyond the Wasteland. But because
he
was winning a lot, someone who was used to winning started to come in second. Someone named Starky.”

The man took a last sip of his drink, killing it.

“Want another?”

He shook his head.

“Starky had been the champ. Everyone loved him. Had a fleet of Cuprinos. Trained other drivers. King of the goddamned races. Then, about two months ago, they announced a Dusty 8.”

“Dusty 8?”

“Part road rally, part lap race. Part of the circuit in the city, part of it outside. Kind of race where anything can happen. Some action took place in the stadium, but most of it was out on the road. Things could happen out there that people couldn’t see.”

She stopped. She’d never told anyone what she felt, what she really believed about that race.
No
, she told herself,
it’s not about belief.
She
knew
what had happened.

“After a run outside, and when the cars came back into the stadium, it was just Starky and Jack, nearly neck and neck. I was in the stadium, watching them roar in …”

“Go on.”

She tilted her head and looked right at the man. “I could see that something was wrong. Jack looked hurt. I mean, there are
no real weapons in the races—but everything else goes. And his Cuprino had a big gash on the right side. Smoke coming out, black oil hitting the track.”

“You think Starky did something?”

“Yeah. I think he did something when they were out on the dirt. The damn hole looked like someone had shot it. But Jack, he had been hurt, too. He was fighting to keep the car rolling forward, to sit up. He had only a few laps to go.”

“No one stopped the race?”

Sally laughed.
Where the hell
did
this guy come from?

“They don’t
stop
races. And as they hit those last laps, I watched Starky begin to maneuver his Cuprino so that one of its extenders—”

“And that is—”

“Something that sticks out and damages another vehicle. Jesus, and you want to race?” She shook her head, but he just sat there, determined. So she went on. “I saw then he was positioning it to cut right into the smoky opening of Jack’s car. Jack was too hurt, too unsteady to see it. Just holding onto the wheel was about all he could do.”

Now Sally stopped. She felt the tears. She hated the goddamn tears. This was no place for tears. Not when it was anger she wanted to hold on to. Anger. Even hate.

Raine didn’t push her to go on.

They sat in silence for what felt like a long time but was only a few seconds. She wiped away the unwanted tears and looked back.

“Starky made his Cup slide into Jack’s, just at the right point. I saw Jack turn, his face bloody, his eyes probably barely able to take in what was happening, The jagged metal of Starky’s cutter sliced open that hole more, and then pulled away. In seconds it was over.”

“What happened?”

“The engine must have seized. Everyone in the stadium could hear the noise, most of these bastards hoping something like this would happen. Jack’s car seemed to stop dead even as its momentum made it fly end over end. I closed my eyes. I didn’t watch. God, I couldn’t watch.”

The tears came this time.
Shit.
She didn’t give a damn.

“But I heard it, Raine. I
heard
it as Jack’s car spun around and smashed on the stadium track. The fuel erupting. An explosion. When I opened my eyes, all I could see was the fire, the great black clouds of smoke streaming up. The only good thing for Jack … it had been fast.”

She stopped. Had she kept her voice down enough? People would talk. Word would get out that she had bad-mouthed the races. Not supposed to do that, nosiree, not in the good city of Wellspring. She wasn’t sure she cared anymore.

“Starky had done that. They
let
him do that.” A deep breath. “That’s why—I don’t sponsor racers.”

“I understand,” Raine said. But he didn’t make a move toward the door. Instead, he waited as if knowing she had one more thing to say.

A smart guy, this Raine.

“But I see you need help. And I’m … willing to help. A deal. I will sponsor you—for one race. That’s it. But only if you promise to take out Starky.”

Now it was the man’s turn to look around the room, keeping his voice to a whisper.

“Kill him?”

“If that happens, fine. But make sure that it’s a long time before Starky and his car ever race again.”

“My car is a piece of—”

“That’s the deal, Raine. You want it?”

Now he hesitated. But only for a second.

He nodded. “Okay. You got a driver.”

The door to the bar opened. Getting closer to quitting time for the workers. It would get busy now.

“Good. Tell Jackie Weeks. He’ll get you set up and put the bar’s name on your buggy. And look—you got no place to stay?”

“Yeah. There is that problem, too.”

“When I close, later tonight, come by, help clean up. There’s a storeroom in back. As long as no one comes around asking questions about you … you can stay there.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, Raine. Now I got a bar to run.”

And Sally got up and left the table.

R
aine awoke at midday, the darkness of the storeroom hiding the afternoon light.

He had helped pick up when the bar closed last night, pulling chairs back into place, cleaning the floor, taking out the trash.

Sally didn’t have much to say after he came out of his room. They both watched the hours run down and race time draw close, lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually, though, she looked at him. “You better go,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, and he walked out of the bar and headed back to where he left his buggy.

•  •  •

Except it wasn’t there.

“Where’s my buggy?”

Jackie Weeks looked up from the innards of an engine sitting on an open frame. Guess that’s how they put these things together, Raine thought. Grab an engine, a frame, find some seats, get a fuel tank.

“No one told ya? Once you got your sponsor, Mick had to get Sally’s name painted on. Of course, not much space for that on what you’re driving. Still, you got a sponsor.”

“So—Mick has it?”

“You really don’t know how it goes, do you? See, the cars are put in position in the stadium. Yours is probably there already. Then at race time, I announce all the drivers as they come out one by one. Showmanship, got it?”

“Right. So I head in here?” Raine pointed to a corridor that led into the back of the stadium.

“Yeah. I’ll walk you down later. Being that you’re new and all. But hold on. Mick did some things to your buggy. Don’t you want to learn about them?”

“Sure.”

“First, that engine of yours? Not the most efficient or powerful. Not sure you’d even be able to keep up if I didn’t have Mick tinker. What he did was … well, these engines don’t burn the fuel that we cook up too good. Most engines have to be modified. Yours—no time to really do that. Know anything about engines?”

“I’ve had some die on me.”

“Funny. I like that. A real
jokester.
’Kay, so Mick figured out something—when you burn the fuel, the engine shoots out the exhaust, laced with fuel. But if the carburetors can reuse some of that exhaust, you can get a second quick burn. Just a little extra
push.
Like getting a double shot. Pretty nifty, if I do say so myself.”

“An afterburner.”

“Hm? An after-what? I dunno. Anyway, you will see, more speed, more power. You’ll need it. And then there’s your defenses, as in … you didn’t have any.” He laughed at that.

Everyone seems
really
concerned about my buggy’s defenses.

“It’s amazing you’ve stayed alive without them. So he put in some ramming hooks, front and back. Nothing fancy. But also, you’ll see by the driver’s seat, Mick put in a lever. Lowers a side panel on both sides of your vehicle … about forty-five degrees. Got a nasty edge to it. Good for taking a slice out of another buggy.”

“Can I bring my guns?”

“You do like to make with the jokes, eh? So that’s about it. I got to get to the booth. Showtime, you know. You can go find Mick if you got any more questions.”

Then a smile that Raine took to be not a good thing.

“Oh—and you can meet … the competition.”

Raine walked into a large room filled with smoke and loud chatter. The feeling in the room felt familiar.

Before a mission, grunts milling about, waiting for the order to hit their Humvees or get into choppers. Jokes, nervous excitement, stuff that would all dissipate once they made a move.

“You, Raine … Raine, get over here.”

He turned and saw a scrawny guy wearing a belt of tools that looked heavy enough to drag him down to the ground.

“You must be Mick.”

“Got it. Mr. Weeks tell you about the mods to your buggy?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Mick looked around at the room of people. “Couldn’t let you race against these guys in what you had. Goddamn, no. People would think it’s a fix. Not that you, a newbie, will be able to do
anything in today’s race. Just stay alive. But you gotta pop your cherry somewhere.”

Interesting, Raine thought, how some phrases survived. Probably all those connected to the most basic human functions. They lived on.

As Mick spoke he looked around the room. A few other drivers seemed to have taken note of him; others went on talking, laughing.

No one talking to me, Raine thought.

A newcomer must be bad luck.

He spotted someone tall wearing a broad-brimmed hat. Even from across the room, Raine could see the shiny glow of a badge.

“Mick—who’s that guy?”

“Him? Sheriff Black. Likes to come back here, talk with the drivers.”

“He works for Clayton?”

Now Mick laughed. “If you say so. Could be the other way around.” Mick looked around, then back to Raine. “Black always comes in when Starky’s racing.” Now Raine looked at the man that the tall sheriff, this Wellspring lawman, was talking to.

He was dressed in brown leather, like what in the last century would have been a motorcycle outfit. Guy had a gut, a few extra pounds from spending his prize money on rarities, no doubt. The man nodded as Black spoke.

Then, just as Raine was looking at him, the man looked over.

That, Raine thought, has got to be Starky.

“Hey, gotta go, man,” Mick said. “Enjoy your new wheels … long as they last.” Mick wandered over to some other drivers, leaving Raine alone … and under the scrutiny of Starky. The race champ grinned, nodding as Black spoke to him.

Then a laugh.

Fresh meat, Raine thought. That’s probably what they think I am.

Suddenly he wondered what he had agreed to—to Clayton, to do this race, to Sally—to get payback against what was obviously one nasty piece of work. A racing star.

Raine looked away.

Then, echoing from outside, he could hear the magnified voice of Jackie Weeks.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Wellspring, honored guests from Capital Prime, representatives of all the settlements who have joined us today … welcome to … The White Rabbit!”

The White Rabbit.

Chasing the rabbit didn’t turn out so well for Alice …

What are my chances?

But Mick had gone, and now the drivers began gathering near a door to the back, getting ready to be introduced to the fans in the stadium.

No one looked at Raine as he moved into place.

It was as though he wasn’t there at all.

And that can’t be a good thing, he thought.

Jackie Weeks introduced the first driver, and Raine saw a kid—couldn’t have been more than seventeen—push his way past the other drivers, out to the stadium.

A smattering of applause.

Like Clayton said, people came here from all over to try their luck. Must need a steady stream of new drivers, with their battered vehicles and dreams of success.

Then someone up front told Raine to get close, get ready; he was next.

Another newbie, he thought.

He had to push his way past the other drivers, down the narrow corridor, then out—

To the stadium.

The place was filled—but the sound that greeted him wasn’t deafening. No, just a few whistles, some applause. But he could see the people of Wellspring filling every seat.

“And direct from the Wasteland, Nicholas … Raine!”

Raine walked out. Twilight here, but no lights on yet—though he could see big lights that must have once lit Friday night football games.

Bet they had to conserve those babies.

He looked around for his buggy, and saw it farthest to the left. Down the long line of a dozen cars or so, where the first announced driver—the kid—also waited.

Guess the pros got the center slots.

Jackie Weeks went on calling the other names. But Raine took the time to look at the course laid out on the track.