Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares (17 page)

Chapter Eighteen

P
oet's head ached as he
held onto
Camille's waist. They'd been traveling long enough for Poet to have lost track of the streets, his worry for Sketch outweighing everything else. Flint had taken his friend, after breaking several of his fingers. He promised to do worse if Poet didn't comply.

The motorcycle came to a stop, and Camille pulled off her helmet and looked back at him. “You okay?” she asked. “I might have jostled you around a bit. Sorry about your head. Skillet is an idiot sometimes.” She climbed off the bike and then took Poet's arm to help him to his feet.

“Where's Sketch?” Poet demanded. On the ride, Poet had considered trying again to force open a tunnel, but that would have left Sketch behind. He didn't want to take the risk, especially now that he knew the Dream Walkers were ruthless.

“He's waiting at the track,” Camille said.

Poet looked around, finally getting a view of the scene. The motorcycle was parked at the curb in front of a coliseum. Search lights swung back and forth from the top of the five-story, curved, metal-framed building. But it was what was behind the wall that made Poet's breath catch. Towering above the highest level was a massive vertical speedway visible from the front. It stretched miles into the sky, through the clouds and cutting in front of the moon. If that was the racetrack, how the hell did riders get back to the ground once they were up that high? It was a straight drop.

“Come on,” Camille said, pushing him forward. “The others are waiting inside.”

As they entered the main arches, heading toward the track, there were vendors lining both sides of the walkway. Smoke and gases thickened the air, and the smell of meat filled Poet's nostrils. He passed a stand with souvenirs, the vendor a blue-skinned girl selling T-shirts. As Poet watched, the images on the shirts changed from a racer, to an image of him in his suit and hat. “Poet Anderson” it read underneath. The vendor smiled at him, and he continued forward, afraid of what was about to happen when he met up with the others.

Poet and Camille entered the track area through a crowd of anxious fans, some touching Poet affectionately as he passed. In the coliseum, a group of racers were already on the track, kneeling next to crazy-looking bikes as they tuned them and prepared.

“What the hell are those?” Poet asked, pointing.

“Gravity-bikes,” Camille said loudly. “And they're dangerous as hell.”

The gravity-bikes were sleek, glowing, two-wheeled motorcycles with low seats and even lower handlebars. The rider would lean forward, almost like they became part of the bike. Poet didn't understand how they worked and he didn't really care to find out.

Camille tugged on his sleeve and turned him toward the area where the other two Dream Walkers were standing with Sketch. Sketch looked terrified and in pain, holding his wrist to himself as he stood next to Skillet.

Felix walked up to the group, staring at Poet with a bunch of betting tickets clutched in his meaty fist. “You're in the first race, kid,” he told Poet. “And then,” Felix turned to the Dream Walkers, “you'll get your Night Stalkers. I've already got their location.”

“The ones I specifically mentioned?” Flint asked, leaning in.

“Yes, yes,” Felix said impatiently, and reached out his hand.

“Then we have a deal.” Flint glanced at Felix's outstretched hand, opting not to shake it. Flint walked over and handed Poet his helmet. “Let's see what you can do, kid,” he said with a handsome smile, as if Poet wanted to be here.

“I don't…what's going on?” Poet asked. “Why in the world would I do this race?”

Flint's smile faltered, and he leaned his mouth near Poet's ear to whisper. “Because I know what you're really after, Poet. You're trying to find your brother, and these clowns know where he is. You just need the right currency.”

He straightened and Poet stumbled back a step with the deep heaviness of realization. Alan was here. His brother was in the Dream World, after all. Before he could even accept that, Flint was talking again.

“Besides,” Flint added good-naturedly. “If you don't, we'll kill your friend.” He tapped hard on the helmet in Poet's hands, nearly making him drop it, and told him to have a good race. Within moments, Poet was surrounded by a team of people who were checking over his bike, but when one removed his bowler hat, he ripped it back from their hands. The crowd pushed him forward onto the track. The faceless hoard got him on the gravity-bike, and wrapped heavy straps over his feet, locking him in place.

Poet looked around and saw other riders at the line, their teams strapping them in to their bikes. The riders wore tight body suits and helmets with moving graphics glowing on the side. Poet had a helmet, but he was still wearing his doorman's suit, which was clearly not the most aerodynamic option. In the sky across the track, a huge video screen showed the racers setting up with a quick pan before pausing on him. The crowd cheered.

Poet looked at the crowds in the stands, and at the people along the track, thrashing and yelling, ready for the big race. But when he looked at the controls on the gravity-bike, his heart sank. It was complicated, gauges with trembling needles, three different colored buttons, and language that he couldn't read. He had no idea what to do, or how to even start the engine. But Flint said he could find Alan if Poet won this race. So he had to win.

Poet shot an anxious look at Sketch, and his friend said something to Skillet. Skillet glanced over with his one good eye and nodded. Sketch jogged ahead, checking behind him as if the Dream Walkers meant to stop him, and came to kneel next to Poet on the starting line.

“Told you these guys were bad news,” Sketch said as Poet slipped on the helmet the Dream Walker had given him. “But while you were off doing whatever—”

“She bashed me over the head and put me on a bike,” Poet pointed out, snapping the buckle at his neck.

“Okay, fine,” Sketch allowed. “And my fingers are broken.” He held up his hand, his first two fingers bent at a painful angle. “So we're even. Now, while waiting for you, I asked around about this gravity-bike. Got some pointers for you.”

“Finally some good news,'” Poet said. “So how exactly does this thing work?”

Sketch leaned in and showed him the basics.

“Mostly,” he said, “the bike is set up to learn about you, and your movements. It'll react to your needs.” Sketch paused. “That's why that bookie wanted you. You're a Poet, so you'll have an advantage because, theoretically, you can channel your emotions. You can make your bike go faster than anyone's.”

“Yeah, I can't do that,” Poet clarified. “I don't have control of shit.”

“I said theoretically,” Sketch told him. “Now this,” he pointed to a red switch, “is the most important tip. Don't flip that unless you think you're going to die, all right?”

“That is alarmingly unspecific,” Poet said. “What does it do?”

“It shuts off magnetic gravity,” he said. “So if you make it to the upturn, then—”

“If I make it? Jesus, Sketch.”

“Sorry, when you get to the upturn, most of the guys will hit it so they can go up faster. They'll pass you. You'll feel like you're about to lose. But when they get to the top and switch it back on, it'll be too late. They'll shoot past the track and by the time the bike readjusts, sucking them to the track at the wrong angle, they're going to come crashing down so hard, most will be incinerated on impact. Don't use it. Just ride and coast over the edge. No sense in free falling to your death.”

Poet looked ahead to where the track stretched into the air. “Exactly how high does it go?”

Sketch smiled, trying to look hopeful. “It's best if you don't think about it.” He started to back away, but Poet reached out to grab his jacket.

“Am I going to make it?” Poet asked, truly realizing the danger of his situation.

“Of course,” Sketch responded immediately. “And don't worry about me. I'm going to give them the slip before the race ends. So do whatever it takes to win. Got it?”

Poet looked again at the track, but saw no end point. No lap markers. Instead, the sky-high track dove into a hole in the ground, a red glow illuminating from it. “Um,” he started. “And how exactly do I win?” Poet asked.

“You don't die,” Sketch said and slapped the top of his helmet.

Poet's lips parted in shock, and he glanced up to the giant screens that all went white with the words Death Race in black. “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” Poet murmured to himself.

A greasy-looking man with slicked-back hair walked onto the track with a microphone. “Riders,” he announced. “Take your places on the line!”

The rest of the riders got into position, and Sketch faded into the crowd as they all jostled for position on the sidelines, hurling insults and hopes for slow and painful deaths. Poet tried to block them out, concentrating as he looked over the complicated-looking gravity-bike. He was so dead.

“Be sure to keep out of the way, kid,” a rider next to him called. Poet looked sideways, but the man was wearing a blackout helmet so he couldn't see his eyes. “If you fall back, the first fifteen or so will crash on the first turn. They can't wait to get a nut off. Be smart and maybe you'll last a little longer.”

Poet wasn't sure if he should thank him or if the rider was trying to throw him off his game, because a second later there was a loud horn, a sonic boom, and the riders all exploded off the mark, including the guy who'd been talking to him. Poet quickly leaned forward the way Sketch told him to. He'd said the bike would “learn” about him. Well, his was the last bike at the line, so hopefully it learned from its mistakes. There were jeers and fits of laughter from the crowd, and on the sidelines, Skillet bent over, slapping his knee as he cracked up.

Suddenly, Poet's gravity-bike kicked forward like a bullet, nearly knocking him off balance. He quickly acclimated himself to the feel, and was soon passing other, less-confident drivers. For a moment, it was even fun. Poet zigged in and out of the lanes, and at the first turn, two gravity-bikes bumped each other, sending them both hard into the wall where they exploded, shooting shrapnel into the audience. The crowd cheered.

Poet ducked down further, trying to concentrate. The sound of his breathing was loud inside the helmet. “Don't die, don't die,” he started repeating to himself. Another bike spun out and he had to swerve to miss it as it wrecked. There was a loud boom behind him, but he resisted looking back.

Ahead of him, the bikes in the front started up the vertical track. Poet could tell which ones had turned off their gravity, relying instead on speed. They were blurs as they climbed higher, and Poet tightened his grip and got ready for his ascent.

His front tire held fast to the track as his angle shifted. The back tire wobbled for a moment, but then he was shooting forward, still behind at least a half dozen other racers. He was going too slow as his gravity-bike took him along the track toward the clouds.

Poet swallowed hard, becoming light-headed when his altitude broke into low orbit. All at once, his eyelids fluttered like he might pass out—his bike slowed, nearly stopping, and then like the slow ticking of a rollercoaster at its peak, the climbing stopped and rounded the top. Poet's stomach upended and he was upside down, miles in the air.

He began his descent, the gravity-bike skating along the track like falling space debris, beginning to glow red with heat as it picked up speed. Poet's head bobbed in the wind, and he passed three riders, cutting his way slowly toward a middle lane. As he got closer to the ground, he realized the track thinned as it disappeared into a vertical tunnel—two lanes. Not all the bikes would fit into the narrow entrance.

“I have to get there first,” he said. He cranked the throttle, but he couldn't seem to get past the front riders, one of whom swerved in an attempt to knock him off the track. Poet cursed and swung back in, narrowly missing another rider. He had seconds to think; the other riders weren't going to let him through easily.

“Okay then,” he said, and flipped off his gravity switch. It was instantaneous. The grip his bike held on the track disengaged and Poet began to float up from the track, free-falling toward the ground. Without the magnet slowing him down, Poet passed over the heads of the other riders. He gritted his teeth and hoped to get past the last rider before he could hit the gravity button again. Otherwise he was going to crash face-first at the entrance of the tunnel.

Poet drifted over the rider and then quickly flipped the gravity switch. There was a zap, a sting on Poet's leg, and like a heavy magnet, his bike was flung toward the track and his helmet narrowly missed the outside of the tunnel. He landed with a tire squeal on the track.

He gasped out his relief, and a few other bikes zoomed in behind him. There was a loud explosion and pieces of metal rained down, signaling that others had free-fallen and missed altogether. Even from here, Poet heard the crowd erupt in cheers.

The tunnel leveled out, but the space around him was growing darker; the only light in the tunnel was coming from the glowing wheels of the bikes. He skidded quickly to the left, just missing a boulder obstacle. The biker behind him, not seeing it, hit it head on, sending the rider over his handlebars. He was run over by another bike immediately.

There wasn't enough light, and he couldn't let someone go ahead of him to guide the way—they'd win. He had to win. He thought about Sketch's advice and keyed in to his heightened emotions, sending electricity to his fingertips. The temporary distraction caused a rider to pass him, the same one who'd given him advice, but Poet just concentrated on his emotions.

He was going to find Alan and bring him home. All he had to do was win this race. Poet let go of his fear and, in its place, gathered his courage. Confidence. He brought up all of his love for his brother. His bike sputtered suddenly, and then, like a bolt of lightning, the gravity-bike shot forward like a blur. Poet passed the rider in front for him and narrowly missed a large spike of rock that fell from the roof of the tunnel. The rider behind him slammed into it and burst into flames.