by Tom DeLonge
“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 missin
g 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.
Poet was stricken with guilt, but kept his head down. He was so close now. He didn’t dare check behind him. He could hear the rumble of several cycles, but not nearly as many as had started. The tunnel was a maze, the shape constantly shifting, obstacles appearing in his light just in time for him to avoid them. He stopped counting the crashes he heard.
But then, there was a growl, deep and thick. It crawled over his skin. Poet didn’t have to look to know; he felt it in his gut. A Night Terror dove into the tunnel behind the riders, galloping towards Poet and laying waste to any bikes in its way.
“Shit,” Poet spat and looked behind him to see the beast gaining ground, its horrible figure outlined in the shadows the bike tires cast. Poet didn’t know how the Night Terror had found him, but he put down his head, willing the bike to go faster.
A few yards ahead, he spotted a jagged scar in the floor of the tunnel—a four-foot gap in the track. He pulled up the handlebars and jumped it, landing with a thud on the other side as he raced forward. Behind him, there was a loud explosion and the feeling of heat on the back of his shirt.
At the next turn, Poet’s nostrils flared—he smelled something. Flowers? Lilacs. His mind swirled as he tried to place it.
“Jonas,” a soft voice called, echoing through the tunnel. Poet’s heart kicked up and he pressed on the accelerator, knowing he needed to get out of this race. Knowing he needed to win it. “Is there room in your dream for me?” he heard her say.
Poet felt a brush on his side, but when he looked there was nothing there. But he could feel Samantha next to him.
No, he thought. Don’t come in the dream. Not now. Poet cursed and his gravity-bike began to skid, losing power. Reacting to him. Poet looked over his shoulder and could see the track vibrating, the Night Terror hot on his trail. His eyes rolled up in his head as Samantha’s leg brushed his thigh as she curled up against him, her head on his chest.
“No, fuck,” Poet cursed, forcing himself to stay in the dream. “Not yet,” he demanded. He could sense the Waking World closing in around him.
And then, just ahead was a small loop, the sky behind it. The end of the tunnel. With a sense of relief, Poet put everything he had left into the bike. Every emotion—love, fear, anger, bravery. He was the only rider to fly out of the tunnel—waking up before he ever hit the ground.
Chapter Nineteen
Jonas shot up in bed and there was a startled scream next to him. Sweat had gathered on his skin, his body shaking from the near miss with the Night Terror. His entire face ached.
Samantha’s eyes were wide as she stared at him. “Are you okay?” she asked, trying to catch her breath.
“Don’t ever wake me from a dream,” Jonas said, trying to clear his head. He was still half-asleep and disoriented. “You could have gotten me killed.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “You were hurt. I wanted to help.”
Jonas threw off the blankets, and stood, wincing at the pain high up on his cheek. A quick look around told him he was in Samantha’s bedroom. Pale blue walls and antiqued white furniture. A framed pressed flower hung on the wall and assorted jewelry was strewn across her dresser top.
Jonas closed his eyes, pressing away the ache in his head. The gravity-bikes and Night Terrors started to fade, but Jonas concentrated and found, to his surprise, the dream didn’t completely disappear from his consciousness. And one Dream Walker in particular stood out in his memory: Flint. When Jonas saw him again, he was going to punch him in the face, even though he wasn’t quite sure what for.
Jonas approached the mirror standing in the corner of Sam’s room, seeking out the source of the pain on his cheek. He caught his reflection and groaned. Under his eye was puffed up and red, the edges already bruising. It would look nasty tomorrow. Alan would kill him for fighting.
“Alan,” Jonas said miserably, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress and hanging his head. Jonas remembered a bit more of his dream. Flint had told him that he was trying to find out where Alan was. But Jonas hadn’t seen his brother, not since the accident. He was starting to worry that he never would.
“Your brother?” Sam asked. “Did you find him?”
“No,” Jonas said. He was hurt, pissed off, and disappointed with himself. If it was the other way around, Alan would have found me by now, Jonas thought. I’m failing him.
“You can sleep again if you want,” Sam said. “I won’t wake you. I didn’t know—”
“How did I even get here?” Jonas asked.
“I dragged you to my car,” Sam said. “A couple of kids helped. I may have…you may have bumped your head on the way in here, though. Sorry.”
“And what about Dan?” Jonas asked, looking over at her. Even though it wasn’t her fault, Jonas’s involvement with Samantha had just gotten him knocked out.
“Dan?” Sam said, annoyed. “I don’t care about Dan. I told you that, but you couldn’t just let me handle it. Instead you acted just like him. And now…” Sam stopped, running her hand over her face.
“You don’t get it,” she continued in a quieter voice. “I know things are hard for you, Jonas, I really do. But those assholes at school are never going to let me live this down. Rumors, gossip, even the ones who claim to be your friends—they all turn on you in the end. The person with the most power wins. I watched it happen to my mother. And now I’ll have to watch it happen to me.” Samantha stood and walked to her closet, pulling it open and staring in absently. She rubbed her wrist like it hurt.
Jonas understood cruelty, but maybe not the kind she was talking about. The kind that was delivered with a smile. His chest weakened, aching with concern. “Did you hurt yourself?” Jonas asked, his voice softer.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “I think m
y wrist is sprained.”
Jonas clenched his jaw, a bit of rage clouding his judgment. “I’ll kill him,” he said. “I can’t believe he pushed you. He’s—”
Sam turned to him, incredulous. “I didn’t hurt my wrist when I fell,” she said. “I hurt it when I punched Dan in his stupid face after you were on the ground.”
Jonas stared at her a minute, and then shook his head. “I didn’t need you to stand up for me,” he said.
She scoffed. “I wasn’t standing up for you. I was standing up for myself.” Sam turned away, staring into her closet once again. Jonas thought maybe she didn’t want to look at him anymore. That she regretted letting him into her life.
Jonas could see the mud streaked across the back of her skirt, her tights torn at her left thigh. There was a circular blood stain on the elbow of her cream-colored sweater. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted her to look at him again.
Samantha sighed, her breath hitched like she might cry, and she pulled off her damp sweater and tossed it aside on the closet floor. Jonas stilled, her back exposed to him. His eyes traveled over her and paused at the dried blood on her elbow, the scraped skin near her ribs. The arch of her low back. The way her dark hair grazed the strap of her pale-blue bra. Samantha didn’t move.
Jonas swallowed hard, and slowly got up from the bed. He’d been insensitive. Sure, Samantha’s friends sucked, but she’d carefully constructed her world, just like he constructed his dreams when he was younger. And in a matter of days, Jonas had managed to unravel Samantha’s entire life. For that, he was sorry.
The wood planks of the floor creaked when he paused behind her, the heat of her skin radiating to his. His body felt electric this close to her. Alive and awake. Samantha lowered her head, but didn’t turn to him. Tentatively, Jonas reached to run his fingers over her arm, wanting to comfort her in some way. Show her, rather than tell her, that he was sorry for being an asshole.
To his surprise, Samantha exhaled and leaned her back against him, the sweet smell of her hair surrounding him. Jonas would have smiled, but he was entirely too caught up in this girl. Completely and utterly captivated.