Speed of Light

by Amber Kizer

  “That’s kinda fatalistic,” I said to Tens.

  “He’s right, though. Death is everywhere. We know it.”

  The scents of roasting turkey meat and fried potatoes wafted on the breeze.

  “You hungry?” Tens pulled out cash and headed for the shish kebab stand. With meat on sticks and lemonade cups, we looked more like we belonged.

  “You have any idea how this Pole Day works?” I asked. None of the Woodsmen schooled us on what to expect. Will I see their dead brother, or anyone else hanging out at the racetrack waiting for my window?

  “Nope.”

  I knew that behind his sunglasses, Tens was ultimately alert for threats of all kinds. I wished it were night and Nocti would have to show me their eyes. As it stood, in today’s sunshine, not wearing opaque shades became the oddity under the bright sun and its broiling rays.

  We’d have to eavesdrop to get our information. That’s nothing new. I was getting really accomplished at looking one direction and listening fully to someone behind me. Somewhere around us, maybe in yellow and black, too, were Woodsmen scouting and seeking information.

  Stairs of scaffolding-like metal crisscrossed behind bleachers three stories tall. Underneath them were storage areas covered and fenced but still visible and accessible to the highly motivated. The caverns contained empty blue trash bins, while others were filled with white rocks the size of my fist and fenced off. Only chain link seemed to separate us from the actual structure of the bleachers.

  The bleachers were stories tall, leaving storage areas below. When we’d come with Faye, I hadn’t been thinking of weaknesses in the structures that could be exploited to kill or maim. Now I saw them everywhere I turned. Today there were thousands of people here, but next week, there would be an estimated quarter to a half-million souls present. How many Nocti? How many Woodsmen on our side? No clue.

  Tossing his licked-clean skewer into a trash bin, Tens asked, “Let’s walk around the outside perimeter for a while? The wind’s picking up.”

  Rock music blared from amplifiers, so loud it shook my body. I didn’t recognize the song but what the band lacked in melody, they made up for in enthusiasm. Screens showed the track being cleaned. All of the earlier debris was gone and the only things visible were scorch marks and tire tracks. Very efficient.

  Wind socks and flags in white, green, red, yellow, and checkered rattled on poles blowing above the stands. “Is that Pole Day?” I pointed at them.

  Tens ignored me, keeping his head swiveling and his pace at a forced march.

  “Uh, Tens, isn’t this like two miles around?”

  “Two and a half according to Gus.”

  Way to pick up on my subtlety. “So we’re going to walk the whole perimeter?” I didn’t know if it was even possible to walk the entire outside, but everyone was heading up into the stands or toward the tunnel underneath to the inside.

  He paused and quirked an eyebrow at me. “Want to head into the bleachers?” Which translates to, “If only you’d run five miles with me every morning instead of a couple of miles every other day, you’d enjoy jogging the perimeter of the track.”

  “Yeah. Maybe we can see more if we go on the other side of the bleachers?” I answered him.

  “Any souls?” Tens asked.

  “Nah, not yet.”

  We climbed flights of stairs and stepped out above the track, across from the glass Pagoda. True enough, we could go almost anywhere we wanted to. I forgot how expansive the infield was; there was an entire park inside the track with large trees and rows of buildings.

  People far down in the stands, in either direction, looked like dots of color in a sea of gray. What horror is planned for these people?

  “There are so many people here,” I said to no one in particular. The masses in the bleachers only emphasized the antlike frenzy on the track. Cars were lined up, loudly painted with sponsor logos and website URLs. Each team seemed like they were trying to be recognizable at a glance and different from the rest of their competition. Neon green, bright blue, blood-red, tangerine, and camouflage competed with fonts screaming for attention. Similarly uniformed groups of men scurried around the cars, talking into headsets.

  A fleet of trolleys with little tractors carried huge black tires stacked four and five tall. They drove purposefully between teams and a gasoline alley that led back toward the buildings behind them.

  Television crews and photographers seemed planted with cameras raised, waiting for a sweet shot, like paparazzi with celebrities. Some of these drivers are celebrities.

  “That’s gotta be the Pole.” Tens nudged me, pointing at what looked like a giant Tootsie Roll, only all four sides had numbers. White paint on black listed 1–33; beside them were corresponding lighted numbers, changing positions as I watched.

  “The track is open, race fans!” the announcer called, and all the spectators surrounding us cheered. A car revved and tore out onto the oval. The announcer said what sounded like a name, not that I knew any of them. People chanted and clapped as the vehicle went by again. And again. I kept my ears plugged with my fingers. If we came back, I’d want the serious-looking headphones a lot of the old-timers wore.

  “Anything?”

  I shook my head.

  Tens took my hand and we finagled our way into the flow of human traffic under the track.

  “And he’s done it, ladies and gentleman. Danny Jones has the fastest speed and currently holds the pole.”

  So it’s the order they start.

  Tens glanced back at me with a smile. Gus told him more than he’d let on. “Only thirty-three cars get to race next Sunday. Today they’re trying to get places at the front of the pack and qualify to race next week.”

  I playfully swatted his butt. “Have no idea what Pole Day is, huh?”

  “Thought about telling you all the girls had to dance on a pole, but I figured you wouldn’t buy that.” He tried to say it with a serious expression.

  “Oh, I’ll dance on a pole for you, baby cakes.” I gave him my most lascivious stripper strut.

  He grinned bigger, even showing me sparkling teeth in an attempt to call my bluff.

  “Unfortunately, you missed your chance.” I laughed.

  As if.

  As we explored the grounds, we walked down into a tunnel. Above us, on the ceiling and on the walls, pipes and cables were easily accessible. Peeling paint and crusty floors made me think these weren’t the most inspected areas. Quick to slip something in or drag a cooler filled with nasties to accidentally leave behind. I shivered. I wanted to hurry out of there.

  Tens frowned. “You okay?”

  Nope, catastrophic extremist threats make me ill. I shook my head. As we exited the tunnel into the infield, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people. Coupled with the amorphous threat, I didn’t even know where to begin.

  Tens spun me around and I saw an alcove with a couple of the yellow-shirted officials having lunch. What interested me, and I’m assuming Tens, was the fact that official yellow gear was hanging on pegs and hooks. Cause a commotion and it wouldn’t be too hard to snag those.

  Behind us, another car roared to life and sped around the track.

  Inside the asphalt oval, we were in the depths of food booths, a music stage, huge screens, and souvenir shops. Like an outdoor food court.

  Around us there were alleys behind bleachers, scrolling doors to storage spaces or garages, people everywhere, lots with drink cans in their hands, lost in having a good time.

  Superfans wandered among us, wearing outfits made of car parts and ponchos.

  One guy wore a miniature speedway on his head, complete with the flags, pole, and Pagoda. What was odd, though, were the number of people taking their picture with him as if he were part of the spectacle itself.

  The crowd stopped while one of the red and white cars was wheeled past us, back behind a section that seemed to require credentials. Girls in bikini tops tried to flash their own credentials to get past sec
urity. The number of golf carts made me wonder if in the off-hours there weren’t drag races around the oval.

  In the distance, several military helicopters were parked for people to tour. And semi trucks unloaded pallets of soft drinks and beer. Motorcycles and sports cars were parked around the semi-trucks and trailers as if this were a giant parking lot. If seeing the activity from the bleachers around the outside was overwhelming, this small city inside was even more so.

  Holy hell, where do we start?

  Below us, by the rows upon rows of garage doors, a motorized wheelchair was surrounded by guys in jeans and green hats. “Sergio’s talking to Timothy.” I grabbed Tens’s arm to snag his attention. “Over there.” I stepped up on an air conditioner to try to get a better look. “He’s surrounded by Woodsmen.”

  It looked like the intern was wearing a volunteer’s green ecological vest, but he was writing notes and joking with the men.

  “Come on!” Tens grabbed my hand and we shoved our way between people, down flights of stairs and against the flow of traffic. Because of his height, Tens had a good bead on the group.

  “Crap!” I saw a group of fans chatting together, waving excitedly in my direction. A Woodsman walked with them, his WoW insignia seemingly bleeding through his T-shirt from his wounded chest. Do you see this? “Tens?”

  “Supergirl?” Tens responded distractedly.

  “You don’t see him, do you?” I stopped and leaned back against the wall of a building. “Go on, make sure Sergio isn’t up to something. They don’t know to distrust him.”

  “I can’t leave you—” Tens stopped too.

  I shoved him away. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

  He nodded, hesitated, and left just as the souls arrived. If anything, I hoped my sunglasses and stoned expression might make people think I was drunk rather than splitting my time between two worlds.

  “Hello,” I said as we appeared at the window as a group. Thick Indiana accents peppered me with questions and commentary as if they’d waited decades to talk to someone new.

  The view out their window was an almost exact replica of the track. Talk about déjà vu. Only there were more people present and their clothing ranged from early twentieth century to present day. More than a few superfans wandered in elaborate hats of their own.

  “We won’t miss anything, will we?” one man asked his friend.

  “I’m telling you we should stay. There’s something wrong with those tire guys. Have you ever seen that happen?”

  The Woodsman stayed in the background, not interacting with the other souls or me. His lips were moving, but I heard no sound.

  I inserted myself into the group. “What are you talking about?”

  “Something’s going on. We should stay.”

  “Can you tell me what’s happening?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Do you know? How do we know?” They seemed confused and anxious.

  “I want to go now.” His companion leapt through the window without a backward glance.

  “What do I do?”

  “There’s nothing you can tell me?” I asked.

  He shook his head, not taking his eyes off the scene beyond the window.

  I sighed. “I think you’ll be able to see everything there.” In my peripheral vision, Auntie and Roshana stood together. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them, but oddly both had changed their outfits to black and white dresses. Checkered accents sashed their waists and matching sun hats. I frowned. What are they trying to tell me?

  “That’s my wife. What’s she doing here? She never comes out to the race with me—”

  That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. As he crossed over the threshold, the scene at the window changed. Everyone was gone, including Auntie and Roshana. Where the Pagoda and garages sat currently, a huge old growth forest sprang to life, almost like the world was on high-speed rewind.

  The Woodsman moved closer to me until we stood shoulder to shoulder. A log cabin sprang into being, wood smoke drifting out of the chimney. I watched a young girl, my age maybe, come running across the yard with a basket in her arms.

  “Mama! Mama!” she called.

  “This was the farm before it was the track,” the Woodsman said. “Know they will make snake pit real. Find the old artesian before the last yellow. They’ve got a driv—”

  “Art what? Who? What snakes?”

  He watched the farm, ignoring my question, as a terrible clatter and smash erupted from inside the cabin. I felt the pounding of hooves shake the earth.

  “Tell me more!” I pleaded.

  His lips moved, but his words faded, as did his form. As if all the strength he has in his soul is depleted.

  A scream rocketed around me. I didn’t know if it was at the window or in the real world. I flinched, losing my focus, and he was gone across the window, moving toward the cabin, picking up a branch as a weapon.

  Back in reality, I blinked as my body was jostled and pushed. Another terrible gasp rocked through the crowd. People ran for the jumbo screens or toward the track to see. I tried not to get trampled and stared at the screen nearest me.

  Sirens sprang to life and a legion of emergency vehicles sped out onto the track.

  I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Several cars were tangled and engulfed in flames. Explosions rocked the cameras and shook the infrastructure around me. The sounds of tires thumping and bouncing, metal fencing tearing and ripping, and the ping of debris as it ricocheted off—all these echoed around me like sounds of combat. People thrust past me to get a better look; I wasn’t tall enough to see anything over most of them. Those listening to the radio in their headsets shouted updates, trying to tell us who was in the cars, who was walking away, who hadn’t moved yet.

  Another crash? This can’t be a coincidence. The Woodsmen must be right. The Nocti are going to strike here. But when? Today? How?

  As if to punctuate the carnage, the wind picked up, unexpectedly blowing black clouds over us. They churned and sputtered. Lightning strobed the sky in the west. Thunder boomed. Without warning, sheets of rain began blanketing the track and all her spectators. Now people ran, not to see better but to get under cover. It’s as if they think they’ll melt.

  Large drops, snuggled against each other, drenched everything in a matter of breaths.

  I merely tried to keep from being trampled and stayed as close to where Tens left me as possible. Where is he?

  The bleachers emptied, overhangs filled. The announcer boomed, “The National Weather Service has advised us that storm cells are popping up on the radar from the southwest. The severe weather makes it unsafe to continue this afternoon. Please evacuate the stands and head toward storm shelters. Volunteers will direct you toward safe structures around the Speedway.”

  People hustled for parking lots. Smoke choked from the crash across the infield in acrid black swaths.

  “Supergirl!” Tens stood on a trash bin trying to spot me in the commotion.

  I waved and waited for him to fight through to me.

  “What happened with Sergio?” I asked him.

  “They disappeared into a garage. I couldn’t get past the state patrol guys who showed up when the crash happened in turn three.” Tens’s hair hung lank, dripping into his face.

  “Did you see it happen?” I reached out, needing skin-to-skin contact as reassurance.

  “No. Did you speak with souls?” He leaned down briefly and kissed the top of my head.

  “The Woodsman was with them. I didn’t understand what he tried to tell me. Auntie and Roshana were there too.”

  “We have a lot to talk over, but we have to go to the hospice. Tony texted me—Faye’s slipping quickly.”

  I blinked at my sudden tears. “It’s time?”

  “Sounds like.”

  As a crowd of yellow shirts bustled by us, a bandage hung off of one man’s forearm. But there was no wound, just a tattoo that looked eerily familiar. Like the one on the hot-air balloon. Like
the mashed-up symbol Juliet drew for us. That’s it. I grabbed Tens’s hand, but by the time we turned toward the group, they were gone into the melee.

  CHAPTER 28

  Juliet

  “No, we have to go get it back.” I stamped my foot in emphasis. I refused to think through how much like Bodie throwing a temper tantrum I might seem.

  “We don’t know where she is.” Fara shook her head again.

  “She’ll show up. She always does.” I paced the living room. I’d tried to think of everything. There weren’t other options.

  “And what are you going to give her instead?” Fara cocked her head as if she knew the answer.

  I held my mother’s book in my hands. “This.” My heart lurched at the idea of parting with it. But I stole Rumi’s history; it seemed fair to lose mine in return. He always spoke of karma. Maybe this was mine.

  “Does it have the symbol in it?” Fara asked.

  “No.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “She’s not going to want it. She’s not going to give you back Rumi’s things either.”

  A knock at the door stopped us. Fara checked the Spirit Stone and then opened it. “Sergio?”

  “Hi, is Juliet home?” He sounded hesitant and awkward.

  She stepped back and motioned him toward me.

  No! I tried to smile, but I think it was more like a grimace. Don’t take this out on him. He’s been nothing but kind.

  He shuffled inside. “How is the cat doing? I brought you tickets for the race. I don’t know. I thought maybe you might want to go with me?” He held out shiny, colorful tickets.

  “Oh. Uh. She’s better, thanks.” I hated small talk.

  “Juliet’s not sure she can go,” Fara answered for me. “Want a pop?”

  “Sure.” Sergio sat down on the couch. He had to feel the tension. “Why not go to the race? It’s pretty cool. You should see it once before you decide.” He swiveled his head between me and the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m … I’m …,” I stammered, unsure and uncertain.