This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2015 by David Hofmeyr
Cover art copyright © 2015 by Pixelspace
Map copyright © 2015 by Penguin Books UK
Interior art copyright © 2015 by Shutterstock
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Simultaneously published in the UK in paperback by Penguin Books Ltd., London.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hofmeyr, David.
Stone rider / David Hofmeyr.
pages cm
Summary: “A young man who seeks revenge and redemption from his past joins a brutal race to win a chance to escape his dying world.”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-385-74473-7 (trade hardcover) — ISBN 978-0-553-52479-6 (library binding) — ISBN 978-0-385-39133-7 (ebook)
[1. Science fiction. 2. Revenge—Fiction. 3. Motorcycle racing—Fiction. 4. Coming of age—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.H64St 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014033203
eBook ISBN 9780385391337
Cover design by Ray Shappell
eBook design adapted from printed book design by Heather Kelly
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
Prologue
Burial of the Dead
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Badland
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Under the Red Rock
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
The Rider’s Code
In Conversation With David Hofmeyr
Acknowledgments
About the Author
FOR DELPHINE. I LOVE YOU.
Detail left
Detail right
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
—T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land”
Here for blood. Three dark Riders. In single file.
They ride with bursts of speed, angled back in their seats, arms shaking as they steer their wild machines. Three Riders on low-slung, otherworldly bykes that catch the sun and bristle. Dirt clings to their gold-mirrored sun visors and their gleaming riding suits. They muscle across a wind-hammered landscape, riding up the slope of a dark mountain.
A volcano.
The lead Rider reins in his posse with a raised right hand and they slide out behind him in a snarl of black dust. When the dust clears, they see what he sees.
In the valley lies the course. A steep affair with furrowed lanes, fierce turns and six massive jumps. Alone below, a Rider on a byke of pale silver leaps skyward. He turns his front wheel in midair, floats and then plunges down the far side of a tabletop.
It’s an impressive jump.
The lead Rider, above on the hill, acknowledges the feat with a smile. No one sees it. The smile is concealed behind his helmet visor.
It’s an hour after dawn. The sun is behind them, low against the black hills. Their shadows—lean and long—strike out down the slope, pointing the way.
“That’s him!” Wyatt exclaims, flicking up his visor. He’s the tall one, pale and thin. He looks at his companions and rocks back in the saddle of his black Shadow byke.
“The hell you say,” Red spits, with his visor up. “We busted him.” Red is bull-necked and broad-shouldered. Mean-looking. He sits lower on his bloodred Chopper than the others.
“I don’t know…” Wyatt pauses. “The way he rides…”
They watch the Rider slam on his brakes and skid into a corner. He swerves, accelerates hard and throws himself into the next jump—a fluid move—all finesse and grace and perfect balance.
“It can’t be,” Red insists. “It’s not possible.”
“It’s him,” Levi says, his voice muffled behind his visor. “Look at the byke.”
“How the hell—”
“I can take him from here.” Wyatt’s hand moves to his sling. “One clean shot.”
“You think he’s seen us?” Red asks.
“He’s seen nothin, dumb-ass. We’re uphill, against the sun.”
He’s right. The dirt valley Rider sees nothing but the track. His concentration is fixed on the next turn, his next jump. His silver byke flares in the morning sunlight. The Riders above watch him duel with the dust. He completes another free-floating jump, cool and sleek.
“Lemme do it. I swear I can take him.” Red swings off his byke, sling in hand. He squares his shoulders and takes aim.
“No,” Levi says, removing his helmet, placing it in the crook of his arm. He speaks out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes are narrow slits.
“No?”
“He means you couldn’t hit a tree from two yards.” Wyatt kicks out his byke stand and swings a long leg over his seat. “I’ll do it.”
Red throws Wyatt a defiant glare.
“I said no,” Levi repeats. “We fix him right this time. Up close and personal.”
“How close?”
“Close enough to get his blood on your face.”
“Hell, yeah!” Wyatt hoots.
“Damn straight!” Red yells.
—
He pulls up at the top of the last ramp and sits on his pale silver byke—a customized Drifter. He breathes hard and pellets of sweat stream down the small of his back. His riding suit is gray and caked in dirt. Gold sun goggles shield his eyes and an air-filter mask covers his mouth.
He turns his head, listening. A chill crawls up his spine. He concentrates on three Riders coming out of the sun, careening down the lava slope like the devil’s on their heels.
He knows them. The one on the white byke in particular. He can’t see his face, but there’s something in the way he rides, angled to the right. You get to know the way kids ride in the Race. That’s the way you beat them. By anticipating their next move.
The other two are dangerous, but the one on the
white byke…
They keep coming.
Nothing stops them.
Time to haul ass.
With a last glance, he kicks down and flies. He zooms down the jump and he’s away. Flicks a look over his shoulder, sees nothing but dust. He flips a gear and feels the byke grind. It feels good under him; it feels strong. But he’s tired. He can feel the lead weight of his legs.
The byke will have to do the work.
He pulls off the track, strikes out for the Badland. He looks back and sees one of them at a standstill. Nothing like the speed of the Drifter. He smiles. He’ll outstrip them, dead legs and all.
ZZZLICK!
Something shoots past his ear. He swerves and ducks down. He’s riding like a demon. Going as hard as he can.
ZZLICK! SSSHNICK!
Stones.
He looks back over his shoulder and there they are. Still coming. Still flying. Except the tall one, back on a rise, sighting him with a sling.
That’s the last thing he sees before the pain hits. And then the world spins upside down and the sky turns black.
—
He moans. Crawls on the ground. His byke lies in a heap, wheels spinning, handlebar jutting. His goggles, incredibly, are still strapped to his head. But his mask is gone, ripped from his mouth. He knows he may have broken something. A rib. Possibly cracked. The pain is fierce. His temple throbs. Blood drips into his eye. He can feel the hot pulse of it running down his forehead, down his cheek. But it’s okay—head cuts bleed. He’s seen it all before.
That one guy can sling a stone—must’ve been a hundred yards out.
He looks up groggily.
Three Riders circle him. One tall. One muscular. One on a white byke. He tries to think. Tries to order his thoughts, but he can’t. His vision is blurred. A ringing noise jangles in his ear. Pain throbs at the base of his skull. It feels like his bones have turned to rubber.
The one on the white byke, obviously the leader, comes to a sliding stop with a back-wheel break. The others follow suit. The lead Rider lifts his visor and squints down at him. His eyes are dark brown. There is no mistaking this face—these brown eyes.
“Who are you?” the Rider says.
The kid coughs and winces with the pain.
“Man asked you a question,” the muscular one says, lowering his red byke to its stand. With sling in hand, he approaches. There’s a hint of a tattoo at his neck, hidden by his riding suit.
“Nobody,” the kid croaks, finding his voice.
“Well, that’s all wrong,” the Rider on the white byke says. “I know you. And you know me.” He swings off his Stinger. With steady hands, he unclips the kid’s goggles.
He knows what’s coming now.
Vengeance.
Adam Stone empties the bucket of rotting vegetables into the trough and then he stands back to watch. Dried mud hangs in clots from the pig’s coarse, hairless skin. The pig shovels its nose into the muck, squeals and looks up with a dumb expression. As though it’s surprised to be alive.
Which it ought to be, given it’s the only one left.
He likes the pig. It’s tough. Has to be, to survive when all the others got sick and died.
But he hates the pig too. He wonders what drives it to endure the foul-smelling sty. A prisoner, dependent on a food supply outside its control.
He thinks about releasing it sometimes, letting it free into the wild. But where would it go? And how long would it last?
As he watches the pig, he thinks about the Race. The Blackwater Trail. Just two days away. Less than forty-eight hours. It dominates his thoughts. Each day. Every day.
How long will he last, out there in the desert?
“What are you doin in that barn? You black out again?”
It’s the old man. Adam shakes his head and makes for the door. He steps outside, bolts the door fast and turns into the glare of a noon sun.
“Finish with the hog?” comes the old man’s thin voice.
Adam squints in the harsh light. “Yessir.”
Old Man Dagg. Oldest man in Blackwater. Seen more than fifty summers. He stands in the sparse shade of a charred cedar tree, leaning on his stick. He’s wearing a gray-white vest with yellow sweat stains and a pair of ancient jeans blackened with dirt. Same thing he always wears. His face is hidden in the shade of a battered wide-brim hat. He leans to the side and spits.
“Goddamn hot,” he says, and limps into the house.
No kidding. Old Man Dagg always says the obvious. Always about the weather. It’s hot. Looks like rain. Gonna be freezin come winter.
“Need me for anything else, Mr. Dagg?”
He follows the old man, steps up onto the cool porch. The stone floor is worn smooth, and flakes of gray paint peel from the walls. He moves to the door and looks into the gloom. Hears nothing but the squeak of a mosquito door on busted springs.
“Mr. Dagg?”
He steps over the threshold and is hit with a strong reek. Stale sweat and boiled vegetables—cabbages and turnips, something else he can’t place.
He shifts his weight and the floorboards creak underfoot. Then he hears the tapping of a stick. Emerging from the shadows, the old man comes with his pale, sightless eyes. His face is drawn and gray and the bags under his eyes are dark, almost green. His O2 mask, with its clear airpipe, dangles loose at his neck.
Old Man Dagg draws the back of his hand across his mouth and clears his throat. The rattling sound doesn’t bode well.
“You’re bleedin me dry, boy.” Old Man Dagg pulls a yellowed note from an open billfold. “S’pose you think it’s fine stealin from an ol’ man?” His breath could peel paint.
“No, sir.”
The old man turns his head to the side, the way a dog listens to distant sounds. He doesn’t move. Now Adam hears the muted roar. He looks to the horizon and sees a white jet stream and the tiny, metal glint of a solar rocket.
“You fixin to ride the Race?” the old man says.
“Yessir,” he answers, watching the distant rocket climb into the sky.
“Yessir, no sir, three bags full, sir. Don’t you never say nothin else?”
Adam looks at him. “No, sir.”
Old Man Dagg’s eyes are rheumy and red-rimmed. Adam wonders if he can see anything. Shadows, maybe. Shapes.
“You ain’t afraid?” the old man says.
“Nope.”
Old Man Dagg sneers. “You will be afraid. Mark my words. You will be.”
He massages his neck and pulls it to the side. Adam hears the bones click.
“I seen kids like you come and go,” the old man says. “All the same. Think you don’t belong here with the Left-Behind. Think you belong up yonder with the Watchers. But you’re wrong.”
Adam says nothing.
“Figure you’re some kind of special case? That you know how to win?”
He shrugs. “Reckon I got a chance.”
“Hell. You don’t know nothin. Nothin about before neither.”
“I know things were different.”
The old man nods, but not in agreement. “Things were more’n different. How many summers you got…fourteen?”
“Fifteen.”
“Hell. Had myself a full head a hair when I was a boy. Goddamn toxic sky. My grandpap lived to a full sixty summers, if you’d believe it. But not him or any damn one of us had enough cash money to get his ass up to Sky-Base.”
“Maybe he should’ve learned to ride. Could’ve earned a ticket.”
Old Man Dagg’s top lip curls. He shuffles past Adam. With his right hand, he drags a metal cart that supports his O2 canister. It looks like a bomb, a chipped silver tube with a red base and a tap for the O2 at the top end. Old Man Dagg lifts his face to the sky, arches his neck, twitches and sniffs the air. Then he turns his head to the side and spits. “Rain comin.”
Adam looks up. The sky is a brown haze.
The old man must be addled with booze, because Adam can’t see a hint of rain. Not a storm clo
ud in sight. Just a chalk-smudge of white jet stream, a reminder of the rocket’s upward thrust.
The old man holds out his hand. The yellowed note flutters between the stubs of his dirt-stained fingers. It’s the last note Adam needs to enter the Race. The note that will fly him away. He grabs it with a shaking hand, stabs it into his back pocket before the wind can snatch it.
Old Man Dagg pulls up his O2 mask and sucks in a ragged breath. Adam stares at the dripping beads of condensation on the transparent plastic. He watches the old man’s lips pull at the cloudy air. When he lowers it, there is something else in his look. A sadness, maybe. He turns and limps back to his door. The wheels of the O2 cart make a wretched squealing noise.
“You gonna wish me luck?” Adam calls after him.
Old Man Dagg turns at the door. “Luck?” He tilts his face to the sky and shakes his head. “What’s comin is comin. Not a damn thing in the world you can do about that.”
—
Adam climbs on his byke, claps on his goggles and suctions on his air-filter mask. He takes the money from his pocket and transfers it to a secret chamber in his boot, knocked out of his heel. Then he rolls back the throttle, loving the vibration in his hands.
Everything is different on the byke. It’s the only place he feels free.
The engine thrums. The hot westerly cuts into his face. The sun burns his neck. All thoughts of crazy Old Man Dagg drift away.
He takes the lake towpath. Past the deserted woodcutter’s lodge, down through the burnt-out cedar tree forest to the old jetty. The way he always goes on hot days like this when the air is choked with dust and everything moves in slow motion.
Everything but the byke.
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