Stone Rider

by David Hofmeyr

  Adam nails his back brake and skids sideways. He leans forward over the front wheel, swings the rear wheel round and releases the brake. The back wheel catches and he bombs out of the turn, spraying shrapnel dirt. He flies off his byke and hits the ground next to Sadie, breathing hard, hands still holding the byke, fingers pressed to the brakes. Less graceful, maybe. Just as effective.

  The Longthorn and the Sandeater, wheels spinning, stand between them and the Riders. A last-ditch wall of defense, like the broadside of a miniature warship. The Riders bear down on them regardless.

  CRACK!

  Sadie sends a stone loose and it takes the lead Rider in the chest with an audible thud. He veers off course and ditches, flying from the byke. Adam watches him rise and retake his byke.

  Armored suits.

  Adam barely has his own sling loaded when Sadie releases second, third and fourth stones in rapid succession. A quick-fire salvo of accurate shots. Each hits a Rider. But the stones ricochet off the Deads. Only the first Rider falls.

  They fire back, riding at them, sniping forward like the wolves and looping back, loading stones as they ride and firing shot after shot after shot. The stones hit the bykes with loud smacks and Adam and Sadie duck their heads and lean their shoulders to the hot metal.

  “You sure about this?” Adam whispers. “Gotta be safer on the bykes.”

  Sadie shakes her head. Loads a stone. “On three,” she hisses.

  “Three? Why’s it always on three?”

  “One…”

  “Okay, look, let me just load this thing. I—”

  “Two…”

  Sadie spins and crouches. Adam loads his sling with shaking hands. “Okay, Okay, I’m ready. I got it. I’ll take the—”

  “THREE!” Sadie roars, and she’s up and over the bykes in a single leap.

  Adam whips round. A memory flashes before him. Hunkering down behind his couch, frozen with fear—his back pressed to the fabric—listening to an awful crunch of footsteps through broken glass.

  He grits his teeth and leaps to his feet. Then he follows Sadie over the bykes, yelling obscenities, and blurred over his right shoulder, the sling goes to work, singing in the air.

  His stone flies out and sails three yards right of his intended target. Sadie is already ten yards ahead, running hard, flinging stones. Adam looks down, loads another stone. Looks up.

  Sadie has come to an abrupt stop. Her sling is pouched in her hand. Ahead of her, the Deads—all four of them—are still as statues on their bykes. They look at Adam and Sadie—almost through them—or beyond them. Then one of them clutches at his neck. He makes a gurgling sound and topples backwards from his byke. His comrades see this and they turn and they flee. Hard. Fast. No looking back.

  Adam comes to Sadie’s side. She stares away from him, back towards the escarpment ridge. “It wasn’t me that got him.”

  Adam follows her gaze. And he sees them. Three motionless figures. Up high on the ridge.

  Even at this distance—some hundred yards—Adam can see who they are, and he can easily see the long, dark shapes of their weapons.

  Blowpipes.

  He squints back at the fallen Rider and sees a needle-thin dart impaled in his neck.

  “Thought you said they weren’t dangerous,” he says, looking at Sadie.

  Beyond her, he sees Kane, slicing towards them through the gloom and dust. Adam removes the stone from the pouch of his sling and replaces it in his stone bag. When he turns back to the ridge, the figures are gone.

  —

  They drive out onto the plain at speed, to put the Riders well behind them. Adam rides hard and he wonders about the strange and ghostly Nakoda. The way they appear and disappear. Just like Kane.

  Up ahead the old launch pad rises from the dust. A mirage at first. Floating above the ground, disappearing and reappearing in the haze. Until it resolves into a solid object, fixed to the land.

  They ride up alongside the beast. A steel structure, about ninety yards high. At the base, it’s all concrete wall and razor wire. There’s no rocket in sight. But why would there be? The launch pad is disused and left to ruin and rust. The wind picks up a piece of sheet metal, near the top, and it makes an eerie moaning sound. Adam looks up and sees a buzzard take flight, shitting as it goes.

  They ride on. Beyond the launch pad, another shape floats in the dust.

  The last Race camp.

  This camp is different from the first one. For one thing, it’s not deserted. Adam can see small figures moving to and fro, and the shadow play of bykes distorted in the evening light. And, for another, it’s built like a fortress. Enclosed by a high, spiked fence—to keep the Nakoda out, no doubt—with a makeshift watchtower looming over the entrance gate. Adam sees the glint of glass from the sentry post at the top of the tower. Eyes are on them.

  They ride to the camp in silence.

  The squealing gate is swung. A GRUB stands before them. A fusion shooter—oiled and bright—clipped to its thigh. The GRUB’s head turns left and right. It looks at them.

  “Bad weather coming,” it intones in its metallic, monotone voice. “Survival chances in the storm: nil. You will stay here until it abates.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Kane says.

  The GRUB looks at him. No expression. “You will stay here. Race leaders are encamped. The Race will restart when the storm passes. No advantage will be awarded to early arrivals.”

  “Bad luck for them, I guess,” Sadie says.

  The GRUB points to the far side of the camp. “You are assigned tents twelve, thirteen and fourteen. Wash in the reservoir tank. It is cold.”

  The GRUB makes a jolting, clicking noise. Then it stands motionless.

  “That’s it?” Adam spits. “Has it shut down?”

  “What did you expect?” Kane says. “A grand tour?”

  “C’mon,” Sadie urges, and she kicks down and rides past the GRUB, close to show her disdain. The GRUB doesn’t react. It doesn’t move at all.

  The camp is a miasma of smoke raised by cooking fires, strewn between fireproof enviro-tents. Knots of disheveled, exhausted-looking Riders huddle close to the flames, like beggars in the gloom. Each looks up and stares at them through warping waves of heat. Nobody speaks to them as they drift through the haze.

  Adam can’t help feeling ill at ease in the stillness. His instincts are buzzing. He knows that quiet sometimes only comes before the storm.

  Then—in the heart of the camp—surrounded by flags that flap and snap in the breeze, they find a digital race sign. Like the sign in Camp One. Only here, the numbers tell a new story.

  CAMP FOUR. BLACKWATER TRAIL. THURSDAY 7TH RACE STATS. 81 RIDERS RECORDED AT THE STARTING LINE. CURRENT STATUS: 19 DEAD. 14 MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. CURRENT ODDS FAVORITE, LEVI BLOOD AT 2:1. WARNING: CATEGORY 8 STORM INCOMING. ESTIMATED DURATION: 24 HOURS. ADVISORY ALERT: STAY IN CAMP.

  —

  On a hill at the north end of the camp, against the wall, is the reservoir. A tank of water held fast by a round container of dented iron. A rusted pipe rises out of the ground and bends into the reservoir, feeding it from some unseen underground source.

  Kane begins to strip. Sadie and Adam watch him.

  “You can see it’s cold,” Adam says, testing his weight on the bruised ankle. It’s tender, but already much stronger.

  “It’ll be freezing,” Sadie says.

  Kane, in his underwear, steps up a wooden staircase to the rim of the reservoir. He looks into the dark water and then he turns and gazes down at them, hands on his hips. Once again, Adam is struck by the mean-looking scars and his defiant yellow eyes. There isn’t anyone in the world like him. He senses Sadie’s shock next to him.

  “Only one way to get clean,” Kane says, grinning.

  Adam feels Sadie’s gaze resting on Kane’s toned and wounded body. His broad shoulders and lean stomach. The scars that run the length of him.

  “Well, do it if you’re gonna do it.”

  Kane salutes
. A touch of his finger to his forehead. Whether this is directed at Sadie or both of them is not clear to Adam. With startling agility, Kane throws up his arms and leaps skyward, diving backwards into the water—a perfect arc. A wild splash and he’s gone.

  Adam and Sadie feel water rain down on them as sharp and stinging as ice needles, and they shout and stumble back.

  Sadie laughs. “C’mon. I’ll race you in.”

  In seconds, they strip down to their underwear and, blue and goose-bumped in the cold, they climb the stairs. Here they stand, hugging themselves, semi-naked, watching Kane shout and splash. Adam sneaks a look at Sadie. Her skin is dimpled in the cold. Her plain white underwear is tight. He can see the taut bumps of her nipples, dark beneath the white.

  Sadie turns to him and grins.

  Adam stands, holding his crotch, opening and closing his mouth, unable to speak.

  Sadie lets out a crazed yowl and dives.

  —

  Wet through and cold to the bone, they stamp through the mud, clutching their bundled clothes. They haul them on with teeth chattering, grab hold of their heatkeepers, wrap themselves and run, blundering through the dusk, to their tents. They pass a gusting fire and stop to warm themselves.

  Behind them the moon is huge and crimson in the darkening sky. If a storm is coming, then the moon knows nothing of it. It looks restful and at peace in the sky.

  They’re not alone at the fire. Four huddled figures crouch near the flames. They don’t greet them, nor do they turn them away. A silence hangs over the group. All they hear is the roar and the crackle of the fire and all they feel is the comfort of the heat.

  Kane and Adam rest on their haunches. Sadie remains standing.

  One of the figures in front of them speaks. A shadowy kid, wrapped up in his heatkeeper, his face orange and floating in the firelight. His eyes flick from Adam to Kane and linger on Sadie.

  “You fellas goin to the saloon?”

  “The saloon?” Adam says.

  “That’s what I said,” the kid says.

  “Sure,” Kane grunts, next to Adam. “We’re goin.”

  Adam glances at Kane. He’s a shadow in the dark.

  “They got O2,” the huddled figure says. He doesn’t look at Kane or at Adam. His eyes are on Sadie. “They got betel nut and khat. Jhet Fuel too. Keep you goin to the end, that stuff. And the O2’ll make you feel like new. Better’n new. Even sexed up.”

  Silence. The fire crackles.

  “Hell, it’ll make you randier’n a pig!” another kid snorts, his eyes in shadow. He laughs until something catches in his throat and he coughs and hacks and spits.

  “Ain’t that a fact,” the first kid says, nodding, leering at Sadie.

  Adam hears Kane’s heatkeeper rustle. Sadie remains standing.

  “Damn straight. And prime Jhet Fuel will ease all pains,” the kid says. “Everyone knows it.”

  “It’s poison,” Sadie says.

  The huddled figure shows no visible reaction. “Gives you energy. What you need on a cold night four days into the Blackwater with a badass storm comin. That and something else.” He grins. His teeth are bright in the dark. His eyes roam up Sadie’s curves.

  Sadie doesn’t move. Her skin gleams from the swim.

  “But it makes you slow,” she says. “Slow and stupid…You must’ve had a lot.”

  The kid blinks. He glances at his buddies. Licks his lips. Looks back at her. Adam can see that he doesn’t know what to do. The kid misjudged Sadie Blood.

  “Or maybe you think you’re not slow,” she says. “Maybe you think you’re fast. Is that it? Just how fast do you reckon you are?”

  The kid’s hand moves to his belt, slow and tentative.

  Kane rises off his haunches. “Mind yourself, friend.” His voice is cold and low.

  Sadie flashes him a look. “Back off, Kane.”

  Kane looks at her. Sits back down.

  “What Tribe are you lot?” the kid says, hand frozen in the air.

  “We’re not a Tribe.”

  “Sure look like one.”

  Sadie glares at him. “What Tribe are you?”

  “Hawk Nation. Rafe over there, he’s a Crow.” The kid drops his hand and wraps himself tight, fists at his throat, elbows pressed to his stomach.

  No one says a word until Kane speaks. “So,” he says, real casual. “Where’s that saloon?”

  “Yonder,” the kid says, jutting his chin.

  —

  The saloon bar is lit from within. It emits a yellow light from a door flung wide to the night. Figures move like ghosts inside.

  “I got a bad feelin about this,” Adam says.

  Kane smirks. “Long O2 dose will do you good. You know it.”

  “But you aren’t here for O2, are you?” Sadie says, looking at Kane.

  Adam remembers Kane stumbling down the stairs at Sadie’s Bykemonger shop, the stink of Jhet Fuel heavy on his breath. He feels another stab of jealousy.

  What was Kane doing there anyway?

  A commotion of raised voices comes from the far side of the saloon.

  They make their way towards the noise. In a pool of light cast by a blazing torch, a circle of figures stand, waving their fists. From within the circle comes a familiar sound. Grunts and shouts and the dull thumps of fists hitting flesh.

  “A fight,” Sadie says.

  “No ordinary fight,” Kane says, pointing to a referee, who holds a finger to his ear and mumbles something into a hidden mouthpiece. “What we have here is a cash game.”

  He moves into the circle of figures with bright eyes, like a vampire drawn to virgin blood. Adam and Sadie follow. They press themselves into the throng, muscle a way to the front. Here they see two boys, stripped to the waist.

  The boys hold up bloodied fists and pace. Both are well built. One has his broad back to them and his body gleams with sweat. The other stumbles and drops his fists. The muscular kid in front of them rocks forward and plants a violent uppercut that sends his opponent flying to the ground. The sound of him hitting the earth—a loud SMACK!—is stark above the cheers. He doesn’t move. The referee flies into the circle and raises the victor’s arm. When he turns the fighter to acknowledge the crowd, Adam sees the bruiser’s face.

  A face he knows well.

  Sadie grips Adam’s elbow, digs her fingers into him. “It’s Red,” she hisses.

  Adam feels a hot flush of electric current run up his arm, through his shoulder. All he can think about—all his brain can cope with—is the feeling of Sadie touching him. Her skin on his skin.

  Adam concentrates on facts to bring him back to reality. He makes a cursory scan of the faces in the crowd. No Wyatt. No Levi.

  Where the hell is he?

  He turns to look at the parading duo—the boxer and the referee. Red stands proud and upright. Huge. His chest the size of an oil drum. He is notorious for his strength. Kids have been coming to Blackwater to challenge him as far back as Adam can remember. And, as far back as Adam can remember, Red has never lost. Not once.

  “Who’ll step up?” the referee yells. “Who’ll step up and face the beast? Any one of you got the stomach?” He glances at Sadie in the crowd. “Got the balls for it?” The man paces, holding Red’s arm aloft. “Will nobody test themselves?” He waits. No answer comes from the assembled throng. He plays the crowd, eyes sliding over them, resting longer than necessary on Sadie. “Every kid has a limit. Won’t be long before he snaps, right?” He glares at them. “Nobody?”

  “I will,” a voice says, and a hush falls on the crowd.

  Kane steps into the light.

  His presence is greeted with loud cheers. The crowd smells blood and they grow restless. They jostle and throb and carry Adam away from Sadie. He spins round to grab her, but she is also thrust away. She disappears behind shoulders and arms.

  Kane stands quietly in the midst of all this, loose-limbed and narrow-eyed. Opposite him towers Red, the man-mountain.

  “I know you,”
Red says, when the referee manages to quell the crowd.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Kane says.

  “Don’t matter either way.” Red flexes his pecs to the admiration of those gathered. “I’ll be wiping the floor with your head, whether I seen you before or not.”

  Adam scans the crowd again and freezes.

  A face. Lit up in the gloom. Far side of the fight. Dark eyes, staring at him. A crooked smile.

  Levi.

  Adam looks at him, horrified, unable to move, pinned in by the crowd. Levi returns his gaze. The light falling on his face makes him look ghoulish and unreal. But he is every bit real. His eyes are full of bristling confidence and self-awareness. They taunt and mock.

  Adam stands there. And suddenly he’s under the old oak tree, staring down at the bloodied wreck of his brother. Cold hatred takes hold.

  He lurches forward. But, as he does, someone barges in front of him. Adam shoves and searches frantically. But Levi is lost from sight. As if he were never there at all. Adam seethes and paces. To no avail. Levi is gone.

  The voices of the fighters drift back to Adam.

  “Pretty certain of yourself,” Kane is saying.

  “Got no reason not to be,” Red answers.

  “Everyone gets beaten in the end,” Kane says. “Just a matter of time.”

  Red shakes his head. “No one alive can lay me down.”

  Kane smiles and strips off the top of his riding suit. Now he stands peeled, naked to the waist. A collective gasp rises. His torso looks more tracked and cratered than usual in the deep shadows cast by the torchlight.

  “Looks like someone got to you before me,” Red says.

  Kane looks at him. “I seen a thing or two.”

  This new revelation, of Kane’s battered body, has the crowd on edge, bristling with energy. They whisper and surge. Adam searches for Levi and Sadie, but sees neither.

  The two fighters begin to circle each other.

  “What’s your name, friend?” Kane asks.

  “Red. If it’s any of your business.”