I scoot back over to the driver’s seat and place my hands on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. How did I get myself into this? I listen as he clunks things around in the back of the trailer, and then he backs his bike down the ramp and engages the stand.
A few more seconds—a loud clank as the ramp is maneuvered back into place—and I’ll be outta here.
Finally, he closes the doors and bangs on the back three times. He disengages the stand on the bike and wheels it forward. “Good,” I whisper to myself as I look at the clock.
Another bang makes me jump, so I look over at the window. It’s raining harder than ever now, and he’s dripping. “What?” I say, unwilling to lower the window and let that cold water in.
He points to the back cab and yells over the pounding rain, “My jacket!”
“Oh,” I say back, fingering the button to unlock the back. “Sorry,” I mumble, as he opens the door and shrugs his wet jacket on over his t-shirt.
“No, problem, lister. Thanks for the ride.” He slams the door and begins to push his bike towards the giant gate in the side of the mountain.
What the hell is going on here?
“Don’t,” I warn myself. Whatever he’s doing, wherever he’s going, it’s none of my business.
But then he brings out his phone and tabs a few things to make the gate in the mountain begin to lift up. There’s nothing beyond but a very dark tunnel.
Yeah, he’s a creeper. Probably a criminal. Most likely a deviant, and a freak, and that just goes perfectly with the fact that he’s an asshole.
I put the truck in reverse just as he disappears inside. I back up, forgetting that I have a fucking trailer hitched, and immediately make a mistake.
My foot slams down on the brake and I put the truck back in park. Just calm down, Molly. You know how to pull a trailer. You could do this blindfolded.
I check both mirrors, memorize the road behind me, and close my eyes.
The whole world floats away as I put the truck back in reverse and fix my mistake.
I’m Molly Masters. Daughter of Crazy Bill and sister to Wild Will, world-famous stunt riders. I grew up on a dirt bike and I can back a trailer up blindfolded.
I open my eyes, calm again.
Now back to the business at hand. Putting my dead brother’s bikes to rest. I back the trailer up a little more, then angle it into a small turnout and pull forward to head back the way I came.
I get about ten feet before the wheels start spinning. So I shift into four-wheel drive and try again. This time I get about five feet before I slip and slide a little over to the edge of the road.
Bike boy wasn’t kidding. His road is tricky.
Asshole.
I try again and again and again. I put it into two-wheel drive, four-wheel drive, get out, find some pine branches and stuff them under the wheels, get back in, try it again. And the only thing I accomplish is getting even more stuck in the mud.
I hate my life. My life sucks because…
I’m stuck in the mud.
I’m sad.
My brother is dead.
My father is dead.
My mother is insane.
I will never make this appointment.
This will not be the first day of the rest of my life.
I might die out here in the mountains.
My only hope is some crazy asshole who lives in a tunnel.
I sit there for several seconds trying to think of a number ten because my particular brand of OCD likes to round things when it has a chance. And ten is a perfect list, right? But I’m grateful and hopeful about the new job. So I’m out of bad stuff to complain about.
I feel better though. So I get out and follow bike boy’s tracks into the darkness.
Little red lights line the tunnel. It sorta reminds me of an airport runway. The mud turns to concrete about twenty feet in and there’s a small light up ahead. I’m really not sure what to expect, so I get my gun out just in case.
A few paces on and the tunnel turns sharply to the left where the light is brighter. I can hear yelling. Bike boy is yelling.
Someone is talking back to him, but he’s laughing too. I let out my breath and relax a little as I creep forward into the chamber. The first thing I see is the wrecked bike mounted on a red mechanic’s lift. Then toolboxes, some weird contraption that looks like a… robot, rolling around? A computer, then another, and another. A whole wall of computers, actually. Food wrappers and half-empty protein shake containers. Parts. A black muscle car. A long table lined with shit that looks like pieces from a chemistry lab. And a massive aquarium-sized tank holding luminescent jellyfish.
All this time bike boy is yelling and waving those black-gloved hands in the air, splashing a protein drink all over the floor.
“What the fuck, Case? I told you not to mess with my bike, you asshole.”
“I didn’t touch your bike, Lincoln.”