“Ho-leee!” Mitch let out a cry and the crowd let out a gasp as one of the riders went down.
T.J. could tell it was going to happen right before it did, the way the rider—in the middle of the pack to the outside—took the turn too sharply to make up time, gunned his motor a little too early, and stuck his leg out to brace, a dangerous move. His front tire caught, the bike flipped, and it might have ended there. A dozen guys dropped their bikes one way or another every day out here. But everything was set up just wrong for this guy. Momentum carried the bike into the straw bale barrier lining the track—then over and down the steep slope on the other side. Bike and rider finally parted ways, the bike spinning in one direction, trailing parts. The few observers who’d hiked up the steep vantage scattered in its path. The rider flopped and tumbled in another direction, limp and lifeless, before coming to rest faceup on a bank of dirt.
For a moment, everyone stood numb and breathless. Then the ambulance siren started up.
* * *
Red flags stopped the race. Mitch and T.J. stumbled down their side of the hill to get to the rider.
“You know who he is?”
“Alex Price,” Mitch said, huffing.
“New on the circuit?”
“No, local boy. Big fish, little pond kind of guy.”
The rider hadn’t moved since he stopped tumbling. Legs shouldn’t bend the way his were bent. Blood and rips marred his clothing. T.J. and Mitch reached him first, but both held back, unwilling to touch him. T.J. studied the rider’s chest, searching for the rise and fall of breath, and saw nothing. The guy had to have been pulverized. Then his hand twitched.
“Hey, buddy, don’t move!” Mitch said, stumbling forward to his knees to hold the rider back.
T.J. thought he heard bones creaking, rubbing against each other as the rider shuddered, pawing the ground to find his bearings. Next to Mitch, he tried to keep the rider still with a hand on his shoulder. Price flinched as if shrugging him away, and T.J. almost let go—the guy was strong, even now. Maybe it was adrenaline.
The ambulance and EMTs arrived, and T.J. gratefully got out of the way. By then, the rider had taken off his own helmet and mask. He had brown hair a few inches long, a lean tanned face covered with sweat. He gasped for breath and winced with pain. When he moved, it was as if he’d slept wrong and cramped his muscles, not just tumbled over fifty yards at forty miles an hour.
At his side, an EMT pushed him back, slipped a breathing mask over his face, started putting a brace on his neck. The second EMT brought over a backboard. Price pushed the mask away.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Lie down, sir, we’re putting you on a board.”
Grinning, Price laid back.
T.J. felt like he was watching something amazing, miraculous. He’d seen the crash. He’d seen plenty of crashes, even plenty that looked awful but the riders walked away from them. He’d also seen some that left riders broken for life, and he’d thought this was one of those. But there was Price, awake, relaxed, like he’d only stubbed a toe.
Price rolled his eyes, caught T.J.’s gaze, and chuckled at his gaping stare. “What, you’ve never seen someone who’s invincible?”
The EMTs shifted him to the board, secured the straps over him, and carried him off.
“Looks like he’s gonna be okay,” Mitch said, shrugging away his bafflement. T.J. stared after Price and that mad smile in the face of destruction.
Invincible, T.J. thought. There wasn’t any such thing.
* * *
At the track the following weekend, T.J. was tuning Gary’s second bike when Mitch came up the aisle and leaned on the handlebars. “He’s back. Did you hear?”
The handlebars rocked, twisting the front tire and knocking T.J.’s wrench out of his hand. T.J. sighed. “What? Who?”
“Price, Alex Price. He’s totally okay.”
“How is that even possible?” T.J. said. “You saw that crash. He should have been smashed to pieces.”
“Who knows? Guys walk away from the craziest shit.” Mitch went to the cab of the truck at the front of the trailer and pulled a beer out of the cooler.
It was true, anything was possible; Price might have fallen just right, so he didn’t break and the bike didn’t crush him. Every crash looked horrible, like it should tear the riders to ribbons, and most of the time no one was hurt worse than cuts and bruises. In fact, how many people even looked forward to the crashes, the spike of adrenaline and sense of horror, watching tragedy unfold? But something here didn’t track.
T.J. tossed the wrench in the toolbox, closed and locked and lid, and set out to find Price.
Today was practice runs; the atmosphere at the track was laid-back and workmanlike. Not like race days, which were like carnivals. He went up one aisle of trucks and trailers, down the next, not sure what he was looking for—if he was local, Price probably didn’t ride for a team, and wouldn’t have sponsors with logos all over a fancy trailer. He’d have a plain homespun rig. His jacket had been black and red; T.J. looked for that.
Turned out, all he had to do was find the mob of people. T.J. worked his way to the edge of the crowd that had gathered to hear Price tell the story. This couldn’t have been the first time he told it.
“I just tucked in and let it happen,” Price said, a smile drawing in his audience. He gave an “awe, shucks” shrug and accepted their adoration.
T.J. wanted to hate the guy. Not sure why. He wasn’t quite his type—lean instead of burly, grinning instead of brusque. Or maybe it was the matter of survival. Price had survived, and T.J. wanted to. Arms crossed, skeptical, he stood off to the side.
Price looked friendly enough, smiling with people and shaking all the hands offered to him, but he also seemed twitchy. He kept glancing over his shoulders, like he was looking for a way out. T.J. worked his way forward as the crowd dispersed, until they were nearly alone.
“Can I talk to you privately?” T.J. said.
“Hey, I remember you,” Price said. “You helped, right after the crash. Thanks, man.”
T.J. found himself wanting to glance away. “I just want to talk for a second.”
“Come on, I’ll get you a beer.”
Price led him to the front part of the trailer, which was set up as a break area—lawn chairs, a cooler, a portable grill. From the cooler he pulled out a couple of bottles of a microbrew—the good stuff—and popped off the caps by hand. Absently, T.J. wiped the damp bottle on the hem of his T-shirt.
“What’s the problem?” Price asked.
T.J. wondered if he really came across that nervous, that transparent. He was trying to be steady. “The crash last week. What really happened?”
Price shrugged. “You were there. You saw the whole thing.”
T.J. shook his head. “Yeah. I saw it. You shouldn’t be standing here—your legs were smashed, your whole body twisted up. Everyone else can write it off and say you were lucky, but I’m not buying it. What really happened?”
He expected Price to deny it, to wave him away and tell him he was crazy. But the guy looked at him, a funny smile playing on his lips. “Why do you want to know? Why are you so worked up over it?”
So much for playing it cool. “I need help.”
“Why do you think I can help you? What makes you think I can just hand over my good luck?”
He was right. T.J.’s own panic had gotten the better of him, and he’d gone grasping at soap bubbles. Whatever he’d seen on the day of the crash had been his own wishful thinking. He’d wanted to see the impossible.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Never mind.” Ducking to hide his blush, he turned away, looking for a place to set his untasted beer before he fled.
“Kid, wait a minute,” Price called him back, and T.J. stopped. “What’s your name?”
“T.J.”
“What would you say if I told you you’re right?”
“About what?”
“I’m invincible. I can’t b
e killed. Not by a little old crash, anyway. Now—what are you looking to get saved from? What are you so scared of?”
Now that he’d said it, T.J. didn’t believe him. Price was making fun of him. And how much worse would it be if T.J. actually told him? He turned to leave again.
“Hey. Seriously. What’s wrong? Why are you so scared of dying that you need my help?”
T.J. took a long draw on the beer, then said, “I’m HIV positive.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud. It almost hurt.
“Rough,” Price said.
“Yeah.” T.J. kicked his toe in the dirt. What did he expect Price to say to him? What could anyone say? Nothing.
“Hey,” Price said, and once again T.J. had to turn back, obeying the command in his voice. “What are you willing to do to turn that around? You willing to become a monster?”
“You talk to some people, I already am,” T.J. said, putting on a lopsided smile.
“You know about the Dustbowl?”
“Yeah.”
“Stop by tonight, seven or seven thirty. If you’re really sure.”
“Sure about what?” he asked.
“Just show up and I’ll explain it all.” He walked away, past the trailer to the cab of the truck. Meeting over.
It seemed like an obvious trap—he’d show up and walk into a beating. The Dustbowl was one of the bars up the road; some of the riders liked to hang out there. Not Gary—he was serious about riding and didn’t need to show how tough he was off the track. T.J. had stayed away; the place had an uncomfortable vibe to it, a little too edgy, though it was hard to tell if the atmosphere was just for show. He preferred drinking at one of the larger bars, where he didn’t stand out so much.
He didn’t know whether to believe there really was something different about Price, something that had saved him from the awful wreck, or if Price was making fun of him. He could check it out. Just step in and step back out again if he didn’t like the look of the place. Make sure Mitch knew where he was going in case something happened and he vanished.
That would solve his problems real quick, wouldn’t it?
* * *
He hitched a ride from the track with some friends of Mitch’s who were on their way into town. T.J. must have sounded convincing when he said he was meeting somebody and that everything was okay. The sun was close to setting, washing out the sky to a pale yellow, and summer heat radiated off the dusty earth. The air was hot, sticky, making his breath catch.
The Dustbowl was part of a row of simple wooden buildings set up to look like an Old West street but without disguising the modern shingles, windows, and neon beer signs. At one end was a barbecue place that T.J. had heard was pretty mediocre but cheap. The place smelled like overcooked pork, which made his stomach turn.
Walking into the bar alone, he felt like an idiot. Not just a loser, but a loser looking for trouble. The bullies would be drawn to him. He had to shake off the feeling—if he looked scared, of course he’d get picked on. He straightened, rounded his shoulders, and took a deep breath to relax. He had to look at ease, like he belonged.
Feeling a little more settled in his skin—he tried to convince himself that everyone in the half-filled room wasn’t staring at him—he went to the bar, ordered a Coke, and asked if Alex Price was here.
“He might be in back,” the bartender said. “That guy’s nuts—did you see his crash last week?”
“Yeah,” T.J. said. “I had a front-row seat. It was bad.”
“And he gets up and walks away. Crazy.” Shaking his head, the bartender moved off.
T.J. put his back to the bar and looked around. TV screens mounted in the corners showed baseball. Tables and chairs were scattered, without any particular order to them. A waitress in a short skirt delivered a tray of beers to a table of what looked like truckers, but he hadn’t seen any rigs parked outside. No sign of Price. He’d give it the time it took to finish the Coke, resisting the urge to upend it and down the whole thing in a go.
Halfway through, a woman came through a door in back and sauntered along the bar toward him. She was petite, cute, with softly curling brown hair bouncing around her shoulders and a size-too-small T-shirt showing off curves.
“Are you the guy looking for Alex?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Come on back, he’s waiting for you.” She gave him a wide smile and tipped her head to the back door.
And if that didn’t look like a bad situation … “There a reason he can’t talk to me out here?”
“Not scared, are you? Come on, you can trust me.” She sidled closer, gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes and brushing a finger up his arm.
He never knew in these situations if he should tell her she was wasting her efforts or let her have her fun. He let it go and went with her. He was good enough in a fight—he just wouldn’t let anyone get between him and the door. It would be okay.
She led him through a hallway with a concrete floor and aged walls. A swinging door on the left opened to a kitchen; doors on the right were labeled men’s and women’s restrooms. At the end of the hall was a storage closet. Through there, another door opened into a huge garage—four, maybe five cars could fit inside. Nobody out front would hear him if he yelled. He tried not to be nervous.
A tall, windowless overhead door was closed and locked. A few cardboard boxes and a steel tool closet were pushed up against the walls. Right in the middle sat a steel cage, big enough to hold a lion. A dozen or so people were gathered around the cage. Alex Price stood at the head of the group, drawn straight and tall, his arms crossed.
Oh, this did not look good. T.J. turned to go back the way he’d come, hoping to make it a confident walk instead of a panicked run.
The woman grabbed his arm. “No, no, wait, we’re not going to hurt you.” Her flirting manner was gone.
T.J. brushed himself out of her grip and put his back to the wall. She gave him space, keeping her hands raised and visible. None of the others had moved. Their gazes were curious, amused, watchful, suspicious—but not hateful. Not bloodthirsty.
Price just kept smiling. “The cage isn’t for you, kid,” he said. “Remember when I asked you if you’re willing to become a monster?”
T.J. shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I can cure you, but it won’t be easy.”
“It never is,” T.J. said. He met Price’s gaze and held it, refusing to be scared of this guy. “I still don’t understand.”
“We’re a pack,” he said, nodding at the people gathered around him. “We’ve talked it over, and we can help you. But you have to really want it.”
“Pack,” T.J. said. “Not a gang?”
“No.”
The people only looked like a group because they were standing together; they didn’t look anything alike—three were women, a couple of the men were young, maybe even younger than T.J. A couple wore jeans and T-shirts, a couple looked like bikers, like Price—leather jackets and scruff. One guy was in a business suit, the tie loosened, his jacket over his arm. One of the women wore a skirt and blouse. They were normal—shockingly normal, considering they were standing in an empty garage behind a bar, next to a large steel cage. T.J. felt a little dizzy.
“He’s not going to believe anything until we show him, Alex,” the woman with the curling brown hair said. She had a sly, smiling look in her eyes.
“Believe what?” T.J. said, off balance, nearing panic.
“You want to do it?” Price said to her.
“Yeah. Sure.” She looked at T.J., then quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Her skin was hot—T.J. hadn’t realized that his hands were cold. She whispered, “I want to help. I really do.” Then she went to the cage.
This was a cult, he thought. Some weird, freaky religious thing. They had some kind of faith healing going on. Did Price really think a miracle had saved him?
T.J. stayed because something had saved Price.
Without any self-consciousnes
s, the woman took off her clothes, handing them to the woman in the skirt. One of the others opened the cage. Naked, she crawled in and sat on all fours, and seemed happy to do so, as the cage door was locked behind her.
“Ready, Jane?” Price said, reaching a hand into the cage. The woman licked it, quick and doglike.
As if this couldn’t get any stranger. T.J. inched toward the doorway. He ought to run, but the same horrified fascination that kept him from looking away from the crash kept him here.
“Don’t go,” Price said. “Wait just another minute.”
The woman in the cage bowed her back and grunted. Then, she blurred. T.J. blinked and squinted, to better see what was happening.
Her skin had turned to fur. Her bones were melting, her face stretching. She opened her mouth and had thick, sharp teeth that hadn’t been there before. This wasn’t real, this wasn’t possible, it was some kind of hoax.
T.J. stumbled back, launching himself toward the door. But Price was at his side, grabbing his arms, holding him. T.J. could have sworn he’d been on the other side of the room.
“Just wait,” Price said, calmly, soothing, as T.J. thrashed in his grip. “Calm down and watch.”
In another minute, a wolf stood in the cage, long-legged and rangy, with a gray back and pale belly. It shook out its fur, rubbed its face on its legs, and looked out at Price. T.J. couldn’t catch his breath, not even to speak.
“That’s right,” Price said, as if he knew the word T.J. was trying to spit out.
And that was the secret. That was how Price had survived. Because he was one of those, too. Every one of them standing before him was like her.
He tried to convince himself he wasn’t afraid of them. “It’s crazy. You’re all crazy.” He hated that his voice shook. He still pulled against Price’s grip—but Price had a monster’s strength.
“You’re not the only one who’s stood there and said so,” Price said.
“What are you saying? That’s the cure? Become like that?”