In the Wheels

by Daryl Gregory

  * * *

  By eleven, Zeke was almost finished.

  If the car was a cage, the Gateway pattern was the carrot to lure the Engine in. Zeke had drawn three blue circles on the ground, lined up in a row, each circle edge touching the edge of another circle. The biggest circle was around the car. The middle circle was smaller and laced with intersecting diagonal lines. The last circle was the smallest. Zeke was sitting in the center of that circle and painting in a complex double row of shapes and lines around the inside of the border.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  Zeke smiled. “I sit here,” he said, “and the demon pops up there.” The middle circle. “Then it becomes a test. Can I push it into the car or not.”

  “What if you can’t?”

  “Then either of two things is going to happen. It’s going to force its way into my circle, or it’s going to go back where it came from.”

  “And if it gets in?”

  “Then you’d better run like hell, Joey. I’ll already be gone.”

  “Shit.”

  Zeke laughed. “I never heard you swear before! You’re hanging out with the wrong guy, Joseph.”

  “I know it. When do you start?”

  “Midnight.”

  We waited out the hour (Zeke inside his circle, me outside the whole pattern) listening to the silence of Dead City. I still feared the City, but it was a familiar fear.

  I tried to imagine thousands of people living in these buildings, but I couldn’t do it. Where would all the food come from? What did they do for a living, besides drive cars?

  Zeke said, “All right. It’s time.” Zeke told me to douse the lanterns around the alley. Before the last of the light went out, though, I saw Zeke take off his bandages. The scabs on his palms that looked like black holes in his skin. I turned away and doused the last lamp.

  Moonlight glinted off something metallic in Zeke’s hands. I heard him gasp, and then I saw blotches of phosphorescent blood appear in the middle circle. Then the entire pattern flared into blue fire.

  After a minute the fire subsided to a glow that lit up the alley. Zeke sat in the center of his circle, hugging his knees, staring at the middle circle. The blotches were burning brighter now. I gazed from Zeke to the middle circle to the car. For the longest time nothing happened at all.

  I can’t tell you how the thing appeared, because I was looking at Zeke’s face when I heard it. It sounded like a huge downpour, or the center of a waterfall. Zeke gritted his teeth and grunted like he’d been stabbed in the gut, and I flicked my eyes to the middle circle again. It was already there…

  …the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It swirled like a dust-devil, but a dust-devil made of light. It was not green, or red, or any other color, really. It simply was. I know that’s crazy.

  It spun toward Zeke, moaning like a tornado, and as it moved I saw the bright blotches rise up and become part of the whirlwind. It battered at Zeke’s circle, sparks flying as flakes of paint chipped off the ground and joined the spinning air. Zeke clenched his fist. Blood poured down his arms. The thing spun backwards; then Zeke was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs. I couldn’t make out the words over the roar.

  After that it was over almost instantly. The whirlwind broke through the circle surrounding the car, then vanished. The circles and rectangles on the Chevy flared a moment and went dark. The blue circles on the ground faded.

  We were in darkness.

  That’s when I realized Zeke was calling for help. I ran to him, picked the bandages off the ground, and began to wrap up his hands. There was so much blood I couldn’t tell where the wound was: but I cinched both bandages tight. Zeke’s hair was matted to his head with sweat. A smile was playing around his face. He stood up, holding me. Then he looked at the car and whooped for joy.

  When Zeke got in and started her up, I whooped too.

  * * *

  August was race season. Any kid who could escape his family snuck off at night to the white highways.

  The highways have always been here. They are cracked, and full of holes, and some whole sections of bridges have collapsed, You can still ride the white highways from one ocean to another, from Canuck to Mexicana. And if you’re a driver, you can race on them.

  The pro driver that first Saturday in August was a blond-haired guy from Appalachia who called himself the Bobcat and drove a blue and gold Ford. The local girls who’d ditched their folks were pooling in the glow of his headlights like moths, jockeying to get closer to him. The boys were standing around in tight bunches outside the light, looking at the car. Everyone was very careful not to lean on the Bobcat’s car.

  We watched him from a ridge above the highways. Zeke had said he wanted to size up the competition. He snorted. “I’m gonna bury this guy.”

  I wasn’t so sure. The Bobcat wasn’t famous on the circuit, but he was still a pro driver, and Zeke had never raced before. But Zeke was Zeke. And he was confident as hell. “Let’s go,” he said. I climbed in from the passenger side and Zeke slid in the other door. He planted his big hands on the steering wheel—completely covering the channels, I saw—and his face contorted into an angry sneer like he was wrestling the Engine for control. Finally he smiled.

  We shot down the ridge, the Engine growling like a caged bear, and popped through a hole in the railing. Zeke slid to a stop just behind Bobcat, his lights focusing on the blue Ford. The blond-haired driver looked at us for a moment. I thought I saw a little doubt in his face, but then he shrugged and turned back to the girls.

  Zeke eased the Chevy up to the line. “Hey, piss-head,” Zeke said. The Bobcat ignored us.

  “I said, ‘Hey, piss-head.’”

  Bobcat thumbed one gloved hand at us and asked one of the girls, “Who is this yokel?”

  It was Lydia Mitchum, the Preacher’s daughter, who answered. “That’s Zeke Landers.”

  The Bobcat turned to us and leaned down to look into the car. “That’s it? Just ‘Zeke?’”

  Zeke was ready to jump out of the car and punch this guy. I looked at his wild red hair falling like a mane down his back and I said, “Don’t you know who this is, little Bobcat? This the King of the Beasts, Zeke the Lion!”

  Zeke gave me a look that told me to shut up, but the word was already out among the watchers.

  Bobcat looked annoyed. “Okay, ‘Lion.’ What stakes are you willing to put up?”

  Zeke didn’t hesitate a second. “Pink slips.”

  “Are you crazy, yokel? You’re going to go zombi for sure.”

  “I win, I take your Ford.”

  “And if I win, I take your ugly Chevy and drive it off a cliff!”

  “Do what you want,” Zeke said. “Down to Busted Bridge, two miles.” He grinned. End of argument.

  “Two miles. You’re on.” Bobcat pushed the girls out of the way and climbed into his Ford. Zeke and I watched him pull the inserts out of the palms of his gloves, prick the exposed skin with a small knife, and then fit his hands over the channels. He called Lydia over to tie the thongs of his gloves to the steering wheel.

  Zeke snorted. “Wimp.” Zeke’s hands were bare as always. I pushed the handle to get out.

  “Hey! Where you going?”

  “I’m going to watch,” I said.

  “Like hell. Don’t you know you’re my lucky piece? You ride with me!” I got back in, scared but excited as all hell. The Bobcat started his Engine and the crowd backed away to the railings. Zeke tightened his grip on the wheel. Our Engine growled to life.

  Lydia Mitchum stripped off her green t-shirt and stood between our headlights. I couldn’t take my eyes off her breasts. “On my mark!” she yelled, raising the shirt above her head. Zeke snarled under his breath. Lydia brought the green cloth down. “Go!”

  We went.

  I think I screamed most of the way down the track. And then I looked over at Zeke and saw that he was smiling. Maybe I should have realized then that I had no part in this, but with Zeke so co
nfident and in control, I started to smile too. We beat the Ford to Busted Bridge by a quarter mile.

  The Bobcat was furious. “Who the hell are you!? What kind of Engine is that?” he kept yelling. Zeke told him to keep his shitty car and go home.

  Zeke grabbed me by the shoulders. “So what do you say? Do we hit the circuit or what?”

  I was young. I had just won my first race with Zeke. I said yes.

  * * *

  I left a note for my Father telling him I would be back for the harvest in October. Then I hopped out my window, a sack of clothes in my hand, and headed out across the fields to Zeke’s house. When I got there, Zeke was taking an axe to a tin contraption behind the shed. “What is that?” I said.

  “His still.” He broke up the last of the tubing, dumped a big barrel of mash on the ground, and then tossed the axe into the field. “Maybe this will keep him alive ‘til I get back,” he said.

  We drove the white highways, only getting off when the road was too ridden with holes or the bridges were out. Zeke the Lion became the new name on the circuit. “I refuse to lose,” he’d say to me before each race. And he didn’t. We drove through Kintucky, Appalachia, Texas, Misery, taking on all challenges. We would sleep outside, or in the Chevy if it was raining.

  There were always girls at the races. A lot of times I would have to walk around for a couple of hours while Zeke was using the car. Or he would gather a bunch of kids around, slowly strip off his bandages, and tell them what it was like to drive one of the Engines. Zeke loved every minute of it. I spent every minute horny as hell, but the Driver magic didn’t seem to rub off on me.

  And Zeke was changing. By late August he was staying out later and later before each race. He’d get roaring drunk and then shake me awake. He always wanted to talk. Most of the time it was racing: about the cars he’d beaten, or was going to beat in the next town, and especially how he was going to take on the Brujo in Mexicana.

  But sometimes it was weirder stuff. “Joey,” he said to me one night in Texas, “the voice is getting louder. When I start a race, I can hear it screaming at me. It’s getting in, Joey.” I asked what he meant but he only stared at his hands and mumbled again, “It’s getting in, I can feel it.” Then he took another slug of corn-gin. After a while he shambled off into the darkness.

  By September we were in Mexicana.

  The Brujo was nothing like I expected. I first saw him standing near his big white Caddy, surrounded by a group of racers. He was talking in a loud high voice and when he laughed he sounded like an old woman. His face was fat, and he beamed at everyone around him like an idiot.

  When he saw Zeke and me step out of the Chevy he walked over. His body was as fat as his face, much too soft for an Engine driver’s. He held out a big gloved hand to me and smiled. Long leather thongs hung from the gloves. “I am Phil Mendez! You must be Lucky Joe!” That had gotten to be my name on the Circuit. We shook hands but his eyes were already on Zeke. Those eyes were flat, professional.

  His smile faded. “This is the Lion?” Zeke was in bad shape. His skin was pale from blood loss, his hands were shaky, and his eyes were bloodshot. He hadn’t eaten well in days. And he was still drunk from a binge last night.

  “I want to race,” Zeke said. His voice was raspy.

  “My friend, Zeke,” the Brujo said, “you aren’t well enough to shit on a rock.” The Brujo’s gaze swiveled back to me. “No race. Get him out of here.”

  “No!” screamed Zeke, and he grabbed Mendez by the shirt. “You can’t chicken out on me, sucker.” Mendez looked at him coldly. I suddenly realized that the Brujo was an old man, maybe older than Frank.

  There was a few seconds of silence. Then the Brujo smiled. “Okay, little man. What kind of car you want to put up?” Zeke let go of his shirt and Mendez looked over at the Chevy. He studied it for a moment and then looked at me.

  “Who painted that car?” he snapped.

  “Zeke did.”

  “Bullshit.” He walked up to the car and circled it once. “I know this pattern.”

  Zeke shouted at him. “So what’s the deal? We race?”

  “You’re from up around Illini, aren’t you?” I nodded. The Brujo shook his head sadly. “I thought so. I thought so.” He turned back to the circle of drivers waiting for him by the Caddy. “Okay, little man. You get your race.”

  We watched the Brujo take on three challengers that day, which was almost unheard of on the Circuit. Every time the Brujo’s big caddy beat someone to the two-mile marker Zeke would say, “I can take that. I can take it.”

  We were scheduled for the next morning. Racers and girls and local kids stopped by our car to wish Zeke luck tomorrow. Bottles were passed. Zeke wasn’t drinking that night, but for the first time I was. It tasted horrible.

  “I need an edge,” Zeke said to me after everyone had left. He passed me a bottle. “He’s got a bigger Engine in that Caddy.”

  “Forget it,” I said. My voice was too loud. “There’s no way for you to get a bigger Engine.”

  Zeke leaned against the hood. “Not a bigger Engine, Joey. More fuel, that’s all that matters. Bigger channels.”

  I drained the last of the bottle. The world was spinning a little crazily and I just wanted to lie flat on the ground. I pulled my blankets out of the car. “Sleep on it, Zeke,” was the last thing I remember saying.

  The next morning I woke up and Zeke and the Chevy were gone.

  From the direction of the white highways I heard the Chevy’s roar, and in a second I was up and running toward the sound.

  As I climbed the embankment I could hear the Brujo’s Caddy starting up. Zeke was right, it was a much bigger Engine. I hopped over the rail in time to see Zeke easing the Chevy up to the line.

  I ran up to him, my bare feet smarting from the rubble on the highway. I looked at his hands. The bandages were off and blood was already running down his arms. The Channels in the steering wheel were nearly twice as big as they had been. His hands couldn’t cover the gaps.

  Zeke turned to me and smiled. “I’m gonna bury this sucker,” he said. “Hop in, Joe. You’re my lucky piece.”

  “Are you crazy?” I screamed. “Don’t do this Zeke!”

  I heard the Brujo’s voice. “Get out of the way, Joe. Tell Frank the Crank that I beat his son.”

  “What?” I turned around. I was between the Caddy and the Chevy. A big driver reached me and pulled me out of the way. The start girl raised the green flag.

  The two cars took off. The exhaust smelled like sulphur.

  Since I was at the starting end of the track I didn’t see how it happened. Spectators at the far end said they saw the Brujo’s Caddy was ahead the whole way, until the ¾ mile marker. There the Chevy suddenly put on a burst of speed and passed the Caddy. Everyone agrees that the Chevy crossed the finish line first.

  Only a couple people said that they actually saw the Pattern blow, or that they saw a whirlwind of light spin into the cabin with Zeke. Even the Brujo, driving right behind him, said that he couldn’t be sure what happened. But everyone could hear that Engine roaring like the wind in their ears and screaming like a calf at the slaughter.

  The Chevy never slowed down. It left tracks of blood on white cement.

  * * *

  I hitched my way across California, Arizona, and Mexicana. Some drivers wouldn’t stop for me, but the ones that did knew who I was and wanted to talk about Zeke’s race. Except for my last ride, Naomi.

  Somewhere in the middle of Texas she looked at me through the rear view mirror, blew air through her lips like a baby, and then laughed uproariously.

  “You scared of a woman driver, Lucky Joe?” she yelled over the roar of the wind.

  Was I? Naomi was one of the few female drivers on the Circuit; she was in her mid-thirties. They made fun of her off the highways. On the highways they tried their damnedest to beat her.

  I shook my head no, for safety’s sake.

  “You should be, Lucky, you should be. I th
ink women are going to dominate racing soon.” She must have seen my disbelief. “Oh no? Tell me, Joey. What’s an Engine?”

  “Everybody knows what an Engine is,” I said. “A demon.”

  “A demon? An angry, vengeful spirit trapped in the pattern of a car.” She shut her eyes to consider this. We stayed perfectly on course.

  Her eyes sprang open. She smiled. “Exactly right. A demon. But what is an Engine before you trap it?”

  “That’s stupid…” I began, but then stopped. I remembered the beauty of the whirlwind spinning inside blue circles. “I give up. What is it?”

  “An angel.”

  I snorted. “Think about it, Joey. If you trapped a creature, made it do what you wanted, whenever you wanted, and then destroyed it, wouldn’t you feel more comfortable calling the thing evil? Torturing an ‘angel’ would bring so much guilt to our manly drivers.”

  I remembered Zeke, the tracks of blood. “You don’t know what you’re talking about lady. I’ve seen my friend… a guy, go zombi. That was no ‘angel’.”

  “Even an angel might go insane.” She gestured dismissively with one hand. “And you’re right, the name ‘angel’ is meaningless. All names are meaningless.”

  Naomi shut up suddenly. She was looking at me strangely. “Are you okay?”

  I looked out the window and let the hot Texas wind blow tears off my face. Naomi drove on in silence. A long while later, when it was dark and we were half way into Kintucky, I only asked, “So why do women make better drivers?”

  She chuckled. “Revenge.”

  * * *

  It was a late afternoon three days after she’d picked me up when Naomi stopped the car and let me out near my father’s farm. She had driven the whole way without sleeping. The cold October wind whipped at my clothes, tugged at my bedroll. She smiled up at me.

  “Here you are, Lucky Joe.”

  “Thanks, Naomi. I appreciate the lift.”

  “Any time. Take care of yourself, now. And do me a favor; stay away from the Engines. Fall in love, settle down and be a farmer.”

  “Okay, I promise.” Then I said: “What about you?”