The Skids Read online

  A podium. Singular. Yep, this one had a lot more humble than he did. But she’d survived the rain, so there was metal in there somewhere. “All right,” he said, smiling, “we’ll call you Aaliyah. I think it means ‘Exalted One.’”

  “Really? That’s pretty. I don’t know how exalted I am, though.”

  Johnny nudged forward. “Tell you what, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” Besides, a little cocky might be good for you.

  “Okay,” she said, nervous but pleased. “Aaliyah. My name is Aaliyah.”

  Torg rolled up. “Johnny . . .”

  “Torg, nice. Be the first to say hello to Aaliyah.”

  “Right on. Great name, Aaliyah. Exalted One, right?”

  Johnny stifled a laugh as he saw the newly minted Aaliyah blanch, although the joy of hearing her own name followed the shame.

  “Johnny, we have a problem.”

  “You mean other than the ones I already know about?”

  “All right, we have a new problem.”

  “Fantastic,” Johnny said, shaking his stripes. “I sure hope it’s something that’s going to kill us.” He saw the look on Torg’s face. “Oh, crap.”

  “Yeah,” Torg said soberly.

  They rolled back to where the group huddled around a yellow-blue skid. “Daytona got tagged by one of those black things,” Torg said. “Not full on, but hard enough. He’s a Five.”

  The skid looked awful. Like the others, he’d been stripped of his skins and glam, and now his colours had paled to the point where it was hard to see where his stripes began. Two of his eyes drooped to the floor, one showing only white. His treads sagged.

  All over his body, blooms of black spores.

  “Oh, Crisp Betty,” Johnny whispered.

  “I got tagged, too,” Brolin said softly. One of the most laidback skids in the sphere, Brolin was staring at Daytona like he was going to puke. “Not bad . . . but there’s something wrong with my Hasty-Arms.”

  Tagged? I ate one of those things.

  Daytona’s healthy eye drifted up and focused on Johnny. “I’m . . . I’m only three. . . .” The eye dropped.

  “Three?” Johnny said, looking at Torg. “I thought you said he was a Five?”

  “He doesn’t mean levels,” Albert said from the back of the group, his voice rough, staring at Daytona. “He means years. He’s three years old. He should have two more.”

  “We have to do something,” Bian insisted. Despite the spores fluttering across Daytona’s skin, she’d nudged up to him and was gently running a hand across his body.

  Johnny looked around, lost. His gaze, as it always seemed to do, settled on Albert.

  The silver-white skid looked back, his damaged eye squinting, until his stripes pulsed once. As if it cost him, he swallowed and said: “Whatever happened after the Pipe, you saved more than me. If anyone’s going to try something, it should be you.”

  And just what the hole was he supposed to try? Daytona’s skin was getting worse. Half the skid was black, the darkness rolling around the body, spiky at the edges—blooms branching out from blooms, like the spores that had caused this to happen.

  “Okay,” Johnny breathed. “I’ll try . . . something.”

  Popping both Hasty-Arms, he reached forward and placed his hands on the wounded Five. “Daytona? Daytona?” Nothing. Beneath his hands, the skid’s body heaved with irregular gasps, as the blooms continued to spread.

  Hold on skid. He took a deep breath. “Daytona, if you can hear me, concentrate on my hands. Try to hold them in your head.” Shifting a hand to the left, Johnny tried to place it on one of the black spots, but the bloom rolled away. Vape it, he thought, stay there.

  To his surprise, the bloom froze. All right, he thought, trying to remain calm as he slid his hand to centre on the bloom. Here goes nothing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the black beneath his left hand and the healthy skin beneath his right.

  Immediately, he could feel the difference. The healthy skin felt warm in comparison, while the hand on the bloom felt like it was being stabbed with a million tiny pinpricks.

  Daytona shifted and groaned.

  “Stay with me,” Johnny murmured, keeping his eyes shut.

  In the darkness following the Pipe, he’d done everything by instinct. He had no idea what he’d done, nor how long he’d taken to save each skid. Still, he remembered sending the idea of colour, the idea of a name, urging each skid to hold on. Now, he did the same, quietly repeating Daytona’s name like a mantra while trying to transfer the sensation of the healthy skin beneath his right hand to the void beneath his left.

  Hold on. . . .

  “Betty Crisp,” someone whispered, “it’s spreading.”

  Not helping, Johnny thought, trying to shut out the voices. He reached into the black, attempting to pull the healthy skid with him, to reconnect molecule to molecule, to saturate the black with the thought of yellow, the thought of Daytona . . .

  The body shifted again.

  Hold on . . .

  For a second, he had it. For a heartbeat, Johnny reached out and felt Daytona—or the thought of Daytona—somewhere beside him and pulled the areas of healthy skid together, closing the void . . . almost closing . . . almost . . .

  Then the void bloomed beneath his right hand, right in the centre of the healthy skin. Someone cried out . . .

  Vape it, Daytona, hold on!

  The yellow in Johnny’s mind began to blacken . . .

  . . . hold . . .

  The skin beneath his hands began to dissolve . . .

  . . . on.

  Johnny opened his eyes in time to see Daytona evaporate into nothing.

  “Snakes,” he swore softly, too exhausted to feel any rage. “Snakes, snakes, snakes.”

  Bian let the hand that had been comforting Daytona drop. She nudged Johnny. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “At least you tried.”

  “It’s not all right!” Johnny yelled, angry at himself, angry at her, angry at himself for being angry at her. It was as if a great big hole was opening up inside his heart and trying to pull everything he cared for down into the dark.

  Looking around, he saw fear on every skid’s face. Brolin looked like he was going to scream.

  “It’s not all right,” he said again, calmer. “Daytona died and he was three years old. That is not all right. And it’s got to stop.” His gaze swept the group. “I don’t know how, but I swear to you we’re going to get out of this. We are not going to die here.” He rolled up to Brolin. “I don’t know what happened to him or you, but I got tagged, too.”

  “Tagged?” Torg scoffed. “You swallowed one.”

  “And my eye’s been going spare since.” Johnny kept his gaze on Brolin. “We are not going to die here.” He held the look until some of the terror faded from the Seven’s face. Surveying the room again, he added, “I know that sounds like empty words, but starting now we’re going to start figuring stuff out. No one else dies.” He glanced at the purple-orange One. “And I don’t care what level you are, you need a name, panzer.”

  “She’s got a name,” Albert said brusquely.

  That stopped Johnny. “You gave her a name?”

  “She gave herself a name.”

  “You let a Level One name herself?”

  A snort escaped Albert. “You really think levels matter out here? Why shouldn’t she name herself? Or does everything have to get the Johnny Drop approval?”

  “All right, fine, I get it,” Johnny muttered. “Is this going to be a thing every time? I’m just checking.”

  The One looked back and forth between them. “Wow, you guys really don’t like each other.”

  Johnny could have said something; instead, he laughed. “Well, that’s true. All right, panzer, what’s your name?”

  “Torres. And I’m
not a panzer anymore.”

  “You’re a panzer until Torg says otherwise. Right, Torg?”

  “Damn straight, squid.”

  “See? After nearly four years I’ve moved up to squid.” He eyed the purple-orange skid. “Torres, huh? Pretty flashy, don’t you think, Torg?”

  “Doesn’t remind me of anyone at all.”

  Snorting, Johnny said, “All right, Torres, you got a name. But whether levels matter out here or not,”—and under no circumstances was he going to let Albert know that he agreed with him—“we still have to keep you alive. Which means you need to learn not to vape yourself.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Not a problem?” Johnny said skeptically.

  “Albert taught me a few things,” Torres said.

  Crisp, this kid’s cocky. Aloud, he said, “Albert taught you a few things, did he?” One of his eyes twitched in Albert’s direction.

  Torres zipped forward and bumped Johnny. “Why? You think you’re the only one who can teach me anything?”

  Did that panzer just bump me? Fighting the urge to pop her through the wall, Johnny said, “All right, that’s enough. Seriously. Not everything I say is an attack on Albert, all right?”

  “Can’t be more than ninety percent, tops,” Torg said.

  “Shut up, Torg.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Betty Crisp. “Torres,” Johnny said firmly, trying to decide whether to laugh or scream, “if Albert taught you anything to keep you alive, that’s great.” He took a deep breath, flicked an eye at Albert, and said, “Really. It’s great.”

  He was pretty sure they both thought, Vape me, at the same time.

  “Oh, he taught me plenty. See?” Before they could react, Torres zipped out the door into the same frozen rain that had already killed a Level One today.

  “Torres!” Albert and Johnny yelled, even as they heard a roar of pain.

  Before they could get halfway across the room, the purple skid came screeching back through the door, roaring at the top of her lungs. With a tremendous crash that flattened her whole body out of round, Torres popped off the wall and swerved to a halt in front of the stunned crowd.

  “I did it!” she screamed in a triumphant voice that made it blatantly clear she hadn’t been sure she could do it. All three of her eyes were wild with glee and terror. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” she half-growled, half-roared, spitting out each ‘ow’ like a curse. “Ow. Crisp Betty that hurt.” She froze, eyes centred on a single thought, then she bounced off the walls again, hard, and popped both Hasty-Arms. “I did it!” she yelled again.

  “Wow,” Johnny said, stunned. “That was stupid.”

  Some—but not all—of the glee fell from Torres’s face and she rolled right up to Johnny. “I’m alive, ain’t I?” she protested. “Now we know.”

  “And you didn’t before?” At least she hadn’t bumped him this time. “You could’ve got yourself killed.”

  Stabbing a Hasty-Arm towards Albert, Torres spoke—fiercely, like she was declaring war. “He saved me. He told me what to do to save myself. I trust him.”

  Tension rose, but this time it wasn’t Torg or Bian who relieved it. It wasn’t Johnny.

  “Okay, Torres,” Albert said, rolling forward. He looked shaken, his damaged eye blinking repeatedly. “That’s enough. Thank you, but . . . it’s enough.” He glanced at Bian, as if offering peace. “Bian’s right. We all need each other. Everyone.”

  Torres glared at Johnny, then the glee won over once more. “Did you see that, Albert?”

  “Yes,” Albert said, taking a long shaky breath. “It was very impressive.”

  “For a squid,” Torg drawled.

  “Hey,” Torres said, swinging towards Torg, instantly hurt, “I’m not . . . oh.” With a look of innocence that Johnny knew very well, Torg gazed back at her.

  “Oh,” the purple skid said again. “Okay, I get it. Thanks.” A shy but wicked grin crossed her face. “Panzer.”

  “Old Panzer,” Torg corrected her. “Come here, we’ll work on the lingo.”

  As Torg and Torres rolled away, Johnny said to Albert, “You know she was going to do that?”

  “No.” Staring out the open door, the silver skid looked like he half-expected Torres to jump back out into the frozen rain.

  “Right, uh . . . nice work then.” Johnny hesitated, then added, “What did you tell her?”

  “Same thing we all learn. Start with colour. Feel it, don’t think. Hold on. Pull it together. She’s smart, she’d have figured it out on her own. But we don’t have time.”

  “Huh,” Johnny said. “Well . . . it worked.”

  “Yeah,” Albert said. He exhaled violently. “Stupid squid.”

  For a moment—just a moment—they made eye contact, each with a faint knowing grin. Then, realizing it at the same time . . . the grins faded and they looked away.

  Torres was taking congratulations from the rest of the room. She exchanged names with Aaliyah, each skid grinning like they’d just won the Slope. Bian was talking to Brolin, saying something low and soothing. Johnny caught her looking his way before she quickly averted her gaze. Something was going on there, but damned if Johnny knew what it was.

  Torg rolled up. “Interesting skid,” he said, an eye on Torres.

  “Yeah,” Johnny agreed. “She’s a lippy one.”

  Torg barked a laugh. “I could see how that could get annoying.”

  “Shut up, Torg.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Johnny sighed. “You gonna keep calling me that?”

  “I’m giving it some serious consideration.”

  Johnny chuckled; he never could get mad at Torg. Sometimes he wished he had the old panzer’s equilibrium.

  “Nice to have a positive,” Torg murmured, tapping an eye towards Torres.

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. It was pretty amazing the effect it had on everyone. For the first time since they’d fallen into the darkness, every skid in the room seemed to relax. Johnny began to believe that maybe they’d find a way out after all.

  That’s when the storm kicked back in.

  “Snakes, that’s loud,” Johnny swore as the wind instantly geared up to a roar.

  “Uh, guys?” Shabaz said, perched near the window. “I think there’s something out there.”

  Chapter Ten

  “White or black?” Johnny said, zipping over to the window.

  “I’m not sure,” Shabaz said nervously. “Down the street. Whatever it is, it’s moving slow.”

  Outside, the storm thundered at full force. High winds slapped the roof like giant hands, driving the rain, so thick it was hard to see the next house.

  “I don’t—oh wait, got it,” Johnny said, scoping until he found a spectrum that cut through the flood. Opposite from where the knife had disappeared, a single white shape was gliding down the street.

  “Doesn’t look like the other things,” Torg murmured.

  “No . . .” Johnny said, not quite so sure.

  It resembled the white knives in size and shape, although it was a little larger and much thicker at the core. Like the knives, this new shape floated a metre above the ground; however, it floated flat instead of edge down. And it was more triangular, the thick body flaring out like wings.

  And unlike the perfect knives . . . this thing wasn’t perfect.

  The knives had moved with flawless precision—slow and steady like sharks. This thing had a hitch: every metre or so its glide checked to the left or the right. One side drooped slightly. Whatever it was, it had taken damage: scars and scuff marks stained the white surface.

  Johnny frowned. “Either of you get the feeling this thing’s . . . different?”

  “It’s not threatening,” Torg agreed.

  “It’s not?” Shabaz said.

 
“Don’t look with your fear,” Torg said gently. “Johnny’s right, there’s a different intent.”

  Shabaz stared out the window, her eyes wide. “If you say so.” The shape drifted into their block. “Do you think it saw the panzer?”

  “Maybe,” Johnny said.

  “Think it’s tied to the storm?” Torg said, peering through the rain.

  “Huh,” Johnny grunted. “There’s an interesting idea.” Turning to the room, he said quietly, “Okay skids, I don’t think this thing’s dangerous but get ready to move, just in case.”

  “Where?” Brolin asked. “There’s no back door.”

  “Really?” Johnny said, turning back to the window. “Well . . . that sucks.”

  In front of the house, the white shape stopped, wobbling a bit in the pounding rain.

  “Looks like it’s been in a fight,” Johnny said.

  “Looks like it’s been in a few,” Torg added.

  Shabaz started to ask: “With those other—oh, oh wow.”

  Before their eyes, the shape on the street unfolded. Its front tip swung up, as treads like a skid’s emerged from its bottom. Settling onto the treads, four Hasty-Arms popped from its sides. The top twisted and fell back, revealing a head with a mouth and five eyes that resembled holla lenses: two in front, one to each side and the back. A shutter like a thinlid covered the upper edge of each eye, shifting and blinking as it rotated its head towards the house.

  “Okay,” Torg whispered, “that was pretty sweet.”

  In this configuration, the damage was more apparent. The upper arm on its left and the lower arm on the right hung awkwardly at its side. The eye on the left face was cracked, the lens-shutter stuck halfway down. A piece above its right-side tread seemed to be missing and there were cracks in some of the treads themselves.

  It sat there, facing the house; one damaged arm twitching as the lens-lids vibrated in the rain.

  “Now what?” Johnny said.

  “We don’t have to go out there, do we?” Shabaz breathed.

  To everyone’s surprise, she got an answer.

  “I-We will enter shortly.” The creature’s mouth moved, although the voice cutting through the storm seemed to come from some deep resonant space. “Fear not. Even the trees have spikes, but I-We am friend. Wish to dispel anticipation of danger. Wobble.”