The Ward

3


1:30 A.M., SATURDAY


I push the neon-green button—DETATCH—and in an instant, my Rimbo jolts forward, speeding down the roof, the momentum sucking me backward into the seat. The next thing I know I’m halfway down, followed by Kent, Jones, and lastly, Ter. Not too surprised by that; Omnis are decent out of water, but he’ll pick up speed in about thirty seconds. For the time being, I’m leading.

But I haven’t had time to come up with a new route that gets me to Quad Nine, then back to the last roof.

All four of us are approaching the ramp that will send us over the edge of the roof and onto the next building of our choice. I’d bet good money Terrence is going to dive straight for the water. Kent’s Honda steals up behind me and I swerve closer to the outside of the roof.

The bastard.

Not only would my metal be crushed if we were to have a collision, though I’m sure that’s his intention, everyone knows the first roof is a grace period. You don’t mess with other mobiles until you’re off the first roof. Too many people watching. Spectators have died that way, found themselves up close and personal with a fresh set of tires.

Not that Kent cares about racing etiquette.

All the Derbies would rather make mush of me than watch me win again, and if that means killing a spectator or two, I guess he’d be fine with it. He’s also probably tired of losing. Looking for a change of pace.

But he isn’t going to get it. Never had the brains for this sort of thing. Racers need to prepare ahead of time. Maybe that’s a little-known secret, though it seems fairly obvious. It’s even Benny’s favorite mantra: “How can you get where you’re goin’ if you don’t know how?”

True racers scout the territory beforehand so we know the routes.

For example, we are headed straight north. I know that when the roof ends I need to swing my mobile sharp left, a heading of three hundred degrees, to be precise, according to the compass that’s smack center of my steering wheel. That way, the mobile will land on the roof of another building, one that is covered in only about an inch of water thanks to the low tide. Normally that building would be entirely underwater, and I know none of the other racers will go for this route; they don’t watch the tides like I do.

That—and I’ll make an educated guess here—is why they always lose.

Of course, all that planning would be wonderful if it were still the plan. At least the quad isn’t too far out of the way of my original route. I don’t have time to deviate too far just yet, so I’m still going to run the roof at three hundred degrees for the time being.

A voice cuts through a wash of static on my headset. “Ren, how you doing?”

It’s Benny, watching from the roof dock, probably grumbling more than I am about Kent’s little stunt.

“I’m fine, B. Kent’s just trying to get me shakin’ in my boots.”

My Hessians have never seen me shake, and they’re not likely to.

“Mama’s boy. I should have put maple syrup in his tank when he wasn’t looking!”

I don’t reply—too much else on the brain—but I chuckle as I imagine Kent trying to start up his mobile and finding it better suited to a hotcake breakfast than to a Ward roofrace.

Here it comes—the end of the building.

Readying myself for the jump, I grip the steering wheel. My knuckles whiten. I watch as blackness eats its way toward me until the nose of my mobile dips into the dark mouth. This is, oddly, when my queasiness disappears. When there’s nothing but . . . nothing.

Shooting off the edge of the building, now halfway in midair, I hit a red button. My favorite button of all: ROCKIN’

Music shoots out the stereo—bass vibrations from an old pre–Wash Out classic. Mostly muffled, but loud enough to keep a girl’s head on straight. I’m sure even the people watching from the first roof can hear something. Yes. This is what it’s all about.

Being airborne is nothing short of bliss. Nothing to worry about. I can’t drive, and I can’t die. A moment of pure painlessness. Head banging along with the music, I yell the lyrics—“I’m on a highway to hell”—and then close my eyes as the mobile drops, probably ten stories.

My stomach can tell—it’s used to it. When I first started racing, it would rise into my throat like I was gonna upchuck. Nowadays, this feeling of weightlessness, even for only a moment, is addictive. My stomach plays along.

I open my eyes—three years of racing have developed my sense for things like how long the fifteen-story drop should take. I can tell I’m nearing the next roof when I catch a glimpse of the other racers out of the corner of my eye.

I was right about Terrence—sort of. He’s driving down the building. All wall-racing mobiles have propellers on the front to slow down the momentum for a vertical drive like that. He must have slowed to a crawl before the first roof jump. Both safer and dumber, if you ask me. Safer, as he’s not going to nosedive into some unknown building underwater. Dumber, as he’s dragging way behind, all in the name of caution. He reaches where the water meets the building, and his mobile slips into the channels.

He’s going to have his own obstacle course though—underwater rubble and wreckage from before the Wash Out. Hundreds of buildings that you can’t see from the air. An entire city, even larger than this one, tucked out of sight—a watery ghost town. Nearly impossible to map, too. I’m beginning to think I don’t envy his snazzy water-adaptable carrot.

My mobile hits Roof Two and is immediately cushioned—too much—by the water pooling there. Everything starts to drag and slow, my wheels fighting against the pressure. I do not have the time to friggin’ dog-paddle through this muck. I must not have measured properly—the water is too deep to keep my wheels down.

Though the mobile has already slowed considerably, it’s not too late to reach for RETRACT.

I do, and all three wheels tuck into the body. The flat underside skips against the waterlogged roof, and I step on the acceleration. Having a limited supply in my H2O tank makes this a bit dangerous to do so early in the race, but I have no choice.

Propulsion shoots my Rimbo forward. Within moments I’m back to an acceptable speed. It’s a blur, speeding toward the roof’s end, straight for the canal. My Rimbo makes the terrain shift, skipping along river just fine, but I see I’m using more saline water than I’d expected. I’ll have to increase the temperature of the boiler to make it. I need to find Roof Three, and if my sense of direction is good—which it is—Roof Four will be the one that gets me into Quad Nine.

Now comes the tricky part. I need to gauge my skips just right. On the last skip before reaching the next building, I’ll hit the release button. The wheels will extend out, and then I’ll lean away from the wall to get my mobile on its side, and just like that, we’ll be driving along the wall of the third building.

“Ren. Come in, Ren!”

I’d completely forgotten. “Benny, hey. All’s well. I’m eating up my supply fast, though.” A quick peek at the reader tells me that I’ve got about a half tank left.

The comm is quiet, then Benzy’s voice returns through the static. “Well, Plan B is always there if you need it,” he replies.

If I have to use Plan B now, there’s no way I’m making it to Quad Nine, and I can forget about the win.

It’s time. Last skip—I put all my weight into my left side, trying to raise the right. Then, release.

Sparks fly. The wheels extend just a moment too late—the mobile swings sideways to drive along the building’s exterior, her suspension causing a load of jostle. About twenty feet ahead, Kent comes barreling down the wall. Damn. Must have lost more time than I thought back on Roof Two.

“B, come in.” I swallow my breath. He’s not going to be happy about this. “There’s been a change in plans.”

Static rolls through the headset—there’s a pause that’s just as disturbing as a scream or a cuss.

“Ren, what kind of stunt are you thinking of pulling?” he asks slowly.

Think quick—he needs to believe that I’m doing this for myself. Why would I be going to Quad Nine?

“A stupid bet I made with Kent. Don’t worry about it.”

His voice rises. “You’re going to toss this because of a bet with that . . . that—”

I cut him off before he gets too riled up. “I need a position on our potential Four, but headed toward Quad Nine.”

My guess—I’ll need a heading of about thirty. Though I scout ahead of time so I know the area pretty well, it’s easy to lose your sense of direction when you’re driving at a ninety-degree angle.

The crackle of the radio comm screeches in my ear, then Benson’s voice returns. “You’ve got a few options, but none of them will get you first to the finish.”

He’s pissed. Clearly. But not as pissed as he would be if he knew why I was really doing this. So I guess that’s a win. “Just give me the heading, Benny.”

Before he can answer, Kent jerks his car in a zigzag to keep me from getting ahead of him. If I can’t gather enough speed before the edge of the building, I’m not going to make the jump to the next roof and it won’t matter where it is. The pit of my stomach starts to do a jig, and not in a good way, like that time I first raced Kent and tore him up.

The mic is silent. After what feels like hours, B gives me my move.

“If you’re aiming for Quad Nine, the next roof is far. A heading of forty degrees northeast.”

Close to thirty degrees. Glad I asked.

Benson adds, “The race isn’t the only thing you lose headed in that direction; Kent won’t follow you. Too far off course. He’s not going to go for it. It’s a long shot for you too, but you’re bent on a suicide mission. So enjoy.” The mic goes quiet again. I know he resents me right now, but all I can do is move forward with the plan.

A bright red light on the dash catches my attention—it’s the water-tank reader, and it’s nearly empty. How is that possible? Just a moment ago I was at half tank. That should have taken me to building five or six, at least.

“Benson—my tank is flashing a bloody red E in my face. What do you make of it?”

“You sure?” His reply is quick. Confused.

I sigh, rolling my eyes even though he’s not here to see me. “Yes, Benz. I’m sure. I’m not blind, am I? I can see it flashing, clear as day.”

“Well, you know what to do.” He sounds resigned. “B it is.”

My knuckles are pressed hard, cramping against the steering wheel. How is this happening? “No way,” I respond, jaw clenched. I can’t lose both the race and the surveillance money. “I need to make it to the next roof.”

“And what are you going to do when you get there?” Benny growls—I can hear his anger loud and clear. “Sit down and have a tea party?”

He does have a point.

“I’ll just have to make it to Quad Nine. After that, I’ll have more options. You can find a route via the canals, right?”

I can see it now, Benny hunched over his handmade topographical maps of the modern NYC. Contour lines mark the varying heights of the buildings that survived the Wash Out, so he can tell me at a glance whether or not I can make the next building from this one’s highest point. As much as we plan, we improvise too. A flashing red E is textbook “improvise.”

He hasn’t responded yet. I’m not waiting any longer to make a decision. “I’m doing it, whether or not—”

“Yes. You have more options after that.” Static. “If you make it that far.”

“I will.” I just love the vote of confidence. Heartwarming, really.

Up front, Kent is still playing around, trying to keep me from getting up to the speed I need in order to cross to the next building.

“Benson, confirm. It needs to be a roof jump? How high is the next one?”

I’m running out of time; the edge of the wall must be coming up.

“Ren, you can make it from your side of the wall. But you’re going to have to cut a hard right, like I said. A heading of at least forty degrees.”

“Optimal speed?”

“One nineteen.”

He can’t be serious. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” I yell with no small amount of wrath into the comm.

My speedometer reads “95.” Peanuts. If only Kent would get the hell out of my way. What is he doing anyway? How can he afford to just fiddle around with me like this? He’s got to have a plan of his own. . . . Or maybe he doesn’t care who wins, so long as it ain’t me. I jam on the acceleration.

I’ll just have to make him move.

My mobile zips forward and clips his bumper. Kent veers right. He starts crossing the wall diagonally, heading back up toward the roof. Good riddance.

102.

I’ve never taken her past 115. My only fear right now is that she just might not have it in her.

“Faster, c’mon, faster!” My foot is now pressed against the floor. 109.

The red light on the dashboard is still flashing like a Christmas tree, but I’ve got bigger worries right now, believe it or not.

112.

The steady acceleration draws my back into my seat, making it near impossible to move. I’m almost there—the edge of the wall is within visibility. I add some of the boiler propulsion and it gets me to 116.

RETRACT. Hopefully, the wheels tucked in will make my Rimbo more aerodynamic.

I hurdle over the edge, but I’m still at 116. I would try to use the props to give me the edge, but by the time they start up, I’d have to turn ’em off again.

There’s no way. No more options. If I make the jump at this speed, I’ll squash myself into that building like a juicy bug.

Instead, I drive straight.

My mobile hurtles off the building, and I don’t have to look down to know that the Hudson channels are flowing beneath me, capped with ice, jagged and painful looking.

Whatever. Hello Quad Nine. I might have missed building four, but maybe I can still survey the area and get my earnings.

My mobile holds steady for a good while, then starts to plummet into the channels.

Good thing I have Plan B.

With a bit more propulsion at precisely the right moment, I can water skip and refill the tanks, thanks to Benny’s clever suction thingamajigger. All it does is suck up the brackish water already in the channels and redeposit it into my tank.

Filling my lungs with much-needed air—I’d been holding my breath—I ignore the possibility of imminent doom. This is what life is all about, right?

As the mobile drops toward the channels, I try and keep it as straight as possible. Just before it collides with the smooth surface, I turn on the back prop, setting my mobile skipping like a schoolgirl. Strange though—considering how low my tank is, I’m surprised the prop even works.

Heck, if it ain’t broke . . . who am I to complain about some good, old-fashioned luck?

I need to fill up the tank—fast. On the far right are two more buttons, side by side. The first just has a picture on it: Ø. The second reads SUCTION. Benny told me what to do when he installed this bit, but now I’m drawing a blank. I hit the Ø and wait.

If I thought the dashboard looked like Christmas before, it’s like Christmas on steroids now. Distracted by the blinking reds and greens, I swerve to avoid a spire reaching out of the channel like one of the Derby girlfriends’ stilettos. I clip the spire on my left side, sending my mobile sideways. Out the window, I can hardly believe what I see: a steady stream of water flowing out the tubes.

Frantic, I press the SUCTION button.

It’s too late. The tank’s entirely empty, and from my Rimbo’s erratic jostle, I’d say Mama Death Spire took out my front prop.

Gauging from the motion and weight of the mobile, I have about six more skips before—

Brack. More underwater rubble, and it’s knocked the rear of my mobile up into the air. Instead of sinking nice and easy, it’s going to be a nosedive. Perfect. How am I going to get myself out of this one?

For the first time, I feel it.

I’m used to turning my nerves to metal, but now they’re molten and liquid, every cell buzzing. Fiery. Fear isn’t just a feeling in your head. It swallows you whole.

Racing is dangerous. I know. I’ve always known it. But the when—the real end—that’s been unknown. And in case it was ever in question, I’m well aware of my immortality complex—orphanage psych evals were good for something. I mean, I’ve never lost a race. Or broken a bone. And I can never get the Blight. Course I act like I’m immortal.

But with my options dwindling faster than the water in my tank, I remember I ain’t made of metal. And if I do make it, not only do I lose the win, but there’s no way that I’ll be able to survey Quad Nine, so I’ll lose that money too.

Aven can’t afford my losing. Nights of hearing her howl from headaches caused by the tumor, me knowing it’s my fault she’s hurting . . . it’ll be too much for us.

My Rimbo’s nose slices into the water. Against the window, a great splash crashes. I remember too late that I should have tried to open it before going under.

Will the glass hold? Maybe I should have had it replaced . . . maybe it really is too old.

Right, I remind myself. Like I could have seen this coming.

Any moment now I bet it will crack directly over my head. Bust open, sending a dozen pointy daggers down on me.

For the briefest instant the tail nods against the surface, readying itself to sink. Then the nose and front wheel suck slowly underwater.

My Rimbo ain’t airtight and so, within moments, water begins to flow through the unsealed spaces. I tug at the moonroof, trying to slide it open, but the water’s weight is too heavy. Nothing budges. My Hessians feel the leak first, poor things, and then my toes feel cold and wet.

The water is rising.