400 Horsepower of the Apocalypse
Chapter 1
Dreams end, though, even the weird recurring ones. And now it was time to get my butt out of bed.
My cell phone blared an endless loop of the most obnoxious ringtone I could find. It had to be one I hated — nothing else would wake me up at five o’clock in the morning day after day after day.
I fumbled the phone out from under my pillow and groaned a few choice curses at it. The damned thing had already been going for nearly ten minutes and I hoped that I hadn’t woken anybody else. That late start probably should have come out of my shower or breakfast time — but I wasn’t willing to cut either one, so I grabbed a bottle of coffee from the fridge and chugged it while I waited for my shower to heat up.
And waited… I was twenty-three years old, but my parents had bought that water heater long, long before I was born. So I waited some more.
Once the shower was warm — hot was right out of the question — I gulped down the last mouthful of coffee, but it was bitter and gritty because I had forgotten to shake it first. I made a face at the empty bottle and left it on the bathroom counter.
Welcome to the life of Jasmine O’Neil. Jaz to my friends, or people who think they’re my friends. Or anyone who is too lazy to just say my whole damned name.
I showered and dried off quickly, then tied a bandana over the fluffy black curls of my damp hair. With a last-minute bagel clamped between my teeth, I climbed into my dad’s car and backed out of the garage. I drove across town while wolfing down my bagel in four huge bites.
So why was I up before the sun? Well, people usually needed to stop by my work before they headed out to their job. I was a mechanic at Golden Touch Auto, one of those boring chain car garages where they change your oil, rotate your tires and upsell you on semi-useful and over-priced maintenance plans.
And by they, I mean me. I was always the first GTA employee into the garage because nobody else wanted to be up that early. Neither did I, but I was the newest hire in years, the youngest and the only girl in a workplace that was otherwise an utter sausage fest. So I got stuck with all of the shit work.
But I dutifully unlocked the GTA front door with my security code, turned on the lights and booted up the ancient computer system so that people could drop off their trucks and cars before heading out to their own jobs at a more reasonable hour.
The day only went downhill from there. The guys came in around nine o’clock. By ten, Craig had made no less than three different comments about women having no brain for machines, including a snappy one-liner about how I should be spending more time in the back seat of cars rather than under their hoods.
When I turned to tell Craig to shove it, I caught my coveralls on the corner of a bumper and tore the knee right open. Craig laughed at me.
“Damn, Jaz,” he said. “I was going to suggest you get a job down the street waiting tables, but now I’m not even sure you can do that.”
“No, I can’t,” I snapped at him. “Because I’m a mechanic, not a waitress.”
I spun back to face the car that I was working on, hopefully before Craig said anything else. My cheeks were flaming and even with my dark brown skin, I was pretty certain that everyone could tell. Bob made some joke that I only half heard over the rush of blood in my ears, but I flipped him off anyway. When I returned to wrestling the bolts out of the old Ford’s transmission, though, my hands were shaking and the wrench slipped. I smashed my finger and cursed some more.
The other mechanics were all laughing again. What the hell were they doing gathered around me, anyway? Didn’t they have their own jobs to do? Not that I trusted Craig to change a windshield wiper.
An hour and a half later, though, it was finally and thankfully lunchtime. I didn’t get to leave the garage, of course, but everyone else went up the street to the bar. Lucky Jaz got to stay behind at GTA… New girl and all that.
I’m not complaining — okay, I am — but I wouldn’t have gone out to lunch with Craig and the other guys, even if they invited me. Not just because they were all assholes, but because it was cheaper to eat a bagged lunch and I needed to save every last dollar if I was ever going to escape this place.
This place was Crayhill, Kansas. Or as I tended to think of it, Craphole. Look, there are really nice places in Kansas. Beautiful, peaceful places — and for some people, maybe Crayhill was even one of them.
Ugh, sorry. That made me throw up in my mouth a little.
Crayhill was a tiny town, with a population of perhaps two thousand. It used to be larger, but that was back when there was a major motorcycle factory here. Both my parents had worked at that plant, met and fell in love there. I grew up playing with their socket wrenches and calipers. But then the economy crashed, the factory closed down and pretty much everyone in Crayhill lost their job.
Anyone who could afford to moved out of Crayhill, but that still left a shitty, broke little town full of people who had spent their entire professional lives designing, building and repairing motorcycles. I got the job at Golden Touch Auto because I’m a damned good mechanic… and because I was willing to come in at the ass-crack of dawn to work ten-hour days for minimum wage. I couldn’t afford to take my crappy job for granted, though. In Crayhill, I was all too easily replaceable. But I hadn’t gotten a raise in… ever, and most of what I earned went straight to helping my parents with the bills.
I had my own plans, however. Once I was sure that Craig and the other guys were all safely gone for lunch, I went out to the cracked concrete pad behind the garage and pulled a tarp up off the motorcycle parked back there. It wasn’t a secret or anything, but I didn’t always have the time to work on the bike and Craig got cranky if I stored it inside.
I ran my hand along the chrome handlebars of the Triumph Bonneville 790. The previous owner abandoned the motorcycle when he couldn’t afford the repairs and it took seven months of working on the side to get it running. And I managed it all with minimal parts, scavenging and machining every single little doodinkus all on my own because I’m twice the grease-monkey that any of the other GTA mechanics are.
My Bonnie was still a rough ride, though… The bike badly needed new shock springs and a set of Ikons cost four hundred dollars that I didn’t have.
I crouched down to inspect the wheel fork. It had been just this side of mangled when I started work on the Bonneville, but it was looking pretty damned good now. The motorcycle was a cruiser, not a racing bike, with a dark blue and purple body, and chrome highlights that I always kept brightly polished.
Someday I would finally jump onto my Bonnie and ride the hell out of here. Hopefully before it was too late… There was a gravity to Crayhill and the last handful of eligible men in town were all eyeballing me expectantly. By the time I hit drinking age, I had already slept with the three or four guys worth taking to bed. Only two of them were worth doing the deed sober, and none of them merited a second go. But if I didn’t escape Crayhill, I would eventually give up and marry one of them, then likely drink myself into a slow, early death so that I wouldn’t realize how miserable I was.
Nope. Not today, and not without a fight.
I gave my Bonneville another loving pat and straightened. There was still a Corolla up on the lift, but I figured changing its transmission fluid could wait until I was done with lunch — and maybe a little daydreaming.
There hadn’t been enough time to pack a sandwich or anything that morning, so I grabbed a candy bar from the half-full lobby vending machine and sat down in front of the reception computer to browse eBay for some new shock springs. It’s not really a part you can buy used, but maybe some bike shop had an old set sitting on a stock shelf and wanted to offload them for a few bucks.
No dice. I put my chin in my hand and sighed. Oh, well. Just another frustrating day in Crayhill.
Or was it…? I leaned over the counter and squinted out the lobby window. Something felt strange today — something in the air, like there was a storm coming. Whatever it was, the sensation crawled up my spine and seemed to grab on, pulling me with invisible hands in the direction of the approaching storm. A tornado, maybe?
But the sky was still clear and a pale blue color scrubbed nearly white by the bright sun. I took another bite of candy bar, wondering if I should check the weather app on my phone. But I never got the chance.
Last night’s dream of cosmic battle came suddenly rushing back over me with such force that I choked on chocolate and caramel. Light bloomed across my vision, colorless but blinding in its intensity. There were elemental forces battling for the soul of the entire universe and something incandescently hot raced through my body like a lightning strike.
Holy shit, was I having a stroke? Can you get a stroke from frustration?
But a second later, the light, the battle and everything else simply… vanished. The rush of blood in my ears was replaced by the loud roar of a motorcycle engine — something a lot bigger than my little Bonneville. I dropped the remains of my candy bar and jumped to my feet to get a look out into the parking lot.
Any trace of morning coolness had long since dispersed and the asphalt shimmered in the midday heat as though the very air were trying to escape Crayhill. A big black motorcycle turned into the GTA parking lot and stopped just outside the front door. The bike’s rider pulled off his helmet and uncovered short, wavy brown hair. He peeled off a leather jacket, too, then stuffed it into one of the saddlebags slung over the back of his motorcycle. His arms were thick with muscles and tattoos.
Damn, the guy was an eyeful — six foot something, with deep brown eyes and dusky skin. Neither his complexion or hair were as dark as mine, but he definitely had the look of a man who spent a lot of time outside, and probably somewhere way more exotic than Kansas.
The bike was a fine specimen, too — a 2014 Packmaster CVB, if I was any judge. And I was. Black leather and chrome finish, with beautiful blood-red detailing. Both motorcycle and rider were well-crafted machines of barely-restrained power in sleek packaging.
Alright, maybe I was letting my imagination run away… But hey, it was the only part of me that got to.
The biker pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and dialed as he walked across the parking lot. I centered myself behind the counter, brushed any stray bits of chocolate off my shirt, and did my best to look professional as he pushed the door open. The automated doorbell let out a loud, sharp buzz meant to be heard all the way back through the garage and I winced, but my strange new customer didn’t even appear to notice the ruckus.
“Yeah. See you soon,” he said into the phone. “Call me if you run into any trouble.”
His voice was deep, with a trace of Mexico in his accent not quite overwhelmed by the strong Chicago vowels. He smiled as he spoke, but stepped quickly up to the counter like he was in a hurry. I straightened to my fullest five-and-a-half foot height, then checked the bandana that kept my hair out of both engines and my eyes while the tall biker stuffed his cell phone back into his pocket. It was too warm in the garage and I had unzipped the top of my coveralls to tie the arms around my waist. Not exactly club wear, so I put on what I hoped was my best and brightest smile to make up for it.
Alright, Jaz, I told myself firmly. Say something smart, maybe a little flirty. First impressions are forever.
“Hi, Jasmine,” I said, then felt my face go hot. “I mean, hello. I’m Jasmine. Jaz. Welcome to Golden Touch Auto. Do you need a jump?”
Good job, Jaz.
The biker’s expression became confused, but he nodded.
“Leo,” he introduced himself. “Leo Valdis. Can you look at my bike? The steering is pulling and my engine keeps surging.”
Points to Leo for not assuming I was a receptionist. A lot of guys who came into the garage did — despite the coveralls and grease stains up to my elbows. Leo might not be a sexist douchebag, or maybe he was just slightly observant.
“Sure, let’s go take a look,” I said.
I came out from behind the front counter and gestured to the door, letting Leo lead the way back out to his motorcycle. Not so I could watch his ass — well, not just so I could watch his ass — but I had never seen the guy in Crayhill before, and I was otherwise alone in the garage until Craig and the others came back. I wasn’t about to turn my back on a strange man, no matter how sexy.
We stepped out into the hot Kansas afternoon and I gagged, but then forgot all about the heat and my suspicions when we approached Leo’s bike. Wow, it really was a gorgeous machine… My initial assessment was right — 2014 Packmaster CVB.
The Packmaster was based on the classic Harley-Davidson Softail design, but with an extended gas tank and a longer back end made for hauling larger saddlebags. The Packmasters were popular with bikers who spent a lot of time driving cross-country, who wanted fewer stops for gas and some increased carrying capacity.
But CVB meant that this motorcycle was a special release. The manufacturer only made a few of them each year, and they were both more expensive and more powerful than the standard models.
Leo’s Packmaster made my half-finished Bonneville looked like a beater by comparison. Well, to be honest, it was a beater, but I would have been jealous even if the Bonnie were brand new. The big Packmaster had a flawless red and black paint job, with sturdy-looking custom leather saddlebags across the back. Hard cases produced less drag on the road, but lots of bikers preferred the look of the leather, and they were collapsible when empty. These bags were far from empty, though — they were stuffed with something and bulged liked bunched muscles.
“Hmm, steering problems are usually tire problems,” I said, crouching down to inspect the tread. “But… I don’t see any uneven wear. Your fork doesn’t seem bent, either.”
“Did I screw up the alignment?” Leo asked.
I squinted. “Hmm… Maybe. Or the engine might be racked incorrectly. That’s usually more of a problem with the touring models than the Packmasters, especially a CVB. But let’s take it inside for a look.”
I straightened and grabbed the handlebars to wheel Leo’s bike into the garage. But as soon as I touched the motorcycle, the blinding light came back. There was a hollow boom like a thunderclap and the world spun all around me. I staggered away, wheeling my arms wildly as I struggled to regain my balance.
“Hey, are you okay?” Leo asked.
When I could see again, the biker was reaching out to steady me. I waved him off and blinked a few times, but the light was gone and so was the dizziness.
“It’s alright,” I said. “I’m fine… I think.”
What the hell was that? Did I just get electrocuted or something? Maybe I should check over the Packmaster’s electrical system, too.
“Want me to bring it inside?” Leo asked.
“Um… yeah,” I answered. “Thanks. But be careful. I think it zapped me.”
Leo frowned at his motorcycle before cautiously touching the back of his hand against the handlebars. Nothing happened, though, so he kicked up the stand, then followed me through one of the big roll-up doors into the garage. I pointed to a lift table, a much smaller and portable version than the lift with the Corolla still waiting for its new transmission fluid. Leo maneuvered his motorcycle into place while I pulled on a pair of worn leather gloves. I didn’t want to touch the Packmaster without protection again.
Once my hands were safely covered, I strapped the motorcycle onto the lift table and raised it a few feet. I cracked my knuckles and nodded to Leo.
“You can wait up front, if you like,” I offered. “I think there’s still some coffee. It doesn’t taste great, but the lobby air conditioning is better, at least.”
Most customers opted for the uncomfortable chairs to either stare at their cell phones or page through old car magazines, but Leo shrugged.
“If I’m allowed back here, I’d rather stay,” he said.
I didn’t really like an audience, but I had been working with the other GTA mechanics while they taunted me for two years now. So I nodded and got to work.
I started out by sighting down the Packmaster’s swingarm. That’s the part of a motorcycle behind the exhaust muffler that holds the rear wheel in place. There were tick marks etched into the metal and the wheel alignment looked good. But those calibration marks were placed by the manufacturer and if their machinery was off, then so were the marks. Better to check the alignment myself just to be sure. I grabbed a tape measure from the tool bench.
“Have you bumped up over any curbs recently?” I asked. “Hit anything?”
Leo shifted his weight a little back and forth between his feet. Not shuffling, really — it looked far too deliberate for that — but like he was ready to move. Maybe to run.
“No curbs or meridians or anything,” Leo said. “I take care of my bike, but… I ride hard.”
“Yeah, I bet you do,” I murmured to myself.
Luckily, Leo didn’t seem to hear me. I unspooled the tape measure and checked the distance between the left swingarm pivot and the rear axle. I slipped my hand between the exhaust pipes to get the measurement on the other side. That usually required removing some of the body casing, but my hands were small enough to just maneuver around it.
Screw you, Craig.
But I shook my head. The measurements were identical on either side, which meant the alignment was dead on. No clues there why Leo’s steering was off. Maybe I could at least solve the zapping problem.
I lowered the lift table and checked the Packmaster’s headlight, but didn’t see any sign of frayed or sheared wires. So what had shocked me? I dug through a toolbox until I found a big multimeter, one with a current clamp on the end. I hooked it around some of the exposed chrome of the Packmaster’s handlebars, but the meter needle didn’t budge. If there was any electrical current running through the metal, then it was too little for the multimeter to detect. Which probably meant it was too little to zap me.
I scowled at the meter and put it away, but I didn’t take off my gloves.
“So far, everything looks fine,” I reported. “If your steering is pulling to the side, it might be… maybe a bearing problem? That will take a bit longer to check, though. What about the engine issues? What’s going on there?”
“It runs fine most of the time,” Leo told me. “But every once in a while, the engine surges and the RPMs shoot through the roof. I jump up about ten or twenty miles per hour until I can throttle back down.”
“Hmm…” I said.
The engine seemed fine from the outside — no signs of leaks or cracks or anything like that. I raised the lift table again to inspect the drive belt. I pinched the edge of the belt and gave it a gentle twist. It turned forty-five degrees without trouble, but not much further than that. The belt was at the correct tension and looked recently replaced.
“Put anything weird into the tank?” I asked. “Engine cleaner or the wrong gas?”
Leo shook his head. “Nope.”
I frowned at his motorcycle. Alright, maybe fluid levels? But when I checked, the oil wasn’t low. Even if it were, it wouldn’t have made the engine surge. I lowered the lift again and finally pulled off my gloves, tucking them into the waist of my coveralls.
“Look, I know my bikes,” I said. “But I’m not the motorcycle whisperer. I’ll need to crack open the bodywork and primary case to figure out what’s going on here. And that will take a little time.”
“How long?” Leo asked.
“You should probably get a motel room. Crayhill isn’t exactly a big tourist destination, but Highway 44 runs a few miles south of here, so there are a couple of motels for stopovers.”
Leo nodded. “I was out on the highway when my bike started having trouble today.”
“And you stopped in Crayhill…?” I asked, cocking my head curiously. “There are garages in pretty much every truck-stop town along the highway. Why did you come here?”
Leo shrugged and I shook my head.
“Get a room and come back in the morning,” I suggested. “I should have some answers for you then.”
At least, I hoped that I would. So far, all of the usual suspects were unusually absent. I just had to pray that once I opened up the Packmaster’s engine, the problem would present itself. Leo crossed his thick, tattooed arms.
“Is my bike rideable?” he asked.
“Well… yeah,” I answered reluctantly. “You rode it into town. But you don’t want a major engine seize or steering pull at highway speeds.”
“I can’t stay here. I need to catch up with my friends,” Leo said. “There’s somewhere we have to be.”
I sighed. “I can’t recommend you riding very far on this beast until you find out what’s wrong and fix it. I guess you could leave the Packmaster here and maybe buy another motorcycle from someone in town. There used to be a factory, so there are plenty of them around.”
It seemed a little ridiculous to buy a whole new bike just to keep some appointment, but even I was surprised at the heat in Leo’s answer.
“No,” he growled. “I’m not leaving my steed behind.”
Alright, I loved my motorcycle as much as the next girl, but steed was a bit excessive. Leo winced at his own intensity and he looked down at the oil-stained concrete floor for a moment. He let out a long, hissing breath.
“Another bike isn’t really an option for me,” Leo answered at last. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave me a rueful smile. “Sorry.”
“I get it,” I said. “I wouldn’t give up my Bonnie, either. It’s my only ticket out of Crayhill.”
Leo glanced briefly at me, but then returned his attention to his motorcycle on the lift table. He shifted his weight again, as though his body had to play out the options running through his head. Leo pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked at it, then finally back down at me.
“I can’t stay here… but my bike needs work,” he said slowly. “So come with me. Do whatever repairs need to be done on the road. Keep me up and running, Jaz, and I promise I’ll make it worth your time.”
Maybe there was something wrong with my heart, too, because the RPMs shot through the roof. Look, I know that human hearts don’t have RPMs, but the hottest biker guy I had ever seen just asked me to run away with him. Getting out of this shit town was all I ever wanted, but I fought to get my pulse down below heart attack levels.
“I… I have a job here,” I stammered. “And I’m supporting both my parents with it. Trust me, I would love to go, but I can’t just… leave.”
“I can make it worth your time,” Leo said again. “I’ll pay you. Cash.”
I blew out a long breath and shook my head. “I can’t. Really. Not unless you happen to have thirty thousand dollars in your back pocket.”
That was what my mom and dad still owed on their house, more or less. The social security checks just weren’t enough to cover bills and food, not while they were paying the mortgage, too. Leo didn’t laugh or roll his eyes, though.
“Not in my back pocket,” he said. “But… thirty thousand? Is that your price to get me where I need to go?”
“Um… yeah?” I said. More like gasped.
Leo looked at his Packmaster again, deliberating, but only for a moment. Then he met my gaze with dark, intense eyes.
“Deal,” Leo said.
Holy shit, I thought. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Thirty thousand dollars just for a mechanic? Leo must have really wanted to make this meeting. I wished that I could ask for a night to sleep on it, but Leo was already offering me thirty grand to avoid staying in Crayhill overnight. That was more than I made in an entire year working at Golden Touch Auto.
Was this actually happening? How could it be real? I had no idea, but I couldn’t pass up this chance to get out of Crayhill.
“Deal,” I echoed breathlessly. “Wait, what about some kind of deposit?”
I didn’t want to ruin things by haggling, but if I was really about to skip town, I couldn’t just leave my parents in the lurch. One of Leo’s eyebrows rose a little, but he nodded.
“How about… ten thousand up front?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, okay.”
It was way better than okay — this was a dream come true. Leo went to his motorcycle and opened up one of the bulging leather saddlebags. His broad shoulders blocked my view of the contents, but when he turned back, Leo was holding a stack of hundred-dollar bills. They were still wrapped in a bank-branded paper band.
“Ten thousand dollars,” Leo said.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
Leo held out the money. Benjamin Franklin stared up at me from the crisp new bills with a faintly accusatory look on his round face, as if to say You know he stole me, right?
I didn’t know if it was a crime to accept stolen money, but what choice did I have? Stay in Crayhill and watch my mystery biker ride away with the only chance I might ever have to see the world tucked away into his saddlebags?
Screw you, Ben, I told the money.
Carefully, I took the cash in shaking hands. Leo snapped his fingers and grinned at me.
“Great,” he said. “Do you need to put some stuff together?”
I nodded. “Umm, yeah. Give me… about an hour?”
“Quicker if you can. I want to get back on the road.”
