Authors: Amber Kizer
“I don’t know.”
Tens handed over a couple of twenties for our tickets. “No assigned seats?” Tens asked.
“Open seating, folks. Go anywhere you like. Don’t sit on anyone’s lap unless you ask nicely first.” The ticket taker cracked himself up.
Everywhere I turned, people wheeled coolers, held the hands of children, generations massed together all heading inside. They wore tank tops or T-shirts and shorts of every color of the rainbow. Most of the guys wore ball caps. I couldn’t peg the demographic of the crowd.
It seemed like everyone was represented, from glammed-out designer labels to guys who looked like they hadn’t heard of bathing or doing laundry. There were even soldiers in uniforms wandering in the crowds.
The ticket guy saw our expressions. “This your first Pole Day? Like it better than the race myself. You can go anywhere you want to—infield, up in the expensive seats, any turn, any place. If you aren’t allowed, someone will tell you. Just look for the guys in yellow and black if you have a problem or a question. Enjoy yourselves. They’re just about ready to reopen the track to qualifying.”
“Are there accidents often?” I asked.
He nodded. “Every year—rookies who don’t know what they’re doing, changes in the tires or the cars. Remember, the cars are supposed to break apart to protect the drivers—so often crashes look much worse than they are.” He lost his smile.
“Is this year different?”
“We’ve had more serious injuries. More fender benders than usual. But the weather is fluctuating wildly from cold to hot. Hot weather makes the track slicker than a Slip ’n Slide.”
“If it’s so unpredictable and dangerous, why don’t they cancel it?”
“Haven’t canceled a race since the second World War. Drivers and owners know this is a dangerous sport; that’s what makes it exciting. Defying gravity and death at two hundred twenty-five miles per hour.” He whistled. “You don’t stop a horse race just because one horse breaks a
leg. We don’t stop a 500 because a rookie hits the wall.” He turned to the people waiting behind us. “Enjoy your day, folks.”
“That’s kinda fatalistic,” I said to Tens.
“He’s right, though. Death is everywhere. We know it.”
The scents of roasting turkey meat and fried potatoes wafted on the breeze.
“You hungry?” Tens pulled out cash and headed for the shish kebab stand. With meat on sticks and lemonade cups, we looked more like we belonged.
“You have any idea how this Pole Day works?” I asked. None of the Woodsmen schooled us on what to expect.
Will I see their dead brother, or anyone else hanging out at the racetrack waiting for my window?
“Nope.”
I knew that behind his sunglasses, Tens was ultimately alert for threats of all kinds. I wished it were night and Nocti would have to show me their eyes. As it stood, in today’s sunshine, not wearing opaque shades became the oddity under the bright sun and its broiling rays.
We’d have to eavesdrop to get our information.
That’s nothing new
. I was getting really accomplished at looking one direction and listening fully to someone behind me. Somewhere around us, maybe in yellow and black, too, were Woodsmen scouting and seeking information.
Stairs of scaffolding-like metal crisscrossed behind bleachers three stories tall. Underneath them were storage areas covered and fenced but still visible and accessible to the highly motivated. The caverns contained
empty blue trash bins, while others were filled with white rocks the size of my fist and fenced off. Only chain link seemed to separate us from the actual structure of the bleachers.
The bleachers were stories tall, leaving storage areas below. When we’d come with Faye, I hadn’t been thinking of weaknesses in the structures that could be exploited to kill or maim. Now I saw them everywhere I turned. Today there were thousands of people here, but next week, there would be an estimated quarter to a half-million souls present.
How many Nocti? How many Woodsmen on our side? No clue
.
Tossing his licked-clean skewer into a trash bin, Tens asked, “Let’s walk around the outside perimeter for a while? The wind’s picking up.”
Rock music blared from amplifiers, so loud it shook my body. I didn’t recognize the song but what the band lacked in melody, they made up for in enthusiasm. Screens showed the track being cleaned. All of the earlier debris was gone and the only things visible were scorch marks and tire tracks.
Very efficient
.
Wind socks and flags in white, green, red, yellow, and checkered rattled on poles blowing above the stands. “Is that Pole Day?” I pointed at them.
Tens ignored me, keeping his head swiveling and his pace at a forced march.
“Uh, Tens, isn’t this like two miles around?”
“Two and a half according to Gus.”
Way to pick up on my subtlety
. “So we’re going to walk
the whole perimeter?” I didn’t know if it was even possible to walk the entire outside, but everyone was heading up into the stands or toward the tunnel underneath to the inside.
He paused and quirked an eyebrow at me. “Want to head into the bleachers?”
Which translates to, “If only you’d run five miles with me every morning instead of a couple of miles every other day, you’d enjoy jogging the perimeter of the track.”
“Yeah. Maybe we can see more if we go on the other side of the bleachers?” I answered him.
“Any souls?” Tens asked.
“Nah, not yet.”
We climbed flights of stairs and stepped out above the track, across from the glass Pagoda. True enough, we could go almost anywhere we wanted to. I forgot how expansive the infield was; there was an entire park inside the track with large trees and rows of buildings.
People far down in the stands, in either direction, looked like dots of color in a sea of gray.
What horror is planned for these people?
“There are so many people here,” I said to no one in particular. The masses in the bleachers only emphasized the antlike frenzy on the track. Cars were lined up, loudly painted with sponsor logos and website URLs. Each team seemed like they were trying to be recognizable at a glance and different from the rest of their competition. Neon green, bright blue, blood-red, tangerine, and camouflage competed with fonts screaming for attention.
Similarly uniformed groups of men scurried around the cars, talking into headsets.
A fleet of trolleys with little tractors carried huge black tires stacked four and five tall. They drove purposefully between teams and a gasoline alley that led back toward the buildings behind them.
Television crews and photographers seemed planted with cameras raised, waiting for a sweet shot, like paparazzi with celebrities.
Some of these drivers are celebrities
.
“That’s gotta be the Pole.” Tens nudged me, pointing at what looked like a giant Tootsie Roll, only all four sides had numbers. White paint on black listed 1–33; beside them were corresponding lighted numbers, changing positions as I watched.
“The track is open, race fans!” the announcer called, and all the spectators surrounding us cheered. A car revved and tore out onto the oval. The announcer said what sounded like a name, not that I knew any of them. People chanted and clapped as the vehicle went by again. And again. I kept my ears plugged with my fingers. If we came back, I’d want the serious-looking headphones a lot of the old-timers wore.
“Anything?”
I shook my head.
Tens took my hand and we finagled our way into the flow of human traffic under the track.
“And he’s done it, ladies and gentleman. Danny Jones has the fastest speed and currently holds the pole.”
So it’s the order they start
.
Tens glanced back at me with a smile.
Gus told him more than he’d let on
. “Only thirty-three cars get to race next Sunday. Today they’re trying to get places at the front of the pack and qualify to race next week.”
I playfully swatted his butt. “Have no idea what Pole Day is, huh?”
“Thought about telling you all the girls had to dance on a pole, but I figured you wouldn’t buy that.” He tried to say it with a serious expression.
“Oh, I’ll dance on a pole for you, baby cakes.” I gave him my most lascivious stripper strut.
He grinned bigger, even showing me sparkling teeth in an attempt to call my bluff.
“Unfortunately, you missed your chance.” I laughed.
As if
.
As we explored the grounds, we walked down into a tunnel. Above us, on the ceiling and on the walls, pipes and cables were easily accessible. Peeling paint and crusty floors made me think these weren’t the most inspected areas.
Quick to slip something in or drag a cooler filled with nasties to accidentally leave behind
. I shivered. I wanted to hurry out of there.
Tens frowned. “You okay?”
Nope, catastrophic extremist threats make me ill
. I shook my head. As we exited the tunnel into the infield, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people. Coupled with the amorphous threat, I didn’t even know where to begin.
Tens spun me around and I saw an alcove with a couple
of the yellow-shirted officials having lunch. What interested me, and I’m assuming Tens, was the fact that official yellow gear was hanging on pegs and hooks.
Cause a commotion and it wouldn’t be too hard to snag those
.
Behind us, another car roared to life and sped around the track.
Inside the asphalt oval, we were in the depths of food booths, a music stage, huge screens, and souvenir shops.
Like an outdoor food court
.
Around us there were alleys behind bleachers, scrolling doors to storage spaces or garages, people everywhere, lots with drink cans in their hands, lost in having a good time.
Superfans wandered among us, wearing outfits made of car parts and ponchos.
One guy wore a miniature speedway on his head, complete with the flags, pole, and Pagoda. What was odd, though, were the number of people taking their picture with him as if he were part of the spectacle itself.
The crowd stopped while one of the red and white cars was wheeled past us, back behind a section that seemed to require credentials. Girls in bikini tops tried to flash their own credentials to get past security. The number of golf carts made me wonder if in the off-hours there weren’t drag races around the oval.
In the distance, several military helicopters were parked for people to tour. And semi trucks unloaded pallets of soft drinks and beer. Motorcycles and sports cars were parked around the semi-trucks and trailers as if this
were a giant parking lot. If seeing the activity from the bleachers around the outside was overwhelming, this small city inside was even more so.
Holy hell, where do we start?
Below us, by the rows upon rows of garage doors, a motorized wheelchair was surrounded by guys in jeans and green hats. “Sergio’s talking to Timothy.” I grabbed Tens’s arm to snag his attention. “Over there.” I stepped up on an air conditioner to try to get a better look. “He’s surrounded by Woodsmen.”
It looked like the intern was wearing a volunteer’s green ecological vest, but he was writing notes and joking with the men.
“Come on!” Tens grabbed my hand and we shoved our way between people, down flights of stairs and against the flow of traffic. Because of his height, Tens had a good bead on the group.
“Crap!” I saw a group of fans chatting together, waving excitedly in my direction. A Woodsman walked with them, his WoW insignia seemingly bleeding through his T-shirt from his wounded chest.
Do you see this?
“Tens?”
“Supergirl?” Tens responded distractedly.
“You don’t see him, do you?” I stopped and leaned back against the wall of a building. “Go on, make sure Sergio isn’t up to something. They don’t know to distrust him.”
“I can’t leave you—” Tens stopped too.
I shoved him away. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
He nodded, hesitated, and left just as the souls arrived. If anything, I hoped my sunglasses and stoned
expression might make people think I was drunk rather than splitting my time between two worlds.
“Hello,” I said as we appeared at the window as a group. Thick Indiana accents peppered me with questions and commentary as if they’d waited decades to talk to someone new.
The view out their window was an almost exact replica of the track.
Talk about déjà vu
. Only there were more people present and their clothing ranged from early twentieth century to present day. More than a few superfans wandered in elaborate hats of their own.
“We won’t miss anything, will we?” one man asked his friend.
“I’m telling you we should stay. There’s something wrong with those tire guys. Have you ever seen that happen?”
The Woodsman stayed in the background, not interacting with the other souls or me. His lips were moving, but I heard no sound.
I inserted myself into the group. “What are you talking about?”
“Something’s going on. We should stay.”
“Can you tell me what’s happening?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Do you know? How do we know?” They seemed confused and anxious.
“I want to go now.” His companion leapt through the window without a backward glance.
“What do I do?”
“There’s nothing you can tell me?” I asked.
He shook his head, not taking his eyes off the scene beyond the window.
I sighed. “I think you’ll be able to see everything there.” In my peripheral vision, Auntie and Roshana stood together. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them, but oddly both had changed their outfits to black and white dresses. Checkered accents sashed their waists and matching sun hats. I frowned.
What are they trying to tell me?
“That’s my wife. What’s she doing here? She never comes out to the race with me—”
That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. As he crossed over the threshold, the scene at the window changed. Everyone was gone, including Auntie and Roshana. Where the Pagoda and garages sat currently, a huge old growth forest sprang to life, almost like the world was on high-speed rewind.
The Woodsman moved closer to me until we stood shoulder to shoulder. A log cabin sprang into being, wood smoke drifting out of the chimney. I watched a young girl, my age maybe, come running across the yard with a basket in her arms.