Chapter 2
Chapter Two
brIAR
The Old Mill looms over me as my boots punch the tarmac, my body buzzing with nervous energy. It’s not that I’m afraid of this place—that feeling has long since left my body—but the idea of not knowing what to expect wages a war in my mind that leaves me on edge.
I wasn’t even sure if I’d be invited tonight—because you can only attend if you’ve been accepted—but imagine my surprise when I read the text message this morning telling me to come to The Old Mill. I didn’t need a minute to think about it; I knew what needed to be done, and that’s why I’m here.
The Midnight Run has only ever been whispered about around the town of Deadwood Hollow. Much like most things that happen here, nobody knows the truth of this place. If they do, they ignore what goes on in a town like this.
The name is fitting, really. A place I can only associate with death carries a name that feels almost inevitable.
Deadwood Hollow. A town built from what was left behind, where everything seems to decay, eventually.
There’s something unsettling in the way that everyone moves like the place isn’t haunted by death, by secrets and lies.
I, on the other hand, know better than to ignore the glaringly obvious problems that saturate the town. But I also know that there are advantages to living here. Gossip and stories only travel so far, but the people of Deadwood are the only ones who know the goings-on of a place like this.
I glance back at my phone, re-reading the invitation like it’s still a figment of my imagination. But it’s clear as day, as obvious as the night pouring over my head.
This is my chance.
I can almost hear my brother warning me.
Though I was always the rebellious one—the one who acted first and thought about the consequences after—I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this through.
Beckett was the voice of reason, the logical one.
The one person who answered his phone at three in the morning when I needed rescuing.
The one who covered for me when our parents asked questions and never once made me feel guilty for it.
He was the steady one, the safe one. He was the last person anyone expected to end up dead.
Yet somehow, I'm still here.
And he's not.
The thought of Beckett twists sharply in my chest.
Six months.
Six months since his death, and all I have is an endless list of questions and a hole in my chest. A hole that he left behind when he was murdered.
Every nerve ending crackles restlessly as I make my way into the compound, engines rumbling from every direction and vibrating through the soles of my boots.
Headlights carve sharp beams through the darkness as they park beside rotting timber piled high, staggering outwards in various heights around the property until they reach Deadwood Forest.
I came across mentions of The Midnight Run through a forum last month. It was purely by accident, but it seemed to be the answer to all my questions. Though I know never to believe rumors, the cementing factor that was mentioned time and time again was: if you win, you’re owed a favor.
And I need a pretty big favor.
The once thriving business of The Old Mill, which provided timber to the community, is nothing but abandoned factory buildings now, complete with broken windows and rusted walls, doors hanging off their hinges in a last-ditch attempt to save themselves.
Despite the obvious presence of misuse, it’s what’s inside that drives the residents of Deadwood Hollow to come here, either to seek thrills at the illegal races they run around the roads that circulate the factory.
Or dish out revenge in the underground fights at The Den.
Others—like me—come for something else.
I pull my leather jacket around me and cross my arms over my chest, a poor attempt to protect myself from the chill in the midnight air.
I’d thought about wearing something warmer, but I had second thoughts when I rummaged through my wardrobe.
I need something lightweight, nonrestricting.
Something that I can move easily in while still staving off some of the cold air.
Even though it’s May, the town hasn’t quite gotten the message that summer is here. Midnight only has one temperature, and it’s not one I enjoy being caught up in.
In the warmer months, the town and surrounding forest are filled with hikers, innocent influencers eager to get a decent photo for the gram beneath the towering trees, seasoned trekkers following the verdant trails to the creek, or urbanites desperate to escape the city for a weekend getaway.
It provides the town with the business it needs to survive out of season.
In the winter, the ski resort atop Devil's Ridge—the mountain overlooking the town—is teeming with tourists who flock here for untouched powder, luxury chalets, and panoramic views stretching for miles.
They come searching for an idyllic mountain escape, never suspecting the secrets buried beneath the snow at the foot of the mountain.
The air is thick with exhaust fumes as I amble closer to The Old Mill.
Cigarette smoke, motor oil, and anticipation cling to my skin like a second layer, settling heavily in my lungs.
Groups of iron-clad men and semi-naked girls pass by me in a flurry of skin and ink, all heading into the large building.
The buzz of heavy bass music rattles the walls, red and white lights flashing through the holes where glass once sealed. Two men stand on either side of an open door, patting down everyone who enters, waving them in when they’re satisfied.
I walk to the right, avoiding the crowd migrating outside, and enter the small structure.
The darkness yawns around me, coaxing goosebumps to the surface of my skin as I step inside the musty building.
The only light to come through the decrepit structure is that of the moonlight peeking through the gaps of the corrugated metal above me—barely held together by bolts—and a neon sign flickering beside a single metal door with the words ‘MIDNIGHT RUN’.
Beside the door, a small corner is blocked off by a half-wall, giving the impression it was once a greeting desk of some kind.
Noticing there’s nobody there, I swallow back the dryness in my throat and take a step towards the door.
I yelp as a hand reaches out, pressing against my chest.
“The Den is in the other building,” the dark voice says, the hand pushing me back the way I came.
I snatch his hand away, backing up a few steps to get some much-needed space and fishing out my phone from my pocket. The text message sits brightly on my screen as I show it to him.
“I’m not here for The Den,” I tell him, attempting to pour all my confidence into the few words. “I’m here for…”
My words catch in my throat as the moonlight catches the face of a man as he steps closer to read the message. A scruffy beard bordering a bulky face stares back at me, but it doesn’t take me longer than two seconds to work out who he is.
He’s wearing a leather kutte, the patch of ‘The Saints’ emblazoned on the left side of his chest. He’s obviously part of one of the many motorcycle clubs that roam around this town. Maybe the guy who organizes The Midnight Run.
He’s a mean-looking motherfucker with a permanent mask of anger. His large arms are decorated with endless trails of ink, images I can’t make out through the shadows. He folds them across his chest, a chuckle erupting from him.
“Well, shit!” he says, surprised. “Deathwish it is.”
He marches over to the door illuminated by the green sign and slides a key inside. The lock clicks and the door swings open with an unhinged groan that rattles my already frayed nerves, and I take a deep breath.
A green light glows like a warning, a signal to turn back before I regret this. But I’m already past that stage. Nothing can change what happened. Nothing can bring back my brother, Beckett. I came here for answers, and I’m going to make sure I get them.
I step towards the open doorway, but the Saint holds his hand out.
I raise a brow, not sure what he’s expecting.
“Weapons?”
I shake my head, but he thrusts his hand out harder.
“Fine,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. I lift my leg and tug out the knife that I had stashed inside my boot. “Seems a little unfair.”
The Saint laughs deeper again, shaking his head. “Thems the rules,” he shrugs, taking the knife from my hands. “You’ll get it back at the end.”
“Even if I lose?” I ask, stepping closer to the doorway.
“It wouldn’t do you any good either way,” he tells me.
I try to ignore that piece of information as he nods to the steps that descend into a basement of sorts, taking the first step into the green glow.