Chapter 5 Kane, DemonX Pack
KANE, DEMONX PACK
{Three months ago}
Just another crashed-out body in a metal graveyard.
The acrid tang of rust, old oil, and rot punched my nose as I wriggled between the hollowed husks of cars long since stripped bare.
I was in an older section of the junkyard.
Most salvagers didn’t come back here, simply because the carcasses were mostly skeletons, no meat on the bones.
But I knew there were still a few treasures to be found.
My headlamp cut a narrow path through the darkness, revealing jagged sheets of steel and shattered glass.
Craggy, busted windows. Gnarled frames. Ragged tires, rubber clinging futilely to rims. Only one or two of the post lights in this part of the yard worked at night, and the shadows created between their dim glowing made monsters out of misshapen vehicle parts.
The creatures were my friends though. They didn’t scare me. Nothing did.
Well.
Nothing used to.
Now.
Once in a while.
I was fucking scared of myself.
The owner, Otto, only let me play after closing because I paid him a mint. I didn’t like to come during the day, didn’t like to compete for parts. Sure, it would be easier to search in broad daylight, but the hunt was half the enjoyment for me. Working at a deficit kept it from being boring.
Even though the night air was cold, sweat beaded along my spine and soaked through the back of my tee.
Three hours I’d been at this already. Endless picking through this automotive cemetery for something I could buy off a shelf reproduction, but that would be cheating.
I wanted the real thing. I wanted to refurbish it with my own two hands.
The carburetor for the ‘67 Shelby I’d had covered for months was eating at me.
Some asshole had slapped on an EFI convertor kit, but I’d ripped the bullshit clean off.
The car deserved the factory treatment. A specialized 715 CFM Holley 4-barrel carb with center-hung, racing float bowls.
That was the only way the GT350 would see road again. Nothing less would do.
Was this hyper fixation a distraction for real problems?
Yes.
Did it matter?
Not one fucking bit.
I picked my next leaning tower of crumpled cars and parts.
After a moment’s planning, I swung open the busted door of a double cab truck and climbed in.
Crawling across the bench, I grabbed the manual window lever and rolled the cracked glass down.
The beam of the hands-free light whispered over discarded machines and their now useless parts.
Something glinted two cars over and one row up, past the crumbling Caddie perched on a decades-sagged Lincoln.
Long, narrow window with a slight downward curve.
Two faded, telltale racing stripes. Short, sharp fin flip.
I mentally marked it, then flexed my hands, stretching the cracked knuckles, before skidding to the end of the bench and dropping out through the truck’s other side.
My boots hit oil-stained gravel with a crunch.
Then I jogged around to where I’d spotted the Mustang. Probably not what I needed, but I had to check.
“I’ll be damned,” I breathed out, grin spreading and triumph building.
Blocked by an SUV that looked as if it played chicken with a semi-truck and lost, was a ‘66 GT350.
At least, I was pretty damn sure it was a ‘66.
If I lucked out, it would have the carburetor I needed.
If my luck was horse shit, then it would be an automatic equipped with the Autolite 4100.
The Mustang was perched haphazardly; its paint a ghost of what it once was.
No vibrance, faded and chipped, the only life left clinging to the racing stripes.
Half the grille was caved in; the passenger side looked like it got sideswiped too.
At least the hood looked relatively unscarred.
I navigated the zigzag mess of broken glass and jagged fenders, using my gloved hands to steady myself as I shoved my body into an increasingly small space.
Finally, I was close enough to really examine the car.
The Mustang’s stripped-down interior was a crying shame—dash split in two, seat cushions corroded, floorboards dotted with rat shit.
I was glad I didn’t need to source any of that; I’d come up empty if so.
I wasn’t sure I had enough room to lift the hood, but I wrestled with the release always.
It took me brutally jamming my hand under the cowl to pop the stubborn, rusted catch.
Eventually though, I was able to lift the lid about two feet and tilt my head to direct the headlamp down.
No carb.
No fucking engine.
No nothing.
I barked a hard, humorless laugh and slammed the hood. Sure, I’d expected disappointment—it was the only way to avoid getting your hope murdered by life.
Wasted fucking time. Wasted fucking energy. I slapped the hood, not caring that I'd scraped my knuckles or that the boom echoed through the junkyard like a gunshot.
"You're a piece of shit," I informed the car. It didn't argue.
I backed away, forcing myself through the tangle of debris, swearing when my jacket caught on something sharp. The fabric tore with a sound like surrender. Perfect. Another thing to fix. Another thing to add to the endless list of shit that needed doing.
The moon had risen higher while I'd been searching; I debated continuing. What if the part was in the next mountain of crap?
What if I'd missed it? What if I was just one goddamn pile away from the part I needed?
When I pushed full out of the maze of metal, I felt pressure in my chest lessen. I hadn’t even noticed it building.
“Just go home. Get some fucking sleep. Come back tomorrow night.” My words were a mumbled half-growl, failure blooming in my chest that was already too tight these days.
I’m not sure why, but at that moment, the near-disastrous test trial for the Cirque du Sang head honchos came to mind.
Nitro missing his first throw, losing his shit, then recovering enough to conquer his target.
Fallon managing to shoot the apple off one of the CEO’s heads while riding, then nearly crashing afterwards.
Asher setting the stage curtains on fucking fire.
That delighted the shit out of my pack brother; he just walked right into the flames wearing his retardant suit, then proceeded to perform his stunts.
I thought one of the Cirque Execs was going to shit a brick when Asher breathed fire a foot from his face.
Xander was the only one of us that didn’t fuck-up. He’d handled the ramps like a textbook pro, even modifying the Superman during his last jump.
Me? I’d nearly driven right out of the Wall of Death, proving its name was accurate.
Failure. Just like tonight.
I started stalking in the direction of the front gate.
Rotating my head slightly left and right, I made the light’s glow dance around the junkyard.
It was childish, but it fed something in me.
Absentmindedly, my eyes briefly landed on everything the glow touched.
Newer SUV, a stupidly expensive one, the entire roof caved in.
No doubt it had flipped during a crash. An older sedan some idiot had painted a garish shade of orange.
A Suzuki Boulevard that made my stomach turn.
Anytime I saw a motorcycle in that kind of shape, I thought about the rider.
About a hundred yards from the first gate—the one that separated the actual junkyard from the gated section with the trailer office and parking—two round, center-set lights blinked at me.
I looked slightly to the right, finding another identically sized headlight.
To the left, same thing. Unmistakable grill.
And chrome emblems. Slanted, all caps. GT 350.
I jogged over to it.
Heart rate picking up.
Stupid hope, even when I didn’t want to entertain it, always creeping back in no matter how many times I killed it. But maybe this was the universe throwing me a bone. And, fuck, I needed a win.
Like a kid outside a candy store, I went to the driver’s door, leaned down, and shot the beam of light inside. The glare made me squint. Hard to see. I wrenched the door open.
And disappointment flooded me.
Disappointment and rage.
Automatic.
The right car. The right year.
And some miscreant back in ‘67 went with a goddamn automatic. Getting a muscle car in auto was a fucking sin.
I slammed the Mustang’s door so hard that the Tetris pile of cars atop it quaked.
Fucking waste of metal. I kicked the tire, sending dust and small pebbles flying.
I needed to punch something. Needed to destroy anything.
The headlamp beam bobbed wildly as I started pacing, hands clenched into fists.
"Problem?"
The voice came from behind me, and I whirled around, ready for a fight. The light from my headlamp caught a tall figure standing about twenty feet away. How had I not heard anyone approach? Too wrapped up in my own chaos.
“Fuck you want,” I growled, fists tightening, arms beginning to lift and bend and position. I’d go for his collarbone first.
“Now, Kane. I might have to rethink our little after hours arrangement if you beat shit instead of buy.” The voice was calm, almost flippant. Otto Gibbons. Owner of Gibb & Take Salvage Yard.
“Fuck,” I breathed out, running a hand down my face.
“Fuck indeed,” Otto walked over to a light post and flicked a switch. He cocked a thumb at it afterwards. “Day night sensor’s bust on this one.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.
“So, guessing you didn’t find what you’re looking for?” The old man’s weathered, brown face stared me down. So, I stared right fucking back.
Not breaking our locked gazes, Otto reached into the inner pocket of his oily, canvas jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros.
He slapped the container against his palm a few times before giving the package a little jerk, so a single, slim cigarette popped out.
He lifted the crinkled container to his mouth, clamped the exposed cig between his lips, and then held the package out to me.
I shook my head. He shrugged and slipped the smokes back in his jacket.
“Tell me what you need,” he said, now retrieving a lighter from his jeans. The flame from the Zippo briefly illuminated his face in orange light. He inhaled a few quick puffs, and the end of the cig caught fire.
“Not the same if I don’t find it myself,” I muttered, relaxing my hands. I had to consciously urge them to stay unclenched. Every part of me wanted to make fists and start wailing on the first thing I saw. Which would be Otto right now, and I really didn’t want to maim my go-to parts guy.
“Tell me anyways,” he pushed.
So, I did. Otto pursed his mouth and nodded slowly. “You’re one lucky bastard.”
“And you’re way off base,” I countered.
“I’ve got a buddy coming in tomorrow. He’s closing down his shop, bringing me all the parts wholesale.”
“How the fuck does that help me?” I bit back the snarl. I tried to sound polite.
“Guy specialized in Mustangs. Got everything from a ‘57 to an ‘82. Fairly sure the inventory listed a few Holley carbs.” Otto turned away and began ambling towards his trailer. “I just wrapped up the books. I’m heading home. Lock the gate when you leave.”
I watched the old fucker go. He knew I’d take the bait.
Bet he’d charge up the ass for the parts too.
But I didn’t care. I was going to pretend that this was a win, one I’d earned.
I'd be back tomorrow, soon as closing time hit.
Lingering until Otto left, because one interaction with the geezer was enough, I made my way to my bike.
I lifted the kickstand, then popped the motorcycle into neutral with a half-click up from first gear.
I walked slowly, guiding the bike, until I was outside the gate.
Engaging the kickstand, I pulled the rolling gate closed, looped the chain around the fence pole, and fastened the clunky padlock.
The drive back to the DemonX compound took forty minutes from the outskirts of Vegas.
I cranked up Slick Knot—the thrasher metal blaring through the helmets built-in speakers—to drown out the restless chatter in my brain.
The desert at night was a black void, and I liked it that way—nothing but me, the road, and a wall of sound vibrating through my chest, up into my jaw, and terminating in my teeth.
Punching my code into the compound’s security keypad, I revved the engine a few times as I made my way to the row of bikes not far from my garage sanctuary.
Reluctantly, I turned off the music and cut the bike’s engine.
There was always some noise in the night—ambulances, shouts, gunfire, stray dogs—but after the ear-splitting din of the music, the evening sounded silent.
The hollow quiet never lasted long. As expected, a door slammed somewhere inside the compound, followed by a pissed-off shout.
It used to be raucous laughter more often than anger, but those days were gone.
A few lights still glowed in windows. None of us slept normal hours.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to work out the tension that had settled there like concrete. Did I want to go into the house?
Fuck, I was tired.
Tired to the very center of my body and beyond. To that place that goes beyond skin and veins and flesh and bones. The unseen place. Where we keep truths we ignore.
I didn’t want to go inside, not yet.
I headed for the garage, feeling tender and wounded. The familiar smell of grease and leather greeted me as I flipped on the harsh overhead lights. Shit made sense here. If a car had a malfunction, it was just a matter of the right parts, the right tools, and time.
Maybe it was the same with me and my brothers.
We were malfunctioning. All we needed was the right part and the right tools and the right…
Not time. Time wasn’t our friend.
Time was running out.
Alpha ferality bleeding in at the edges of wounds we’d long ignored.
My brain hurt. My damn body too.
The covered-up body of the ‘67 Shelby sat in the back left corner of the large garage.
I needed to fix it soon. Fixing it might make me feel worthwhile.
If I didn’t chase away the dark, I really was going to start breaking things.
Breaking everything maybe.
The whole damn world.
Until I was satisfied.