“Because they don’t go with my outfit,” Hex says, flexing his visible arms.
“Really?” Wilbert groans.
“Naw. Just kidding.” Hex leans over, lifts the two containers easily, and glances over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
We take a transport that pulls us below the ground floor of the building, my ears popping all the way down. One by one, Wilbert unlocks several doors in a dark tunnel lit by an occasional yellow light on the wall. I catch up to him as he opens yet another door.
“Don’t we need Marka’s clearance to leave?”
Wilbert aims a tiny silver spray bottle at the keypad and pumps it. A slightly goopy liquid drips off the keypad, and the door clicks open. “I’ve got a dissolvable hacking code. Liquefied circuits.”
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or worried,” I say, forcing extra breaths as I jog to keep up with everyone. I’m not the last one; Vera’s heels click sharply on the hard concrete floor behind me.
Finally, we go through one more door and enter a small dark room that smells of grease. Inside, a large, irregularly shaped lump is covered by a dusty black cloth. Hex and Wilbert pull at opposite ends to slide it off.
It’s green, dull, and has four wheels and real glass windows. If a magpod had wheels and a few extra angles—oh, and appeared as if it just went through the apocalypse—this is what it would look like. The surface is pockmarked with dents and huge chips in the paint. Rust spots pepper the surface and coalesce into patches, as if the vehicle is succumbing to a terminal rash. The doors don’t even look like they slide open, if they open at all. I think I saw a prettier version of it in the Museo 2000. Wilbert waves at it with a flourish.
“Here is it! Our char.”
“Don’t they call it a . . . a car?” I look at it sideways. I’m starting to understand what Vera was saying. Maybe digging our way to the club would be a safer bet.
“No, it burns things. It’s a char.” Wilbert nods so emphatically, I’m sure he’s knocking against his invisible head.
“Car, char, chariot. Whatever. Let’s get going.” Hex lifts one of the jugs and starts to empty the sloshing liquid into a hole toward the rear of the vehicle. He follows with another.
“Are you sure ethanol is going to work? Aren’t you just making our, uh, char, into a rolling explosive device?”
“Yes.” Hex has a mischievous grin. “Feels good to walk on the wild side, doesn’t it?”
“Actually, no.” But he doesn’t hear me. They open the doors and I slide into the front passenger seat, momentarily paralyzed by the smell of the decaying leather and burnt oil. Hex and Vera cram in the back, and Wilbert takes the driver’s seat.
“You know how to drive this thing?” I try to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“Sure. I’ve been practicing on a virtual program. I’m really good now.” Wilbert produces an honest-to-goodness key and pushes it into a slot by the steering wheel. I am astounded when the engine comes to life and the choking scent of exhaust fills the car. The front wall of the concrete box we’re in slips into the ground. In front of us is a dark road. The blackness of the evening beckons, and not in a friendly way.
“Aren’t people going to think it’s strange we’re driving this thing? We’re not going to be tracked, right?” I ask Vera, who’s trying to unstick her vinyl butt from the backseat.
“Chars aren’t registered vehicles, so no trackers. They’re considered hobby items. As long as we stay away from the main magpod avenues and don’t drive too fast, we won’t get stopped.”
“You guys have this all figured out, huh?”
All three of them nod in unison.
“And you’re okay with the possibility of getting arrested and dying . . . for this?”
“We have our reasons. What’s yours?” Hex asks, his usual grin suddenly gone. His serious face is scary, with those deltoids bulging nearby.
I bite my lips shut. Is it worth the risk, taking this trip? My thoughts go to Q, then the lab, where I’m using the last strand I have of Dyl’s hair. If I screw that one up, I’ll have nothing. I have to go.
Wilbert revs the engine, and miraculously, it moves forward a few inches. I’m waiting for the explosion, the last-minute sign that we are in fact riding a bomb on wheels. And then—
WHAM! The boom jars my side of the char, and I scream.
“What was that?” Vera nearly shrieks. A dark silhouette leans in front of the windshield.
“Is there room?” Cy leans against the glass and does a double take when he glimpses me in my club outfit. He’s wearing a form-fitting, long-sleeved black shirt and slim pants of some sort of dun-heather color. His face is freshly tattooed over his eyes and nose in a mask of swirling black knives.
“Oh great, psycho boy is coming too,” Vera grumbles.
“Well, this is a first.” Hex waves him in.
“Did he have to hit my char?” Wilbert whimpers.
Cy opens my door and I shimmy closer to Wilbert. There’s no avoiding Cy now. His lean body squishes up against mine, leg to leg, hip to hip. In fact, there’s no room for our arms side by side, so I hunch forward to clasp my hands together. Which makes my new cleavage even cleavage-ier.
“Okay, here we go.” Wilbert’s got his holo stud in his ear, and he sets it on a course to get us to the southern district. A few mags pass us by, staring curiously as we go along at a decrepit pace.
“Where did you get this thing?”
“It’s a birthday present from Marka. An antique hobby, kind of.” He starts humming a tune as I count off the mags passing us.
What if Q is there? What if I miss him? I turn my holo on twice to check if it’s working. Thank goodness the holo carrier hasn’t yet terminated my plan.
“Expecting a call?” Cy asks.
“No. Not really.” I wriggle back into the seat, because I’m getting stiff from slouching forward. Every time we hit a bump in the road, the back of my neck bounces against his biceps and shoulder. Finally, I’m too joggled to care anymore. Let him move, if it bothers him. I sit all the way back, but Cy doesn’t move his arm. It cradles my bare neck, and the heat of him sneaks down my spine.
Cy’s eyes keep flicking downward. Maybe he’s embarrassed to look up, but then I see what keeps catching his eye. The hem of my skirt has ridden high up my thigh. I pull my skirt down, and Cy looks away. I can’t believe it. He was checking out my legs.
Vera pulls herself forward from the backseat, popping her head between me and Wilbert, frowning deeply. “This is ridiculous. Wilbert, speed up. I don’t want to get there when my eighty-year-old boobs and ass hit the ground.”
“It’s a very delicate char. I can’t just go fast like that.” He’s holding the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles blanch.
Vera grimaces and turns to me. “Can you drive this thing?”
“I don’t know. I used to drive magpods on manual.” That is, until I killed my dad. I feel a panic attack invading my innards. I secretly try to breathe faster.
Vera whacks Wilbert’s invisible head. “Idiot, get out.”
“What?”
“Let Zelia drive. She’s actually driven real vehicles before, not computer games. I’m going to die from old age here.”
“No, really, Vera, he’s fine—” I start to say, but she pinches my cheek, kinda hard.
“No, he’s not. He’s slower than crusty snot. Besides, Hex is going to puke up your chicken salad sandwich if we don’t get there soon,” Vera snaps. Hex’s poor head is lolling out the open window. His charsickness is turning him a very sallow shade, which ironically makes him the greenest-looking person in the party.
We stop on the side of the road to switch drivers. Cy refuses to share a seat with Wilbert, who’s forced to squeeze into the back. As I sit on the crackling leather seat, I’m disoriented at first. Wow, this is really medieval. There are actual mirrors to show what’s outside the char, behind us, and to the sides. No screens. To my relief, it feels totally different from driving mags, and no scary flashbacks threaten to undo me. Of course, the image of Wilbert practically sitting in Hex’s lap in the backseat doesn’t hurt either.