56. Fuel, Flesh and Fire
It couldn’t be.
Anderson pushed his way past Jason, but was suddenly held back.
“Let go of me, Jason!” he exclaimed, his eyes struck by the shock and trauma of what he had just seen.
Jason frowned in confusion, “Where the hell are you going, Andie? People will start leaving soon. The police raid this place in about three minutes. You do not want to get caught here. Let’s go now!”
Anderson glanced at the devastating explosion again. The daggers that pierced his heart and his curiosity that scratched against the frail walls of his mind made him damn the consequences. He snatched his arm away from Jason and rushed to the scene, pushing past the crowd of people that were making their way out of the arena.
He was stopped by a caution tape and a small crowd of medics and mechanics who now examined the damages of the explosion. Two hefty men stopped him from going beyond the caution tape and in a few seconds, one of the doctors showed up wearing a face mask.
“You don’t understand!” Anderson was protesting, “the racer! He’s my brother! I need to know if he’s alright or not!”
“Get out of here, kiddo.” One of the guards snarled, his sharp beady eyes sending torrents of terror into Anderson’s feeble body.
“I need to see him!” Anderson coughed out with as much courage as he could muster. “I have to!”
The doctor sighed, his eyes were glassy and bored, as though he saw this every day; because he actually did. “Go home, kid,” he said flatly. “There’s nothing to see. As long as your so-called brother isn’t the Headcrusher, I am afraid there is nothing to see.”
“It’s Nico!” Anderson blurted out, “Please confirm that he isn’t dead.”
The doctor grimaced and shook his head. He pointed to a heap covered in a white cloth, just beside an ambulance truck that had pulled up beside the wreckage, “See that, kid? That’s Nico. His body was burnt beyond recognition. Now, leave.”
The guards shoved Anderson forward and he gasped when someone grabbed his wrist. He found himself being dragged out of the arena. The gushing wind slapped his tears against his cheekbones. The full realization of the explosion hadn’t dawned on him yet. He followed Jason mindlessly, until he was out of the building and the cool night air hit him.
Jason glanced at his diamond wrist watch, “Come on, let’s get out of here. It’s almost eleven pm and we have to make it back before eleven thirty.”
Anderson sniffled. He couldn’t think, Jason literally had to pull him all the way back.
“It can’t be…” he kept muttering to himself. “It can’t be…”
***
He had been watching Anderson the whole time.
He winced slightly when the excruciating pain in his arm ached again. He gently touched the bloodstained splint that held his left arm in place and winced slightly. He gnashed his teeth, the pain that coursed through his blood felt like a million pieces of splintered glass. It was unbearable, but not as painful as watching Anderson’s grief and shock.
‘*He was asking of me!*’ Carl thought with a chill crawling up his spine.
Carl only turned away when Anderson and Jason had left the arena and glanced back at the smoky mess. He was lucky to have survived that with only a broken arm. He sighed dejectedly; he had a thing for that muscle car. Out of the three he owned; it was his favorite. But there it was, blown into bits, its visible parts to be retrieved and used to be a part of another car.
Carl was furious and disappointed in himself. He knew that Anderson was too smart, now that he had been in the arena, he must suspect that the racer named Nico was him.
He was lost in his thoughts when a huge hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around. The man was magnificent, towering at six feet seven, with a wrinkled bald head and a scarecrow’s mask for a face. Headcrusher breathed down at him angrily and then his huge fist banged into the wall beside them.
His deep, raspy voice; the evidence of sixteen years of smoking, aggravated the ache in Carl’s head. “You cheated.”
Those words made Carl’s heart clenched and looking into those deep set, liquid black eyes of the beast of a man became a herculean task. Carl just smirked, shrugged and looked away, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Elijah.”
“Ah!” he grunted and this time, when he pounded his fist again, Carl noticed that some paint and even splinters of cement peeled off the walls. “Don’t you dare call me by my government name again, Nico!” He growled and poked a finger at Carl’s chest. “You…cheated.”
Carl glared at him from under his eyelids, “The only person that I cheated, is death.”
“You faked your own death. That crazy explosion after your metal shield crumbled to the ground was all just for show right? You made the audience gasp and hold their faces in their palms, thinking that Nico is dead. Meanwhile, you’re here, cowering away, huh?”
“If I can recall,” Carl said with a thoughtful expression, “You were the one who blew up my gas tank, so what are you yapping about?”
Headcrusher glared at him, but Carl only rolled his eyes, “You have such deep hatred for me, crusher, don’t you?”
Headcrusher squinted at him with contemptuously, “I know when a lad doesn’t belong where he is. I can smell something very different about you. You’re not supposed to fit in, but yet, there are some deranged fans that think you are the best. But I killed you today, you might still be alive, but to then, you’re dead.”
He watched Headcrusher walk away, his fists were still squeezed so tightly that his veins bulged out. It had dawned on him a long time ago that no one would ever understand him. Not his father, not the other smell, cutthroat racers on the Asphalt. The only person that had ever come close to understanding him…was Buck. Buck had thought him how to be a proper man by driving a monster race car.
Carl got a thrill from it and he couldn’t stop. He didn’t have to live his life to please his father always. He wanted to do things for himself also. Things that made him excited and pumped that adrenaline rush to his veins. The only thing aside from racing that got him so fired up…was fucking Anderson. He had never wanted both things to clash, but…
“Dammit!” he exclaimed suddenly and threw his black gloves on the ground.
He headed towards the dressing room and his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket. It felt like a lightbulb flashed in his mind and his eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about it! His heart immediately started racing and as rarely as they did, his doubts started eating into his mind.
He took a deep breath and looked at his phone. His doubts slowly disappeared even before he found Sam Spears’ official handle. A lot of people were hyped up about it, making posts and tagging Beale Crest’s official handle. A smile spread across his face when he saw pictures and banners and comments, stressing the need for every student to show up.
He chuckled softly when he saw the official announcement of the protest on Sam’s page, reposted by the Student’s Union account which she also governed. The protest was on, Beale Crest was going to be set ablaze and its own students would be the flame. He had a game plan already, fully drafted out. He had found out where the security room was from Keisha and everything was set as far as he knew it.
There was only one problem and that was the person whom he needed to work with to make this entire thing worth it. Carl was no fool, the protest had very low chances of succeeding and that was why he had to destroy the evidence of the security footages. First, he would speak to Anderson tonight or tomorrow morning and then…the protest.
He smirked to himself as he got to his locker. The lockers of the dead racers were about to be replaced with new racers. He shivered and ignored all that, he was so close to being one of those men.
“Tomorrow is going to be a big day,” he mumbled to himself, “nothing can go wrong.”