With a last glance, he kicks down and flies. He zooms down the jump and he’s away. Flicks a look over his shoulder, sees nothing but dust. He flips a gear and feels the byke grind. It feels good under him; it feels strong. But he’s tired. He can feel the lead weight of his legs.

The byke will have to do the work.

He pulls off the track, strikes out for the Badland. He looks back and sees one of them at a standstill. Nothing like the speed of the Drifter. He smiles. He’ll outstrip them, dead legs and all.

ZZZLICK!

Something shoots past his ear. He swerves and ducks down. He’s riding like a demon. Going as hard as he can.

ZZLICK! SSSHNICK!

Stones.

He looks back over his shoulder and there they are. Still coming. Still flying. Except the tall one, back on a rise, sighting him with a sling.

That’s the last thing he sees before the pain hits. And then the world spins upside down and the sky turns black.

—

He moans. Crawls on the ground. His byke lies in a heap, wheels spinning, handlebar jutting. His goggles, incredibly, are still strapped to his head. But his mask is gone, ripped from his mouth. He knows he may have broken something. A rib. Possibly cracked. The pain is fierce. His temple throbs. Blood drips into his eye. He can feel the hot pulse of it running down his forehead, down his cheek. But it’s okay—head cuts bleed. He’s seen it all before.

That one guy can sling a stone—must’ve been a hundred yards out.

He looks up groggily.

Three Riders circle him. One tall. One muscular. One on a white byke. He tries to think. Tries to order his thoughts, but he can’t. His vision is blurred. A ringing noise jangles in his ear. Pain throbs at the base of his skull. It feels like his bones have turned to rubber.

The one on the white byke, obviously the leader, comes to a sliding stop with a back-wheel break. The others follow suit. The lead Rider lifts his visor and squints down at him. His eyes are dark brown. There is no mistaking this face—these brown eyes.

“Who are you?” the Rider says.

The kid coughs and winces with the pain.

“Man asked you a question,” the muscular one says, lowering his red byke to its stand. With sling in hand, he approaches. There’s a hint of a tattoo at his neck, hidden by his riding suit.

“Nobody,” the kid croaks, finding his voice.

“Well, that’s all wrong,” the Rider on the white byke says. “I know you. And you know me.” He swings off his Stinger. With steady hands, he unclips the kid’s goggles.

He knows what’s coming now.

Vengeance.

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