Page 87 of Devil Inside

We don’t blend.

I’m saddled up amongst hundreds of other riders, the streetsfilled with bikes. Fixed gears. Dirt bikes. A few ten-speeds. Some Schwinns. All kinds, all species of bike.

Everybody’s chatting amongst themselves. Patting backs. Drinking already. It’s a rowdy bunch, these riders. True gruelers. The Miracle Mile takes something out of you, but what you get in return is the adrenaline. The feeling of being a part of a fleet, overwhelming the streets. A fucking stampede of spokes. Have you ever tapped into something like that? The surge? The sense of being a part of a group, a mass of metal, unstoppable?

Nothing but speed?

I want that feeling back. It’s here, amongst these gearheads. I see it all around me.

So why do I still feel so outside of it all? How do I get back in? Inside myself? I can’t feel anything anymore. Everything is so... so...

dead inside

... numb. The nerves are all frayed. A disconnected circuit.

I only feel connected—

possessed

—with Lilith. That dizzy delirium that comes with letting someone new into your life. Letting them in. The presence of another, the very invasion of it. The loss of time. The blackouts. Giving yourself over to it. Making a sacrifice out of yourself for something new.

“You ready?” Freel asks, snapping me back to the street. He’s right beside me on his own bike, all saddled up and ready to ride. Deak is rolling back and forth on his wheels.

My chaperones. “I’m good,” I say.

“You got this,” Deak says, sensing my apprehension. “We’re with you.”

“Every step,” Freel agrees. “But if you win, I’ll be pissed.”

Lys stomps through the street with her bullhorn. She blares the built-in air raid siren for a second, so we all give her our undivided attention. “Listen up! Everybody’s got to get theirspoke cards. You want to race? You gotta be tagged. Find me if you still need one.”

Lys always uses tarot cards. This year, I’m the Devil. How fitting. There’s that bare-bellied Beelzebub squatting on his throne, one clawed hand held up in the air.

My registration number?

666.

Lys is just fucking with me. So be it. I slip my card between the spokes on my rear wheel, bag it and tag it, just like everyone else who’s registered to be a part of this race.

The beasts come out at night. We want to wake up Richmond. Hear us all howl from miles out. There’s no stopping us. Not tonight.

I can do this. I know I can.

These are my people.

Were, at least. They can be again, as long as I reconnect to myself. Find my soul out here, wherever I left it. Probably in the gutter, somewhere. Tumbled down a drainage ditch.

Satan nods just next to me, all painted red. Horns on his helmet and everything. His pointed tail slithers over the back of his bike and I worry it’s going to get caught in the wheel. His pitchfork is in hand, poking the people around him. Black painted mustache.

I almost expect him to slide up and ask where I’ve been.Been looking everywhere for you, bro... What’s up?But no, Satan’s got his hands full with a keg-stand at the moment.

This feels wrong, all wrong. What in the hell am I doing here?

The Grim Reaper is on my right. It takes a couple blinks to realize it’s just some guy sporting a black balaclava with a skull. My bad. His lower jawbone stretches across the front, teeth reaching all the way back to his ears. A grinning rictus.

The vampires are out tonight, too. I spot a few Lugosis. The triangular widow’s peak painted across their forehead in stark black polish. The plastic fangs. Some werewolf masks. A fewPretty Ponies. I see a couple Brides of Frankenstein. A handful of Dragulas.

It’s Halloween smack dab in the dog days. I see so many skeletons, a real rumba line of bones. The humidity slickens everyone’s makeup, even at night. Faces melt already.