Blood Fuel

By Caleb Prochnow and Luke Prochnow

Blood Fuel is set in the distant future. A dark, post-apocalyptic caste society that relies on the bloody entertainment of the racetracks in order to dull the hopelessness that would soon overtake the masses. The racing circuits, like the caste society, are divided based on the populations wealth, rank, and occupation. It is extremely difficult for a racer to cross over into a circuit outside of their caste. Desperation causes two brothers, Ryan and Ed, to attempt to cross that divide and enter sinister worlds that they did not know existed. Adventure, love, betrayal, and redemption; this book has it all! With every new twist and turn in strange new worlds, Blood Fuel is sure to keep you on your toes.

Blood Fuel has truly been a collaborative effort. The ideas for the story and plot began in Caleb Prochnow's sketchbook. Caleb is an Illustration Instructor at the Ringling College of Art and Design and has always had a passion for story telling and visual development. Once the plot, characters, and story had been laid out, Caleb contacted his brother, Luke, a talented wordsmith with several self-published books under his belt, and shared with him the plot that he envisioned. Luke got excited by the world that Caleb described and joined in on the project. Caleb and Luke spent many long hours on the phone as the Blood Fuel universe came closer and closer into focus. Luke’s writing helped breathe life into the characters, streets, and racetracks that filled Blood Fuel. Once the first draft was written, Caleb’s wife, Annie, using her Psychology background, sat down nightly with Caleb in order to fine tune, edit, and re-work parts of the story. Over three years in the making, this book is sure to shock and surprise its readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caleb Prochnow
• Release date: Jul 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9780991075454

Caleb Prochnow

Caleb Prochnow is an Illustration Instructor at the Ringling College of Art and Design and has always had a passion for story telling and visual development. Caleb lives in Bradenton, FL with his wife, Annie, and their children. His colorful and wide-ranging artistic ability can be seen on his website: www.calebprochnow.com

Book preview

Blood Fuel

Caleb & Luke Prochnow

Copyright © 2013 by Caleb Prochnow

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2016

ISBN 978-0-9910754-5-4

Caleb Prochnow, 1305 71st St. NW. Bradenton, Fl. 34209

www.CalebProchnow.com

Edited and revised by Annie Prochnow

Interior Design by Penoaks Publishing, http://penoaks.com

This book is dedicated to all the readers who love classic tales of daring and adventure. May this book transport you into another world were strong men and women fight to overcome the odds. May you come back inspired to go out and live your own adventure!

Contents

Chapter I: Hobgoblin

Chapter II: Broken

Chapter III: Deathtrap

Chapter IV: Jonas Cleaver

Chapter V: Regret, Part 1

Chapter VI: Regret, Part 2

Chapter VII: Helpless

Chapter VIII: Rebirth

Chapter IX: Growing Pains, Part 1

Chapter X: Growing Pains, Part 2

Chapter XI: The Yard

Chapter XII: Driver’s Seat

Chapter XIII: Home and Hearth

Chapter XIV: Unusual Allies

Chapter XV: Underground

Chapter XVI: Preparation

Chapter XVII: Battle Born

Chapter XVIII: Homecoming

Chapter XIX: Merriton Darby and the Wolf Mother

Chapter XX: Warning

Chapter XXI: Delilah

Chapter XXII: Bullhead

Chapter XXIII: Death Race, Part 1

Chapter XXIV: Death Race, Part 2

Chapter XXV: End Game

Epilogue

About the Book

About the Authors

Chapter I

Hobgoblin

Ryan jerked the center lever down and pumped the brakes when the car cut in front of him, spraying sand over his cracked windshield. No—he could hardly call that thing a car. It looked more like a spiky ball of cut glass and barbed wire—what they would refer to as a Rat-rod in the shop with Dirty Bomb painted on the side. In that moment, Ryan saw the driver, Kemp’s deformed face through a hole that had been blasted in the Dirty Bomb’s frame. Fat, lidless eyes and wide, bulging cheeks that looked like he had stuffed himself before the race and forgotten to swallow. Kemp’s face vanished as the vehicle picked up speed. Ryan thrust the left lever forward and jammed the pedal to the floor. The Hobgoblin lurched ahead over the sand dune.

A large shadow appeared over the sand to his left. The shadow grew darker until Ryan swerved to the right to avoid a massive tank-like vehicle that crashed down from a mound; lost for an instant in a wall of sand. The words MR. GOLIATH spray-painted haphazardly onto the side of the tank. The driver, an ugly hog that Ryan recognized from the meat plant, sat in a metal chair atop the vehicle, enclosed by roll bars and shatterproof glass. He swiveled to get a look at Ryan. His voice roared over the loudspeaker, ‘I’m gonna turn you ta dust, you little…’ Ryan flipped a switch and the words fizzled out, but the driver’s lips kept moving and his muscles bulging to the point of bursting. Ryan could almost smell the stench of dead meat on him. He chuckled to himself as he thought about hog-face boiling inside his bubble of glass and steel; sweat sizzling over his forehead, burning his eyes.

Thinking of the heat made Ryan aware of the sweltering sunrays pouring through his own windshield. It wasn’t always the track or the other racers that killed. The elements had their own way of dealing with them. The races were just as much a test of stamina as they were of skill. Ryan had seen plenty of scrappers pass out from the heat, their cars swerving recklessly in the center of the track before hitting the buzz-lines and powering down. He flipped a latch upward and vents groaned open. Blasts of warm air pushed against his face, blowing his hair back.

Ryan glimpsed a reflection of the Hobgoblin in the shimmering side of Mr. Goliath. His tiny vehicle was a quarter the size of the tank and built for speed. He could see the black smoke pulsing from the triple exhausts in the rear and the blindingly ugly face of a goblin painted on the side by his brother. Six off-road tires with tread eight inches thick spun crazily, spitting sand into the air. The roof of the Hobgoblin was triple layered, made from old highway signs and reinforced steel beams. Even with all the safety mechanisms, Ryan still marveled at how mangled it appeared in the reflection. Dents and holes all along the side, an entire tire-guard torn off just two minutes into the race. Built from junkyard scraps, it was a Frankenstein vehicle. He felt the entire frame vibrating, struggling to push him on to the finish line.

The Hobgoblin’s reflection traveling on Mr. Goliath disappeared, as a panel on the side of the tank-like vehicle slid open. Ryan squinted his eyes at the black hole, trying to see inside the guts of the vehicle, when a series of cannons drew their heads out like vicious dogs.

Ryan’s eyes widened. He quickly shoved the right lever forward and pulled the left lever back. The Hobgoblin and all six wheels swiveled, so that the Hobgoblin now facing Mr. Goliath, could parallel the tank, keeping pace.

The cannons fired; flames burst from the metal mouths as shrapnel spewed out all around the Hobgoblin, cracking a corner of the windshield and tearing off some of the roof’s metal protection. Ryan’s arm jerked instinctively. He looked down at the inch long blade quivering just below his elbow. Blood dripped from where it had cut into his skin.

The rest of the shrapnel continued past his vehicle into the sand. He saw the pig-faced driver howl in anger. Without taking his eyes off pig-face, Ryan slammed both levers forward. The Hobgoblin’s wheels changed direction once again so that they faced Mr. Goliath, and before the driver had time to react, the Hobgoblin was scaling the sloped side of the tank, coming closer to the shatterproof dome. The driver’s face changed from anger to fear as the six massive tires rolled towards him.

Two spiked cylinders lowered from beneath the goblin’s chassis, digging into the Goliath’s frame, piercing into its thick metal exterior. The Hobgoblin began climbing up the side of the vehicle with wheels spinning rapidly.

The spinning spikes cut through the roll bars and glass. Then, the weight of the goblin crushed the driver whose screams still lingered in the air. The spiked cylinders lifted back into the chassis. Ryan sped down the tank and landed back on the track, leaving the massive piece of dead metal as a roadblock.

In the upper right corner of the Hobgoblin’s compartment, built small to fit Ryan’s slight frame, a face appeared over a grimy square disk. Ryan cast it a quick glance. The lips on the face moved. The delayed words followed seconds later. ‘You gotta catch up to that Rat. We’ve never lost this track.’

‘Advice?’

Ryan squeezed down the trigger on the right lever; the Hobgoblin skidded into the narrow tunnel of Petri’s Pass. Up ahead, the Dirty Bomb, with all its spikes and thorny sides, blended with the sharp terrain.

‘Stay in the center. Don’t think about going near the edge.’

Edward showed his shifting Adam’s apple as he took a long gulp from his oversized flask. He spoke quickly, not wanting to waste any time. ‘Three miles ahead, you come to a lake on the left. Keep beside it and when Kemp spins to stick you with Dirty, smack the yellow button on the dash.’

‘What’s it do?’

‘Just do it. Good luck, brother.’ The square disk reverted to its normal shade of dirty gray.

Ryan and the Hobgoblin burst out from the pass onto an open dune. Blue quivering lines ran along the right side of the track. He drifted a little to the left, careful to avoid them. A single touch from a buzz-line and a vehicle would lose all power.

Ryan grabbed something protruding from the floorboard that looked like an emergency break and wrenched back on it, ejecting the Hobgoblin’s two spiked cylinders from beneath. He could almost hear Edward in the tent, watching him on one of the two tattered, floating gravscreens, moaning about the wasted resources.

With the loss of weight, the Hobgoblin picked up speed. The finger on the broken speedometer spun like a confused stargazer before settling back down to zero. The Hobgoblin was rapidly gaining on the Dirty Bomb. Less than a minute now. ‘Come on, baby, come on,’ as black smoke warped the sky behind him.

***

Kemp wiped sweat and blood from his lips with his bulbous hand, shuddering slightly as he stared down at the black liquid glistening over his distorted fingers. He dropped the shifter to seventh gear, leaving black bloody residue on the lever. Caked with mud and gasoline, Kemp knocked out the tinted paneling that served as a one-way window. Not a single mirror on the entire Dirty Bomb. The one reprieve was that he never had to look at his reflection and see his deformed face. He stuck his head out and peered back at Ryan who was quickly approaching. Kemp whipped his head back inside, snarling, a knotted feeling growing in his stomach. He thought Mr. Goliath would have stopped Ryan or slow him down some. Not to worry, at the very least, he wouldn’t have to share his winnings with that reeking meat packer.

A frayed necklace, crafted by a child’s hand, hung from a notch beside the passenger door. It tapped against the window, twirling and pirouetting in the wind like a ballerina.

Kemp looked back at Ryan once more. The usual black exhaust had turned red as the goblin tore across the sand, swerving left and right to dodge old carcasses of demolished vehicles. That red smoke meant one thing: Ed had installed an Overloader into the goblin’s engine. Kemp hadn’t heard of an Overloader being used for over a year. Most mechanics had trashed them for Nitrous Oxide when they realized how volatile it could be. Overloaders were liable to give out, or worse—explode. They were tampering with old technology. Well, Ed had been tampering at least. The legendary Ed; he was the most sought after gear-head outside the city. Too bad the only person he would build for was Ryan. One build from Ed, and Kemp would be able to win enough money to escape those freezing, dank corridors he called home.

There was no stopping Ryan from catching up with him. Kemp stomped on a pedal on the floorboard with his left foot. Spinning buzz saws extended from beneath the Dirty Bomb, zipping through the air in a circular motion. He glanced at the fully loaded Dual-shot vibrating in the passenger seat. If worse comes to worse.

Just before the Hobgoblin passed him on the left, Kemp cranked the wheel, buzz saws zipping side to side on their rickety arms. Kemp smiled when he noticed Ryan slowing down, keeping his distance. At this point, speed was all that Ryan had going for him. The Dirty Bomb was too dangerous, but it couldn’t compete with the goblin when it came to speed. Both vehicles rounded the corner. Up ahead was the finish line covered in a hot haze and flanked by bleachers and two gravscreens that glowed red against the sky. The lake shimmered on their left.

Ryan plunged into Overload once more, using the remainder of the goblin’s energy. Red tendrils streaked behind him, visible from the bleachers, and the goblin roared beside the Dirty Bomb. Kemp looked over at Ryan, small and sunburned, barely visible through the cracked windshield. Kemp licked his dried and crusted lips. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. He mashed a button on the control board. Rusted spikes extended from the doorframe. The buzz saws nicked the side of the Hobgoblin, sending sparks into the air. Ryan swerved. Kemp pulled away. He might not be able to outrace the goblin, but he knew it couldn’t take a full on hit, not in the state it was in. Another smile lit his lips. Adrenaline pumped through his tainted blood. He pounded the pedal to the floor and flipped a switch on the ceiling panel, firing up the Nitrous. The Dirty Bomb burst forward. Spiked tires ground into the dirt as buckets of smoke poured from the exhaust. In the middle of the burst, Kemp squeezed the lever on his left and pulled back hard. The Dirty Bomb skidded forward in a semi-circle as his front left wheel braked and swiveled 180 degrees. Using up the last of the Nitrous, Kemp rocketed head on towards the Hobgoblin. His pale, small eyes never left Ryan’s face, appearing distorted behind the cracked windshield.

***

Ryan gritted his teeth, took a quick breath and tightened his body for impact. He hit the yellow button with his palm. Oiled servos whirred to life as the entire roof slid down the front of the goblin, creating a makeshift ramp. It was too late for the Dirty Bomb to slow down. Just as a shadow covered Ryan’s face, he ducked and turned his head to see the Dirty Bomb launched into the air. The spiked ball tumbled and rolled until it plunged into the lake. Smoke plumed out of the wreckage as muddy waves rolled to the shore.

Ryan let out a howl with his fist held up as he blew past the finish line. He could hear the screams and cheers of the spectators and gamblers all gathered up in the bleachers. The Hobgoblin streaked across the gravscreen with dust and black smoke in its wake. Ryan jammed the levers backwards then forward, and the goblin spun into a three-sixty. The world blurred before his eyes and the crowd’s cheers grew louder.

Edward stood in the pit waving him down with a meaty hand clutching a flask. Ryan pulled next to him and leapt out. ‘How was that?’ He shadowboxed with the air in front of Ed. Most of the crowd had begun moving down from the bleachers to push against the cinderblock barriers, some to get closer to Ryan while others watched the gravscreens for any news of Kemp’s accident.

Ed raised his voice over the noise of the crowd and pulled Ryan closer with one arm over his shoulder. ‘Was a good race, brother. You’re quick, no denying that.’ His drunken lips smacked together as he pushed Ryan away and took another pull from the flask.

A kid jumped over the barrier and raced over to Ryan with a small booklet and pen. He stopped at Ryan’s leg, only coming up as high as his waist, and said excitedly, ‘Can you sign this for me?’

Ryan knelt down and took the pen and booklet. ‘What’s the name?’

‘Isaac.’

Ryan scribbled his name along with a short, almost illegible note for the boy. Then handed him his autograph book.

‘Thanks!’ the boy shoved the book into his pocket and sprinted back towards the barrier where his friends watched, jealous of his bravery. The boy glanced back every few feet to beam at Ryan.

Ed watched the kid scale the cinderblock barrier, before he pushed past a photographer to take a look at the Hobgoblin in its worn state, turned to scrap after racing all day. He pointed at Ryan with the flask and sat a hand on the steaming hood. ‘Look what you’ve done to her. Is it too much to ask to bring ‘er back in one piece?’ Ed kicked the empty space between the front and back tires. ‘And where’s our cylinders?’

‘They were dead weight. I needed the speed. That’s what wins races, if I recall correctly.’

Ryan bent down beside the Hobgoblin and wrapped his fingers around the piece of metal stuck in the door. He began jimmying it out. Photographers’ cameras flashed in the already blinding light. ‘How do you want to celebrate?’

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m treatin’ myself at the Hound. I say we earned it.’

Ryan wrenched out the piece of shrapnel and stood with it tight in his fingers. He leaned against the door, looking past the dispersing crowd to the bleachers that were almost empty. Several pitmen were dragging some drunks off the railing. Their empty bottles rolled around their feet. Some clattered down the steps to the landing, shattering at the feet of a small figure that sat alone on the front row of the bleachers. The figure was wearing a sackcloth hood, with feet and hands wrapped in dirty rags.

A rickety Care-Car came screeching along the track and pulled into the pit behind the one the Hobgoblin was stationed in. People pointed at the vehicle and conversation picked up once again, discussing Kemp’s fate. Ryan looked away from the hooded person and watched the medic scramble out of the Care-Car and run around the back. Kemp hobbled out, sopping wet and covered in his own blood. He looked like an oversized, mutated newborn. His heavy brows and puffed out cheeks glistened as liquid streaked down them. He fumbled to the railing and laid his chunky hand covered with boils on the edge. He glanced up at Ryan and Ed with eyes that burned with hatred and disgust.

The cloaked figure appeared beside him. It opened the gate and crouched beside Kemp, taking his arm and draping it over a shoulder. Ryan’s eyes remained fixed on them, rubbing his thumb over the piece of shrapnel. Kemp’s helper glanced up at him. The hood slipped down slightly and he was able to glimpse her face. Eyes like a cat’s, much larger than normal, and skin so pale and clear it glowed. She blinked twice, thin eyelids shuttering up and down over the cat-eyes. Then she turned