Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,85

ask, bending down to pick up the handy little tool.

“The brakes,” he says. “They’re not too bad. Ryme is warming faster than I expected.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Is it?” he calls from beneath the rig.

“No. Not really.” But I have an idea now. I climb through the gap, Kyn’s flint striker in my hand, my mind zeroing in on a solution.

I unzip my parka as I go and, with Lenore’s sylver knife, cut away a corner of my shirt. I unscrew the lid on one of the gas cans and I dunk the square into the petrol. Dashing back to the rig, I do what I can to wipe away the petrol soaking my fingers—lighting myself on fire will definitely slow things down.

By the time I’ve climbed up onto the hitch, I’m holding a drenched band of fabric and Kyn’s flint striker. I pull the crowbar from my belt and use it to jam the fuel-soaked cotton into the seam of the hidden compartment. When it’s wedged into the gap, I strike a spark onto the tail end of it.

It blazes hot and red, but I’m worried about the lack of oxygen inside the seam. I can only hope the fire will burn long enough to warm the glue through. The flame burns for a minute or an eternity—it’s hard to tell—the smell acrid, a plume of gray smoke rising into the air over my head. Stupidly, I swing at it, try to break it up, redirect it. But the smoke lifts, spreads. Stinks.

I have to hurry.

The paint job starts to crackle and peel, the menacing dragon ruined. I could try the hatch while it’s still burning, but the glue needs to warm through and I might not get another try.

Finally the flame spits itself out and I crank at the seam with the crowbar. The hatch comes away with hot, sticky strings of glue attached to the flat end of the tool.

Carefully, I set the hatch and crowbar aside. I brace my back against the trailer and I lift. The chassis is heavy, and it takes a fair amount of effort to get it out of the small compartment without smacking it against the rim with every movement.

It’s the hardest part of being a trucker out here. I’m smaller than the other drivers, not nearly as strong. I have to depend on other faculties to keep me in top form. But there are situations like this, where time is of the essence and all the skill in the world can’t substitute for brute strength.

It takes me longer than I’d like, but finally, it’s in my hands. The chassis with the small fuel tank and engine attached.

I run it back to the mine wall—aware only then that Kyn’s been talking to me. Something about oiling the tank tread when he’s done. I agree and dash back to the tool compartment. It takes only a second to locate the unconventional tool that stumped Kyn in High Pass. If I had time, I’d feel bad for lying to him about it.

Drypp’s ice bike design is brilliant in so many ways, but my favorite aspect of its construction is that not a single tool is required to assemble the thing. Before Drypp passed, we’d take turns pressing and clicking and latching the thing into place, timing each other for nothing more than bragging rights.

I swallow back the memories and get to work. Four distinct parts sit in front of me and I know from experience it’ll take me less than three minutes to build the bike. With a little care, the tool that so confused Kyn snaps open, forming a stem and steering handles. I unfold it and attach it to the front tire—a thick rubber wheel that will grip the ice nicely. I attach this front section of the bike to the chassis. It’s unwieldy to do so and I have to prop the chassis on top of the gas cans and lean it against the wall to keep it from falling over on me. Next, I snap the rear tire into place—thick enough to render the gas cans useless. The bike will stand on its own now. Only . . .

I’ve forgotten the saddle. I’m going to have to climb into the cab again. But I can’t leave the bike out in the open. Kyn won’t be much longer with the brakes and there’s nothing but the twist of Hyla’s neck between her and knowledge of what I’ve done.

I fill the gas tank with