“Watch where you’re heading!” Heather called out, but the driver on the cart didn’t even acknowledge her. The front tires had come dangerously close to clipping her toes, and she was in no mood to be run over.
She was only two days in her new position, which meant a heavy shift in her sleep schedule. Her mind hadn’t quite caught on, though. She woke up bright and fucking early at three that night, and she couldn’t wrestle herself back to bed. Heather turned her alarm off at seven without catching another wink.
Finally remembering her whistle, she gave it a futile blow. Heather had thought the crowds would be her main problem, but the teams had little regard for anyone.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Rob hadn’t said a word to her since switching jobs, and that alone was worth it. Things with him could have been much worse, but Heather managed to come out of it better off. She was on a day shift, and she was away from Rob. As long as she watched her toes, Heather would survive working at the track.
Even with earplugs, she was amazed at just how loud the cars were. They were so tiny, but their engines rattled her chest when they fired up. She watched as teams wheeled the vehicles onto pit lane, and Heather could barely comprehend that a driver could fit into one of those. Most of the drivers that she did see were even with her height, which she found adorable. They were almost like jockeys.
Heather didn’t recognize anyone, but fans would scream out a driver’s name, and she would try to memorize them. Some drivers would come over and sign autographs or take pictures with the fans. Others would pretend they couldn’t hear a thing. Heather empathized. They probably weren’t being assholes. They were at work, just like she was, and driving a tiny little four-wheeled rocket was way more stressful than checking credentials. If the drivers wanted to be left alone, Heather could understand that.
A little old man moseyed over. He wore yellow-tinted aviators that matched the over-sized official shirt. Heather didn’t know his name yet, and his ID was buried beneath a series of lanyards and pins.
He shook his head. “Bad deal.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Red flag, accident in turn three.”
Heather spun in that direction, as if she could see through the buildings and grandstands to the turn over half a mile away. All she saw was the endless line of people streaming by, unaware.
He leaned against the garage wall, a slight bit of pain on his face when he did. “One of the rookies went in too hot. Rescue crews are on their way.” There was no emotion in his voice, like he was just shooting the breeze.
Heather’s eyes went wide, her pulse shooting up. “What? Oh my god. That’s terrible.”
“That’s par for the course. Damn kids think they’re invincible. This place doesn’t forgive, and it don’t cut nobody favors.” The old man shrugged his shoulders.
Heather looked through the entryway that led to pit lane. Beyond it, she could see a small sliver of the front straight. A red truck sped past in the opposite direction that the cars raced, its lights blazing. The same panic that overcame her when she saw emergency lights in her rear-view mirror hit. The fear of the unknown, the danger of the racetrack, and confusion swirled around Heather.
“How do you know what happened?”
The old man turned his head and tapped his ear. He had a thin wire hanging down that disappeared into his shirt. “Scanner. They don’t tell us shit, so you gotta make due. I can listen to race control, team radios, you name it.”
Heather opened her mouth to ask another question, but he snapped to attention, covering the ear with the bud in it. She watched him as he listened. The look on his face worried her. How in the hell could people get into these cars? How could they risk their lives each weekend? Heather didn’t even like getting onto the Interstate.
The old man seemed to age as he listened. His face sagged, and his shoulders slumped down. Heather hated being in the dark. She might have to pick up a scanner.
“What?” She tried to keep her voice calm. “What are they saying?”
He held up a gnarled finger to silence her. It drove her crazy, but she didn’t know why. Maybe it was human nature to rubberneck at a crash or need to know what happened. Heather felt a sickening feeling rising up.
With a click of his tongue, the old man said, “Ain’t good. Sounds like they’re calling for the tool truck. Heavy impact, driver not responsive.”
“Oh my god.”
“This track,” the old man spoke like he was telling a campfire story, “has claimed her fair share of drivers. Most dangerous track in the world.”
Heather’s eyebrows raised. “That can’t be true.” This was the twenty-first century, how was racing still dangerous?
“Can and is. Racin’ is dangerous. Always will be. Why do you think they come?” He looked around at the crowds.
“To see crashes? Come on.”
“Some of ‘em. Some of ‘em won’t admit it, but they want to be able to say ‘I was there when…’”
The sickening feeling grew. “Everything is safer nowadays, though, right? Drivers don’t really die anymore.” Her voice wasn’t nearly as confident as her words.
“Y’ain’t been around here long, have you?”
She shook her head. “This is my first time working here. I don’t really follow racing.”
The old man nodded, almost forgetting about the crash. “Summer gig, huh? That’s how it started for me. Got laid off and knew someone here who got me in. That was in ’71. This place is special. It pulls you in and gets under your skin.” He broke into a wide, toothy grin that Heather would have found endearing if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with the crash.