Hell Riders
“Ready… On your mark… Go!” Down came the flag, as the four hellriders set off on a race.
It was in the night. The four hellriders, namely Rashid, Reaves, Daryl and Brad were friends. They had come to this lonesome stretch of Old Upper Thomson Road to settle their differences. Racing was illegal in Singapore, like many other things. They had their friends on the lookout at both ends of the road, just in case the police should discover the race on their nightly patrols.
The curvy road ahead of them was dark. Totally void of street lamps except for some points, the road was tuck away from the hustle and bustle of city life, scarely used during the day, and was totally deserted at night.
The only sound heard that night besides crickets chirping and the intermittent rain pattering on the tar road, was the resounding hum of well-tuned motorcycle engines, as the riders warmed up their babies, a galore of Harley Davidson and Triumph motorbikes.
Nobody really knew why the dispute started. Someone heard that Brad was insulted when the other three had called him a ‘sissy’ on the highway. However, when asked, the three were all silent on the actual reason. Still, all knew that none of them really wanted this race. However, his friends knew that none could stop Brad from having this race, not when he was irrationally angry.
They had tried earlier, 5 minutes prior to the race, when all four of them were seated in the nearby coffee shop, waiting for the rain to stop. Their colourful bike helmets laid on the table as the guys dragged at their cigarettes.
“Brad! I heard you modified your bike. Looks good. But the guy who did it said it’s not stable. You sure you want to do this?” Daryl started tentatively. Daryl was the motorcycle enthusiast. Besides racing, he had a keen interest in bike mechanics.
“Yeah. My bike will be fine. I’ve tried it several times myself. You guys get ready to eat your own words tonight.” Brad’s tone was openly challenging.
“Brad! Let’s call this off. If you want, I’ll say I’m sorry.” Rashid said.
They were all seated around a table in the nearly coffee shop. The ominous storm clouds above had already broken. Rain came down around them in large pelts.
“Why the sudden change of mind?” Brad asked, coldly. “Scared?”
“No, Brad,” Daryl cut in, “It’s raining now, and it will be more dangerous. Even a good rider will think twice against racing on such a day.”
“Speak for yourself, chicken.” The tone was contemptuous.
“Come on, Brad…” Reaves started.
“Don’t!” Brad glared at everyone as he cut Reaves off. “Look, I will win this race. I don’t need your sympathy of your charity. I want to prove to you people that I’m the best racer. Anyway, its time to start.” Abruptly, he donned his helmet and got up.
The other three looked on, as he walked to his motorbike.
“Let’s just let him win, okay? I mean, that guy’s obsessed!” Daryl said, a little irritated.
“Hmm… he’s lost it! Just because I said he couldn’t ride a bike properly… Now he wants to get himself killed! Forget it, I’d rather let the guy win.” Reaves said, as he looked up into the sky. The rain coming down, seemed to be getting heavier.
“I don’t want to compete with him,” Rashid said, as he got up from his seat.
“Anyway, let’s go. He’s waiting for us.”
It was a race that pushed everyone’s skills to the limit. The looming trees above them helped shield some of the light drizzle but the road ahead was already wet from an earlier downpour, and had become more treacherous. A false move and you would be sent flying into the dense jungle on both sides of the muddy road.
Brad was like a man gone mad. Totally obsessed with winning, Brad threw his life into the balance as he swerved along the curvaceous roads with reckless speed, in order to put himself ahead of the others. The rain had made the roads muddy and slippery, but Brad did not care. His blood was racing. He cornered several times, nearly skidding off the track completely, but managed to recover on time.
‘The others are far behind. I’ll show them. Luck’s on my side today. Nothing could take my victory away from me now.’ He thought to himself.
Something went terribly wrong. His bike rode over the wooden branch that had fallen on the patch of the road. Brad tried to swerve, but it was too late. His bike skidded off the road. This time, there was no turning back. With horror, the others watched on as Brad’s bike flew off into the trees, as Brad was flung against a huge tree trunk like a rag doll.
When they rode up to him, Brad was lying in a heap beneath the tree. His eyes were dazed. Protruding from his body was a piece of wood. He was impaled by the tree branch when he was flung from his bike. Bloody scratches covered his face, with raw flesh exposed at some parts where his skin had come off. It was a gory sight. His left hand was missing.
“It’s not fair…” were the last words they heard from him before he became unconscious. He died on the spot.
His funeral was a sad affair. The three were around through the Chinese funeral, a three-day affair that was held at the void deck of Brad’s block. The four had grown up as a close friends, each living only a few blocks away. This tragedy had each feeling guilty about the incident, thinking that they had a part to play in his demise somewhat, especially Reaves. He kept thinking that if he had not offended Brad, his friend would be still alive.
They told the police that Brad had lost control of his bike while they were leaving the place. If police had suspected that the boys were racing, they said nothing.
Brad’s parents were distraught. They never even knew he owned a motorbike. It came as a shock for them when they found out that their only son had died in a motorcycling accident. It was a tragic moment for everyone at the funeral.
On the last night of the funeral, after the final rituals were done, none felt like going out. When Reaves reached home, he went straight to his room. Lying there in bed, with his clothes still on, he merely stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.
Reaves woke. It was late in the night. Everyone in the house was asleep.
The sound that woke him up came again, a scratching sound coming from the window. He glanced towards the window, and saw a hand scratching at the glass.
How could it be? Reaves lived on the sixteenth floor. There was no way someone could be standing outside his window and scratching it. He tried to get up, and get closer look at the hand, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not get up.
Something was pressing him down. He could not move. There was no feeling at his fingers and toes, as he tried to wiggle them. He glanced down, his feet was not moving.
The bed began to shake on its own. The force pressing onto him got stronger and stronger. Reaves had begun to experience difficulty in breathing. He looked to the window, but the hand was no longer there. The scratching sound was still there though.
To his alarm, he saw that one of the windows was ajar. The hand was crawling in through the gap in the window. What shocked Reaves was that only the hand came in. There was no arm joined to the hand as it crawled towards the terrified Reaves.
He tried to scream, but no words came out of his mouth. The hand had reached his throat by now, and was slowly squeezing it. Reaves tried to struggle, forcing his limbs to move, but it was useless. The hand at his throat was gripping tightly. He was slowly growing weaker. Without precious oxygen, he was beginning to feel faint.
A ringing sound filled the air.
Reaves jolted awake. He could breath easily now. Perspiration covered his body and drenched his shirt. His mind was still whirling. He glanced around his room. there was no sight on any hand, except his own hands tightly clenched around the bedsheet.
‘That was a nightmare.’ He realised dimly, his hands loosening.
Another ringing sound reverberated through the room. Reaves jumped. He looked around, and saw the light of his cellular phone flashing. He glanced at the clock, three a.m. in the morning.
With much relief, he picked up the phone. Daryl was on the line.
“Reaves, are you there?”
“Yeah, I was sleeping. What’s up?”
“No, I just had a terrible nightmare. Now I cannot sleep.”
“Yeah, me too. Some hand scratching my window and I cannot move… Spooky. When it climbed in. I saw only a hand, no body, but a blue-black hand. It’s freaky man!”
There was a pause over the line. “Are you there, Daryl?”
“Yes, I dreamt of something like that too. Something was sitting on me and my bed started shaking…”
Despite the cool night, cold sweat broke out all over Reaves.
“I need a cup of coffee. You want to go to the nearby ‘kopitiam’ (coffee shop)?”
“Sure, I’ll meet you in the void deck of your block.”
“See you shortly.” With that, Reaves hung up.
On a bunch, he called Rashid.
“Hello?” The voice on the other line sounded frightened. For a while, Reaves was not sure whether if he had got the right number.
“Rashid?”
“Reaves!” He sounded relieved. “What’s up?”
“I had a dream earlier. I dreamt I saw a hand climb into my window.”
The same thing with Daryl earlier repeated this time with Rashid. There was a silence over the line.
“Meet me in the void deck in half an hour.”
“Okay.”
Rashid, too, had the nightmare. Reaves did not explain much, but told Rashid to wait at the void deck.
They were waiting for him when he went down. Rashid had already found out from Daryl that all of them had similar nightmares. Both had a frightened look on their faces.
“What are we going to do?” Rashid asked.
“Let’s go to the nearby kopitiam. We’ll talk over coffee.”
They walked into the car park.
“I don’t know.” Reaves replied tersely. They came down with their helmets in their hands.
As the three walked towards their motorcycles, they saw someone ahead, among the motorcycle parking lots. Reaves frowned.
“Do you think Brad blames us for what happened?” Daryl asked nervously.
The street lamps next to the lots were spoilt, and the three could not see the person clearly. When they were close enough to see, they could see the person sitting on Reaves motorcycle.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Reaves shouted at the person, as he ran towards his bike. He hated it when people touched his precious motorcycle.
The person got off the Reaves motorcycle in slow deliberate motion, and turned to face the three.
“Brad?!” Rashid exclaimed. Reaves could hear Daryl sucking in his breath in shock.
“Hello guys. Want to go racing?” The grotesque face grinned, the skin tearing as it did.
The three said nothing, being too stunned. The scratches on one side of the face had begun to bleed afresh, Reaves saw blood flowing down Brad’s face. He looked down and saw a bloody stump on what was supposed to be Brad’s left hand.
“I did not win the last time, because of a minor accident. But if I race you again, this time, I will win. I have to win.” Laughter rang through the night. It was more like a plea.
“I’ll wait for you guys there, okay? Be there!”