CHAPTER 3: Gathering up the other survivors.

After cleaning up the mess from Larry, Tod and Frank went and tried finding the others.

After a mile of driving they pulled up to the house of Sean Slimak, number 189, who lives up in Illinois and not St. Lois. In a house on a hill.

Frank knocked on the door, Sean answered, but he was only 17 years old.

" Sean, you have to come with us! Everyone who cheated death that day in St. Lois are still gonna die!" he explained. He handed them a printed article form the internet.

" See, this has happened before, you need to trust us." said Frank.

" By the way, who is number 58?" asked Frank.

" He is my brother why?" answered Sean with a puzzles look on his face.

Sean's brother comes to the door, his name is Tim.

" Who the f are you?" demanded Tim.

" You need to come with us, YOU ARE NEXT TO DIE! So come on." said Frank.

" Hey, holy shit your right, like a while ago I heard about the flight 180 accident. But what does this have to do with us?" asked Tim, who is also puzzled. Frank explained about the crash and deaths design. Tim just looked at him like he was stupid. What the hell is up with this guy? Tim asked himself.

Finally Frank handed them pictures of the three riders that died already. And told them how they died.

" Holy shit, man and me and Dan were buds to." said Tim.

" Screw this shit im goin' trail ridin man." Sean said, he went to the backyard and to a shed, the shed was painted white with silver doors. He opened it and pulled a motorcycle out. It was a HONDA CR 250. He hopped on it and zoomed pat the other three and down the street. His AMA number was 189, and he was quick for someone who is younger than the rest he raced with. He popped a wheelie and sped down the street to a field, behind the field was a forest. Where the trails were. A cop car sat there hidden in bushes across the field to the left, Sean went to the right.

" Shit the cops, I might as well lose 'em." said Sean as he yanked the throttle back and flew forward into a trail. He hit a jump and got five feet of air, then U-turned and jumped back out of the forest at speeds of 65mph. Dirt kicked up from his bike as he flew down the field towards another trail jump. An eerie wind blows by and slowly rolls a baseball size rock in his way, he ran over it and kicked the rock up and it cut his bike chain in two, the chain swung around and cut a hole in his front tire. He flipped forward with his bike, the bike landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

" God damn it!" Sean yelled as he threw the bike off him. He looks forward and sees a branch about an inch from his face.

" I should've wore a helmet." sighed Sean as he got up. He limped towards his bike and brought it back up. But he doesn't notice a big shadow race across the grassy field, up to Sean's house.

" So your telling me death has a design that will kill us?" asked Tim in a mocking voice as he walked up the stairs in his house. It was just Frank and Tim.

" Yes I am, you may think I'm crazy but I'm not!" said Frank noticing the mocking from Tim.

Behind them a dark figure zooms by. Followed by another eerie wind. All the doors around them slammed shut.

" AH SHIT! We gotta get you out of here!" yelled Frank as he grabbed Tim and ran took him too the stairs. Tim was about to take a step but Frank brought him back. Something has gotta be wrong here, but what? He asked himself while looking around, all there was, was a cabinet above them. His question was answered by the cabinet doors swinging open and a fire pick rolled out going straight for Tim's head, Frank noticed it and in one swift movement grabbed Tim and caught the fire pick.

Frank takes a heavy breather then lets Tim out of his grip. He shows him the fire pick.

" You believe me now?"

Sean walks his bike up the street as the sun beats down on him. He tastes the salt of sweat burning at his cheeks. He glances up and sees no clouds, just the sun.

He shook his head, causing his long skater hair to move back and forth. His bike rattled as he brought it up the street. Finally he got to the house. Tim and thee others were outside.

" What the hell did you do to the bike?" demanded Tim.

" Snapped the chain, and popped the front tire." answered Sean, calmly.

" So Sean, were do the other racers live?" asked Frank.

" Uh, right now they're at a track not so far from here." answered Sean.

Greg Marshal, number 65, an African American, 19, had a buzz-cut, and is brothers with number 90.

C.J ( number 90, Greg's brother) is also African American, has black dread locks, 18 years old, and him and his brother own a KTM. A KTM is a orange motocross bike, which is one of the fastest out there.

Greg and C.J competed out on the track. Next to each other they went off a huge tabletop, Greg did a superman and C.J did a can-can. They landed slid up the berm, then quickly went forward, kicking up chunks of dirt. Greg sweated like crazy as the sun beamed on his face, even though he wore a helmet but he still had all his gear on. They jump another ramp and do more tricks. Until another rider pulls up behind them, his number is 58. Tim raced past them at unbelievable speeds. He then stopped on the track, causing the others to stop in reflex. C.J throws his bike down and storms over to Tim. C.J yanks his helmet off and chucks it to the side. C.J was the violent gangster type, while Greg was the calm normal one.

" Man what the f you doing here!" demanded C.J, he pushed Tim off his bike.

" Yo man back off him." said Greg, he stepped in.

" Greg... Your next." exclaimed Frank as he ran into the picture.

" What the hell you talkin' about?" asked Greg, puzzled.

Frank explained the story to him. Greg actually partly believed him. What's this punk talkin' bout? Thought C.J as he sat and listened. A sound of a motorcycle fills the area. Greg looks back to see a guy losing control on his bike, he goes off the jump behind them and flies off to the side, the bike flips in the air towards Greg.

Frank ran to go save him but slips and falls. Right before the bike hits Greg, he falls down form something. Tim pulled him down just in time.

" Holy ( irregular breath) shit." breathed Greg. Frank lifted him up. Up in the clouds Frank sees a faint '90' in the sky.

" Hey C.J, what number are you?" asked Frank after glancing at the number in the sky.

" 90 bitch, why do you care?" rudely answered C.J.

Frank ignored him and walked off to the car, he looked up and nothing was there.

They drove down a highway street. Tod and Frank in the red pick-up and the others in a Ford Explorer, a tan one.