By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Five: The Road Ahead

The clang of our kettle bell weights echoed through the quiet carnival grounds as Viktor and I pushed through another intense workout. My arms burned, my chest heaved, and I relished the feeling. The weightlifting sessions were no longer just about training — they were about proving myself, about matching Viktor rep for rep, about standing beside him as an equal.

But then, the sharp call of a whistle cut through the still evening air.

“Meeting! Everyone, gather up!”

The voice belonged to Rufus Crane, the head of the carnival. His tone was grim, and the moment Viktor and I stepped outside, we could see the unease settling over the performers and workers. They clustered together near the main stage, faces lined with worry.

Rufus stood before us, his hands on his hips, looking out over the crowd with a sadness I had never seen in him before.

“I won’t waste your time,” he said, voice heavy. “The carnival is finished.”

A murmur of shock ran through the crowd. My stomach clenched. Viktor crossed his arms, his jaw tightening.

“There’s no money left,” Rufus continued. “The television’s killing our business. People don’t come to see live acts anymore when they can just turn on a screen. I’ve held on as long as I could, but the debts keep piling up. I have no choice but to shut us down.”

The murmuring grew into angry protests, desperate questions.

“I’ve scraped together what I could,” Rufus said, holding up a small cloth bag. “A week’s pay for everyone. But that’s all I can give. I’ll be selling the wagons and equipment to cover what I owe. You’ve got a few days to pack your things before the buyers come.”

Silence fell over the carnival grounds.

I felt like the ground had just been yanked out from under me. The carnival was home. The only real home I’d ever known. And Viktor… I glanced at him, but he just stood there, unreadable.

People started breaking off into groups, whispering, making plans. Jacob and some of the other roustabouts were already discussing pooling their money to buy a truck and head south together. Others cursed and kicked the dirt. The performers looked lost, their futures evaporating before their eyes.

Viktor turned to me, his expression calm. “Let’s go pack.”

I nodded numbly and followed him back to our wagon.

Inside, we worked in silence, gathering our few belongings into worn bags. I tried to stay focused, but as the minutes passed, a lump formed in my throat. I clenched my fists, trying to fight it down, but it was no use.

The tears came.

I turned away, trying to hide my face, but Viktor caught me.

His voice was steady. “What’s wrong?”

I swallowed hard, keeping my gaze on the floor. “I don’t… I don’t want to be alone and on my own again.”

Viktor was silent for a long moment. Then he stepped forward and gripped my shoulder.

“You’re not alone,” he said firmly. “We’re not just Strongman, training partners anymore.  We’re family.” The words were starting to make him choke up. “You’re like a brother to me.  You’ll never be alone again. No matter where we go, we stand together. Brother”

I blinked up at him. His face was serious, unshaken.

I nodded, wiping my face, trying to pull myself together. He then pulled me to him, grabbing me into a strong bearhug.  I could have stayed in his arms forever.  But he let go his powerful grasp, and we returned to packing.

The last week passed quickly. One by one, the carnival folk left — some in old cars, some on horseback, some on foot. Jacob and a few others in the blue pickup they had been able to buy.  Soon, the grounds were nearly empty.

Viktor and I had no truck, no horse, no plan. But as we stepped onto the highway with nothing but our bags and the strength in our bodies, I realized something.

We had freedom.

No schedules. No obligations. No debts to pay. Just the road ahead.

For the first time since the carnival’s collapse, I felt something close to excitement. Viktor must have sensed it too because he grinned at me as we hit the road.  On foot.

“No idea where we’re going,” he said. “But we’ll get there strong.”

I laughed. “Yeah. That’s for sure!”

But suddenly he stopped us walking. “But you’re your own Strongman now, Brother.”  He took the key that always hung around his neck, opened the padlock to my Collar, and slid it off of me.  I was in shock, and he must have read it on my face.  “No need for this now — you’re not under my Training anymore. Now we train together. As partners.  Brothers.”  I instinctively touched the gold chain.  “No.  That’s yours.  Wear it, so that no matter what happens, you’ll always remember your Trainer.  Your Bro.”  I felt both pride and sadness at the same time.

We continued walking and talked about where the road might lead us.  Whether every driver would be too afraid to pick up two big strongmen, if we tried to hitchhike. When we might find a gym where we could start lifting again.  We walked for miles, the sun setting behind us, the night air cooling our sweat. Then we heard it.

At first, it sounded like distant thunder, rolling low and deep over the horizon. But as the sound grew, we realized the truth.

Motorcycles.

Over a dozen of them.

The headlights cut through the darkness, casting long shadows as they roared up the highway toward us. The engines snarled as they slowed, circling us like wolves.

The gang was terrifying — dressed head to toe in thick black leather, covered in studs, chains, and spikes. They all wore the same black motorcycle helmet — and I would soon learn that underneath, their heads were completely shaved. Their faces were rough and hardened. Many of them had chin or chest length beards.  It was like one bad ass biker looking into a thousand funhouse mirrors.

The leader, a hulking brute with a scar across his cheek, slung himself off his bike. His vest had a name stitched on the front: Q-Ball.

He smirked, cracking his knuckles as he looked us over.

“What the hell are you two doing on our highway?” he demanded.

Viktor stayed calm, keeping his stance strong. “It’s a public road.”

Q-Ball and his gang chuckled darkly. “Not out here, it ain’t.”

I took a step back, but one of the bikers shifted, cutting off any escape.

Q-Ball’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You’re on our turf, and that means you belong to us now!”

The gang moved fast.

Two of them lunged at me, and before I could react, Viktor roared and swung, knocking one of them flat. But there were too many of them. Three others tackled him, fists flying. He fought like a wild animal, but Q-Ball pulled a police baton from his saddle bag, and cracked it against Viktor’s skull, which sent him crashing to the pavement.

“Viktor!” I shouted.

Hands grabbed me. I kicked and struggled, but they were too strong. Cold metal snapped around my wrists — handcuffs.

“Get the big one in my sidecar,” Q-Ball ordered. “The other man goes over the back.”

I watched helplessly as Viktor’s limp body was thrown into Q-Ball’s sidecar like a ragdoll filled with lead.

Then strong arms hoisted me up and threw me over the back of Q-Ball’s Harley like a sack of grain.

The engines roared back to life.

And then we were gone.