Chapter 6: FUEL FOR THE FIRE
Three days later, I was broke.
The math was simple and brutal. Fire required fuel. Fuel meant food. Food cost money. I'd been training every day at the abandoned warehouse, pushing my limits, learning control—and burning through cash faster than a furnace through kindling.
Eight dollars left. Enough for two decent meals or five days of hunger. Neither option was sustainable.
Martinez Auto sat on the corner of Industrial and Fourth, a cinderblock building with three service bays and a hand-painted sign that had seen better decades. I'd passed it a dozen times in the past three days, watching mechanics come and go, gauging the rhythm of the place.
The help wanted sign had been in the window since yesterday.
I pushed through the front door into a lobby that smelled like motor oil and stale coffee. A counter separated customers from the shop floor, where the clang of tools and hiss of pneumatic lifts created a constant industrial symphony.
"Help you?" The man behind the counter looked up from a clipboard. Hector Martinez, according to the name stitched on his coveralls. Late forties, weathered brown skin, hands permanently stained with grease. He gave me a once-over—assessed the muscle, the car keys in my hand, the age.
"Saw your sign." I nodded toward the window. "You hiring?"
"Depends." He set down the clipboard. "You know engines?"
"Yeah."
"Most kids your age can find the gas pedal. That's about it."
"I'm not most kids."
Martinez's eyebrow rose. The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, quickly suppressed. "Big talk. You got anything to back it up?"
"Show me something broken. I'll tell you what's wrong with it."
He studied me for another moment. Making calculations. Then he jerked his head toward the shop floor. "Come on back. Got something that might work."
The service bay was organized chaos—three cars in various states of disassembly, tools scattered across workbenches, a radio playing classic rock under the noise of machinery. Two other mechanics worked nearby, one under a lifted truck and one attacking a transmission with a socket wrench.
Martinez led me to a corner where an engine block sat on a metal stand, disconnected from any vehicle. The thing looked like it had been through a war. Scorch marks on the housing. Warped metal visible even from a distance.
"Pulled this out of a pickup last week," Martinez said. "Overheated so bad the owner thought it exploded. Tell me what's wrong with it."
I circled the engine slowly. My old life had included plenty of car knowledge—not professional mechanic level, but enough to diagnose common problems. I'd rebuilt a carburetor once, replaced alternators, done brake jobs in apartment parking lots to save money.
But this body came with something extra. When I got close to the engine block, I could feel it. Heat differentials. Temperature variations that my new sensitivity picked up like a sixth sense. The cylinder head was warped—I didn't need to touch it to know, could sense the distortion in the metal's thermal signature.
"Cylinder head's warped," I said. "Probably cracked too. Overheating caused expansion faster than the metal could handle. You'd need to pull the head, check for cracks, probably resurface or replace it entirely."
Martinez's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "Go on."
I leaned closer. "Gasket's definitely blown—that's what started it. Coolant probably leaked into the combustion chamber, caused misfiring, owner ignored it until the whole thing cooked. I'd check the block for cracks too. This much heat damage, you might be looking at a full replacement."
Silence. One of the other mechanics had stopped working, watching our conversation.
"Not bad," Martinez said finally. "Where'd you learn that?"
"Around." Not a lie. Also not the full truth. "My car's a '79 Camaro. You learn to maintain what you love."
"'79 Z28?"
"Yeah."
"Good car." He extended a hand. "You got a name?"
"Billy Hargrove."
His grip was firm, calloused, professional. "Hector Martinez. I own this place. Pay's minimum wage plus tips on side work. Hours are flexible but I expect you here when you say you'll be here. You steal from me, you're done. You lie to me, you're done. You show up drunk or high, you're done. We clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good. Start Monday. Eight AM sharp."
The handshake ended. I should have walked away. Should have counted my win and left before something went wrong.
Instead, I looked at the ruined engine. "Mind if I take another look? I've got some time."
Martinez shrugged. "Knock yourself out. Just don't break anything."
He wandered back to the front counter, leaving me alone with the dead engine block. The other mechanics had returned to their work, radio drowning out conversation.
I placed my palm flat against the warped cylinder head.
The metal was cold—room temperature, nothing special. But I could feel the distortion. The stress patterns where heat had bent it out of true. Like touching a scar and knowing what caused the wound.
Carefully, slowly, I let warmth flow from my palm into the metal.
Not enough to glow. Not enough to damage. Just a steady application of heat, targeted at the warped sections. The metal softened slightly under my touch—not melting, just becoming marginally more malleable. I pressed gently, guiding it back toward its original shape.
The cost was surprisingly low. Industrial metalwork apparently required less energy than open flame, like the difference between a blowtorch and a campfire. I worked for maybe five minutes, making small adjustments, smoothing distortions.
When I pulled my hand away, the cylinder head was still damaged—still needed professional resurface work—but visibly better. Closer to true than it had been.
I wiped my palms on my jeans and stepped back.
"You done staring at it?"
Martinez had appeared behind me, silent as a cat. His eyes moved from my face to the engine to my face again.
"Just looking," I said. "Force of habit."
"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced. But he didn't push either. "See you Monday, Hargrove."
I walked out into the afternoon sun with something unfamiliar settling in my chest. It took me a moment to identify it: pride. The simple satisfaction of earning something honestly. My old life had been full of shortcuts, corner-cutting, doing the minimum to get by. This felt different. Cleaner.
The Camaro waited in the parking lot, blue paint gleaming. I slid behind the wheel and counted my remaining cash. Eight dollars. Enough for one good meal or three bad ones.
I chose the good one.
Mel's Burgers was busier than last time—lunchtime crowd of construction workers and teenagers killing summer hours. I ordered two burgers, fries, a shake. Found a booth in the corner and ate slowly, actually tasting the food for once instead of inhaling it like fuel.
Because that's what it was now. Fuel. Everything I ate became potential fire, potential power, potential survival. The job at Martinez Auto would solve the money problem. Steady income meant steady meals meant steady training.
I was building something. A foundation. Resources and alliances and capabilities that the original Billy had never bothered to assemble. When the supernatural chaos hit—when the Mind Flayer and the Upside Down came calling—I'd be ready.
My hands warmed around the milkshake cup. Not enough to affect the ice cream, just that constant low-grade heat that had become my new normal. I'd stopped thinking of it as strange. Started thinking of it as part of me.
The fire was always there now. Waiting. Patient. Ready to answer when I called.
Monday I'd start work. Learn the rhythm of the shop, build rapport with Martinez, establish a legitimate cover for my activities. Evenings I'd train. Push my limits, discover new applications, turn this raw power into something reliable.
And somewhere in all of that, I'd figure out how to keep Max safe. How to prepare for Hawkins. How to survive the future I knew was coming.
I finished my food and walked back to the Camaro. The engine caught on the first try—V8 growl, familiar and comforting. I pulled out of the lot and pointed myself toward the warehouse district.
Time for more training. Time to see how far this fire could go.
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