Destinations Unknown Page 9

  “Where did all of these come from?” I asked.

  “Everywhere,” replied Dash. “They come from all over the place in the U.S.”

  “And sometimes Canada or Mexico,” said Sheriff Hummer. “If someone drives here from Canada or Mexico, they’re on our roads, so their ass is ours if something happens.”

  “‘Ours’?” I said.

  “Ours,” replied Dash.

  “Well, technically,” said Hummer, “they belong to Road Mama and Daddy Bliss, but since the rest of us are family, we like to think of them as ‘ours’. That answer your question?”

  “Not really.”

  “Don’t worry, things’ll be explained to you.”

  Ciera came up alongside us in the meat wagon, waving and smiling before hitting the turn signal and taking a side road.

  “She’s using the shortcut,” said Dash.

  Hummer nodded his head. “I got eyes, little brother.”

  “Daddy Bliss told us we weren’t supposed to take no shortcuts tonight.”

  “And Ciera will have to explain herself to him, so it’s not our problem.”

  “But he won’t do anything to her, he never does. It ain’t fair! How come she gets to do whatever she wants and the rest of us gotta do as we’re told?”

  “Because Daddy Bliss favors Ciera, you know that. She was the last person he brought into the family himself.”

  Dash folded his arms across his chest and pressed his chin down, pouting. “Yeah, well, still…it ain’t fair.”

  “Not much is, little brother. Don’t need to keep reminding ourselves.”

  We made a left, turning onto a stretch of road where the car-cubes were replaced by typical middle-class houses on a typical middle-class street. All the lights were on inside each house, and several people were standing on their front porches, watching us pass by.

  “Gonna be a big night for everyone here, Driver,” said Hummer. “A big night.”

  I swallowed, leaning forward. “Why are you called ‘Hummer’?”

  The sheriff looked into the rear-view mirror. “Because that’s what I was driving when I got myself and my little brother killed. It was my fault, I was screwing around, pretending that the goddamn thing was a tank, I accidentally side-swiped a semi, lost control of the wheel, and went over the side of a bridge.”

  “I was pretty scared,” said Dash. “I was all bent over and crying. That’s how I busted open my head on the bottom of the dashboard.”

  “And I was the driver,” replied the sheriff. “That’s how it works.”

  I returned his stare in the rear-view mirror for a few moments more, then said, “Fuck you.”

  “What was that?” One of his hands snapped down to the butt of his gun.

  “I said fuck you. I’m supposed to believe that you two are dead, is that it?”

  “We ain’t dead,” said Dash.

  “Just Repaired,” said Hummer. He pronounced the second word with such awe and reverence I could almost see the capital ‘R’.

  I looked at the houses we were passing. The people on the porches all had something wrong with them; some used canes or crutches, some were in wheelchairs, others had arms missing or in slings, and a couple of them wore those square metal-cage get-ups that people who suffer severe neck injuries are saddled with using.

  “What about them?” I asked, nodding toward the onlookers.

  “Repaired,” said Hummer. “Everyone who lives here has been Repaired or is in the process of being Repaired. Sometimes the Repairs aren’t that big of a deal, like with Dash and Ciera and me. But some Repairs, they take a bit of work.”

  Dash looked at me and nodded his head.

  “So this is, what? Zombie Town U.S.A.?”

  Hummer glared at me. “I’d watch the sarcasm if I was you. And, no, there aren’t any zombies here. Only the Repaired.”

  We turned off the street and hit a long patch of road that wound through a heavily industrialized section of town. Factories small and large lined both sides of the road for nearly three miles, and judging from the amount of noise and smoke pouring from each building, things were busy.

  It was only as we were turning off onto another street that I caught a glimpse of any of the factory workers (which I think was Hummer’s intention, seeing as how he was driving not only slowly but quite close to the curb). A large set of heavy iron doors were open, giving me a clear look into the foundry where one of the workers was emptying a vat of white-hot molten metal into an arc furnace. Despite the shimmering heat waves and sparks scattering as the liquid metal gushed down, I got a very clear look at the man.

  His right arm had been replaced by a steel prosthesis whose components had been molded, bent, twisted, and press-punched into something that was meant to look organic and serve the same function as his missing arm. It had an elbow joint that bent easily enough and a semi-robotic hand with five finger-like appendages. The wires and conduits that snaked through the openings in the metal were in a configuration comparable to that of veins. The prosthesis moved stiffly, and every time the worker turned his back to us, the highly-polished sheet of silver chrome used to replace his shoulder blade caught the light and threw it back into my eyes. I was still blinking when the worker stopped what he was doing, rose straight up, and—like he’d known all along that he was being observed—turned to face me.

  The left half of his face had been Repaired, as well. I saw the bright protruding taillight that had taken the place of his eye, the section of sheared metal that served as his jawbone, and what I swear looked like seat leather that now replaced the flesh of his cheek.

  He lifted his robotic hand and waved.

  “Believe me now,” said Hummer, “or do you want us to get out so I can make a personal introduction?”

  “…incredible…” was all I could get out.

  “No,” said Dash, “just Repaired, that’s all. Ain’t no big thing, really.”

  Hummer laughed and sped up the cruiser.

  I turned around in the seat, staring out the rear window, and saw the foundry worker walk out into the middle of the street and watch us drive away. Even after his body disappeared into shadow, I could still see the bright red light of his Repaired eye.

  I was about to ask Hummer where they got the parts to Repair people, then thought of the car-cubes and knew the answer.

  9

  We pulled up in front of a large concrete building that contained few windows and began to park.

  “If he’s getting the tour,” said Dash, “then shouldn’t we take him in through the back?”

  “Shit,” said Hummer, backing out of the space, “you’re right. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We drove around to the back where a single streetlight provided little illumination. We got out, and then entered the building through a heavy steel door.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell of the place; it was combination of that sweaty, metallic, smoky, machine-grease stench of the factory floor and the overly-antiseptic aroma of a hospital corridor. I’d never smelled anything like it in my life.

  “You get used to the smell,” said Hummer, clamping a hand on my elbow and leading me through a set of doors on the left. Dash made a beeline for a set of doors on the right—the vending machine area.

  We entered a somewhat cramped but well-lit office filled with scuffed wooden desks and chairs that were easily 30 years out of date, the furniture made all the more anachronistic by the expensive state-of-the-art equipment setting on it: 25-inch flat screen LCD monitors on broken roll-top desks, iMacs being used by people sitting in slat-backed wooden chairs held together in places with duct tape, and a trio of huge 50-inch plasma televisions mounted on the walls displaying a slide-show series of maps, as well as images from what I assumed were security cameras; empty streets, empty corridors, empty parking lots.

  “It’s impolite to stare,” said Hummer, pulling me toward a door marked Holding Room at the back of the offic
e. Opening the door, he reached in and flipped on the light, then pushed me inside. “Bathroom’s on the right, and there’re snacks in the refrigerator.” He pointed to a rolling metal rack filled with hanging clothes. “Nova’s already had some stuff from the wardrobe put in here, so you can change out of those pissy clothes. Clean yourself up and get a bite to eat. You won’t be in here for too long.”

  “Wait a second,” I said as he began closing the door.

  He paused. “Yes?”

  I took a deep breath and summoned what little nerve I still had. “Aren’t I entitled to one phone call?”

  “You are.”

  “I’d like to make it, please.”

  Hummer grinned. “Who have you got to call, Driver?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “More like your daydream, from what I understand.”

  Glaring at him, I made a fist but did not raise it. “I demand my right to a phone call.”

  “You’ll get your call, stop whining.” He stared at me for a moment, his features softening a bit. “You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

  “…yes…”

  Hummer looked over his shoulder, then stepped back into the holding room, pushing the door most of the way closed. “Listen to me, Driver. I don’t know what you did to piss off the Highway People, but it must have been pretty goddamn serious for you to wind up here. The folks who come to this place, they don’t drive in, and they sure as hell don’t leave. Nobody just passes through here, the Highway People won’t let them. But you, you’re getting special treatment. I can’t tell you whether or not you’re gonna leave here alive because I don’t get to make that call, but I can tell you that no one, the Highway People included, has any intention of harming you. Anything that might or might not happen to you will be your own doing, not ours.”

  I was still trying to get past I can’t tell you whether or not you’re gonna leave here alive when I heard myself asking, “Who are the Highway People?”

  Hummer shrugged. “That’s just what we call them. I don’t know what their actual names are—hell, I don’t even know if they have names. They’ve been around as long as there have been roads and cars. I guess they’re…I dunno…the gods of the road.”

  “Have you ever seen them?”

  “Once. Right after the accident. They came for me and Dash.” He was staring out at something only he could see. For the first time that night, he looked so much older than his years. “I remember,” he said, “that the windows were rolled halfway down—it was a warm night, Dash had his open and so did I, so when we went over the bridge and hit the water below, these…these swords of water slashed through the interior. I guess that happened because when we hit, we made a mother of a splash, it happened so fast, and we were both panicking because the interior was filling up and we were trying to get our seatbelts undone…Dash’s arms were flailing all over the place and he kept looking in the back seat for something, and I remember…I remember that those first swords of water felt like they’d actually gone in, y’know? Straight through flesh and into the bone. Even though everything was happening very fast and I knew it was happening very fast, in my eyes it was all in slow motion. Getting my seat belt off and then trying to help Dash with his, and that’s when I saw that he was already dead. His arms weren’t flailing, they were just floating, and the reason he was looking in the back seat was because his head had slammed against the dashboard and he’d broken his neck.” He looked back at me. “His head had just…turned around like that, and I could see where a good portion of his skull had been caved in. I undid his seat belt, anyway, and even though we were sinking there was still an air pocket inside, and I tried to get to it, and that’s when the semi that I’d hit came over the side of the bridge and landed on top of us. I felt my back shatter, and then it was dark and cool and quiet, and then a hand gripped my arm, and I opened my eyes and there was this…this shadow floating over me. It had silver eyes, and I knew it was going to help me. ‘Make sure you get my brother,’ I said to it. And it pointed over to another shadow with silver eyes that was pulling Dash out of the car. They swam away so smoothly, it was kind of graceful.

  “I remember looking back at the car and…seeing our bodies still trapped inside. What was left of our bodies, anyway. It took me a long time to understand the process, how it was that our bodies are left behind—at least, for a while, and….” His words trailed off as he smiled to himself, then blinked, and—remembering his duty—pointed toward the bathroom door once again. “Get yourself cleaned up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Hummer paused at the door once again. “What the hell for?”

  “I’m sorry that you died. It must have destroyed your parents, losing both of you at the same time.”

  He shrugged. “We never knew. That’s part of the price for being Repaired.” He closed and locked the door behind him.

  I went into the bathroom (which had a shower), cleaned up, found some clothes that fit (the underwear was new, still in the sealed bag), and was putting my shoes back on when I noticed that some of the clothes remaining on the rack were damaged; rips and tears that had been stitched up, dark stains on some that didn’t quite come out in the wash, and some with hand-sewn, hand-lettered labels; property of s. wilson, DAVE’S PANTS, This Jacket Belongs To: JASON.

  I wondered if the clothes I’d just put on had similar labels sewn into them, then just as quickly decided that I didn’t want to know.

  I heard a slight, soft whirr behind me, and turned around. A security camera mounted in the corner nearest the bathroom door blinked its red light and adjusted its position.

  They were watching me, big surprise.

  I walked toward it, and with every step I took the camera shifted its position to keep me in view.

  “So these clothes,” I said. “I’m guessing they were, what? Taken from the bodies and repaired, as well? Is that what all these are? Dead men’s clothing?”

  “Yes,” said a voice behind me.

  I spun around, nearly tripping over my own feet.

  “Easy there, Driver,” said the nightmare in the doorway. “Mustn’t hurt yourself. Think of what it would do to our insurance deductibles.” It laughed and rolled forward. “I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, that’s somewhat problematic.”

  It—he—wore no shirt and had no arms or legs, and sat in an electric wheelchair that was guided by one of those attachments that enables the user to steer by using his or her mouth. As he rolled closer I saw that he wasn’t sitting in the chair at all—he was attached to it by a series of clamps that were soldered into the frame of the chair and disappeared into his flesh at waist level. The skin at the entry point was swollen, red, and crusted at the edges with dried blood.

  “My given name is Henry,” he said. “But everyone here calls me Daddy Bliss.”

  A series of three curved iron pipes curled out of his back and down into the wheelchair’s battery. Every time the chair moved, these pipes shuddered.

  “I do apologize for not dressing appropriately—one should always look one’s best when greeting a new visitor—but you caught me during one of my quarterly tune-ups.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude. You know—staring at you.”

  Daddy Bliss nodded, giving me a close-up view of the matchbox-sized rectangles with electrical wires implanted in his skull. The skin of his exposed scalp was also crusty and red where it joined the metal. It was impossible to see where or to what the scalp-wires connected because they hung down his back, mixing in with a bundle of other wires that were held together by plastic clamps. What I could see—too clearly—were the two clear plastic bags that dangled from the metal IV pole attached to the right arm of the wheelchair. The tube from the first bag—a catheter—snaked downward and then up into his penis, which was hidden behind one of the metal waist-clamps. The bag was filled not with urine but a thick black liquid, and as I stared, I realized that the liquid wasn’t going into the bag, it was flowing d
ownward, into him.

  “Motor oil,” he said. “It seemed to me you weren’t about to ask, so I thought I would get right to it.”

  “Motor oil?”

  “A highly…specialized brand, mixed with my own blood but, yes, motor oil nonetheless. The second bag contains a liquid protein supplement that helps keep me both alive and regular.” To illustrate this last point, his bowels groaned, and something moist and heavy dropped into an unseen container housed within the wheelchair’s lower casement.

  I was glad I couldn’t see it.

  “My apologies,” said Daddy Bliss. “But I had Thai food for dinner, and it always goes right through me. But don’t worry, the casing is quite solid, you can’t smell it.”

  “Do you ever get out of that chair?”

  “Oh, goodness gracious me, no. I would lose my mobility, silly boy. Do you have any more questions along these lines?”

  I thought of Dash, Hummer, and the foundry worker and said, “Why haven’t you been repaired like the others I’ve seen?”

  “It’s a question of compatibility, my boy. Just as the human body will reject unacceptable organic tissue, the same goes for iron, steel, aluminum, plastic, any man-made alloy or other such material…it’s a question of trial-and-error. Some of us have been able to be Repaired almost immediately, while others—like myself and Fairlane, who you’ll be meeting later on—have to make do with more…primitive results.

  “For myself, I made the decision long ago to not attempt any further Repairs. It’s an excruciatingly painful process, despite the advances we’ve made, and each member of our ever-growing family is given the right to say ‘No more’ at any point in that process. The younger ones—like Dash, Ciera, and our resplendent Sheriff Hummer—are strong, and willful, and can deal with the pain of a full Repair…which is why they can interact more openly with the outside world. Any more questions at this point?”

  “No sir.”