“‘The Ogre’ was a1964 Triumph Spitfire in its previous life. Allow me to gloat a bit of its history—after all, I designed and supervised its metamorphosis myself, so I think I’ve earned the right to boast.
“I began with a Spitfire frame that was made ready for a Chevy V-8 engine, Muncie transmission, and modified Corvette rear suspension. When the chassis was complete—with engine, transmission, rear suspension and third member, brake lines, front suspension with stock rack and pinion steering, as well as new body-mounts—the body from the stock Spitfire was prepared and set on the frame. The electrical systems were re-established and the bonnet added. Its present engine is a 383 Stroker. On the Dyno, she checked out at 470 horsepower and 500 ft-lbs of torque. This a small but very powerful car you’ll be climbing into, Driver. It has a maximum speed of 180 miles per hour, and goes from 0 to 90 in just under ten seconds.
“For the first ten seconds of the race, both The Ogre and Fairlane’s vehicle will be under the sole control of The Road. Once you have passed from the sight of the crowd, control of the vehicles will be given over to you. I trust you can drive a shift. If not—well, then, this could be a short but spectacular contest.
“You have a few minutes before you reach your destination, dear boy. Why not raid the refrigerator and wet bar? Godspeed, Driver. No pun intended.”
And with that, the screen snapped off.
I looked out the window and saw the lights reflecting from the massive car-cubes along Levegh Lane in the distance, and realized that these dead piles rose so high they could be probably be seen from any place in the city.
I wondered if, very soon, the smashed corpse of the Ogre would be added to them for future Repair material.
12
FADE IN: a seemingly endless stretch of smooth two-lane blacktop emptying into shadows. Crowds of people line both sides of the road, the men looking tough while clutching at their bottles of beer, the women looking anxious while clutching at the filtered tips of their cigarettes, and the kids—especially the really young ones—looking like they aren’t sure how they should be feeling while they clutch at the hands or coats of the tough beer drinkers and anxious cigarette smokers.
…and this is where we came, isn’t it?
I climbed out of the limo and saw the Ogre parked in the left lane up ahead, Sheriff Hummer leaning against the driver’s-side door. He saw me, gave a little wave, and gestured for me to join him.
I kept glancing at the crowd as I approached him, but after a few seconds of that realized it wasn’t the best idea; the people who comprised this crowd—men, women, children (God, the children…)—were all Repaired to varying degrees, and the fusion of flesh and metal, rather than repulse me as it had before, now seemed to possess an organic correctness that I was suddenly all too willing to accept as being normal…or what passed for normal, here. One little girl who couldn’t have been more than seven years old smiled at me, displaying a mouthful of spark plug tips that took the place of her teeth. She seemed so proud of that smile, like she was showing off. I smiled back at her, and she blushed.
Don’t look at them, I told myself. If you don’t look, then they’re not there.
Pitiful, I know, but it worked. They were shadows, props, decorations on the periphery, not real, not flesh and bone (and metal and steel, said the voice in the back of my head), and maybe, if I concentrated hard enough, I could Zen-out of this whole mess for a few moments.
“You seem tense,” said Hummer.
I looked up at him but couldn’t think of anything to say.
Then he did something that surprised me; he stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder and said, “You’ll be fine. It’s almost over.”
I heard the grinding of a large engine in the distance behind us, and as I turned the crowd broke into wild shouts and applause. More lights came on, illuminating the road, and a few seconds later the object of their adulation rolled into sight.
A great semi tractor-trailer crawled out of the darkness, pulling a car-cube, smaller than the ones I’d seen before but still fairly massive. Atop the cube four large torches burned, flames snapping against the night, one set at each corner, and in the middle of it all was a raised platform. Daddy Bliss sat there, the wheels of his chair held in place by clamps attached to the base. Large concert speakers were positioned at the sides of the platform, angled outward. Ciera stood at Daddy Bliss’s side. She’d changed clothes; she was now dressed in a paisley skirt and tight short-sleeved sweater, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, a scarf tied around her neck. She held a long red kerchief in each of her hands.
The truck crept by, rumbling and growling like a constipated dinosaur, then began a slow, wide turn, moving forward, then back, a little to the left, forward again, the driver doing an impressive job of reversing, until, finally, the car-cube was well off the road and at an angle facing the crowd.
Ciera walked to the side of the cube and pushed something over the edge; a long rope ladder that reached to the ground. She turned, blew a kiss toward Daddy Bliss, and began descending.
Daddy Bliss smiled—a celebrant at the beginning of Mass—and the crowd’s cheering grew even louder. He smiled, nodded his head a few times, then cleared his throat; amplified by the speaks, it sounded as if a section of the ground were splitting open.
The crowd fell silent.
“My children,” said Daddy Bliss.
And the crowd exploded once again. Daddy Bliss waited until the roar died down, but it took a minute; Ciera was already on the ground before he started speaking again.
“My children. As you know, our dear Road Mama has been returned to us, and is, as I speak, being Repaired. She will be back among us soon. For that, we have Driver to thank.”
The crowd erupted once more, some of them calling out my name—or, rather, the word, “Driver! Driver!”
“The Road,” said Daddy Bliss, “has granted us this contest—this trial, if you will—to see whether or not Driver is, indeed, worthy.”
Worthy of what? I thought.
“Give praise to the Road. Give thanks to the Highway People. They provide, they sustain, they bless us and watch over our loved ones under their protection.” The crowd as one looked downward and began muttering quiet thanks. Even Hummer removed his hat and bowed his head in prayer. “Driver,” said Daddy Bliss. I looked up toward him.
“You have done well for us, and have our thanks. You still have many questions, this I do realize. Know that they will be answered soon.”
I nodded.
“Very well, then,” he said, clearing his throat once more. When he spoke again, his voice was louder, powerful, commanding. “Release Fairlane.” Then he looked at me and grinned. “Sounded somewhat ominous didn’t it? Apologies. ‘Release Fairlane.’ Not quite ‘…let slip the dogs of war,’ I’m afraid.”
The crowd cheered, but this time I could hear some genuine anxiety at the edges of the sound.
And then something so incredibly absurd happened that I couldn’t even laugh at it, as much as it demanded to be laughed at: the concert speakers erupted with the opening chords of AC/DC’s “Highway To Hell” and the crowd as one turned to face the road behind me.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” I said to Hummer. “I got in a wreck on my way out of town and all of this is just some fucked-up hallucination that my subconscious has dredged up while my life trickles away.”
Hummer grinned, and then backhanded me across the mouth. “Did that feel like an hallucination?”
“That hurt!”
“Sorry. Seemed the best way to get the point across, all things considered.”
I shook it away, which wasn’t easy—he had one helluva powerful swing. When I was able to gather myself together and stand fully upright, I was looking down the darkened road at something that appeared to be a small bonfire, only it was moving.