Part 2 (1/2)

Stacy's not here, I wanted to say, Stacy's gone. But I couldn't get my mouth to say the words.

Darla just stood there, looking at me in a way that made me think she'd known that all along. I started to close the door, but stopped when she said, ”I have an idea, Mr. Harrison. Do you want to hear my idea?”

As much as I disliked the girl, hearing her talk was like having a link to my daughter, and I found myself nodding.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in the clubhouse with the dogleg. Darla had gone home to get what she needed and had just returned. She looked at me I nodded, and I laid down on the table. Darla smeared cat food on my leg, spit on the cat food, then pressed a leaf against it. I felt nothing until she started singing. The words were nonsensical, something about dancing birds and bears in the trees, and they were set to the same tune that underlay a lot of children's songs, the one for ”Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and the ABC's. The second she started singing, there was a tingling in my leg, a weird sensation that was not just skin deep, but went down to the bone.

Was this what Stacy had felt?

Darla smiled at me, and lifted the ax.

”Ready?” she asked.

About Bentley Little.

Bentley Little was born in Arizona a month after his mother attended the world premiere of Psycho. He is the author of numerous novels, short stories, articles and essays. He originally came up through small presses.

Bentley Little is notorious for not partic.i.p.ating in anything on the Internet, so he does not have an official website. The Horror Zine communicates with Bentley Little though mail delivered by the U.S. Post Office.

A BAD STRETCH OF ROAD.

by Dean H. Wild.

Max Drummond was in the depths of a heavy driver's daze, the toll of endless miles since sunup and too much to think about, he conceded, but for some reason the sight of the interchange rising out of the distance brought him around. He gave his surroundings a waking-dreamer's blink. He was somewhere in the back-forty of the Midwest surrounded by dust devils and afternoon heat s.h.i.+mmers. Other than that, he was uncertain of his location. Someplace where they didn't bother to post highway signs, he could say that much. Not a single directional sign graced the roadside for as far as he could see. Now that he was looking, he noticed not a single billboard advertis.e.m.e.nt either. Not even a friendly reminder of the local speed limit, only cars racing off the ever-closer interchange ramps at a steady pace, flooding the highway with metal and gla.s.s and chrome. On the one hand, he reminded himself how much he hated busy highways, and on the other hand told himself it didn't matter. All that mattered was he make Milwaukee by sundown, reach Linda by nightfall, and cling to the thinly wrapped hope she would open the door when he came knocking unannounced.

Just ahead, an ancient structure-a kind of bridge or trestle-stretched over the highway. He hadn't noticed it at first, but there it was, acting as a gateway to the weave-work of feeder ramps beyond. It held its ground with ent.i.tlement like a tribal elder. In fact, its rigid profile struck him as possessing a sort of-well-wisdom. The old bridge would be his starting line, he decided. True, his journey began hours ago in St. Louis, but this would be the point where the agonizing fell away, like stages of a rocket, leaving him light and unburdened. He considered it with a sudden pang of hopefulness. Welcomed it, even.

”And we're off,” he sighed and punched the Volvo's accelerator as he swept under the trestle.

The sensation was surprising and exquisite. His view of the road gained a harsh, bright-gla.s.s clarity that caused him to squint into the two northbound lanes alive with b.u.mper to b.u.mper trucks and cars. What momentarily drew his attention, however, (and brought a hint of unease) were the interchange ramps. There were more than he'd first realized, and they snaked away one after the other into the distance at ridiculous, drastic angles. They joined with mysterious elevated and unmarked roads, or sometimes fed into other ramps.

The only thing worse than a busy stretch of highway, he decided as he twisted anxiously at the wheel, was a busy stretch whose designer graduated the Dr. Seuss School of Highway Planning.

His cell phone was on the seat next to him. He fingered it and thought about the sound of Linda's voice, how it always had the ability to calm him when things got tense. The old Linda's voice, that was, the one full of sweetness and trust. Certainly not the Linda's voice from this morning which seemed to traverse the distance from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin to St. Louis like a hail of arrows. ”How could you?” she had asked him three, maybe four times, demanding an answer, insisting he talk about it. He couldn't. It was all he could do to make the call. To go into any great depths was beyond him.

”It's over with me and her,” he had told Linda, and it seemed to be the only defense he could conjure, followed by, ”I want to forget it ever happened.”

Finally, Linda hung up.

And it really was over with the other woman. Over because he'd chosen to end it. That had to count for something, he thought as he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone and dialed Linda's number with a new conviction. There was no backing down on this side of the starting line, after all. No blocking the forward momentum. He was going to tell her that he was coming home so things could go back to the way they were, that was it. No surprises. No need for discussion.

”Yeah,” he let out a shaking breath as he depressed the final key on the phone pad, ”this ought to go well.”

The phone let out a short, piercing squeal and fell silent. He recoiled from it and gave it an irritated wince. The screen was backlit but featureless, only a blank and dim rectangle and he studied it with more than a little puzzlement. Feedback? But from what? As if in response, the landscape outside his window changed to beige blankness as steep concrete embankments flanked the road. They towered over the roofs of the traffic, blocking his view of the complementing southerly lanes and all but the nearest on- and off-ramps. Phone's out and I just went down the gullet of the Hooberbloob Highway. Could I hate this any more?

He dropped the phone into the pa.s.senger seat with an uneasy laugh. Uneasy because when he tried to recall this odd stretch of highway from his trip down to Missouri, (and he was certain he was following the same route back) he couldn't. And the Hooberbloob with its arterial pa.s.sages and Kali arms was something not easily forgotten. Perhaps he had taken a wrong turn while in the grips of his driver's daze. If only he could find one signpost, one bit of direction. If only he were in the right-hand lane so he could exit- A small white hatchback cut in behind him with a screech of tires. The car directly to his right pulled ahead of him and blatantly rammed the b.u.mper of the sedan riding in front of it. He tensed and evaluated this new situation: tailgater behind, unreasonable driver at two o'clock and there was nowhere for him to go. He was sandwiched in, part of a solid ma.s.s of speeding cars, and all he could do for the moment was keep pace with them. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel and found them greasy with sweat.

A grinding crunch shook the Volvo.

”What?” he barked and glanced around.

The white hatchback had rammed him, for Christ's sake. He watched it swerve out and move up on his right, gobbling up any available s.p.a.ce. The driver was a young woman with long hair tied back in a ponytail. She seemed totally unaware that she had hit him, did not even turn her head, but cruised along until she was the better part of a car-length ahead of him. Her rear license plate read SAMI. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his phone, his teeth gritted, sweat popping out on his forehead. Well, SAMI, you might not think there's a problem, but let's see what the local cops have to say about your driving habits. He coaxed the Volvo to the left, toward the narrow shoulder that buffered the concrete wall from the edge of the highway. He wanted to pull off and inspect the damage to his b.u.mper prior to making his call. A horn blared, high and shrill like a flat chord from a church organ. A rusty blue four-door squeezed by him on the left, kicking up gravel and road debris like buckshot. He could feel the vibration of its humming machinery through the Volvo's window. Its door panel picked off his side mirror with a crunch. Reflective fragments flew.

”G.o.dd.a.m.n it,” he roared and veered back into his own lane.

A glance in his rearview mirror confirmed that the left shoulder corridor had become an impromptu lane of its own, stacked full of racing vehicles. They whooshed past him in rapid succession.

He tossed the phone aside to clamp both hands back on the wheel. Ahead of him, in the right-hand lane, a yellow Volkswagen raced up to SAMI's back b.u.mper and unceremoniously rammed it. Bits of tail light lenses scattered like flung rubies.

”What is wrong with you people? We're not on the b.u.mper cars at the G.o.dd.a.m.n county fair,” Max called out and then blinked uncertainly at the hatchback. ”What the h.e.l.l?”

SAMI had a rider. He hadn't noticed one earlier, but now a small, hairless silhouette was visible in the pa.s.senger seat. A child, standing and bracing itself against the dashboard. This road's a h.e.l.l of a place for a kid, he thought, and wondered why the blow from behind a minute ago hadn't knocked the little rug rat off the seat and right out of its Pampers.

Another feeder ramp allowed more vehicles to crowd onto the main highway ahead. He watched them merge, transfixed by their dumb voracity. He'd seen brewery bottles bustle onto a conveyor belt like that once. It was during a beer-making tour he insisted they go to in downtown Milwaukee. Linda followed along politely that day, absorbing facts and details with her usual quiet interest, and after the tour she suggested they go to the art museum. Out of fairness, he respected her wishes only to realize later he'd enjoyed both portions of the day equally. He never admitted this, but he was pretty sure she knew. Smart girl, his Linda. And intuitive. That's why he loved her, he guessed.

The flow of traffic changed again, just enough to allow him to pull up alongside SAMI. At that moment he saw her pa.s.senger reach out to embrace her with long arms. Overlong gray arms. Max blinked, all his attention suddenly drawn to the interior of SAMI's car. The rider tipped its oddly large head toward him as if it sensed his stare. A mask, he thought, the child in the seat wore a disguise that turned its forehead into something high and creased with perpetual rage. The nose was an insignificant hump vented by two slits and the mouth was a lipless gash, all of it the color of ashes. Added to that was a pair of novelty shop goggles. The type where huge painted eyeb.a.l.l.s (a solid deep orange in this case) might pop out on springs and waggle partway down the cheeks of the wearer. He regarded it with a tenuous brand of amus.e.m.e.nt, knowing he should watch the road, but unable to look away. The face of SAMI's rider caught the sun in that second and he felt his breath leave him. The rider's mouth moved liquidly to show sharp nubs of teeth. It was almost a smile, but not quite. Its large eyes, not goggles at all and not equipped with springs of any kind, glimmered and pulsed at him with embryonic heat like steam engine coals. And they blinked, wet and alive.

He shook his head, still unable to look away. SAMI's pa.s.senger clamped its hands around her throat. The hatchback swerved and Max jerked his wheel to the left to avoid a collision, but he was allowed little play. A tan sedan piloted by a portly man in a short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt and necktie now cruised the shoulder to his left. The sedan held its ground and Max compensated again. He had enough time to notice another small hairless figure, similar to SAMI's rider, in the portly man's back seat. It tapped its gray fingers on the headrest, impatient, its mouth rolling up into a mocking smile.

”This can't be,” he said and glanced back to SAMI.

SAMI's pa.s.senger climbed onto her while she drove. No, climbed wasn't right. It mounted her, facing her. Its arms slipped around her neck and it pressed itself against her. The hatchback remained on a steady course, steering itself perhaps, even as the young woman's hands began to claw wildly at the air.

”Get it off of you,” he cried out to her.

She tried to twist her head, her saw her make the attempt, but her face became buried in the flat underbelly.

The gray flesh of the rider began to ripple and reform, becoming loose and dangling strands. In unison those strands, ropy and wet, stretched through the air and slipped over SAMI's face, her neck, her thras.h.i.+ng arms. Max realized he was watching a drowning woman, one who pulled not dark and swampy water into her lungs, but invading cables of gray matter. He felt the air in his own lungs grow thin and hot as he fought to keep the Volvo on track. SAMI's rider lost all shape, becoming a woven membrane which sealed itself in a shroud-like pod around the blonde behind the wheel. Her throes were momentarily visible as twitches and overlong bulges, then the gray sac clenched and a small spray of crimson bloomed on the underside of the skin. All movement stopped inside. After an eternal pause, the pod began to shrink, rapidly reclaiming shape as Max stared on-a head, a narrow body, long arms. Seconds later it was the gray rider once again, now facing front, its horn-like claws c.l.i.ttering on the wheel. The only thing reminiscent of the previous driver was a short nub of matter, somewhat like her ponytail, which waggled from the back of its head. Max turned away, a new kind of daze calling him away from the act of driving-this one charged not with fatigue but with disbelief. The hatchback broke away, squeezed between two vehicles which traveled the right-hand breakdown lane, and zipped up one of the twisted exit ramps. He barely noticed.

”Figure this out,” he coached himself between deep breaths, ”Think it through.”

The driver of the tan sedan on the left shoulder punched his brakes hard enough to make the tires squawk. Max glanced his mirror in time to see a dusky form hop out of the back seat and flop onto the man's chest. A second later a stripe of blood painted the middle of the sedan winds.h.i.+eld. A chorus of horns rose up. A heavy crash followed.

”Where are those things coming from?” Max asked through a violent shudder.

Several car lengths ahead of him a man leapt from the seat of his moving convertible as if performing a standing long-jump, arms outstretched, dark s.h.i.+rt and Roman collar stark against the clear sky. His legs pumped enthusiastically as if the G.o.d who had called him into service and gave him his daily bread might now pluck him from the air and set him down tenderly at the roadside so that he may run away from this bad stretch of road. He crashed into the winds.h.i.+eld of the yellow Volkswagen, tumbled over its roof and landed in the right-hand lane. A dark colored Cadillac riding behind the Volkswagen bounced over him importantly. The man's abandoned car veered sharply and cut between vehicles in the right lane to crash into the concrete wall. An opening formed between the Caddy and the yellow Volkswagen and Max cut his wheel hard to the right. The Volvo slipped into the s.p.a.ce neatly and Max rapped the steering wheel, calling out with excited accomplishment. ”Almost there. The next exit ramp is mine, baby!”

Don't celebrate yet, he thought, not as long as you're on this road- A musky reek flooded the car. It reminded him of old leather and wet weeds, the scent of things flung off into the ditch to rot. He checked his rearview mirror just as the shape in his back seat slipped forward. Its round lantern eyes twitched, calculating, sizing him up. A web-work of black veins pulsed beneath its skin.

”What do you want?” he called out.

The thing made a small, wet grunt and tilted its head the way an old woman might ponder produce in the grocery store, thoughtful and perhaps a little skeptical. Its claws came up and gave his shoulder a tentative, exploring poke.

”No, you don't,” he told it and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right.