The Roadmaster

Home Writing The Roadmaster

An Altearth Tale, by E.L. Knox

(this story first appeared at Bewildering Stories in 2012)

The hitchhiker ran up to the car and opened the door. It was a Buick Roadmaster, a fine car, if a little square. It had been hours since he’d seen a pair of headlights on the highway, and the desert was cold at night. The dome light showed an interior of metallic blue and vinyl white, with an old man at the wheel, tall and weathered like some ancient cactus.

The hitchhiker slid onto the seat, pulling his duffel bag after him, and swung the door closed. The dome light went out and all was dark except for the ghostly light from the instrument panel. The car swung back onto the road with barely a whisper.

The driver looked at him, peering under eyebrows, head cocked. “Where you headed?” he said.

“Wherever,” the hitchhiker said. “East.”

“Sure. Headed that way myself.”

“Thanks,” the hitchhiker muttered as he arranged his duffle bag on the floor under his feet. He fervently hoped the old guy wouldn’t talk much.

The driver nodded at the bag. “You running from or running to?”

The hitchhiker glanced sidelong but didn’t look up. “Ain’t runnin’ nowhere.”

“Well, that’s remarkable, that is. Quite the anomaly, you.” The old man’s voice was raspy, like tumbleweeds across a dry lakebed.

The young man didn’t answer. If he didn’t answer, maybe the guy wouldn’t talk to him. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to go.

The driver did leave him alone for a while. The Buick hummed through the night. The road was straight, the air was cold, and the darkness was its own kind of comfort.

The hitchhiker thought about where he’d been and where he was headed. Both seemed vague to him just now, as if behind and before were both dreams and only the desert and the dark were real. He stared out the window at the black night, seeing nothing, thinking nothing, and satisfied with both.

“You headed to New York, young fellow, or New Orleans? Or maybe just to Barstow,” the driver said.

“East,” the young man repeated. “Maybe Chicago.” He had no destination in mind, but he said it to be saying something.

“Don’t worry, Johnny boy,” the driver said, then he dropped into a mock-alien voice, like in the movies, “we mean you no harm.” He chuckled.

The hitchhiker looked up. “The name is John, not Johnny, and I never told you my name.”

The driver pointed at the bag; the name ‘JOHN’ was stenciled on it, along with COUNTY CORRECTIONAL HOME.

“So you know my name,” John said, kicking the bag further under the dash. “Big deal. What’s yours?”

Again the driver laughed. “Whoa now, where’s your manners? It won’t do to be asking a sorcerer his name, no sir! And I’d be a fool to give it. Out here, though, a fellow can take on most any name he pleases. So, you can call me Driver. That’ll serve, for now.”

John peered at him. “You a sorcerer?”

“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it? After all, sorcerers don’t get out into society, do they? And they sure don’t drive fancy Roadmasters! Most unlikely.

“Almost as unlikely as you, lad, out here in the middle of the desert, all alone. Don’t reckon you got much in the way of rides. Decent folk take a look at you and what do they see? Some teenager on his way home from the hop? An honest Joe whose car broke down? No sir-ree, bub.

“They look at you and they see a big Trouble sign hanging over your head like red neon, and they drive right on by, figuring they were smart to leave that pack of woe on the side of the road. So, me, I pick you up because otherwise you’re stuck out here. And believe me, Johnny boy” — here the old man leaned over at him — “you don’t want to be stuck out here.”

John pulled away. Great. Not just a sorcerer, but a crazy one to boot.

“How about some music?” the old man asked, abruptly switching from ominous to cheerful.

Before John could answer, a Hank Williams song came wailing from the speakers. Hank was singing about some woman and some pain that he couldn’t bear.

The old man glanced over. “No? Well it’s an acquired taste, I suppose. Easier to acquire if you’re born and bred out here, but I don’t reckon you’re from around these parts, as they say in the movies. How about this, instead?”

The music switched to Stravinsky.

John squirmed uncomfortably. He ran one hand through his long, black, curly hair.

“But no,” Driver said, “I don’t suppose the classics quite fit your temper either, do they? Well, we can choose another. On a clear night out here on the desert we can pick up stations from… Well, from far away, let’s say.”

The music changed again. Now it was electronic sounds, weird melodies and pulsing rhythms of a sort that seemed to John both alien and familiar. The sound pulled at him even as it made him shudder. He clapped his hands over his ears.

“No music,” he said, half-snarling but half-pleading.

“No? Ah well.” The music ceased. “I was tired and hoped the music would keep me awake. It’s a mighty long drive, it is, when you’re driving to wherever.”

“Are all sorcerers this chatty?” the young man said.

“Beats me,” Driver said. “I don’t usually take long drives with any of them.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Another question came out of John’s mouth before he could stop it. “So what are you doing out here, running to or running from?”

Damn it, John scolded himself. Why? Do you really want to talk to this creep?

“Ha ha! Good one! Turn my own question on me, eh? Oh you’re the sly one, Johnny, and no mistake. Running to or running from? I’d have to say, not running at all. Shall I throw your own answer back at you? I’m not running, no; I’m driving, you see!”

The sorcerer laughed and stretched, using the steering wheel as a brace. “But you asked a serious question, and I’ll give it a serious answer. I have to say I’m running to. Searching. I don’t often run from, Johnny.”

“To where?” There was something in the sheer goofiness of the driver that seemed to encourage questions.

“That’s a little harder to answer. To a rendezvous… You know the word?”

John groaned inwardly. How ignorant does he think I am?

“It’s French,” Driver continued, “it means ‘meet you’. Now why couldn’t we have a good, sturdy English word for such a common idea, eh?

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it? French words always have these nuances, layers of meaning, don’t you know. Rendezvous doesn’t merely say ‘meet you’, it’s a word that implies something is going to happen, at the meeting or because of the meeting. There’s something portentous about it, a hint of excitement, or even danger.”

John contemplated opening the door and having a rendezvous with the road. But the desert night was pressing up against the window and the Buick’s speedometer was showing 60 mph. He wasn’t quite ready for suicide. Murder, maybe.

“Look mister,” John said, “I ain’t in trouble with the law, if that’s what’s worrying you. Get me to Barstow, or maybe Flagstaff by morning and I’ll be obliged. Maybe we can leave it at that, okay?”

“We’re hours from the Arizona line, young warrior, and even farther from Flagstaff. But time plays funny tricks out here in the deep desert and that’s a fact. The locals tell all kinds of stories. Stories that would curl your hair, except yours is curly already.” The driver laughed again and the Roadmaster sped along the black road.

At least he shut up for a while. The big Buick ran almost silently, its steam engine leaving a vapor trail in the cool desert air, and John took time to wonder where he was going. Running from or running to. He didn’t know. Running, that was for damned sure.

Get the hell out, that was the one true feeling he had. What came after, well, he’d figure that out. Half his life in an orphanage and two years in Juvenile Hall. It was time to be going, and just about anywhere was bound to be better. Some place where he didn’t have to be careful about using his powers.

He looked over at Driver, who was leaning into the wheel, looking ancient, like he was hanging on more than driving. John figured he was harmless enough. Crazy wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, just annoying sometimes. He’d stick, for a while. The idea of standing out in the dark again made him edgy. He had to admit, the Roadmaster was a pretty sweet ride.

They stopped at Barstow. The clock in the dashboard said it was 3:00 a.m., but it felt later. The car glided in to a Water Station, the only one that seemed to be open in the little town. Two pumps glowed in the night, and a single bulb burned in the office.

They pulled in and a bell dinged, a bright, cheery sound. A kid sporting a Standard Water uniform wandered out and came around to the driver’s side.

The old man rolled the window down. “Fill ’er up,” he said, “and use the pure stuff. This baby only uses distilled.”

“Sure bud,” the kid said without interest. “Want me to check under the hood?”

“Nope, we’re fine. Just need the steam to get over the desert.”

The kid nodded. “Good idea to drive at night. Hot as hell out there, daytime.” And he ambled off to begin pumping pure water into the Roadmaster.

“Johnny boy, get me a Coke, will you? Get one for yourself, too.” He handed John two nickels.

John nodded. As he was getting out, Driver said, “Don’t wander off, eh? Just get the Cokes and come right back to the car.”

John shrugged. What was he going to do? Walk to Arizona?

There was no Coke machine visible out front. He went into the office but didn’t find one there either. He leaned out the door and called to the Water attendant, “Hey, where’s your machine?”

The kid waved from the pump. “Out back. Only outlet’s back there.”

John went around to the back of the building. The red Coke machine was there, humming in the darkness. He opened the top and cooled air hit his face as he peered in. He dropped in a nickel and slid a bottle out, then got the other. He dropped the lid back down and opened both drinks, then took a long pull on one.

The station was at the edge of town and the back looked straight out into the Mojave Desert. The moon was down, Venus had followed the sun, and stars covered the sky. Jupiter hung in the south, or maybe that was Saturn. He had never been any good at Astrology.

He took another drink and then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something moving. His first thought was that it was ground fog, but that didn’t make any sense. It was something light-colored, sort of gliding, moving around at ground level.

He’d read about swamp gas and this was maybe like that, but Barstow was a long way from any swamp. There was something about those swimming swirls of light that was definitely wrong. Didn’t belong here at all and had no business moving like that. It was like a swarm of incandescent rats.

Get in the car.

Did he hear that or did he just think it? Either way, he had no argument with the notion. He turned and walked quickly back around the building. The old man was standing in front of the Buick, staring hard. John couldn’t tell if he was looking at him or past him.

“Here’s your Coke,” he called as he approached.

“Get in the car,” Driver said.

It was weird, hearing the old man speak the very words John had just heard in his head. He shrugged and got in. Only after he had closed the door did Driver come around his side and get in as well. He pulled out of the station and hit the accelerator pretty hard.

The Buick jumped forward, climbing the little rise that led out of Barstow. John glanced in the side view mirror. He could see the town’s glow, like an island in a wide, dark ocean.

“You see anything back there at the Coke machine, Johnny?” Driver asked.

John hesitated. Go, go, go, was all he could think. “Yeah,” he said finally, “desert and stars.”

Driver glanced over sharply. He considered, then said, “Sure. Plenty of both out here.”

John drank his Coke, thinking about those lights but not wanting to talk about them. He had the uneasy feeling that if he asked Driver, the old man would tell him, and maybe it was something he’d rather not hear.

So he stared out the window, pretending to look at something. The instrument panel gave a reflection in the window and he checked out the sorcerer from time to time, but the old guy appeared to be ignoring him.

The headlights threw cones of yellowish light down the highway, which made the black night even blacker: black asphalt laid down on lightless desert under a sky of pitch. The center line could have been the dividing line of the universe.

The view out the side was no better. Focusing past the reflection, he could see the silhouette of distant mountains, black shapes against black sky. Even the stars seemed to be swallowed up, and the car felt motionless. He concentrated on staring.

That was no good either. He kept expecting to see something, anything, pass by — a cactus, a telephone pole, anything — but the panorama might just as well have been a painting. It being desert, though, sometimes your eyes start playing tricks, if you stare too long. You start seeing shapes. Then you start seeing the shapes move. Then they’re moving along with you. And then they look at you.

“Can’t you find something on the damned radio?” He needed some sounds.

“No pleasing the young,” the sorcerer said, “how about you choose the station?”

John started to reach for the radio then stopped. “Hey, there ain’t no dial.”

“No pleasing the young and no fooling them either.”

“How do you turn it on?”

The old man gave him a look. “Reckoned you were sharp enough to figure that out on your own. This is a custom Roadmaster. I’ve made many modifications. Don’t disappoint me now, lad.”

John sat back, scowling. So okay, he thought, it’s like that. He’s daring me, to see what I’ve got. Fine. Anything’s better than this feeling that something cold was crawling up my back.

He let go of something.

He couldn’t explain what he did. For one thing, he’d never had to. On the contrary, he’d kept his powers hidden back home. It wasn’t the sort of thing you showed off. The good and proper folk back home were likely to lock you up or maybe run you out of town tarred and feathered. Or put you in a home.

Wizardry was allowed; hell, it ran most of the machines, but that was all regulated and run by the Guilds, like the Steam Guild. What sorcerers did was another thing altogether. Not Science, but the Arts.

So John had learned, over the past few years, that you played it cool, daddy-o, and then nobody hassled you. Life was hard enough without there should be complications. So he had played it cool, daddy-o, or tried to.

He had slipped up a few times. The first few was why his parents had abandoned him, giving him over to the care of the State. When he got older, the slip-ups were more serious, and he landed in Juvenile Hall, labeled a Danger To Society.

And now he was sitting on the slick vinyl upholstery of a Buick Roadmaster and a sorcerer was daring him to use magic. Sure. Middle of nowhere, middle of the night. It’d feel good to let go. To be able to use his power instead of constantly having to throttle it, so as not to have any more accidents. It was a challenge, and he liked challenges. He’d never used his Arts on a device before, but he surely did want some tunes.

So he let go and he gradually became aware of things outside himself. The landscape of magical arts was a kind of alternate reality: sounds, light, smells, everything was shifted. Some things that were hidden stood revealed, while some familiar things became shadowy.

He felt around with his power, touching and probing. He found the engine, the wheels, even the road and the desert whizzing by. He sensed life out in the desert, but in strange forms that seemed to turn and look as the Roadmaster drove past.

He glimpsed something larger, blue-white, with a long arm or maybe a tail. It made him think of those scurrying shapes back at the Water Station. It made him feel cold and he shuddered. He pulled back a bit, concentrating on the car, and found the radio.

His attention focused and his awareness narrowed to the device. It turned out to be easy; not a challenge at all. A pressure here, a twist there and the radio hissed briefly, then some jazz broke out, Stan Kenton’s band blowing some crazy be-bop.

John listened a minute but changed it and got Carl Perkins. That suited his mood better. Bet this old Buick’s never heard this before, he thought with a smile. He was still young enough that annoying his elders was its own satisfaction. He grinned over at the driver.

Something hit the car.

John pitched forward, bouncing off the metal dashboard then back against the seat. The big car skidded to a stop and Driver killed the engine.

“What in hell was that?” John said, adding, “Ow!” as he touched the side of his head where it had banged into the dash.

“Stay in the car,” Driver said. The door opened, he slid out and the door slammed shut. John blinked and saw spots. He’d hit his head pretty hard.

The headlights were still on. John peered out into the wan, yellow light but he could see nothing on the road. No broken antelope corpse — the impact had been hard enough, but all he could see was the aged sorcerer standing on the road, looking.

“Screw this,” John muttered, and he got out.

The desert air was still, like the inside of a closet. He could hear his own breath but nothing else. He walked around to the front of the car.

“What in hell happened?”

Driver was looking into the darkness, turning slowly, like a lighthouse beacon.

“There’s no mark on the car,” John said, examining it. “No dent, no busted headlight, even the damned hood ornament’s in place.” Driver was ignoring him. “What are you looking for?” John said.

No reply.

“Even if it ran off,” John went on, “it would have left a dent, or blood, or something. Maybe we only hit a bump?” He peered into the black, trying to see something, anything. It occurred to him that the sorcerer maybe had cast some sort of spell to trick him.

“You jerking me around, old man?” His head hurt and he was getting angry. “You don’t want to mess with me. I’ll bind you and leave you in the desert and I’ll take that cherry Roadmaster of yours and what the hell are you looking at?”

“Get in the car, Johnny,” the driver said, in low tones.

“Get in the car, stay in the car. You are really and truly starting to bug me, man.”

“Get in the car, John,” Driver repeated, walking back. His voice was no louder, but it struck John like a blow to the chest. He stumbled and had the car door open before he even knew he had moved. He started to get in, but as he did his eyes caught movement on the road behind, and he froze.

It was a light. At first he thought it was the headlights of an oncoming car, but in the next moment he knew better.

“Come along, young warrior.”

John got in and the car at once shot forward, throwing him against the seat. The Roadmaster swerved and John pitched over against the sorcerer.

“Hey, be careful!”

“Indeed,” Driver said. “Be very careful.”

John righted himself. From inside the Buick the night looked unchanged: black hills under a black sky. The only change was the whine of the tires, which was much higher than before. He glanced at the instrument panel. The speedometer read eighty miles an hour, and the red needle was moving steadily higher.

He glanced behind and regretted it. The light was following.

It was the same light as before, maybe ten car lengths behind. John turned and looked at the speedometer again. It read eighty-five.

“What is it?”

“Doesn’t have a name. Local Indians call it something but I could never pronounce it right. All the syllables are strange.”

John looked over. The old man was sweating and he gripped the big steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. As goofy as the old guy was, John didn’t like thinking that he was afraid.

“Why’s it after us?”

Something between a grimace and a smile crossed the sorcerer’s face. “Not us. Just you, Johnny boy, just you.”

“What? Why?” John was outraged that something would want to kill him.

“Not now. We have to lose that thing. We can outrun it, barely. Maybe. I’m getting old, lad, truth be told. Getting tired. Could use some help. You reckon you could help? You worked the radio easy enough.”

John looked back. The light was closer. He could see details now, and what he saw he didn’t much like. There were things in the light, shapes that writhed and twisted, pulsing darker and brighter.

“It don’t pay to stare at it, lad. How about that help?”

John heard the note of worry. He realized the old man was saying help, or be caught. Helping seemed by far the better choice.

He turned and faced front again. He embraced the power that was always inside, always pressing to get out, so he let it out. He felt his way into the car. He found the radio first, because he already knew it. Del Shannon came out of the speakers, briefly, followed by static hiss. Then he found the engine and the power that was always inside of him flowed out into the pistons and gears.

The Roadmaster surged forward. The red arm on the speedometer crossed 90 quickly, then 100, then 110, and came to a stop at 120. It held there, trembling a little, having run out of numbers. The car was still eerily quiet except for the frantic wail of the tires, but now it surged up and down on its springs as the car leaped across the low, rolling hills of the Mojave.

The car tore through the night, running only on Arts instead of Steam, a gash of yellow light sweeping the black asphalt, the dashes of the dividing line blurring into a solid. Driver let John supply most of the power now, and concentrated on keeping the car on the road. Even the gradual turns of the highway were dangerous at this speed. The body of the car vibrated like a flag in a high wind.

They drove a long time. To John, it felt like hours, but the clock on the dashboard barely seemed to move. Everything he had he was pouring into the engine, driving the pistons, keeping the fluids running, absorbing the tremendous heat of a machine run far past its tolerances.

Someone touched him on the arm and he jumped.

“Ease off, Johnny. They’re gone for now.”

John eased off. The power coiled back within him, unabated and undrained, as it always was. But his body was near collapse.

“It’s all right,” Driver said, “the car can run on Steam for a while. Catch your breath, you may need it yet. You were working pretty hard there, son.”

John glanced back.

“Not a sign, not for a while now. They’re not gone, no, but they’ve backed off. Couldn’t keep up with the old lady here, not with you on the engine! That was damn fine work.”

John looked at the speedometer. It read sixty-five. It felt like they were crawling. “Mister, you gotta tell me what’s going on. What’s after me, and why?”

Driver nodded. “I hoped to get you over the desert all bright and shiny. You’re young for all this. But it’s come after you, and no mistake. Maybe we waited too long after all.”

His voice trailed off. John waited, but polite for him never lasted more than about thirty seconds.

“Old man…”

“Oh yes, sorry. I really am tired. Surprised at how tired I am. Figured I had more miles left in me. Where was I? Yes, yes. Things didn’t go as hoped. Went as feared, rather.”

“You sound like you planned this.”

“Planned some of it. Planned looking for you, true enough.”

“Planned that? How’d you know I’d be there? Hell, I didn’t know it myself until yesterday.”

“Never mind. We knew it was building up. Knew you’d have to make a move soon. Knew tonight was moonless. So there you go.”

John fought against sleep. He was exhausted but was damned if he’d let this old coot know it.

“Here now, you were watching me? You some kind of pervert?”

“I’m a sorcerer, Johnny. Thought I’d told you that already. There are those who call that a perversion. They say only engineers should be allowed to touch the Science, the Steam, but you and I, we know better, don’t we? We know the powers that lie beyond the Science, beyond Astrology or Megaphysics or Psychochemistry. We know about conjuring and abjuring, summoning and dismissing, how to far-see, how to cast.”

The old man looked at him and grinned. “Don’t we?”

John looked away. How could this nutty old man in his souped-up car know so much about him? There was only one way. “Looks like sorcerers really do drive Buicks,” John said drily.

The old man laughed. He threw back his head and howled laughter. He banged one hand on the steering wheel. It slipped and hit the metal circlet of the horn. This just made him laugh harder and he sounded the horn over and over in the deep desert night.

“It wasn’t that funny,” John said, perturbed. If this fellow was all that stood between him and that pale monster, he really wished the guy wasn’t loony tunes.

“You’re right,” Driver agreed, “but gods I could use a laugh.”

He gradually guffawed and chortled his way back to a semblance of calm. He wiped a tear off one cheek.

“I was out on the road watching for you, John, because we knew those demons would be out. They’re drawn to the power. They can sense it. And when the time is right, and if they can find one young and alone, they… they feed. They tangle you up, John, and suck the power from you and they don’t care whether you die or go insane. Those are the only two outcomes, and we don’t mean for either to be your fate.”

John visibly tried to shake off the lingering image of that whitish, grasping form.

“You keep talking about ‘we’. You in some kind of cult?”

“I am,” Driver said, “or to be more correct, a conlegium.”

“Those are illegal.”

“Right again. Illegal as all get-out. You going to turn me in?”

John scowled and did not answer.

“We’re based out in Arizona, up in the mountains, where folks don’t ask too many questions. There are other conlegia across the country. Around the world, in fact. We keep the Wild at bay.”

“Bull,” said John, “the Wild’s long gone, old man. Crushed in the Great War.”

“The War To End All Wars. That’s what they called it. Two generations fed into the grinder, in the Underworld. Proof of the power of Science over the Arts. Sure, I know the propaganda, as well as anyone. But, John did you see that beast? Do you think it was methane gas chasing us? A weather balloon? A secret Air Force jet?”

“Don’t know. Don’t know that I care, really.”

“Sure,” Driver said, “fine. Grand. By tomorrow’s bright yellow sun you’ll care even less. Some day you might even claim it was a dream. But there’s another way of thinking about this.”

John shrugged and watched the night slide over the windshield like water.

“You could ask yourself some questions. Like, for instance, why did you decide to walk out of Juvenile Hall when you were due to be released soon?”

John squirmed a bit.

“Seems a mighty fool thing to do, don’t it? You walk tonight and you’re a hunted man. Wait a couple of weeks and you’re free. What got into you, Johnny?”

John frowned. He wasn’t sure what had got into him, but something sure had. All he knew was that there was a door open and his kit was ready and he had to move now. The urge had been overpowering.

Driver glanced over at John, who was sitting with his arms folded, head down. He could feel the scowl right through the mass of black curls that covered John’s eyes. “Or you could ask other kinds of questions. Like, for instance, how did it come about that a sorcerer just happened to be driving in the deep desert on a moonless night, driving a customized Roadmaster when everyone knows a sorcerer would be lucky to afford a used DeSoto. Or why, granting all of this, he should stop and give a lift to a hitcher such as yourself?”

Head further down, arms crossed more tightly. “Or you could….”

“Or you could shut your yap,” John growled.

“Silence? You think silence will get you out of this? You still think we’re just going to cruise on down the road into the bright sunrise? God’s balls, boy, I never figured you for stupid.” Driver’s voice grated like sand.

John’s shoulders slumped. He looked out his window at the cold, white stars and decided he’d rather look at the warm color of the headlights instead.

“Suppose you tell me, then. Tell me the answers and stop playing your games. Tell me about those things I saw.”

“Sure. I’ll lay it out, right here, like a map on the dashboard. What you do with it is up to you.”

“Hmph.”

“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.” Driver stretched and yawned broadly. “Here it is. You ran because you knew something was after you. You could feel it circling out there, somewhere. And you knew that if you stayed, it might find you.

“You were planning to bolt anyway, weren’t you? Not going back to the social worker, that’s for sure. You were thinking mainly about how glad you were to be out of that place, and about how clever you were to have escaped. So there you were, on the road at last. Only it’s a dangerous road. Too hot in the day, too cold at night, and on a moonless night haunted by demons.

“They know about you, John, sure they do. Power knows power, in all its forms. Power’s a rare thing in these parts, rare everywhere nowadays, so you were quite the prize. We knew they were agitated. It took us a long time to find you. And what a find! You’re an exceptional young man, laddie, and I suspect you’ve known it for some years. Since maybe thirteen or fourteen, eh? No family, few friends, and none you can keep.

“But that won’t matter if these demons lay hold of you. They’ll take your power, John, drain it right away. They’re like vampires. They’ll turn you into one of them. If you die in the process, well that would be your own fault.”

John was still slumped down, but Driver could tell he was listening. Finally.

“Like I said, you have exceptional powers. Even among the exceptions, you’re exceptional. Nobody can just sit in the Roadmaster and drive it the way you did. It takes years to learn. Oh, most exceptional is our Johnny. Capable of much.”

Driver paused and waited till John glanced over.

“Capable of greatness,” he went on, “and a fine sorcerer you would make. The conlegium sent me to protect you. If those things in the desert take you, that power would turn Wild. We would have one hell of a time killing you then, we would. Seeing you in action, I’m not even sure we could.”

“So, what’s your angle on this?”

“Angle, Johnny? I have no angle.”

“Sure you do. Everybody does. Spend enough time in Juvie and you figure it out. Everybody’s after something; nobody does it for free. The warden, the cop, the social worker, the worried relatives, they all have their angle. And the fellow who claims he’s got no angle, he’s the one you’ve got to watch.”

Driver laughed. “You’re a prize, you are! Listen, I’ll tell you something, Johnny boy. You may not know it to look at me, but I’m no spring chicken.”

John looked at the old man and snorted.

“Many of us are getting old, now. Fewer people go into the Arts nowadays, especially since the Great War. It’s all about Science now, you know. The Arts aren’t just frowned upon, they’re despised. You know that.

“Don’t get me wrong, Science is great. Geomancy, Hydromancy, all the greater Sciences, they won the war in the Downbelow, no doubt about it. The world was saved. But there are other forces abroad in the world. Forces that Science can’t tame, can’t even recognize because it’s looking the wrong way.

“You take these desert demons, now. Get them out in daylight and put a couple of Lightning Battalions around them and whoosh! They’re done for.

“But they don’t come out in daylight, do they? And the Army could never bracket them with force cannons or guided missiles. That’s where we come in. We still know the old Arts, Johnny. We hunt these things, and others, lots of others. It’s a full-time job, and no mistake.

“So when we find some young warrior, we try to recruit him. The world needs sorcerers, Johnny, even though it doesn’t think so. The world thinks that it really was the War To End All Wars, but wars don’t ever end, Johnny boy. Not ever. As long as the enemy remains, war remains. And the enemy most definitely remains.”

Driver fell silent, his shoulders sagging a bit.

“But we’re okay now, right?” John said. “We outran them. You saved me, protected me like you were supposed to do.”

“What time is it, Johnny boy?”

John glanced at the illuminated clock in the dash. “Six-thirty.”

“Half past six in the morning, and where’s the sun, do you suppose?”

John blinked. “Oh hell,” he said.

“Hell on toast,” Driver agreed, and the Roadmaster drove on. How long they drove, John couldn’t say. The clock on the dashboard seemed to tell a different lie every time he looked at it. Weariness dragged at him. He tried to stay awake but his eyelids closed on their own, and he fell asleep. In the desert, under the pale stars, pale creatures scurried.

When the Buick began to slow, John woke up. He didn’t need to ask why; he could see the white, writhing shapes up ahead, maybe two miles. He started to turn.

“No need to look behind,” Driver said. “They’re back there, too.”

The Roadmaster was coasting now, gliding down a long, bare slope. They had climbed into some range of hills, but the desert was still with them.

John exhaled a little. “What do we do?”

“We stop,” Driver said, “then we get out. And then we fight.”

“Fight? How?”

“Don’t let them take you, John.” Driver looked hard at him. “It’s better to die, believe me.”

Death was a remote concept for the young man. He nodded, but it didn’t mean anything. Die? No chance.

On impulse, he reached out with his power and switched on the radio. John Coltrane was playing his alto sax, notes slithering across the octaves while the rhythm section followed a moody, Latin groove and a piano made jangly comments on the side. It wasn’t his kind of music, but it seemed to fit the moment, so he let it play.

The Buick rolled to a stop. The two men got out. They left the car doors open, and John Coltrane’s sax stabbed into the night.

“How do we fight them?” John asked again.

“Damned if I know,” Driver said. They were talking to each other across the wide hood of the car.

“I mean, you got fireballs, or…?”

“Hells with bells, John, I barely got my own balls. Fight any way you know how.”

“Damn.”

John peered into the night and shivered. It was cold as a freezer but he couldn’t see his breath. The road sloped up to the next ridge and a light was dawning there, as if the moon were on the rise.

Other lights were scurrying along either side of the road, small lights, like tadpoles swimming through the darkness from the west behind. They swarmed toward the large light, joining it. It was a pale light, with a slightly blue cast to it, like dim lightning. This was no jagged shape, though, but a solid mass of writhing limbs, like giant worms that were reaching and growing.

The shape glided down the hill, picking up its tadpoles as it went. It was bigger than the Roadmaster. Bigger than a house. It moved in a slow, steady way, like a predator sure of its victim. The image of a squid sprang to mind, for in the center of that writhing mass was a dark opening, mouth-like.

Some of the worms reached forward, like tentacles, ten feet, maybe twenty feet long now. He wondered briefly what Driver was doing, but dared not take his eyes off the advancing creature. Sound was compressed and the air felt dead around him, as if some gigantic hand were enclosing him.

The space of three breaths separated him from the monster. Time enough for three thoughts.

The first was that the power in him had never felt so strong.

The second thought was that the old man wasn’t going to make it. He could feel the strength of the monster. He knew without any doubt that this was not from the Underworld, but was some ancient creature, the sort of monster the old legends told about, the legends you laughed at, once you were no longer a child. This one was real. It could consume them both. Intended to. And would grow only stronger. In the space of a single breath, John resolved to die before he would let that happen.

The third thought was that Coltrane was all right, but what he wouldn’t give to have some Chuck Berry playing, just about now.

The tentacles retracted as the monster drew near, then they all splayed out at once. A cloud of tentacles surrounded him and engulfed him. The blue light was all around him and he felt his body seized from every direction. It was cold and cutting, as if he were being diced by a huge machine.

His body was free to move. Those tentacles had no physical aspect, but they had seized upon his own powers directly, through flesh and soul. He’d been grabbed from the inside out.

He lashed out, swinging his fists at nothing and shouting into darkness. He felt his own powers boil up and outward. The monster recoiled a little but returned easily to the attack. He could feel its hunger, its need to consume him. He could even feel the easy confidence. The tentacles reached inside again, a cold sinuosity seeking a weakness in the young man. He could feel them at his mouth and eyes. It felt like drowning.

He stumbled backward, gasping for air, flailing with his arms, but the creature moved with him until he was pressed up against the Roadmaster. The touch of metal steadied him a little. Even as he fought off the incessant probing he reached out, as he had done with the car, looking for a way to take control, to fight back.

He found it. And it terrified him. Inside those glowing tentacles, at a place where they all came together, was a maw incredibly black, incredibly cold, and endlessly deep. Teeth lined the maw and they were moving. Inside that darkness, somewhere, was the thing’s heart, or engine, or whatever was giving it life. Inside that opening, guarded by those shifting rows of teeth, was a way to kill it and a way to die.

It came closer. The tentacles were bad, but he could defend against them. He understood them, now. That oval, hellish black, though, that was all dissolution and chaos and ending. Even looking at it made him feel weak and sick.

He reached out and grabbed at one of the arms. He used his hands, though his hands touched nothing. He tore the tentacle apart, ripping it in two. No ethereal blood sprayed out, but something like a cry came from the creature and it backed away.

For the first time since the attack began, John returned to his physical senses. He saw the sky, utterly black, without a single star. He could smell the dry desert air, yet there was a dampness of swamp and decay. He tasted blood and realized he’d bitten his own lip.

Then he heard the sorcerer’s voice. “You wounded him, John! Keep it up!”

He glanced across the car and saw Driver fighting the creature in a manner much different from his own. The sorcerer had erected a bright yellow shield twice his own height and width. As the creature whipped its tentacles the shield elongated and twisted to meet every attack.

John couldn’t tell if Driver was doing any damage or was simply defending himself. And he had no time to find out, for the monster was at him again.

Once more he attacked with his hands. He leaped at it, clawing and tearing handfuls of ghostly non-flesh from the beast. He could feel it and see it, though the sensations were from the other side. He could feel a numbing cold wherever he grabbed. He clawed huge wounds in the beast, and in places a kind of liquid ectoplasm oozed forth.

The thing’s tentacles were thrashing wildly. One kept pounding against the sorcerer, battering him. John snatched at it and tore at it so wildly a whole section came off. A terrible liquid sprayed everywhere, leaving lines of frost where it touched the ground. For a moment he held the tentacle in his hands. On impulse he threw it into the blackness of the beast’s maw.

After that, he knew what to do. He tore chunks of flesh from the monster and threw them into its mouth. It didn’t seem to care. It showed no pain, no sign of stopping, but the mouth kept working. After a time, no more tentacles waved, for John had dismembered them, leaving only twitching stumps that oozed icy plasma.

And then there was only the mouth. John had torn away all the cold flesh until only the mouth remained, still working its sideways motion. It was visible only as an utter blackness against the nocturnal darkness. The teeth were a black that shimmered. A horrible silence emanated from its maw, as if it also swallowed sound. The sky remained moonless and starless.

Hopeless.

The mouth was like the mouth of Death.

John was exhausted. His arms were heavy, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He was feeling the effects of using too much of his power for too long, and it was consuming him. The feeling of hopelessness weighed him down further. The sensible thing to do, he thought, was to lie down and have a long sleep. The world seemed to pull away and he saw things as if from a great distance. Whatever he had been trying to do felt futile now. He couldn’t move, and the mouth moved toward him.

Something stepped past him. He saw the old man, which surprised him because in his daze he had forgotten about the sorcerer.

“Keys are in the car, young warrior,” the old man said. “Take care she don’t get scratched.”

John stood unable to move, staring at Driver, trying to make something, anything, make sense.

Then the sorcerer leaned toward the mouth and elongated. His feet remained on the ground, but his body stretched outward, becoming impossibly long, forming an arc between the car and the infinite mouth, and for an instant he was about twenty feet tall. Then his feet left the ground. He snapped into the blackness like a rubber band, and was gone.

The mouth worked violently as it tried to digest the sorcerer. John staggered, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

The keys are in the car.

It was that same voice. John’s malaise melted away in an instant. Without thinking, he turned and dove into the car. He slid across the seat, under the steering wheel and turned the key.

The Roadmaster started up smoothly. He slammed the accelerator, unleashing all his power directly into the engine. The tires screamed and smoke poured out. The car bolted forward so quickly that both doors slammed shut simultaneously. He steered directly into the mouth.

Don’t let them take you, he’d said. Better to die.

The Roadmaster slammed into the mouth. The teeth bit into the car along the back fenders, tearing a gaping hole but not slowing the car at all. Two tons of metal drove straight into the blackness of Hell.

There was a blinding light and John covered his eyes. The Roadmaster went out of control. Or stopped. Or rolled. He was never sure.

The light didn’t go away. John lowered his hands slowly, blinking hard.

The light was from the sun, already well above the horizon. He was staring right at it.

The car wasn’t moving. A ringing sound filled John’s ears. He touched the side of his face and saw blood on his fingers, but nothing hurt. He got out and looked around. The desert wore pink and tan as it does every July morning. He turned in a full circle. There was no sign of the creature, but he saw the sorcerer, lying in the road, just behind the car, right between long tire marks.

He ran to the sorcerer’s side and saw he was still breathing.

“Driver,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. Gods but I’m sorry. I never saw you.”

Driver opened one eye. He scanned the sky. “You got it?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Put me in the car, Johnny. I’m hurt bad. Not your fault. That thing got me good.”

He picked up the old man and put him in the passenger side. He rolled down all the windows, to let in what air he could, then he got in and started up the Roadmaster again. They pulled out onto the road, which was already starting to shimmer in the heat. He pulled down the sun guard.

“You still going to Chicago?” the sorcerer whispered.

“Be quiet, old man. I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“Do me a favor, would you, John? Go on into Arizona, past Ash Grove. Turn off at 64. The car will find the way from there.”

“You need a doctor, old man.”

“Wouldn’t do any good. I’ll hold out if I can, but I want to die among friends, you know? Not in some damned Steamer hospital. Give me the Arts or nothing at all.” The sorcerer’s skin was gray and he couldn’t speak above a whisper. John felt a resolve take shape inside of him.

“Sure, sure,” John said. “Ash Grove, then Highway 64. Got it. Promise.”

He opened the Roadmaster up as far as he could and drove hard for the Arizona border, watching the old man slip away. John was exhausted, wrung out by the battle. His hands shook and he had to fight off sleep. He had no strength to use the Arts, so he let the car run on Steam. It meant going slower, but using his own power would mean a dead stop. Still, he kept the pedal to the floor, and kept the speedometer crowding 80.

The black road slid away under the tires, cactus and hardpan on both sides. The old man was dead before they reached Ash Grove. Die among friends, the sorcerer had said. John wondered if this counted.

He kept on driving. He turned onto Highway 64 and went north a few miles. Sure enough, the car turned off again, down an oiled dirt road and up to a big ranch with a sign over the entrance: Arts Ranch.

He pulled through the gate and let the Buick roll to a stop. No one was around except for one man standing on the porch of a large one-story house. He was a big man, wearing blue jeans, a dark yellow shirt with a string tie, and a big conical hat with a wide brim. He came out onto the baked earth that served as a yard for the ranch house, peered to see who was driving, then hustled over in a hurry.

John stepped out. “He died on the way,” John said, his voice catching a little. “I drove as fast as I could, but he was hurt. That thing killed him.”

Other people came from the ranch house now. They gathered up the sorcerer and carried him inside, talking in hushed tones. Some were crying. The man with the hat stayed.

“I’m so sorry,” John said, his voice shaking. “I tried to save him.”

“You did what you could,” the man said. “Come on inside. You can rest. Maybe stay a while.” That last came out as a question.

“Maybe I will,” John said quietly.

“What’s your name, kid?”

He didn’t answer right away. He stared back across the top of the Buick, out along the road winding back down to the desert. Someone had to watch the roads. He remembered what the old man had said about names.

“Driver,” he said, looking back to the ranch house. “John Driver.”

The End

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