by Derek Landy
“Do you know it well?”
Milo shook his head. “Been in there twice, for no more than half an hour apiece. There’s a lot of kids running around. I remember thinking how weird that was. We’ll spend tonight in Nebraska somewhere, get to Salt Lake City tomorrow afternoon or thereabouts. From there it’s another eight hundred miles to Buxton’s home town. It’s Tuesday now – we’re still on track to get to Cascade Falls by Saturday.”
Amber nodded. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”
“Bet if I died back here you wouldn’t even notice,” Glen muttered, but they ignored him.
They drove on flat roads through flat lands. A few trees here and there, though paltry things, and lonesome. Telegraph poles linked hands over green fields and brown, and carried on into the wide, never-ending distance. A train on the tracks, its carriages the colour of rust and wine, names and slogans painted on the side in indecipherable graffiti.
They stopped at an Amoco gas station outside of a town called McCook, and Amber and Glen went in to use the restrooms and get sandwiches while Milo waited in the Charger. It was just after two and it was warm. The smell of gasoline was on the air.
“How much do you know about Milo?” Glen asked while they were waiting to pay for the food. The old man in front of them was having trouble pulling his wallet from his sagging pants.
Amber shrugged. “I know I’m paying him a lot of money to get me where I need to go.”
“So you don’t know anything about him?”
She sighed. “No, Glen, I don’t.”
The old man got his wallet halfway out before it snagged on the corner of his pocket. Amber watched, with an interest that surprised her, the tug of war that followed.
“Remember that story I told you,” Glen said, “about the Ghost of the Highway?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Then you suspect it, too.”
“I don’t suspect anything.”
“Milo’s the Ghost.”
“Glen, seriously, drop it, okay? We’ve been driving for hours and I am sore and cranky.”
“He’s a serial killer, Amber.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
The old man turned slowly, looked at them with frowning eyes. Amber gave him a pleasant smile, and waited for him to turn back round.
“What’s ridiculous about it?” Glen asked softly. “He uses a car instead of a knife, but he’s still a serial killer. And that isn’t any ordinary car. You know it isn’t. It’s …” He leaned in closer, and his voice became a whisper. “It’s possessed.”
“Glen, you sound so dumb right now.”
“You saw what it did. It swallowed Shanks. That wasn’t my imagination running away with me, no matter how much I try to convince myself. It swallowed him. It’s possessed.”
The old man finally paid and moved off, and they stepped up to the cash register.
“Any gas?” the bored girl asked.
“Nope,” said Amber, and paid.
They walked outside, looked across the forecourt to the Charger.
“We’re at a gas station and he’s not even filling the tank,” said Glen. “How many times has he had to stop for petrol? Twice? Three times? Travelling all this way, he’s had to stop for petrol three times? Do you know how much fuel a car like that burns?”
“So this car has good fuel economics. So what?”
“Aren’t you wondering what else it runs on? He said it’ll digest Shanks. How many other people has it digested? And look how clean it is. It’s always clean and I’ve never seen him wash it. It’s like it cleans itself. And what’s the deal with him only being able to drive it eight hours a day?”
“On average,” said Amber. “He’s driven it longer.”
“But what’s the deal? Why that rule? Why eight hours? Because it’s road safe? Or maybe it’s got something to do with him not wanting to push his car too hard or else it’ll get tired.”
She turned to him. “Fine, Glen, I’ll play this game. What does it mean? Huh? What does it all add up to?”
He hesitated before answering. “I think the Charger’s alive.”
“Oh my God …”
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not just a car, is it? It’s more than that. You know it is. You got him a sandwich, right? What’s the betting he’s not going to eat it?”
“And what will that prove? He’s not hungry?”
“He doesn’t eat when he’s driving,” said Glen. “I don’t think he sleeps when he’s behind the wheel, either. Did he sleep this morning? Did you see him sleep? I didn’t.”
She rubbed her eyes. “I was sleeping myself, okay? I didn’t see much of anything.”
“What about going to the toilet? We needed to pee – why didn’t Milo?”
“Dude, I’m really not going to talk about anyone’s bathroom habits.”
“We’ve asked him to pull over so that we could pee, like, twenty times so far.”
“You’ve got a bladder problem.”
“I pee, you pee, he doesn’t pee. Have you seen him pee?”
“No, Glen, I have not seen Milo pee. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I think the Charger sustains him. I think it takes his … y’know, his waste—”
“Ew.”
“—and uses it, and when he’s behind the wheel his body doesn’t need to function the way our bodies do.”
“That is disgusting. And stupid.”
“He said the Charger would digest Shanks. That means some part of it is organic.”
“He was being metaphorical, you idiot.”
“Are you sure? He’s the Ghost, Amber. He’s a serial killer, and he’s bonded to the Charger. Maybe he doesn’t do it anymore, maybe he’s reformed, I don’t know. But you said he took it out of storage for the first time in twelve years? What if it’s like an addiction? He’s stayed away from it for all this time and he hasn’t needed to kill. But now he’s back using it again. How long before it takes him over? How long before he becomes the Ghost of the Highway?”
“This is a stupid conversation and it is ending right now.”
She walked across the forecourt, black asphalt hot even through the soles of her shoes. Glen kept up.
“It swallowed Shanks. It’s alive. You know what I think? I think the reason he doesn’t turn on the radio is because he’s scared of what the car might say.”
She spun round to him. “If you’re not happy with our mode of transport, you don’t have to travel with us. No one’s asking you to.”
Glen looked her dead in the eye. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“He’s not going to hurt me.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Neither do you,” she said, and stalked back to the Charger.
She got in, slamming the door. After a moment, she got out again, held the door open while Glen got in the back. Then she retook her seat and slammed the door a second time.
“Everything all right?” Milo asked.
“Fine,” said Amber. “Here’s your sandwich.”
He took it. “Thanks. I’ll have it later.”
He turned the key and the Charger roared to life. It rolled smoothly across the loose gravel to the road as an eighteen-wheeler thundered by. Milo watched it go. While he was distracted, Amber reached for the radio.
Her fingers hovered over the dial. One turn. One turn, one twist, and music would fill the car, or static, or someone complaining about something, or commercials, or preaching … or a voice. A voice unlike any she’d ever heard. The voice of the car. The dark voice of the dark car.
She dropped her hand, and the Charger pulled out on to the road, and they drove on.
THEY GOT TO SALT LAKE CITY the next day. Glen stared out at the snow-capped mountains that rose up behind the gleaming buildings like the backdrop of some insane science-fiction movie.
“They’re massive,” he breathed. “Are those the Rockies?”
/> “Yeah,” Amber replied sarcastically, “because every mountain range in America is the Rockies.”
“They actually are part of the Rockies,” said Milo, and Amber glowered. “That’s the Wasatch Range there.”
“We don’t have anything like this in Ireland,” Glen said. “Like, we have some awesome mountains, like the Sugar Loaf, and MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, and the Giant’s Causeway up north, but … but that’s less of a mountain and more of a … bit of rock. Are we anywhere near the Grand Canyon?”
Amber was pretty sure she knew this. “No,” she said, with a slight hesitation in her voice.
Milo gave her a nod, and she relaxed.
Glen lost interest in the mountains pretty fast, and started paying attention to the streets. “This place doesn’t seem that weird,” he said. “Apart from their remarkably straight roads, that is. What did you say they were? Scientologists?”
“Mormons,” said Milo.
“Which ones believe in the aliens?”
“Scientologists,” said Amber.
“I’d love to have been a Scientologist,” Glen said, “but I was never that good at science. I’ll say one thing for the Mormons, though – they love their straight roads, don’t they? I doubt Scientologists would have been able to build roads as straight as these, what with believing in aliens and all. Theirs would be all bendy.”
Amber frowned. “Why?”
“Well, because they’d be looking up all the time, wouldn’t they? Or maybe they’d try to build their cities around alien symbols, like crop circles, y’know? That’d be cool. Wouldn’t be straight, though, and it’d be hell getting from one place to the other if all their roads were circular. The Mormons had it right, I think. Straight lines. That’s the way to go. Who are the people with the beards?”
“Muslims?”
“No, the beards and the funny hats and building barns and stuff.”
“The Amish,” said Amber.
“And where do they control?”
“Nowhere. I mean, they have their communities, but they don’t build cities or anything.”
“They’d probably be better known if they built cities.”
“Yeah. I’ll mention that to them.”
A few minutes later, they pulled in across the street from a run-down bar with a faded sign out front that showed a picture of a staircase. They crossed, and Milo pushed open the door. The place was as quiet as it was empty. By the looks of things, no one had been in here in years.
Milo didn’t say anything, though, so Amber kept her mouth shut, and for once Glen wasn’t yattering on about something. They came to a set of stairs and started down them.
Within moments, they were slowly sinking into ever-increasing gloom, and still no music or voices, no clink of glasses or sounds of laughter. They went further down, and further, and, just when Amber thought they couldn’t possibly go any further, the wooden stairs turned to stone, and still they went down.
It was cold now, and pitch dark. The wall that Amber brushed against occasionally was now stone like the steps, cold and hard and wet. And then suddenly it wasn’t there anymore, and when Amber went to touch it she reached too far and nearly toppled. Glen grabbed her, pulled her back from the edge.
All three of them stopped.
“We should go back,” she said, though her voice sounded small and distant, like they were in some enormous cavern.
“Just a little further,” Milo said. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”
She did that, and Glen put his hand on hers, and they resumed their descent.
Gradually, Amber became aware of the darkness lightening to gloom again. Then a colour. Red. A hazy red. She heard music. And voices.
There was a wall beside her again. She could see it. It was painted a dark yellow, almost gold, and it blocked off the cold. Her fingers trailed over old fliers for old singers and old bands, her nails riding the bumps and the tears.
The stairs were wooden again, a dark wood, worn smooth by footfall. The music was fast – piano and trumpet music, the kind they used to dance to back in the 1930s or 1940s. The ceiling was low, and Milo and Glen had to duck their heads. Amber didn’t. She kept her head up and her eyes open, as the bar was laid bare before her.
The place was packed. People drank and smoked and talked, danced and sang. The bar itself took up the centre of the room, the beating heart of the establishment.
“I’m too young to be in here,” Amber said.
Glen looked nervous. “I think I am, too. Hey, no, look – they have children in here, like Milo said.”
Amber counted maybe half a dozen kids wandering around.
“Should people even be smoking in a room that has children?” Glen asked. “I don’t know if they should be doing that. They shouldn’t even be smoking, anyway. Aren’t they breaking the law?”
“Stay behind me and say nothing,” said Milo, and led the way to the bar. The man serving was big, with a beard that spread from clavicle to just under his eyes. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled back over strangely hairless forearms. “Hey,” Milo said in greeting.
The big man looked up at Milo, then at Glen, and then at Amber, much as she tried to hide. But, instead of ordering her out or asking for ID, he said, “Three beers, then. Take a seat.”
Glen beamed, and went immediately to a free table. Milo shrugged at Amber, and she followed him to a table near the back wall. Glen frowned, and joined them.
“What was wrong with my table?” he asked. Milo didn’t answer.
The barmaid came over with their drinks on a tray. Amber was pretty sure they weren’t called barmaids anymore, but she couldn’t for the life of her think what they were called. Besides, barmaid suited this place.
“Here you go,” the barmaid said, setting their drinks down.
“Thank you,” said Milo, putting a note on the tray. “I wonder if you can help us find someone. Our travelling companion—”
“Friend,” Glen cut in.
“—is looking for someone. Abigail. If you can point her out to us, the tip’s all yours.”
The barmaid smiled. “Oh, no need, sir. Abigail’s already found you.”
Amber frowned. “She has?”
The barmaid walked away, and out of the crowd a little blonde girl in a pretty dress appeared.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” Amber said, forcing a confused smile on to her face. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Abigail,” said the girl, smiling back. “I’m the owner of the bar.”
Glen paled. “You’re Abigail?”
Milo frowned. “You’re the owner?”
“Yep.” She giggled. “Yeah, everyone has that look on their face when they find out. It’s a funny look.” She smiled again at Amber. “By the way, I love your horns.”
Shock surging in her chest, Amber’s hands went immediately to her head. No horns. Everything was normal.
Abigail looked at Milo, looked at him with eyes that saw more than what was there, and she smiled again. Amber wondered what she could see.
Lastly, Abigail looked at Glen. “You’ve got the Deathmark.”
“Uh,” said Glen.
“You’re here to kill me, are you?”
Glen swallowed thickly. “No?”
Abigail nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“I’m sorry,” said Glen, “I didn’t know you were a … a kid. Now I feel bad. I feel, like, really bad. I was told you’d killed people. Aw man. Now what do I do?”
“I can help you, if you want,” said Abigail.
Glen brightened. “You can remove it?”
“Oh yes,” the little girl replied. “It’s quite easy.”
She tilted her head, and the people around them surged, slamming Glen’s head down on the table while they pressed a knife to Amber’s throat. She froze.
Someone else had a knife to Milo’s throat. “He really isn’t a friend of ours,” he said.
They gripped Glen’s arm, straighten
ing it out on the table, and a big man walked up, holding a butcher’s cleaver.
“No!” Glen screamed. “No, no, please!”
“Don’t be so silly!” Abigail giggled. “He’s only going to cut your hand off. It’s not like you’re going to lose your entire arm!”
The cold blade pressed deeper into Amber’s throat, like its wielder knew how much she wanted to shift into demon form.
“Please don’t do this,” said Glen, trying to sound reasonable. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were Abigail. If I’d known you were a little girl, I would have said no.”
The big man tapped the cleaver on Glen’s wrist a few times to test his aim, and then raised the cleaver high above his head.
Glen abandoned all attempts at appearing reasonable and started screaming again. “Oh God please don’t do this please don’t cut my hand off I need it I didn’t know I didn’t know the old man didn’t tell me!”
Abigail held up a finger, and the man with the cleaver paused.
She leaned closer. “What old man?”
Glen gasped. “The … the old man who passed the Deathmark on to me. He just said this was intended for someone who deserved to die. Said you’d killed people. Lots of people.”
Abigail pursed her lips. “Did you ask his name?”
“No,” said Glen.
Abigail shrugged. “Pity.” She looked at the big man with the cleaver, was about to issue an order when Glen continued.
“But he had grey hair! And he was small! And Spanish! And he had a big grey beard!”
Abigail laughed. “Lautaro Soto asked you to kill me? That is so cute! He’s not Spanish, though, he’s Mexican. Or he was. He’s dead now, right?”
Glen nodded. “Died as soon as he passed the Deathmark to me.”
“He always was a sneaky one,” said Abigail. “Hey, guys, you can let him up now.”
Abigail’s people released their grip. The guy with the cleaver looked disappointed. The knife was taken from Amber’s throat and, like this happened every day, people around them went back to whatever they had been doing.
“Are you still going to chop my hand off?” Glen asked meekly.