Red Limit Freeway s-2

by John Dechancie

  That's how drunk I was. When you start capitalizing words with fuzzy meanings, you're either some wild-eyed nineteenth century German philosopher in a pince-nez, or you're very drunk. Possibly both.

  I don't know how long I sat there: I thought of Susan, then of Darla, and the distance that had grown between us. Then the Paradox entered my mind, as it had been doing since this whole affair had begun.

  But I didn't spend too much time on that. Brain cells were screaming in their death throes. Alcohol, that great shabby beast one always thinks is securely leashed, was turning on me again.

  Suddenly, something crashed through the undergrowth and barged into the clearing.

  I have an image of an animal somewhere between a giraffe and a kangaroo, with the head of a very strange dog. It resembled no other alien fauna I had ever seen. Yes, the head of a dog… well, not a dog, really. It had horn-shaped ears. Horn, as in musical instrument. Sticking out of either side of the small head. Must have been eight or nine feet tall. And it had purple and pink splotches over its inert yellow plasticine skin. It walked on two legs, and had two prehensile forelegs that dangled spastically as it moved.

  Now, this is the part I'm really not sure about at all.

  The beast stopped in its tracks when it saw me. It gave a yawp and said, "Oh! Dearie me, dearie me! Oh! Oh! Goodness gracious!"

  Then it turned and ran, disappearing into the trees.

  I thought about it a while. That Boojum, I decided, had been a Snark.

  Then somebody whacked me over the head with something.

  Chapter 5

  I woke up and discovered that a red-hot piece of metal was buried somewhere in my head. I was lying on a low cot in a small, one-room log cabin. There was a tiny window above me; outside it was dark. I turned my head very slowly and saw two loggers―all the men seemed to dress the same here―playing a listless game of cards at a rude wooden table in the middle of the room. What looked like an oil lamp, a bit off center on the table, illuminated their bored faces. One of them, lean and tall with cynical dark eyebrows and slicked-back hair, looked over at me, then looked back and took a trick.

  "He's come around."

  The other one was fair and fat and everything the first one wasn't, only worse. He glanced over. "Should we tie him up?"

  "Nah. He's wasted."

  True. I tried getting up. The shard of hot metal throbbed and I collapsed, groaning.

  The skinny one chuckled. "Weed and alcohol. My, my, my. Bad combination, that."

  I had had weed, copious alcohol, and a whomp on the head for good measure. Lethal was the word for that combination. My mouth… oh, Lord, my mouth. Septic odors arose from within it, emanating from a coating of coppery-tasting sludge at the back of my throat. There was a great ball of limy wool where my tongue should have been. I swallowed and almost heaved.

  "One thing, he can hold his liquor."

  "Lucky for him. He would've choked to death on it."

  There was a chance of that happening yet. This was not a hangover. This was a catastrophic illness. My eyes were hot ball bearings turning in their sockets. They seemed to click when I moved them. I closed my eyelids, the insides of which had somehow become lined with sandpaper.

  This was obviously a bad dream. It was the weed. I couldn't accept a fact that, for what seemed for the eightieth time this week, was a prisoner. I did not like these things happening at such regular intervals. For the first time in a good while, I was getting very angry.

  Dammit, I wasn't that sick. I creaked up to a sitting position and swung my legs to the floor. The hot metal fragment became the flame of a plasma torch performing a curettage inside my skull. I propped my head up with both arms on my knees. Massaging my forehead, I took deep breaths and tried to will the pain away. When the throbbing subsided to mere agony, I looked up. The two of them were regarding me clinically.

  "Whatever the outcome of this," I croaked, "I'm going to kill the both of you."

  "Easy," the skinny one warned.

  The chubby blond one laughed. "Nasty in the morning, isn't he'?"

  I sat there for a while, head in hands. Presently, nausea began to rise from my middle on a slow freight elevator. When it got to my chest I started coughing. It was the kind of cough that signals something is going to come up and can't be stopped.

  The tall one was pointing at something to my right.

  "Put it all in the bucket. Get one drop on the floor and you'll lick it up."

  There was a wooden bucket on the floor near the foot of the bed. I reached and dragged it over just in the nick of time. A lot of beer came up along with remnants of lunch, but it wasn't enough to exorcise the demon. Dry heaving commenced, with nothing to dredge up but my insides.

  A chuckle. "Didn't have a proper hold on that liquor after all."

  Chubby made a face. "He's making me sick."

  "Deal, will you?"

  "Something about the sound, you know? When I hear someone doing it, I―"

  "Deal!"

  I was sick, but I was overdoing it, not exactly knowing how the ploy would work. But it was the only card I had. "God, my stomach," I moaned. "On fire…"

  "Get him some water," Chubby suggested.

  "Are we playing hearts or hospital?"

  "Gimme some water," I begged. "Please."

  They played for a while. Then Chubby glanced over again. "Oh, let's give him some, Geof."

  I did my imitation of a sick man until Geof relented. Chubby got up and went to a sink against the far wall. On it was a long-handled pump that creaked as he worked it. He crossed the room bearing a metal cup full of water. He approached warily, watching for a sudden move. I was not up to making one. He set the cup down on the floor about a meter in front of me, and backed away.

  I got unsteadily to my feet, shuffled forward, stooped, and picked up the cup. When I straightened up, I saw Geof leveling a slug-thrower at me.

  "Thanks," I rasped to Chubby.

  "No trouble."

  I sat back on the cot and drank a few mouthfuls, then poured some water in my cupped palm and splashed it on my face. It felt wonderful. I drained the cup and set it on the small table beside the bed.

  "Lie back down," Geof told me, still holding the gun. "You'll feel better. Also, I won't have to make any holes in you."

  I obeyed.

  "Good," Geof said, laying the gun on the table. "Stay that way."

  They continued their game while I lay there thinking. I was beginning to feel the slightest bit better, but decided to continue the malingering act. After about ten minutes I sat up.

  "I have to take a piss," I announced.

  Another argument ensued. Geof allowed that he didn't care if I wet my breeches. Chubby protested that it was his cot, and he damned well wasn't going to lose a perfectly good mattress. They bickered back and forth.

  Finally Geof slammed the deck of cards down on the tabletop. "All right, you take him out if you want to play nursemaid!"

  Chubby rose from the table and withdrew a small biolume torch from his hip pocket.

  "Wait'" Geof said. "I'll do it. When he asks you to shake it for him, you'll probably give him the gun so you can use both hands."

  He got up and pointed the slug-thrower at me.

  "All right, you. Out the door, stand on the porch and let fly"

  "I gotta do more than that," I said.

  Geof scowled, thinking it over. You can't argue with nature. "Right," he grumbled. He took the torch from Chubby, crossed to the front door, opened it and gestured me through with the gun. "March," he said.

  I made it seem quite an effort to get up, which it was to a degree. I hobbled to the door and went out.

  Outside, he illuminated a path through the trees. I took it; Geof followed at a close distance. Perhaps a little too close for his own good. The path ended in a little grove wherein stood an outdoor facility of the kind I had not seen since we knocked down the one on our farm on Vishnu. This specimen was even more primitive. Ours ha
d been designed so that the stored biomass could be easily retrieved for use as fertilizer and energy.

  I stopped short, feigning indignation. "I gotta use that?"

  "So sorry, Your Royal Highness. Get moving." He shoved me, then edged up until he was walking at my side, holding the.gun on me as we drew up to the door.

  Geof was a tough guy, but not very bright. In fact, it seemed as though he were making it too easy for me. He stood at an angle to the door such that… Well, I'd give it a try.

  He held the barrel of the gun almost to my head. "I want the door wide open, now."

  I took hold of the crudely carved wooden handle and pulled. The door swung easily. "Right," I said, and yanked the door back hard. It hit his other hand and knocked the torch from it.

  The momentary distraction was all I needed. I reached out with my left hand, ducking to the right, and twisted the gun from his hand, almost taking his trigger finger with it. Luckily, the weapon didn't discharge. There had been no scuffle. In the space of a second or two, I owned the gun and Geof stood there in shock, nursing his reddened index finger. I stopped, picked up the torch and played the beam on his face.

  "Well, Geof, who are you working for?"

  He said nothing, shielding his eyes.

  "I want to know who you're working for, and if you don't tell me, I'll shoot you dead now."

  "Moore," he said quickly. "Zack Moore. I didn't―"

  "That's all I wanted to know."

  "Please don't shoot me."

  "I'll consider it. I've met your type… Christ, I don't know how many times." I shook my head and clucked. "Why do you exist? It's always baffled me."

  He declined to answer.

  "At the heart of great mysteries," I said, "silence, always silence." I sighed. "Okay, Geof, inside."

  He didn't move.

  "Inside."

  He entered the shack and turned around.

  "Down the hole."

  "What!"

  "Another mystery, Geof. Always wanted to know if it could be done."

  "You're insane."

  "Possibly. Get down that hole. Now."

  "I'll never fit down that"

  "Try."

  "I won't!"

  "Geof, remember what I said in the cabin? I'll kill you right now, and then stuff you down. Climb down, and I might not shoot you."

  "You'll have to shoot me."

  "Suit yourself." I stepped nearer, to make sure of my aim. "Wait" He looked. "It's too small."

  "Do your best."

  He did his best. After perhaps five minutes, he was hung up around his rib cage.

  "I'm stuck!"

  "You're skinny enough. Try harder. Exhale."

  The shoulders presented a real problem, but with a few suggestions as to how to maneuver and a little brute force applied with my hoot, he managed to slide his left arm down between his side and the rim of the hole.

  "Uh!… Uh!… God!"

  "A little more. C'mon, inhale and force it. You can do it, Geof."

  After an agonizing minute or so, his left shoulder popped through the hole. I put my hand on top of his head, splayed my fingers, and pushed.

  It was a surprisingly long drop. The splash echoed hollowly.

  "Geof?

  No answer.

  I took a different path back to the cabin.

  Peering through the small rear window, I saw Chubby making tea, standing by the rusty wood stove. I circled to the front porch and waited by the door.

  It didn't take long. He came out the creaky front door and stood on the edge of the porch, looking out into the night.

  "Hi, Chubby."

  He yelped and jumped a half-meter straight up. Then he turned slowly.

  "Look, mate―" he began.

  I leveled the gun at him. "I want the truth from you."

  He swallowed. "You've got it."

  "How long were you supposed to keep me here?"

  "Until Zack sent somebody for you."

  "How long would that be?"

  "I don't know. He just said to keep you quiet for now."

  "Okay. How far are we from the Bandersnatch?"

  "Not far. Two kilometers, a bit more."

  "Which direction?"

  He pointed directly opposite the outhouse. "Take that path. When you come to the road, turn left and go about half a kilometer to the fork. Then bear right. It'll take you straight to the Bandersnatch."

  "How far from here is the road?"

  "About ten minutes at a good pace."

  "You two carried me all that way?"

  He shook his head. "No, one of the bigger lads slung you over his shoulder."

  I stepped toward him.

  "Are you sure about the directions?"

  He nodded emphatically.

  "I won't kill you now," I said coolly, "but if I've found you've steered me wrong, I'll be back."

  "I swear it!"'

  "By the way, thanks for the water. It was mildly decent of you."

  Relief made his face sag. "Well, it's all right, really. Geof is a bit harsh sometimes. He's not" He glanced toward the outhouse worriedly. "What did you do with him?"

  "He's having dinner. Tell me, is that huge purple creature standing behind you usually dangerous?"

  He laughed, turning around to look. "Don't let that worry you. You'll see all sorts―"

  I clipped him with the gun butt and sent him sprawling in the dirt. Then I dragged him back inside. This done, my head was throbbing so violently I thought I was hemorrhaging. I wasn't. That tea sounded like a good idea. I wanted to get moving as soon as possible, but I needed to recover a bit more. I poured boiling water from a rusty saucepan into the teapot and put the lid on. A cross-country trek at night through an alien wilderness would be dangerous, not to say foolish, in my present condition, but I had to get back to the Bandersnatch soon. I was worried about Darla and the others. While it was hard to believe that Moore could, with impunity, detain or abduct six people and an alien, it was possible that he owned this planet and had free rein.

  No. I knew whose unseen hand was at work here. Pendergast. The master of the Laputa was a force to be reckoned with in the Outworlds. The ship must have limped into port. Messengers in high-speed roadsters would have been dispatched to get word out that I must be found and my "map" confiscated. Moore must have nabbed Winnie, poor thing. She must be frightened to death. And they'd need Darla to translate. Maybe they'd round everyone else up for good measure.

  Tying Chubby up proved to be difficult since there was no rope handy, which I thought strange for a logger's cabin. Obviously Chubby did not work for a living. I resorted to tearing the bedding into strips with a dull kitchen knife. I trussed him up as well as I could―he was still out cold and looked as though he'd stay that way for a while―dragged him over to the cot, and dumped him in.

  What was in the teapot wasn't a tea I was familiar with, and I don't know why I expected it to be, but it was good. I drank a cup, poured another and drank half. Then I searched the cabin for Sam's key, not really expecting to find it. A quick frisk of Chubby turned up nothing. Did Geof have it? I hadn't thought to ask him. Then out of an alcoholic fog came the memory of Darla reminding me to take the key from the table as I was leaving on my ceremonial quest. I had told her to keep it, I remembered, lest I lost it while running around out in the bush like a wacko. Besides, I had been drunker than a skunk.

  But if Darla was now in Moore's custody…

  Well, we'll have to see. Time to get the hell out of here. I finished the tea, tucked the gun in my belt, took the torch, and left.

  These woods were strange, strange. I now knew full well what Lori had meant by "funny feelings." As I walked, the memory of what I had seen just before being knocked out grew sharper, though I was still having trouble distinguishing it from the crazy dream―stuff I had swum through on the way to full consciousness. I didn't want to dwell on it, though. Best to keep my attention on where I was going.

  The path began just where
Chubby had said it did. It went straight for a few meters then twined through the underbrush, bearing generally downhill. All around, immense treetrunks stood like columns in a vast dark temple. I had a vague sense of presences lurking among them. I was worried about the torch. Moore and a band of his men might be coming this way. A light appearing up ahead then suddenly vanishing might clue them in that somebody who didn't want to be sociable was about. They'd damn well guess that it was me. No, I'd have to walk in total darkness.

  I stopped. Why not test my eyes now? I flicked off the torch.

  Moonlight. I could see quite well. I walked a few paces. Down the path a break in the canopy let a tiny glowing bit of full moon peek through. I stood watching it for a while. It was so bright it almost hurt my eyes. The strange-colored foliage around me glowed shy. From the darkness under the trees came twittering sounds, sharp clicks, rasping buzzes. The longer I stood there the more sounds I heard, coming from farther and farther away. Everything, everywhere, seemed to throb with life. A whooping cry came from my right and startled me. It sounded vaguely human. A plaintive wailing began in the opposite direction. It was a long way off, but sounded less vaguely human. I didn't like it, nor did I care for the muffled porcine grunting that came from behind.

  I moved forward, telling myself that a light would only attract whatever was out there. I didn't believe myself, but walked on into the half-gloom anyway. I'm like that. I can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

  I felt better physically. I was no longer certain I was going to die. A garden-variety agonizing headache had settled in, and the nausea was mild, with gusts up to medium-awful. But I was getting better with each step. Nothing like a brisk walk in the woods. The air was pleasant, bracing but not chilly. The smells were numerous, like an assortment of perfumes, heady and invigorating. Soft, milky moonlight dripped through the branches overhead. There was no wind. The path was worn and smooth, springing to the step like a bed of moss. The whole environment seemed more like a park than a wilderness. I half expected to see painted benches and trash receptacles along the way. The path turned sharply to the right, then began a gradual climb. I walked on, increasing my pace, trying not to jump at every chitter and twirp that sounded in the bushes as I passed. Damn, these woods were alive. Insects mostly. Just insects, he said, grinning nervously.