At the Highways of Madness

by West, David J.

  “One more thing. Life down in the bunker can be strange. Being in a bunker for days on end does things to a person. I was once hospitalized for eating four-day old chicken, that I swear I just got that morning. Another time when I came back topside I saw the sun rise twice and duke it out with itself. Pretty weird.”

  The grinding of the elevator drowned out the possibility of hearing anything more. The concrete passage went down a rectangular shaft much deeper than the recruit would have believed. He estimated it was at least sixty feet, perhaps more.

  At the bottom, wide twin doors slid open to accommodate almost the entire space of the elevator. Small aircraft would easily fit on the gargantuan pad.

  Another guard stood there. “I’m so glad to see you,” he said, stepping onto the platform.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Yeah, you’re my relief. I’ve been down here two days,” he said, as he motioned for the recruit to get off so he could push the up button. His beard looked more like a week’s worth.

  “I’m not prepared to be down here that long by myself. I don’t know where anything is.”

  “It’s all right,” said the stubble faced guard, grinning like a demon. “The can is right there around the corner and you can commandeer food from the lab people if you have to.”

  The doors shut out the man’s wide grinning face and the grinding elevator lifted away.

  “This is crap. You can't leave me alone like this,” the recruit said into his radio.

  The radio crackled alive with response, the droning of the still rising elevator behind it. “Don’t be the weird guy who is always begging people to come down to the bunker to visit you. Everybody will think you’re a pervo nut-job. Don’t be that guy.”

  The recruit slumped onto a stool behind an almost worthless two foot by two-foot desk. He had a pen and a sign in sheet. There were no names. The walls were bare concrete broken by several wide steel doors. The only thing to read was the ‘Absolutely No Admittance’ signs emblazoned above them.

  He sat for a few minutes and boredom took its toll. He found no flaw along the concrete walls, but the plain white tiled floor had similar grooves almost invisible yet all running the same way. He found three that had been set sideways. It wasn't much, but he found the discrepancy, the alteration to sterile conformity.

  Then a door cracked open.

  The recruit looked and wondered. There was no light coming from behind the door though it opened a good inch.

  “Someone there? Answer me, I’m base patrol security.”

  The door shut, but opened again a few seconds later.

  The recruit stared and something glossy eyed stared back before fading into the darkness yet again.

  “Come on out. I'm not going to commandeer your food . . . yet.”

  Then scaly green fingers, ending in hooked claws reached around the door and scraped the dull gray paint off in long jagged flakes.

  The recruit’s eyes went wide in disbelief.

  The door flung open and four or five bug eyed aliens with rubbery, green skin presented themselves in a threatening manner. They had yellow horns coming out the top of their heads and curved claws instead of hands.

  “Holy shit!” He opened fire with the M-4 rifle and the aliens jerked about and tumbled back into black space. He let another burst go through the open doorway, before struggling for the radio.

  “I gotta file a 5.56 form! A 5.56 form! I need backup!”

  A spiky headed alien stuck its head out the door and made a clawing gesture.

  Another blast from the rifle emptied the magazine. The recruit quickly reloaded and emptied the next thirty rounds into the beckoning dark.

  “This is Cap,” crackled the radio. “What seems to be the problem? Just tell those bastards to give you a damn candy bar.”

  Two aliens now scuttled from the gloom, their claws scraping against the concrete.

  The recruit screamed as he took careful center of mass aim at the two creatures.

  They reacted bodily and retreated back to the open door, but there was no trace of blood.

  “No sir! No sir! I have damn aliens attacking me. Big green horny aliens!”

  “Copy that, did you say horny?”

  “You son of a bitch! I have aliens coming to kill me! Get me the hell out of here!”

  “Dammit son, you take it easy. We’re coming. Just hold them off.”

  The recruit found that if he didn't send a burst through the door every few seconds he saw one of the awful things staring back at him. Did he imagine seeing them lick their lips? He wasn't sure.

  “I’m running low on ammo, Cap!”

  “Damn fool! Why did you say that? They can hear you!”

  The aliens charged out again.

  The recruit spent the last of his rifle ammo on them, again they retreated without sign of blood loss.

  “Where are you?”

  The radio spat out Cap speaking, “Frost, you go right with the .50. I hit center, Danklander and Pampers go left.”

  “Hurry!”

  “Hold on son.”

  “Hurry!”

  The radio crackled as the Cap and others grumbled. “Frost what’s the problem? Elevator stuck?”

  “Can I just have a moment of peace before the plan fails and we all die?”

  “You sons of bitches! Get down here!”

  The aliens charged and the recruit opened fire with his .40 caliber pistol. He heard the elevator opening behind him, its slow grind like a whet stone, but the aliens were already upon him. Slamming him to the ground.

  Instead of the burst of machine guns or the slathering jaws of horny toad looking aliens he heard laughter.

  “Get the son of a bitch up. He’s one of us now,” ordered Cap.

  Strong arms pulled up the recruit and dusted him off.

  “Sorry, ‘bout that Bro.”

  “Yeah, sorry man.”

  “What’s his name Cap?”

  Looking about, the recruit blinked. The aliens were guards, pulling off horrific masks and costumes.

  “Dunno yet. Least it ain’t ‘Shat Himself’. Maybe we’ll go with Killer.”

  “Shuddup.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Now don’t be all butt-hurt about it.”

  On his feet the recruit stammered, “You gave me weapons loaded with blanks?”

  Cap grinned big as a Great White at Baby Beach Day. “Yes, I did. Baptism by fire! Had to know what I was working with. I needed to know what kind of metal you are for the sake of what you’ll do when you really see what we have here. Congratulations maggot, you passed.”

  Garden of Legion

  The McHenry wagon train, bound for California, persevered through prairie fires, buffalo stampedes, Indian attacks, and even a bout of embarrassing dysentery, but their greatest struggle was when that flower of the prairie, nineteen-year-old Fannie Burton, became possessed.

  Some recollected the pretty little blonde dabbled with an ensorcelled Ouija board stolen from a New Orleans juju man. Her mother claimed the girl was bewitched by a Navajo skinwalker, and still others said she had taunted Satan himself late one night around the buffalo-chip campfire after refusing to say grace. Regardless of the sinister origin, something hideous held the girl in demonic thrall.

  The once shy and reserved Fannie swiftly took a rough frontier situation from dreadful to dire and finally to disastrous. She ripped apart the Conestoga’s, devoured the pitiful food supplies, guzzled or smashed their water caskets and, astonishingly, ate a pair of oxen…alive! The company attempted to subdue the normally weak girl many times, but even a dozen of their most able-bodied men were overpowered by the maiden with a newly developed voice that was deep as the pit of Gehenna.

  She, or It, or Them, seemed determined to force the desperate McHenry party to die in the wastes, reveling in their cries of desperation and misery. Each day they grew weaker and she, It, or Them grew stronger. All hope seemed lost in the blossoming desert
of the American southwest. Tormented by a devil in a black dress, it seemed the party’s bones would soon bleach under a merciless sun.

  Being good Christian folk, they prayed for deliverance and a man they later called the desert prophet materialized. He appeared to be of late middle-age, medium height and build, walking barefoot upon the scorching earth and, most important, he could exorcise little Fannie Burton of her demons.

  Spying the holy man’s approach, the girl cried aloud and wallowed in the powdered dirt, frothing, vainly trying to hide in a baptism of cinnamon-like soil.

  The entire wagon train listened in hushed amazement as the desert prophet communed with the throng of evil spirits inside Fannie. “You don’t belong here. You must leave. I command you in His name.”

  “Suffer us to enter into another set of the living,” came the bottomless well of a voice from the convulsing waif. “Even, He,” it gnashed, “was so accommodating.”

  “You may enter into whatever lives on the other side of that nearest mountain,” allowed the mysterious holy man.

  A vile grin split the girl’s face as her body shook one last time. An almost imperceptible mist spouted from her frame and flew like a swarm of ravenous locusts to the far side of the mountain.

  Her own true voice restored, Fannie spoke hoarsely, “Thank you stranger, but who’re you?”

  “One of three who tarry,” he answered, drawing her up from the baptism of fine powdered earth. “The demons shall not trouble you again. Go your way in righteousness.”

  Fannie ran to her waiting mother and father. As the rest of the McHenry caravan came out cheering from behind their wagons, a dust devil sprang up out of the dunes and the desert prophet vanished.

  The McHenry party never caught his name, his tracks vanished into the shifting sands. Their problems were over, but two mountains away, the hell on earth was about to begin.

  ***

  Port trotted to the top of the pass, the dust swirling about his horse’s hooves like the phantoms of nipping dogs. The horse stamped at unseen ghosts and Port clicked his tongue softly to calm the beast. Grey clouds loomed on the horizon. Rain would strike the desert soon enough, drowning as much as quenching, and Port had no wish to get wet.

  Port was a broad-shouldered man with long dark hair and a short beard. He wore a stained duster which canvassed the flanks of his dun horse. A brace of pistols jutted from his vest as he glanced back at his unwilling companion.

  Lashed to the trailing mule’s saddle was a scrawny, red-haired kid with a face so sun-burnt it almost matched his curly locks. A thousand bitter curses were written in his gaze.

  Neither spoke. Port, a gunfighter turned lawman, had nothing to say to the horse thief. Likewise, the kid had nothing to say to his captor. At the top of the pass, each looked down into the canyon before them. A small reservoir collected precious runoff from the mountain peaks, while a town lay jumbled a little farther below like a half-shuffled deck of greasy cards that had been played too many times. A wretched sign designating the town leaned at Port’s right. The name made Port crack a smile, it had to be someone’s sick joke.

  The ruinous sign read, Eden, pop - 37. The number had been crossed out many times. With each scratch, the population had decreased until there was no space left for the last few numbers. Someone had tacked an extra board on the side to accommodate the count.

  The mountain looming on the south side was covered with as many pockmarks across its face as the ne‘er do well horse thief. Tailing's from mine shafts spewed out discoloration and Port noticed few, if any, were working claims.

  The town itself had two dozen buildings in various states of decay. There wasn’t a single tree and no plants except a desiccated tumbleweed passing by in the ever-present wind. The only other sign of life was in the murky reservoir. Insects skeetered by, but not a single fish jumped.

  Porter had seen less promising towns but not by much. This was a town of broken promises, failed dreams and dead hope. Still, maybe he could get a drink.

  Riding in, the breeze seemed to pick up and whine at this desert oasis. Port thought he heard a fell voice on the wind but he paid it little mind. He rode straight for the faded yellow star, bleaching upon the front of a peace officer’s shanty.

  Port tied his horse and the mule to the rail, then dragged his prisoner inside, bringing a cloud of dust with him as he opened the door and shoved the kid through it.

  “What can I do ya for?” asked a portly sheriff, startled from his late afternoon nap.

  “I have a prisoner. I want to lock him up secure for the night. We’ll be moving on in the morning to get before the territorial judge by tomorrow night. I have a badge, my name is—”

  “I know who you are, Porter,” the sheriff interrupted. “I suppose we can hold your prisoner.”

  Port removed the kid’s bindings and pushed him to the sheriff, who put the kid in the tiny jail.

  “What’d he do?”

  Port stepped to the door, remarking over his shoulder, “Horse thief and murderer, he’ll hang soon. Where can I get a square drink?”

  “Lulu-belle’s, it’s the only place still open.”

  “Much obliged.” Port shut the door in the face of the gale and strode across the cactus dry street.

  Inside Lulu-belle’s a hairy-knuckled barkeep wiped down unused glasses as an off-tune woman sang an off-color song. The carnival of patrons looked Port’s way as he entered and then went back to their previous distractions. He went straight to the bar, thumping down two bits.

  “What’ll ya have?”

  “Whiskey,” Port said. “The wind ever stop blowing around here?”

  “Not usually. The miners like it. Helps keep ‘em cool. It’s hot as hell most days.”

  Port’s gaze tightened. “Wait, is this the cursed town I heard about?”

  The barkeep smiled, “It is indeed. That’s our claim to fame. The territorial governor cursed Eden as the wickedest city in the west and said we’d fade out, but were hanging on. We ain’t hardly licked yet.”

  Port chuckled to himself. He doubted the town would last another year unless the miners struck something. Everywhere death and decay lurked, whitewash peeled leaving flakes like dandruff on the ground and a certain stink never left the air. It was a dead and bloated town, with inhabitants like fleas still clinging to the lifeless dog’s warmth.

  Something banged near the back of the saloon and distracted the barkeep. “Sadie, will you serve this gentleman?” he called, “I have to see what that was.”

  Port looked out the window as a single tumbleweed rolled by, helped by the ever-present wind.

  A homely saloon girl with a whiskey bottle and glass sidled up to Port, “Well howdy stranger, doesn’t it get lonely on the trail all day?” She batted her eyes like a butterfly gathering nectar.

  He gave her a dirty look. “I ain’t looking for company, just a drink.”

  “Everybody likes company,” she said through overly red lips.

  Port grinned. “Maybe so, but not me.” She offered Port the glass but he declined and took the bottle.

  “You’re funny,” she said. “I’m Sadie.”

  “Howdy Ma’am, I’m Porter.”

  “You from nearby?”

  “A bit up north.” He noticed a pair of tumbleweeds ramble by on the street. He took another swig watching the sky turn azure as Venus appeared.

  Sadie coaxed, “I hear it’s nice.”

  “I expect you’d like California better,” Port said offhand.

  The barkeep hollered for Sadie again and she shrugged. “Anything else you need, just you holler.”

  Port gave a half charity smile and focused on his drink instead of the next tone-deaf song. Dusk was falling and the wind grew louder with a moan like a dying man’s last gasp.

  Port rubbed a broad hand over his face and pondered the ride in the morning. The kid would hang in another night. It bothered him. The kid was young. Still, that he deserved it couldn’t be denied. What wou
ld the parents say when Port brought their son home? Wouldn’t likely be thanks. Nope, not a lot of appreciation for his service out here. He took another long pull on the whiskey bottle.

  The wind moaned again and the rapid sound of a boot heel kicking the boardwalk shook Port from drowning his troubles. He stood and stalked to the saloon doors, hand on his navy colt.

  Not six feet from the swinging doors lay an old man with the blue face of one who’d been strangled.

  Glancing around the corner, Port looked left and right. Not a soul was on the street, just those blasted tumbleweeds rolling in the wind.

  “Someone give me a hand,” he ordered.

  The bartender and Port brought the dead man inside. His clothes were dirty and disheveled, food stained his shirt and jacket precisely where a napkin bib wouldn’t cover. Tight red gouges across the neck revealed the cause of his murder.

  “Who was he?”

  The hairy-knuckled bartender answered, “Quinn Cleary, town lawyer.”

  Port gave the bartender the stink-eye.

  The bartender gulped adding, “And town drunk. There hasn’t been a lotta need for a town lawyer last few years.”

  “You don’t say? Who’d want him dead?”

  Shaking his head, the bartender said, “No one. He was harmless.”

  Wheeling, Port looked upon the rest of the motley group of patrons. “Anyone?”

  No one volunteered anything. Most seemed in shock, but Sadie stepped forward, “He was liked by everyone, there weren’t no bad debts or dissatisfied miners if that’s what you mean?”

  Port nodded, “I’ll get the sheriff.” He went out into the night, the dark wind whipping about him like a scorned lover. With the wary sense of a predator, Port kept an eye up and down the street and while a sense of dread filled him, he couldn’t see another soul. He convinced himself the dread was merely the aura of the town in general. He struck a match to light his cigar but the wind blew it out.

  A rather large tumbleweed rolled in front of him and stopped abruptly despite the wind.

  Port looked at the noxious weed, rubbed his beard and gave it a kick, sending it flying into the darkness.