The Future of Horror

by Jonathan Oliver

  Nightmarish hitchhikers have often featured in horror movies and I was somewhat surprised to have only one hitchhiker story submitted for this anthology. However, ‘Without a Hitch’ by Ian Whates is a cracking tale, and Ian cleverly subverts our expectations of the weird hitchhiker tale. As this story demonstrates, strangers met on the road may not be what they at first seem. Paul Meloy’s black-as-night horror story ‘Driver Error’ certainly stands as testament to this, as does Rochita Loenen-Ruiz’s rather more exotic ‘Dagiti Timayap Garda (of the Flying Gardians)’, in which a Filipino soldier makes the mistake of thinking he knows the person he meets on the road. In Anil Menon’s ‘The Cure’ we have four strangers on a very unusual pilgrimage; a tale that plays with the nature of story itself.

  Every time we venture out onto the road, either in a vehicle or on foot, we take a risk – the nature of which is starkly revealed with grim regularity in news reports. The violence that potentially awaits us on the road is chillingly explored in S. L. Grey’s stark tale ‘Bingo’, in which desire and a car wreck meet, echoing Ballard’s Crash. Rio Youer’s ‘The Widow’ meanwhile tries to find meaning in the wreckage only the find herself face-to-face with a phantom. Jay Caselberg gives us ‘The Track’ in which a journey into the Australian outback meets with the faceless horror that can find us there. ‘Always in Our Hearts’ by Adam Nevill tells the story of a hit-and-run driver and the horrifying manner in which he pays the price for his actions.

  We travel to arrive, and arrivals are key to several stories here. ‘Balik Kampung (Going Back)’ by Zen Cho tells the story of a ghost reluctantly lead to an understanding by her personal demon. ‘I’m the Lady of Good Times, She Said’ by Helen Marshall starts with an arrival and works its way backward to unravel a tale of a haunted man. In ‘Peripateia’ the scientist protagonist arrives at an understanding of the universe that changes everything, but also very little.

  As travel features so much in this anthology, I wanted a bit more of a world genre feel than I’ve perhaps had with my previous anthologies. I made sure to source writers not just from the US and the UK, but also from other areas of the globe. In this I am indebted to Lavie Tidhar for his help in leading me to brilliant writers whose work I wasn’t already familiar with.

  It’s been a joy to embark on every journey you will find here, so, for you, it’s time to buckle up, sit back and prepare yourself for the ride.

  Jonathan Oliver

  August 2013, Oxford

  WE KNOW WHERE WE’RE GOIN

  PHILIP REEVE

  Philip Reeve’s story begins with a journey and a destination set very firmly in its protagonist’s mind. But like many of the journeys in this collection, the unexpected starts to happen the moment the first step is taken. There are shades of Russel Hoban’s Riddley Walker here, in the fragmented language of the tale, but shining throughout is Reeve’s own dry wit and a compelling story that will draw the reader along the Road and into the heart of the unknown.

  FROM THE CAMP at Frunt End I liked ter look back sumtimes the way we’d come, an see the Road stretchin away from me down into the low lands. Strate as a measurin stick it lay across the ruffness and muddle o them wild places. But instead o feet an inches it was marked with my ’memberins, and the graves an birthin places o my family.

  I could ’member back to when I was just a bitty girl an we was pushin the Road thru kindly country, along a wide valley with woods an green hills on eyther side an a river windin down its middle like a silvry snake. There was plenty o time in them days fer me an the other kids ter lark an laze along them shady river banks while the growed-ups discuxed how best ter get the Road across, an the smiths an carpinters got busy buildin the bridges that was goin ter carry it.

  But that was all so long back that I could scarcely see that green valley now from up at Frunt End; jus the far twistins o that river sumtimes, shinin faintly thru blue distance an white ruffs o mist. Past few years we’d bin climbin agin, up stony steeps where nort but black pines grew, towards high mountins that walled off the sky. The huntin parties had ter go long miles ter gather all the food we needid, an there was scarce enough forage fer the piggs nor grazin fer the cattle nor timber fer makin the gas to fuel our trucks an diggas. The goin was so bad the Road had ter be laid in zig-zags some places, tho each ziggin an zaggin section of it was still strate as a ruler, so Foreman Skrevening sed it did not deviate from Rightchus Strateness.

  We was following a path that stretched up inter them mountins like a ghost Road. My Ma tole us mebbe it was the way some other Road had gone, built by other folks in the long-back. Sumtimes we found a cuttin they had made, an sumtimes on a river bank there’d be the crumblin stone piers where a bridge had stood. But even so it was slow hard goin on them steeps an screes, an often there would come a girt landslide an take away the work o weeks, an half a dozen o the workers with it.

  The year I turned 14 we only made ten miles, an the year after that was wurse. Back in that river valley me an the other kids had dreamed such dreams o how things would be when the Road got all the way ter Where We’re Goin, the fine houses an cloaths we’d have there an the food we’d eat. Nowdays all we hoped fer was ter reach the top o them mountins fore we died, an look down inter the lands that laid beyond. But mebbe that was somethin ter do with growin up, too. When you get older you learn ter make your dreams littler, cos the little ones don’t die so easy.

  So up an up we went, cuttin an levellin the roadbed, layin the first fill o gravel fer drainidge an then the hardcore on top. Rollin it flat, then meltin an porin over all the black ash-felt that was delivered by the supply convoys from Where We Started.

  An then 1 day Foreman Skrevening went drivin his jeep up ahedd to see what would be needed fer the layin o the next stretch, an he came back lookin like his own ghost, so wan an woeful. Turned out the way was blocked by a girt heap o massy bolders that must have come tumblin down off the mountinside since the surveyors last checked the route.

  I was 16 by then, an workin as a mechanic in the motor pool, so I was amung the first ter hear that doalful news. I listened ter Foreman Skrevening tell it ter Purser Judd while I helped Steg Carrack ter fix a leaky gas pipe on one o the diggas.

  Can we go round? asks Judd.

  Not without deviatin from the way o Rightchus Strateness says ol Skrevening. An not even then without goin twenty miles from the path that was planned. An how many years an lives would that take? We must blast our way thru with splodeys, that be the only choice we has.

  Purser Judd shook his head at that. We ant got no splodeys, he said. We used up the last back in the spring, clearin that long cuttin 5 mile back. We won’t have none now till the next convoy comes up, an that could be 6 months more.

  Well then, says Skrevening, we’ll have ter send someone back along the Road ter Where We Started an fetch some. Or else sit an look at that rockfall fer 6 months.

  But who we goin ter send? asks Judd. We need all the workers on the Road. Can’t spare noboddy.

  An thats where I stuck my noase in. Scrambled out from under the digga an grinned up at them ter let them know I’d bin listenin ter it all. I was promised ter marry Purser Judd’s boy Danil the followin year, an I knew after that my life would be nothin much but babies an women’s work fer a long way, an tween you an me that was not a prospeckt I girtly relished. So here I saw a chance ter have 1 bit o time ter meself, 1 proper adventure fore I turned inter a mum. Added ter which, I’d bin thinking o them nice green places we’d took the Road thru back when I was bitty, an it seemed ter me it might be sweet ter look on them agin.

  So I says, I’ll go.

  An naturally there was a certin amount o old-mannish worryin an head shakin on account o me bein a girl. But they all knew I was as strong as most o the lads, an as brite as any o them. An I’d bin working as grease monkey fer Steg Carrack fer years, helpin tend all the jeeps an steamrollers an diggas, so I’d be able ter sort out any breakdown that befell me on the way. So fore too long it was decided, an
then it was just a matter o sayin my goodbies ter Ma an my sisters an brothers an Danil.

  Danil was the worst o all o them. I think Ma understood why I wantid ter go, an mebbe wished she could have gone herself. My brothers an sisters was too bitty mostly ter proply unnerstand what dangers I’d be goin inter. But Danil knew all right. Dimpsey, he says, you plannin ter drive that rig all the way back ter Where We Started on your own, an you just an unwedded girl?

  Maybe I wont hav to go the whoal way, I tells him. Your dad reckins there might be supply caches here an there along the way, in case o ‘mergencies like this. An if not, well, I got the Road ter drive on, ant I? The best Road ever built, what’ll take me strate ter Where We Started.

  Them caches will be empty, Danil says. Ant you heard, the hills back-a-way are full o wild crooked men, an they’ll have robbed them caches out by now. An what’ll they make o you, Dimpsey?

  Well, says I, I recken I can cope with crooked men, an I showed him my Da’s ol gun what Ma had gived me, an the belt o bullets that went with it.

  That still wernt enough ter make Danil happy. Yore duty’s here with me, he says. But I din’t think it was, not yet. When I got back an we was wed he’d get ter order me about however much he liked, but till then I reckined I was free, an the Road was callin me. I spent my whoal life helpin build it, I thought, it would be a proper pity not ter travel it, just once.

  THE RIG WAS a big 6-wheeler. Not as big as the convoy trucks that brung the tar an ash-felt up, but big enuf that I felt like a queen sat up in the driver’s cabin, with my hands on the wide steerin wheel an Steg Carrack lookin up at me with oil on his ugly face an worry in his eyes like it was his own child I was takin out o camp.

  You treat her proply, Dimpsey, he tole me, an she’ll carry you ter Where We Started all right. When your comin back all loaded up with splodeys, you go slow, an let some air out o the tyres mebbe. You jostle them splodeys too much an they’re liable ter blow you ter bits an my rig with you.

  An I laughed an tole him I’d be careful an started the big roarin engine so I couldnt hear what further wise advice he had ter offer, nor any o the things Danil shouted as I went rumblin out o camp an away down the Road, with my brothers an sisters running alongside fer a way an then fallin behind 1 by 1 till I was alone at last.

  SO OFF I set, drivin back down the Road we’d made, back past old campsites an cuttins an infills I ’membered bein built the year before, an the year before that. The rig ran well down them long zig-zags, an soon Frunt End an the smoke o the camp an the ash-felt vats was outer-sight behind me, an I was passin thru country I’d clean forgot. I went past little fields and vegtabble plots that had helped feed us for a season and was now gone back all to weeds and wild agen. An I saw knobs o rock an white roarin rivers that had bin part o my life fer a week or a month or however long it had took ter get the Road across them, an all sorts o ’memberins woke in me now I saw them agen.

  I parked up that night in an old campsite, near the place where a landslip had took ten worker’s lives. Their grave markers was standin by the Road, dark mountin slate with names scratched on, the usual Judds an Vaizeys an Skrevenings, an also some Tains, my own kin. I shared some o my supper with them, scatterin crumbs o black bread an sprinklin beer on the graves in the hope the ghosts wouldn’t come botherin me while I slept. An they din’t, so that was OK.

  Next day an the day after I pressed on, an found meself pretty soon down at the bottom o those mountins it had taken the Road half my life ter climb. Ahead o me lay that green valley o my happy ’memberins, an beyond it the Road climbed up agen inter more hills, but lower an kindlier ones, I hoped.

  At first the land on either side was clear, just stumps showing where we’d hacked the trees down for wood gas, but new trees was growing, and the further I went the taller they was. There had bin rain, but now the sun was out, an the wet ash-felt line o the Road was shinin in the light, stretchin away an away inter the farness, an I felt so proud just lookin at it, an thinkin o all the people who’d laboured so long an hard ter draw this Strate an Rightchus silvery line across the world.

  That evenin I came ter the first o the supply caches that Purser Judd had tole me of. Sometimes a freight rig on its way ter Frunt End broak down along the Road, an if its cargo couldn’t be shared out tween the others in its convoy it would leav them by the roadside, burrid, with a marker ter show where they was. The idea bein that if there was dire mergencies at Frunt End, or if some delay kep the next convoy from gettin ter us, we would not have too far ter go ter get provisions. The caches was burrid in locked boxes, an the markers was subtle an secrit: a blaze on a tree-stump that lined up with a wite mark on a stone hi on the hillside, stuff like that. Purser Judd had tole me where ter look fer this one or I’d not have seen it. But still the crooked men, who lived wild in the hills an would not share in the girt an rightchus work o Roadbuildin, had found it fore I did. The ground had bin torn up, an bits o broken crates an boxes scattered here an there among the bushes. It did not look ter me as if any o those crates had had splodeys in them, but even so it was a ’minder ter me that I was far from help an in wild country.

  I gunned up the rig an drove on, an that night I did not stop, just turned the headlites on an kep goin, watchin the smooth black back o the Road rush under my wheels an listnin ter the hiss an hum o my tyres on the ash-felt.

  All thru that night I drove, till by the time dawn started comin up pink an peach color over them eastly hills I could scarce keep my eyes open an my head seemed ter grow heavier an heavier, till I longed ter put it down upon the steerin wheel in front o me an just sleep. An then I did sleep, just fer a second, an woke sudden at the rush an rattle as the rig veered right ter the side o the Road an started brushin thru the trees an bushes that stuck out their branches there.

  Then I knew I must stop an rest, fer it would not do ter wreck the rig in that lonely place. So I put on the brakes an slowed an stopped, an then turned off the engine, an silence came rushin inter the cabin, startlin at first after the engine’s roar, till I realised it weren’t really silence at all, but made up o wind in trees an the call o birdeys an the nearby laughter o a river runnin.

  Then I slept a bit, an when I woke I opened the door an stepped down out o the cab inter long wet grass. I knew that place; the ’memberins o it came crashin down on me as I went down ter where the river waited. We had camped fer a month or more just there, on that flat place where young trees was growin now. In them deep pools me an my friends had splashed an played an made our plans. It made my eyes grow teary, lookin at it, ter think how bitty an how happy I had bin in them times, before the Road started up inter the mountins.

  So I tended to the rig a bit, raking the ash out of the burners an loadin in fresh wood chippins, and afterwards I washed meself in them kind cool waters, an they flowed over me full o sweet ’memberings. And when I was dry agen I went back ter where I’d left the rig, an that was when I saw the crooked men.

  I was lucky. There was just 2 o them. Not a raidin party; just a pair who’d bin huntin or fishin mebbe, an heard my rig an come fer a look at it. They was circlin it now, an 1 stepped up an tried the door, but I had locked it; I wasn’t stupid. An also, not bein stupid, I’d brung my Da’s ol gun with me when I went ter the bathin place. As far as I could see there weren’t no guns in the hands o the crooked men nor in their belts neither, so I figured I had the edge on them.

  Get away from that rig, I tole them, or I’ll shoot the pair o you.

  Now tho we call them crooked men, you mustn’t get the idea they’re really crooked. They ant all crippled up, nor twisty faced like Steg Carrack. We calls them crooked just cos they don’t help with the buildin o the Road, or understand how Glorious is its Rightchus Strateness. In actual fact they was not bad lookin fellas, these 2 who turned ter face me, lookin all surprised ter find a girl walkin at them out o the sunlight an the tree shadows, pointin that big ol gun at them.

  Run, says 1, but the other tells him, stay. An
he came forward as if ter meet me, squintin his eyes a bit against the light. Nice eyes they was too; light brown an pretty as any girl’s. An his hair fox ginger, falling over them. But this wasn’t the time ter be admirin his prettiness, so I jabbed the gun at him an says, you just stay put if you don’t want a hoal in you.

  An he grins an says, why, I don’t beleev you’d put a hoal in me, Dimpsey Tain.

  Which came as a surprise ter me just as big as if he’d pulled a gun o his own. Cos how did this wild wood wanderer get ter know my name?

  An then I looks some more at his eyes an his foxy hair, an it comes back ter me. One o them kids who used ter splash an lark with me down in them river pools had hair like that. An a grin like that too. An that same way o tippin his head ter 1 side an shadin his eyes gainst the sun with 1 hand. Carter Vaizey was his name. I’d thought he was lost far behind. Thought he’d gone back with a supply convoy ter Where We Started after a landslip killed his da.

  Seemed not, tho.

  You’re Carter Vaizey ant you, I asked, an he said yes he was.

  The other 1 I din’t know: some friend he’d made in the hills, I supposed. Ant you ashamed o yourself, I asked, turnin your back on the Road, turnin ter the paths o crookedness?

  The Road? he says, all jokin, just like I ’membered him in the before-times when we was bitty. Ant you ashamed o yourself fer wastin your life away on the buildin of it, Dimpsey Tain? You used ter be bright. Ant you stopped yet ter ask yourself what your glorious Road is fer, nor where tis goin?