Red Limit Freeway

by John Dechancie

  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 spectrally. 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.

  Those smells … The perfumes of the night. Intoxicating they were, and I couldn’t tell whether their effect was to dampen my trepidations or augment them. Or maybe cause them. Ordinarily I have no fear of the dark, and while I have all sorts of respect for the uncertainties of an alien world, I’m not afraid to walk one alone. I’ve done it many times before. But there was something about Talltree that tapped into a reservoir of primal … stuff. Stuff that lies moldering in the human hindbrain. This was the archetypal enchanted forest. Fearful, yes, but also magical, preternatural, alive with ancient mysteries.

  Damn, a fork. Chubby had mentioned one, but he’d been talking about the main road, hadn’t he? The paths diverged into the night and I stood there a moment, trying to tell which one looked to have taken the most traffic. The one to the left seemed a little wider. I flashed the torch on it briefly. Okay, to the left.

  The undergrowth thinned out, revealing puddles of silver light on the forest floor, beds of pale-petaled flowers moonbathing within them. To my right and up a gentle grade, bluegray shelves of rock paralleled the path, outlining what may have been an ancient stream bed. I thought I smelled water nearby. Sure enough, the path descended to a quiet, narrow stream which I took in two hops, using a wide flat stone in the middle as a springboard. The path wound up a gentle grade. I still heard the snorting to my rear. It was beginning to worry me a little, because whatever was doing it seemed to be following the path. But it didn’t sound as though it were gaining, just yet.

  “Bleu.”

  I stopped. Someone or something, off in the bushes, had said bleu. Not blue, mind you, or blew, but bleu, with an admirably correct nasal intonation of the vowel.

  “Bleu,” came another voice. It was rather a flat statement, matter-of-fact.

  “Bleu,” confirmed still another from a different direction. “Bleu,” the first voice agreed.

  “Okay, so it’s blue,” I said. “So what?” Silence for a moment. Then: “Bleu!”

  I started walking again, peering into the shadows. I couldn’t see a thing.

  “Bleu?” It sounded like a question. “Damned if I know,” I said. “Bleu,” another voice stated.

  I walked through this laconic dialogue for two or three minutes, bleu-sayers to either side. Nobody got really excited, save for an occasional bleu! or two.

  What had Chubby said? Ten minutes at a quick pace? I was sure I’d been walking for at least that long. I rarely wear a watch, and now regretted it. Time to start thinking about doubling back and taking the other fork. Well, I’d go a little farther. Besides, that snorting and snuffling did sound a little nearer now. I was sure of it. Or was I just getting spooked? Easy enough to get spooked with things bleuing at me out of the darkness. Sounds I could deal with. It was all the same to me, as long as the speaker remained anonymous. I wasn’t up to making new acquaintances right then. I stopped. I thought I heard splashing.

  “Greep.”

  This last was near enough to make me jump. I backed down the path, then turned and began jogging.

  The snorting and snuffling was definitely louder and now took on a menacing quality. Whatever was doing it was also grunting, panting, gibbering, and possibly slavering.

  I ran, setting off a chorus of greeping in the undergrowth.

  The path went uphill for a ways then leveled off. I was soon out of the land of the Greeps and into neighborhoods where other voices spoke. Warble, chirp, breep, chitter, jubyub, you name it, somebody was saying it. The forest was alive with gossip. He’s running! Look at him run! they seemed to babble. Tremulous cries, frantic war-whoops came from the distance. Word was spreading. The thing behind me was gaining, its wide snout pushed to my scent. Panicky screeching came from the treetops along with the nervous flap of leathery wings. A small, rounded dark shape lay ahead of me on the path. It squawked and bolted into the weeds. I heard hooves pounding against the turf off to the right, twigs breaking in the path of some frightened running thing. That made two of us. The thing behind me was big and sounded as if it were moving on two huge feet. It was running now, chasing me, gibbering maniacally. The path went into an S-curve, straightened, then went into a hairpin turn to the left, leading up the slope of a steep hill. I puffed up the trail, turned into the switchback, listening to the sound of thumping feet below me. The thing was fast, gobbling up distance in big strides. The hill didn’t slow it down. I raced up the trail. The sounds it made were nightmarish, half-human. There was a note of ravenous glee to it all, a fiendish chuckling as if it reveled in the pleasure of the chase.

  Three more switchbacks and I gained the top of the hill. The trail continued along a ridge, then swung into the trees. I decided to make a stand. I didn’t think I could outrun the thing and the dash up the hill had taxed me. Getting off the trail would be a good idea. If the thing were big it might have trouble following me through the underbrush. I hoped.

  The trail swung right and ran along the narrow crest of the hill. The underbrush grew thickly on either slope. Something big lay across the path ahead—a fallen treetrunk. I drew my pistol, took cover behind the trunk and took aim up the path. It was coming. I couldn’t see anything yet, but it was coming. It didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, kept running full tilt, drooling in anticipation, its feet whumping against the mossy softness of the trail. It growled, it giggled, it heaved and panted. It made one hell of a lot of noise. All around, the forest screamed in a mounting crescendo of terror. Flocks of panic-stricken creatures took wing into the night. Unseen things in the shadows burbled and greeped and went bleu! Voices in the trees shrieked their dismay. Thousands of tiny things stampeded through the brush. The beast shambled toward me, its breath like blasts of steam. I still couldn’t make it out. No good; I’d have to be able to see it to shoot it.

  I got up and ran like hell. I didn’t really want to shoot it. You can never tell with a completely unknown creature. It might eat slugs for breakfast. Maybe its vital organs were in its feet. Maybe it had armor plating ten centimeters thick. What do you do when the thing shrugs off your best shot? As a rule, shooting at an alien unknown is a last resort. But I was up against it. If I ducked i
nto the brush first I might never get another chance for a clear shot. I was sure it would follow, thick underbrush or not. My heart pounded against my breastbone with enough force to crack it. Starriggers sit too much to keep in shape. I was going on pure adrenaline; I didn’t think my lungs were working at all.

  Light up ahead-moonbeams falling across the path. I ran on through into the shadows on the other side. I skidded to a stop, turned, crouched, and aimed:

  The thing slowed. It stopped just at the edge of the pool of light. It stood there panting and snarling. And I still couldn’t see it.

  I aimed for the probable center of the source of all that nonsense and emptied the clip of the machine-pistol at it. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrruppp! Four seconds to unleash a hail of superdense metal pellets. My best shot: I leaped off the path into the brush, thrashed my way through a clump of broad-leafed weeds, stumbled, tripped, broke through the other side, and rolled down a steep incline. Thorny tendrils snagged at my jacket, twigs whipped my face, rocks bruised my ribs. I rolled and rolled until I finally got to my feet, letting momentum carry me up. I jogged down to level ground, slipped, fell and crawled behind a tree. I listened.

  All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. Silence. Everyone had shut up real suddenlike.

  The hush continued for what seemed several minutes. It probably wasn’t that long. At some point I decided I could start breathing again. I gasped, wheezed, and choked for a while, then got my breath. I kept listening. Nothing moved, nothing spoke. Then …

  “Bork?” something to my left said tentatively. I sighed, listened for a while longer.

  “Bork?” it asked again.

  I levered myself to my feet and leaned against the treetrunk. I took a deep breath. “Yeah,” I said. “Bork.” I wiped grit off my face, brushed dirt from my jacket. “Definitely bork.”

  Another voice borked up ahead, then others took the cry, glad the question was all settled.

  Slowly, the forest came back to life, but the mood now was subdued.

  I rested, squatting at the base of the tree for a few minutes. Then I walked along the bottom of the hill searching for a clear way up. There wasn’t one. I wasn’t really interested in going back up there. The thing might only be wounded, lying there in the path. Or maybe I had missed the damn thing. I didn’t know and didn’t particularly care to find out.

  About fifteen minutes later, I had to admit to myself that I was lost. I had thought that picking up the trail again would be easy—just walk a little way along the base of the hill, then push through the underbrush until I came out on top. I did that, with some difficulty, and found what I thought was the trail I had been on, but it couldn’t possibly have been because I followed it in the direction I’d come from and everything was unfamiliar. No switchback trail up the slope, no stream, nothing. I had walked a good distance along the bottom of the hill, wanting to pick the path up at a point well away from where the wounded creature could have been, but I must have gone a bit too far. The terrain had proven more complex than I had thought. I had chanced upon a completely different trail running along the same ridge, maybe a branch of the original one.

  But it wasn’t. I doubled back along it but didn’t find another path intersecting it. In fact, the trail petered out completely. I was completely disoriented and totally lost.

  I wandered for over an hour. I was calm now. The forest was familiar territory even though I didn’t know which way was out. It seemed merely magical, not menacing. I heard music, or thought I did. It was just on the edge of audibility. Haunting music. At first I thought I might be near the Bandersnatch, but it was like no music I had ever heard. What sounded like a female voice sang with it. She was calling to me, I thought.

  I sat on a stump and rubbed my temples. Let’s not fall for that old routine. No siren voices luring me onto the rocks, please; or, more appropriately, no hamadryads to lure me up a tree. What was wrong with me? I felt high. I was high. On what, I didn’t know. Certainly not beer—my God, that was hours ago. My hangover was completely gone. I was fine physically, maybe a little sore along the ribs and back. I looked up. I was sitting on the edge of a clearing on the slope of a gentle grade. In the middle of the clearing was a low mound of moss and ferns. It looked pretty. I looked up. The sky was spattered with a million stars. I gazed upward for a long while; then movement below caught my eye.

  Something on two legs—a pale figure in the moonglow—shot into the clearing, made a quarter turn around the mound, and shot out again. It happened so fast I couldn’t get a clear impression of what the creature had looked like. It hadn’t made a sound. I shook my head and shrugged. I got up and came out into the clearing to the edge of the fairy ring of moss. I looked up again. Stars. No matter where you go in the universe, the stars look the same: I considered that thought. Profound. I rubbed my forehead. I was still high.

  Something was moving against the stars. A meteorite. No, it was traveling up. Strange angle … couldn’t be.

  It exploded, blossoming into starbursts of red, white, and blue. At once, I came down from my high. The strange dream I had been walking through evaporated.

  Sam’s signal flare! And he was close!

  I took off like a deer through the clearing and plunged into the trees. The gradual slope continued down to a sharp dip, at the bottom of which was a logging road. I drew the torch from my pocket, flicked it on and ran to the left. I was going home.

  As I jogged down the road I thought about the nightbeast that had chased me and I was struck by the total improbability of the incident. Didn’t nocturnal predators usually stalk their prey silently? Not that guy back there. Nothing like announcing your intentions to the entire countryside. But maybe that was his style.

  It didn’t make sense, though. There was the distant possibility that I had imagined it all, but I could barely bring myself to consider it. Just what does “imagine” really mean? Had I been hallucinating? Not one of my habits. None of it made any sense no matter which way I looked at it.

  I loped along for about five minutes, then saw headbeams sweeping around a bend in the road. I heard the familiar whine of Sam’s engine and broke into a sprint, waving the torch.

  6

  Sean Fitzgore grasped my hand and pulled me up into the cab. “Takin’ a wee stroll, are ye?” he said. “A fine evenin’ for it.” He thumped my back just hard enough to bruise.

  John rose from the shotgun seat and encircled me in his string-bean arms. “Jake! Thank God.”

  “We were at the cabin,” Roland said. “How long ago did you escape?”

  I plopped into the driver’s seat, shaking my head. “Seems like ages. I dunno, three hours ago. What’s up? What’s been happening?”

  “First off,” Sam said, “what happened to you?” I told him briefly.

  Sean nodded gravely. “I knew Moore was up to some deviltry. I figured he wanted you, but Darla and Winnie—” “Dammit.”

  I looked glumly at everyone. Sean’s friend Liam was there, too. His right eye was a little puffy. “How’d it happen? When?” I glanced around. “Wait—where’s Carl and Lori?” I sat up straight. “And Susan—where’s Susan?”

  “They got jumped,” Liam said. “We saw it, so they’re safe now.” He grinned. “There was a bit of a dust-up.”

  “Little Lori gave a fine account of herself,” Sean told me. “Nearly bit one bugger’s finger right off.”

  “That’s when they got Winnie, we think,” John said.

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “With friends,” Sean said. “Suzie wanted to come along with us, but we persuaded her otherwise.”

  “Totally wasted,” Roland said. “Susan doesn’t drink often, but when she does…”

  “You were showing full on all tanks yourself,” I commented.

  “I can hold my liquor,” he retorted stiffly, looking a little greenish about the gills.

  “What about Darla?” I said.

  “We don’t know,” John answered. “She went up
stairs, probably to turn in. When I went up myself, she wasn’t there, and we haven’t seen her since.”

  “Great.” I sighed and slumped back in the chairs. Looking at Sean I asked, “Any ideas?”

  “She could be any number of places. We finally guessed where you were because I’d noticed Geof Brandon giving you the eye earlier in the evening. We went out to Geof’s farm, which took quite a while, but then I recalled seeing Fat Timmy McElroy hanging about, too. Damn me for not remembering sooner.”

  “You were long gone,” Liam said. “She could be anywhere, Jake. Moore has a lot of lads on his team.”

  “And Winnie?”

  “Oh, they’d probably keep the two of them together,” Sean ventured. “And doubtless they wanted you separated from them, for reasons now obvious. You did well, Jake, m’boy.”

  “Not nearly well enough,” I said. “I let my guard down against my best instincts.”

  “We’ll have to take our share of the blame,” Liam said regretfully; “pushing you through all that Boojum nonsense. It was supposed to be a bit of fun, but…” He shrugged apologetically.

  “It’s hardly your fault,” I said, “but let’s not waste time on the issue of who’s to blame.”

  “Yeah, let’s do something,” Sam put in. “Beat the living merte out of somebody, like immediately. Anyone’ll do.”

  “Don’t you think that’s rather rash?” John asked.

  Roland frowned. “Well, we already put a call in to the local police.”

  “Yes,” Sean said, giving a mock-polite cough. “They’re ‘investigating.’ ”

  Liam said, “I wouldn’t trust them farther than I could spit into the wind.”

  “Right,” Sam agreed. “So we pay a call on Mr. Moore and beat the living merte out of him until he gives up Darla and Winnie.”