Clifford Simak - Out of Their Minds

The greenish light was brighter now—a deathly, sickly green—but as yet I could not make out the actual shape of the thing that followed me. The charnel-house odor was thicker and it clotted in my throat and filled my nostrils and I tried to gag, but couldn't, and of all of it, the smell was worst.

Then," quite suddenly, I saw the shape that came at me through the trees—not clearly, for the blackness of the tree trunks broke up the shape and fragmented it. But I saw enough to last me all my days. Take a swollen, monstrous toad, throw in a bit of spitting lizard, add something from a snake and you'll get a small idea, a very faint idea. It was much worse than that; it was beyond description.

Choking and gagging, water-legged with fear, I turned to run and as I turned the ground lurched under me and threw me forward on my face. I landed on some hard surface and my face and hands were skinned and there was a tooth that felt as if it had been loosened by the impact.

But the smell was gone and there was more light than there had been before and it was not a greenish light and when I scrambled up I saw there was no forest.

The surface I had fallen on, I saw, was concrete, and a sudden fear went knifing through my mind. An airport runway? A superhighway?

I stood staring groggily down the long lane of concrete.

I was standing squarely in the center of a highway. But there was no danger. No cars were roaring down upon me. There were cars, of course, but they weren't moving. They were just sitting there.

For quite some time I didn't realize what had happened. First I had been frightened at the idea of standing out in the middle of a high-speed highway. I recognized what it was immediately—the broad lanes of concrete, the grassy median separating them, the heavy steel fence snaking along the right of way, closing off the lanes. Then I saw the stranded cars and that was something of a jolt. An occasional car, parked on the shoulder, off the concrete, and with its hood up, was not too unusual. But to see a dozen or more of them in this condition was something else again. There were no people, nor any signs of people. There simply were the cars, some of them with their hoods up, but not all of them. As if, suddenly, all these cars had ceased to function and had rolled to a stop upon the highway. And it was not only the cars in my immediate vicinity, but all up and down the lanes, as far as I could see, were other standing cars, some of them no more than black dots in the distance.

It was not until then, not until I had taken La and mentally digested the fact of the stranded cars, that the more obvious fact hit me—the realization that should have come immediately.

I was back on the human earth again! I was no longer in that strange world of Don Quixote and the Devil!

If I'd not been so flustered by the cars, I suppose I would have been most happy. But the cars bothered me so much that they took the edge off any other kind of feeling that I had.

I walked over to the nearest car and had a look at it. An AAA travel map and a handful of other travel literature lay on the front seat and a vacuum bottle and a sweater were tucked into one corner of the rear seat. A pipe sat in the ash tray and the keys were gone from the ignition lock.

I looked at some of the other cars. A few of them had some baggage left in them, as if the people might have left to seek out help and intended coming back.

By now the sun had risen well above the horizon and the morning was growing warm.

Far down the road an overpass, a thin line blurred by the distance, arched over the highway. Down there, more than likely, was an interchange that would get me off the highway. I started walking toward it and I walked in morning silence. A few birds flew among the groups of trees beyond the fence, but they were silent birds.

So I was home again, I thought, and so was Kathy, if one could believe the Devil. And where would she be? I wondered. More than likely in Gettysburg, safely home again. As soon as I reached a phone, I promised myself, I'd put in a call and check on her whereabouts.

I passed a number of stranded cars, but I didn't bother with them. The important thing was to get off the highway and find someone who could tell me what was going on. I came upon a signpost that said 70S and when I saw it, I knew where I was, somewhere in Maryland between Frederick and Washington. The horse, I realized, had covered a fair piece of ground during the night—that is, if the geography of that other world was the same as this one.

The sign pointing to the exit gave the name of a town of which I'd never heard. I trudged up the exit lane and where it joined a narrow road stood a service station, but the doors were locked and the place seemed to be deserted. A short distance down the road I came to the outskirts of a small town. Cars stood at the curbs, but there was no moving traffic. I turned in at the first place I came to, a small cafe built of concrete blocks painted a sickly yellow.

No customers were seated at the lunch counter running down the center of the building, but from somewhere in the back came a clatter of pans. A fire burned beneath an urn back of the counter and the place was filled with the smell of coffee.

I sat down on a stool and almost immediately a rather dowdy woman came out of the back.

"Good morning, sir," she said. "You're an early riser." She picked up a cup and filled it at the urn, set it down in front of me.

"What else will you have?" she asked. "Some bacon and eggs," I said, "and if you'll give me some change, I'll use the telephone while you are cooking them."

"I'll give you the change," she said, "but it won't do you any good. The telephone's not working."

"You mean it's out of order. Maybe some other place, nearby…"

"No, that ain't what I mean," she said. "No telephones are working. They haven't worked for two days now, since the cars stopped running." "I saw the cars..»

"There ain't nothing working," said the woman. "I don't know what will become of us. No radio, no television. No cars, no telephones. What will we do when we run short of food? I can get eggs and chickens from some of the farmers, but my boy, he has to go on his bicycle to pick them up and that's all right, because school is at an end. But 'what will I do when I run out of coffee and sugar and flour and a lot of other things? There aren't any trucks. They stopped, just like the cars."

"You are sure?" I asked. "About all the cars, I mean. You're sure they've stopped running everywhere?"

"I ain't sure of nothing," said the woman. "All that I know is I ain't seen a car go by in the last two days." "You're sure of that, though?"

"I'm sure of that," she said. "Now I'll go and get your breakfast cooking."

Was this, I wondered, this thing that had happened, what the Devil had meant when he had told me he had a plan? Sitting atop Cemetery Ridge, he had made it sound as if it were no more than a plan that he was formulating when, in fact, it already had been put into operation. Perhaps it had been initiated at that very moment when Kathy's car had left the turnpike and had entered into the shadow world of man's imagination. The other cars on the highway had rolled to a stop, but Kathy's car had been shunted to the cart track atop the mountain. When Kathy had tried to start it later, I recalled, it had refused to start

But how could such a thing be done? How could all the cars be made to cease to operate, rolling to a stop, and then impossible to start?

Enchantment, I told myself; enchantment, more than likely. Although, just thinking of it, the idea seemed impossible.

Impossible, certainly, in the world in which I sat, waiting for the woman in the kitchen to cook my breakfast for me. But probably not impossible in the Devil's world, where enchantment would stand as a principle as solid and entrenched as were the laws of physics or of chemistry in this world of mine. For enchantment was a principle asserted time and time again in the olden fairy tales, in the ancient folklore, in a long line of fantasy writing that extended even into the present day. At one time people had believed in it, and for many, many years, and even in the present there were many of us who paid polite and not quite whimsical regard to this old belief, still reluctant to put aside the old beliefs and in many cases still half believing in them. How many people would go out of their way to avoid walking underneath a ladder? How many still felt a chill of apprehension when a black cat crossed their path? How many still carried a secret rabbit's foot, or if not a rabbit's foot, a certain lucky piece, a coin, perhaps, or some silly little emblem? How many people, in idle moments, still hunted four-leaf clovers? None of it was serious intent, perhaps, or only mock-seriously to cover up an unmodern attitude, but in their very acts betraying still the basic fear that lingered from the cave, the eternal human yen for protection against bad luck or black magic or the evil eye or whatever other name one might put to it.