Алан Дин Фостер - To the Vanishing Point

An iron juggernaut came clanking around a far corner. It was green with black stripes and spots. Originally it had been a skiploader. Now it was crunching the sidewalk across from him, sucking up people and smaller mobile machines with a forty-foot-long tongue, drawing them into a mouth the size of a sports car. A broken fire hydrant spewed blood skyward. Drops of it coated Frank’s face and shoulders. The horrid downpour did not stir him because he was already in shock.

Blood ran in a steady stream down the gutter, to vanish into the nearest storm drain. Not all of it was red. Green and orange fluids completed the viscous torrent. The stench of death and burning flesh was worse than any of the sights, overwhelming his senses and threatening to make him faint.

This is it, then, he thought numbly. The End. What happens to reality when the fabric of it finally unravels. Reason was giving way to madness.

Bodies and structures continued to metastasize as he stood there, machines and people changing into ever more grotesque forms. Long Beach Boulevard was now a painting by Bosch, a Claymation film gone insane, with smells and sounds to match.

Halfway up the street a car that was still a car stood parked at the curb. He made for it like a drowning man for a life preserver. It was unlocked, but the ignition was empty. Could he jump the wires? He’d seen it done dozens of times on TV, but he’d never tried it himself. He plunged inside. As he slammed the door behind him, something landed on the hood.

Its pupilless eyes glowed bright orange. Once it might have been a big, friendly dog: a Dane or a Saint Bernard. Now it was a fanged skull fronting a horribly emaciated body. It tried to howl but managed only a feeble choking sound as it dug at the window with stubby, broken claws. Teeth broke and bled as it tried to bite through the safety glass.

Frank tried to ignore the thing as he bent beneath the steering column. A tangle of wires swam into view. They were all color-coded, but which ran to the ignition? Using the tiny pocketknife attached to his key chain, he cut through the whole bundle, praying he wouldn’t get shocked. Above and outside the car something moaned.

So far he’d been too busy and too stunned to wonder what might be happening up on the Peninsula, what Alicia and Wendy might be going through. Maybe, he told himself desperately, the unraveling was localized. Maybe up in the hills overlooking the ocean everything was still normal and undisturbed. Could he drive out of this maelstrom of madness even as they’d driven out of other distorted realities in the motor home?

He couldn’t go anywhere unless he managed to start this car.

The dog-thing had vanished with a yelp as something larger and more vicious had carried it off. It was better without the moaning. Frank started crossing wires. Once a spark stung his cheek, but the engine remained silent.

Then the front door was torn from its hinges.

He scrabbled against the floor and seat, kicking away from the steering column as something like an immense black slug peered in at him. It had arms like licorice cables. Ropy fingers grabbed his left foot and started pulling him out of the car. He heard himself screaming. As his hips slid over the doorway he threw both arms around the steering column and tried to pretend they were made of the same Detroit steel.

He could feel his arms being slowly pulled from their sockets. Then the awesome grip on his ankle relaxed. Sobbing from the pain, he loosened his convulsive lock on the steering column and turned onto his back.

The shuddering, sluglike mass was quivering in pain. Steam rose from the curve of its bulk. Frank managed to sit up and look out. The boulevard was full of running water. It mixed with the blood and gore briefly before sweeping it away. The rising torrent was rushing up the street from the south. Frank didn’t have to taste it to know it was saltwater. Sea water. It ran two inches deep and rose as he watched. That’s when he sensed the subtle but steady trembling in the earth.

The land was subsiding, the sea invading a sinking reality. Practically every building still standing was smoking or on fire. The bank across the street shuddered and collapsed, dumping tons of concrete, steel, and glass into the ravaged boulevard. At first he thought the subsidence was the cause, but it might as easily have been a change in the reality of the structure itself.

He bent to work on the wires again and this time was rewarded with a rumble as well as a flash. As he rose, he hit the accelerator with his right hand. The motor raced encouragingly. Settling himself behind the wheel he put the car in gear, pulled out into the street. The undercarriage cleared the rising water, but not by much.

Up to Anaheim Boulevard where he turned left, not trusting the lower lying Pacific Coast Highway, which might by now be completely inundated. Water invaded storefronts and homes all around him. He peered grimly over the wheel. If the car held together, in ten minutes he’d be climbing the Peninsula. His home stood several hundred feet above sea level.

So intent was he on watching the rising water and the flooding of the city that he didn’t see the truck until it slammed into him. They struck at an angle, which sent him spinning two full circles before he came to a halt. Blood trickled from his lip where he’d bit himself. Worse, the front of his vehicle was smashed in. Smoke rose from the engine compartment. When he tried to restart, all his desperate efforts generated was a feeble squeal from the alternator.

The truck had come to a stop nearby. A delivery vehicle of medium size, it had been only slightly damaged by the collision. The Ford emblem on its hood hung askew and there was a long gash on its flank, but otherwise it looked functional.

He stumbled outside and straightened — only to find himself confronted by the truck’s occupants. They all wore fancifully decorated uniforms, probably scavenged from some deserted surplus store. Braid and medals and ribbons hung from sleeves and pants legs as well as chests. Some of them were remotely human, but most had metamorphosed completely. Angry animal and mutant faces glared at him. Every one of them carried a club or worse.

A couple grunted to each other as they stood regarding him, grinning nastily. Looking left and right he saw he was almost surrounded. So he jumped on the hood of the broken car and made a break for the only gap in their ranks. As he cleared the roof something struck him painfully in the ribs.

He landed hard in the water-filled street, tried to rise but got no farther than his knees. Inhuman chuckling and laughter came close. With a sob he sat up and clutched his throbbing side, knowing it was all over, finished, done for. No mistake about it this time. He tried to cushion himself with warm memories of his family, especially of Steven. Around him, only the ocean was unchanged. He inhaled the salt air, thankful his last sensation would be a sane one.

They closed in around him, laughing no longer, seriously discussing his demise. He saw each weapon as an individual instrument of death. Cold gray blurs rose over him. Maybe he’d be lucky after all, he thought. Maybe the first blow would be a killing one. The idea of a prolonged beating or dismemberment discomfited him. Closing his eyes tight, he waited for the pain.

Thunder rolled down the street, making him open his eyes and jerk in its direction. He didn’t recall seeing a gun in the hands of any of his assailants.

It was such a friendly, natural sound, pure and clean in the smoky air, unaffected by madness and death. As he sat dumbly with the saltwater burning his skin, it echoed a second time. The creature preparing to smash his brains out, which looked like a cross between an ape and a Chinese warlord, spread its arms wide as it was knocked backward. The right side of its skull vanished, blown to bits like a Christmas pinyata. The sight did not sicken Frank. He’d seen much worse in the previous half hour.