Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

I stared at the destruction for a few seconds, then put the car in gear, floored it, and shot through the flames and debris to cross the finish line to wild, deafening cheers. True to Ciera’s word, everyone and everything that had been at the beginning of the road were now here at the end.

I slammed on the brakes and threw open the door. I couldn’t get out of that car fast enough. Staggering back toward the finish line, I watched as Fairlane tore himself from his burning vehicle and stumbled out into the middle of the road, both arms missing from the elbows down, spurting blood, his head twisted at an impossible angle, black smoke skirling from his charred, sluicing flesh.

He shook his stumps at me, and then began to dance as the concert speakers once again began blasting “Highway To Hell.”

Why aren’t you dead? I thought.

“Because you can’t kill a demon,” said Hummer, stepping up beside me and putting a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about Fairlane. He digs the pain. Always has. Any excuse for more Repairs makes him happy.”

I spun around and surprised him with an uppercut to the jaw that knocked him squarely on his ass.

“ Who was driving the goddamned cruiser?” I screamed.

“Nobody,” he replied, massaging his jaw and spitting out a small glob of blood.

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“ Because I didn’t know, all right? None of us did. The Road gets a wild hair up its ass sometimes. It decided that it wanted someone to bleed, so….” He touched his jaw again, winced, and then stuck out his arm. I helped him to his feet and fully expected him to slug me into the next decade.

“Nice punch you got there,” he said. “So now we’re even.”

“Driver!” called Daddy Bliss from atop the car-cube. “You have, indeed, proven yourself worthy.”

“Of what? ” I shouted back at him.

“Of the Road’s trust, and our family’s respect and affection.”

Ciera pulled up alongside me in the meat wagon, got out, and handed me the keys. “You did good, you know that, right?”

I could not find any words. The full impact of what had just happened hit me all at once, and my legs turned to rubber. She helped into the driver’s seat, smoothing down my hair and laying her hand against my cheek. “I really hope I get to see you again someday.”

I looked at her, swallowed once, and finally found my voice. “What happens now?”

She tilted her head to the left, indicating the darkened road ahead. “You go home. Just drive straight for a little while, and you’ll be fine.” “Just…drive. That’s it?” “That’s it.” A small orange-red stain began to spread across the horizon. The crowd began to disperse. “Time’s up, Driver,” said Daddy Bliss. “A new day with new responsibilities awaits us all. Off with you, dear boy; off with you.” Ciera closed the door, kissed her finger tips, and pressed them against my lips. I started the meat wagon and drove away, never once looking in the rear-view mirror.

It took only a few minutes before the sunlight was right in my eyes. I blinked, slowed down, and dug around until I found a pair of sunglasses on the passenger-side floor. I knew they hadn’t been there when I left Cedar Hill. Ciera or someone else had known that I’d be driving into the rising sun, and so left them for me.

Ten minutes. I drove for only another ten minutes before I saw the exit sign for Cedar Hill. I took the exit, turned right—

—and found myself on 21 stStreet.

I braked, looking around, confused. There was no traffic at the moment, no early-morning joggers on the sidewalks, no bicycle riders cruising along the curb…nor was there any sign of the exit I’d just taken. My guess is, had anyone been there to see, it would have looked like the meat wagon had just appeared out of thin air, and me with it.

Tired—Christ, I was suddenly so tired. And hungry . It felt like I hadn’t eaten in days, despite the meal Nova had prepared for me earlier.

Do something normal , I thought. Something banal.

So a breakfast at Bob Evans it would be.

I’d completely forgotten about the cash I still had and so drove to my bank to get some money from the ATM. I withdrew thirty dollars and was walking back to the meat wagon when I glanced down at the receipt to check my balance and damn near tripped over my own feet.

According to the receipt in my hand, my checking account had a balance of seventy-five thousand dollars. I went back to the ATM, inserted my card, and asked for a checking account balance once more. Still seventy-five grand. I checked my savings account: seventy-five thousand. I suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite.

14

A brown, business-sized envelope was taped to the door to my apartment. It had no address, no return address, no stamp; only a single, handwritten word: Driver.

I opened it and removed the single-page letter inside.

Driver:

You needn’t worry about the government or the IRS becoming too interested in your sudden financial windfall. No one asks questions when we tell them not to.

You will serve us for one year, until such time as Road Mama has completed her Repair process and can assume her duties once again. Understand that for the entirety of this year, no one close to you will be in any danger from the Road.

Upon completion of your duties, you will receive an additional deposit in each of your accounts equal to what you found waiting there this morning. You will be what was once referred to as “comfortable”.

You will find instructions waiting for you inside. Your first assignment is scheduled for 9:45 p.m. this evening. This time and this time only, the track has already been assembled for you. Expect a delivery of more material Monday morning, and again on Thursday. You’re a bright fellow; you’ll catch on soon enough. Ciera sends hugs and kisses. Isn’t that sweet? I tucked the letter inside my pants pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

A massive HO track was set up in the middle of my living room. Five large boxes, containing what I assumed was more track, were stacked against the far wall. Miss Driscoll’s—Road Mama’s—incredible computer system was already in place on a new desk, plugged in, and running. Several large maps hung from the walls. And a box of multi-colored, thumbnail-sized foil stars waited on the coffee table.

I closed the door behind me. It clicked into place with the finality of a coffin lid being lowered.

* * *

That was nearly four months ago. Since then, I have set up over a dozen track configurations and orchestrated three times as many accidents, all according to the system, which I am still learning.

On the first day of each week I receive a list of numbers, which I then enter into the system so that the mapping and track configurations will be precise. I then construct the tracks accordingly, and wait for the delivery of the HO vehicles.

I keep exact records. So far I have choreographed the deaths of nearly one hundred people. It took me a while to figure out the star system, but I did it: silver stars are used to mark those who were injured in a wreck; blue stars are to mark those whose injuries will eventually result in their deaths, be it weeks, months, or years from the initial accident; and the gold stars—you guessed it—are for those fatalities that occur at the scene.

I have begun going to hobby stores in my spare time—what little there is of it—and buying decorations for the tracks; houses, stores, trees, human figures, dogs, cats, rabbits, whatever strikes my fancy. I understand now why Miss Driscoll went to such lengths to make her tracks more attractive, more life-like: you don’t get to see the actual outside world very often, so you do your best to recreate it. It helps. Not much. But some.