Car Sinister

by Robert Silverberg

  She looks at me and I see her eyes. They are dark, expressive. They say, you fool with me and I’ll slice off whatever part of you I want.

  We got to the Savarin, Cora cursing the Mustang all the way. The Savarin is on top of a hill at the end of a long curved access road. Parked around it are more cars than I’ve ever seen at one time. Some of them are being worked on. Others have people sitting in them, on them, leaning against them, eating off them.

  With so many cars here, how come you don’t see any on the road?

  Cora gives me a dumb-shit look.

  Two reasons. One, to conserve gas and materials, which are becoming harder to get and more expensive all the time. The legal service stations that deal on the side charge an arm and leg just to negotiate. Two, it’s safer to travel at night. In the daytime we’re more vulnerable to sneak attacks from the fuzz. Once we’re on the highway they see us as legal game and they get all kinds of plaudits when they round up a few of us.

  Why don’t they just come here and get a bunch of you all at once?

  Too many of us, not enough of them. It’s volunteer duty out here: the smart pigs stay in the city and they can only get a few freaks like Allen to take country duty. Anyway, they like to keep us as far outside the city as they can, no room for us in the jails or the camps any more. So they don’t bug us much. They hide at the access roads and exits, and look for strays. They only attack when the odds are in their favor. Except Allen. He wants our blood and he wants it flowing. C’mon, I’m going to introduce you to the one man you need desperately right now.

  She takes me to a tall, heavy-set man in grease-stained coveralls.

  This is The Mech, she says, some reverence in her voice. If anyone can resuscitate that corpse you drive, he can.

  The Mech says he’ll get to it later. Cora and I go into the Savarin.

  She introduces me to a lot of people and then sits m3 down at the remains of a counter to eat. The room is crowded. Some people sleep in cots lined along the wall. Children run in and out. One man works on a long poem which he is inscribing in Magic Marker around an enormous coffee percolator.

  Cora seems to look for an excuse to escape from me. I set traps to keep her with me.

  I want to touch her—but so she’ll know I touched her because I wanted to. Instead I brush against her arm reaching for a sugar shaker, graze knees while swaying the counterstool.

  This Allen, he’s mean, huh?

  Mean? Yeah. Yeah, I guess. He’s tough. He can scramble your brains with one punch if he wants to. But you got to respect him.

  I don’t understand.

  You wouldn’t. See, he’s a loner and they’re hard to come by out here. Most of the time, they cram four-five pigs into one car, but he comes after us all by himself. He digs it, taking us on by himself. He’s a spooky dude.

  You ever had a run-in with him?

  Once. Almost took a bunch of us in. He was pretty nice to me, told me some legal tricks I might use.

  Outside, a score of engines start up. Nervous laughter and fidgeting indicate the eagerness of the crowd to hit the road.

  We go out to check if The Mech’s revived the Mustang. He’s taken it inside the garage part of the Savarin building. Crouched over the engine, he’s taking pieces out and throwing them over his shoulder. Parts lie scattered all around him on the concrete floor. When he sees us, he says:

  Not ready yet. Got a lot to do before I can make this baby even run a straight line without wobbling.

  Is it salvageable? I say.

  It’s salvageable all right. But never expect it to chase rabbits. With new parts and a tune-up and a speed booster, it might hit 85 or 90 but you can give up any hopes of it being a hundredplusser.

  So long as it runs on more than wishful thinking I’ll be satisfied.

  As night falls, cars leave the parking area, usually in groups of four or five.

  Any more crowds their piece of road, Cora says.

  Where do they go?

  Anywhere.

  I mean why do they go out on the road at all?

  The dumb-shit look again.

  They got to, she says.

  The Savarin empties, becomes barnlike in its emptiness. Cora and I sit in a booth. She wants to get out on the road, you can see that in her fumbling hands, her over-eager smiles, the vacant look in her eyes. Many people invite her to ride, but she says no.

  I hate being just a rider, she says. I had my own car but I smashed it against an abutment. I’ll get wheels again, soon’s I find a deal.

  Many accidents along this road?

  Not many. Sometimes a spinoff or a car that dies completely. Not many fatalities. We take care of our own when anything happens. If only the cops’d leave us alone completely.

  We don’t talk much now. I watch the front of her sweater, trying to locate the shape of breasts behind the nipples. She is so tiny. Standing up, she comes to chest-level on me. She must weigh under a hundred pounds.

  The Mech comes into the Savarin. He announces that all transplants have been made and the car still lives. He won’t take money, but he accepts half the cans of gas in the trunk. At the garage I notice that he’d already taken them.

  Shall we try her out? I say, patting the Mustang on the hood.

  We better wait. Till somebody can drive out with us.

  I don’t want to run in packs. Look, you heard what The Mech said, it can’t even go as fast as other cars. Who’d drive out with us? Who wants to wet-nurse slower vehicles?

  I don’t know. It’s risky.

  Good, let’s go.

  She’s hot for it, I can see that. She looks at the Mustang like it’s a souped-up racer. I take her hand, a legal touch, and lead her to the car.

  I slam down the accelerator. A roar shakes the whole car. I take it down the exit ramp and onto the main highway, giving it a little gas at a time, letting it speed up by degrees.

  The Mech’s done a good job. I can feel a thousand little differences. The steering’s steadier, the engine smoother, the car’s responses more immediate. It holds the road with sureness. Cora flicks a switch and the goddamned radio works. She finds a program of chant-rock. The heavy beat underscores the evenness of the Mustang’s ride.

  Finally I hit top speed, glancing sideways to see if Cora’s impressed. She isn’t. As the Mech says, the car’s not going to set any speed records, but it does glide along. We enter a stretch of road with woods on each side; shadow trees fly by. We pass several abandoned cars, some with their hoods up, many with windows broken, most apparently stripped of valuable items.

  The scenery flashing by, the car rumbling pleasantly around me, I think of making it with Cora. I glance over at her, trying to devise a way in which fantasy might meet reality. She smiles at me, a hopeful sign. I reach out my hand. She squeezes it, but does not hold it, a gesture more like affirmation of brotherhood than love.

  Still—she’s here in the car with me, and we’re cutting a wide slice through the night. I’m better off than when I didn’t have wheels.

  As we leave the wooded area, a metallic glint of light flashes through the last trees. Cora doesn’t see it and I don’t say anything. I alternate looking at the sideview and rearview mirrors. Another ray of light, but this time not in the forest. Out on the road this time. The third gleam and whatever it is, is closer to us. The Mustang is already going as fast as it will go. I try to nudge the pedal further into the floorboards. A sign informs me it is twenty-three miles to the next rest area. Cora senses my tension. She twists around, looks out the back window.

  What’s back there? she says.

  I’m not sure.

  Dumb-shit look.

  It’s another car, I guess.

  You guess?! It’s a pig car. It’s Allen, it’s got to be. He’s the only one with nerve enough to buzz this stretch.

  What’ll we do?

  I don’t know, I can’t think—keep going straight ahead till something happens. He’s got the speed, but it’ll still take him a fe
w miles to catch up.

  Maybe we should ditch the car, make a run for it.

  Shit, I got to be in a spot like this with an idiot who don’t know his ass from a crack in the road. It’s open country here. We’d never get far. We’ll have to chance what comes. Keep driving.

  It catches up with us quicker than she’d guessed. It slows down behind us, staying on our tail but far enough back to remain a black ghost. A black ghost, its headlights off, stalking us.

  It’s Allen all right, Cora says. He likes fun and games. We got to make the first move. Hit the brake.

  What?

  Hit the brake, shithead!

  We burn rubber in a long skid but hold our lane. The other car eases past us. He’s in front of us before he realizes what happened. His brake lights flash on, but we’re controlling speed now. He tries to slow but we stay right on his tail. With four lanes leeway he can’t set up a block or run us off the road. He guns his motor and pulls away from us.

  Okay, Cora says, we’ve got him taking a chance.

  Let’s turn around, head back.

  Can’t, too risky. He’d catch up. No, forward’s best. We have to wait him out.

  As she gives me the instructions, I feel really stupid. She speaks to me as if I’m a kid.

  She’s tense. She hugs her legs to her chest.

  Maybe we should slow down and get off the road, I say. Maybe he won’t try to find us.

  No, if he did get to us, we wouldn’t have a chance. Shut off the headlights so at least he won’t see us coming for miles.

  I can barely see the road in the dim moonlight. The Mustang hums steadily, going along at about 40 mph. A couple of times it slides off the road onto the shoulder but most of the time finds its own way as if it had built-in radar.

  Maybe you should pull over, Cora says, and let me drive.

  I don’t say anything, just keep going. She mutters something that I’m glad I can’t understand. I roll down a window, listen to night noises. A shadowy blur turns out to be nothing more than a shadowy blur. I slow down further. To my left we seem to pass the sound of a quiet engine idling. The sound skips and I hear tires against, gravel.

  Open her up, Cora screams.

  I increase speed. I have to turn the headlights on again so I can see where I’m going. He flashes his on, too. So he can take aim, as it turns out. The first shot, although it doesn’t hit anything, is close enough to frighten me. I get a quick mental picture of Allen, leaning out the window and taking aim, a fat hand around the tiny gun, the other hand on the steering wheel. An anatomical absurdity, but if it’s Allen, it’s probably what he’s doing.

  I swerve but regain control. Next shot goes through the back window, leaving a circular area in white-lined little fragments. A third ricochets off the side of the car.

  Switch lanes, Cora shouts, and keep switching.

  I start zigzagging. He guns his motor and comes up even with me on the outside.

  Get out of his way, damn it, Cora shouts.

  He sideswipes me. A terrifying crunch of metal. I almost go into a spin, but the Mustang responds and I ease back into a lane. Through my sideview I see that he’s had the worst of the swipe. Body damage my Mustang can take in stride. He’s skidded sideways and has to straighten out.

  I feel a weird sense of satisfaction, but can only hold it for a second because he’s catching up again.

  I pass a sign. Exit, Food, Gas, Lodging, one mile. I keep dodging from lane to lane.

  Exit, 1/2 mile.

  Well get off there, I say.

  Cora looks terrified.

  No, you dumb shit.

  Why the hell not?

  Hell cream you there. That’s his territory, man.

  What the fuck are we supposed to do? He’ll cream us here.

  I’ll think of something.

  I already have.

  I let him almost catch up. At the last minute I swerve onto the exit ramp. He overshoots it. His tires scream as he turns around. Cora screams at me, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. I go around the long curve, over the bridge. Behind me I can see Allen’s car at the far curve of the exit ramp. I turn right onto the access road and floor the pedal. The Mustang makes the long curve. On two wheels, it feels like. I mutter long, involved promises to it. Under the bridge I execute a skidding U-turn and stop the car.

  I grope for the monkey wrench which is behind Cora’s seat.

  What are you going to do with that? she says in a frightened voice.

  What do you think?

  She makes a grab for my arm as I get out of the car. No, she screams. Don’t! She says it again as I run across the road, the monkey wrench a dead weight in my hand. I hear his tires screeching around the curve.

  It’s like my own death. Everything important flashes before my eyes. Not the events of my life—the events of the day. Maybe they are the events of my life. I see the car and Lincoln Rockwell X and the beating and Cora’s hidden tits. I see all the blurs and bumps and rising dust of the road. I see myself running scared. All the things I always wanted to do. I see the road stretching to its perspective point, bisected by the flashes of oncoming headlights.

  All this at once, as I watch the car round the last curve of the access road and come directly at me. I release the heavy wrench and my arm feels weightless. The wrench shatters the windshield glass, sails on across the side of Allen’s head, floats out through the rear side window.

  Inches from me the car swerves and heads across the four lanes. Cora screams, but it misses the Mustang, bounces off an abutment, hits another abutment broadside, and stops.

  I don’t want to look but I do.

  His left arm is part of the mangled steering wheel. The rest of his body is relaxed, leaning slightly forward like someone exhausted from heat. His head rests against the splintered glass of the window. I avoid looking at what the wrench did to the side of his head.

  I return to the Mustang. The wheels. Its motor throbs; the whole car shakes. I get in and turn off the ignition.

  I touch Cora’s arm and she slides away from me.

  You dumb fucking shit, she says.

  She begins to beat her fists on the scarred leather of the dashboard.

  SEDAN DEVILLE

  By Barry N. Malzberg

  This charming little story is by one who knows, since Barry Malzberg has a thing about Cadillacs—he buys them fairly often, he likes the way they feel, and he drives around alone in them at night. In fact, when last seen he was behind the wheel of his latest acquisition, driving west, toward the Dream Quarter.

  Dear Sir:

  Big coupe de ville Deora custom option on it; she say put all this together explain your case. I say to coupe de ville no this is not way to do it but she say fantastic big car power antenna power door locks power seats power windows power trunk release FM radio and signal seek she say you state your case to them just like I state mine to yours. Gaskets loose I fix, I think. Kurt Delvecchio take advice.

  I published writer Kurt Delvecchio. Eight months ago I send short story based on true life experiences with Cadillac cars to editor Terrific Science Fiction he ask if I ever publish before and say will clean up grammar but buy story because it unusual. I write second story also based on true life experience and editor take this one too and then I write another story which he take and then I write still one more just like other three based on life experience of Cadillac car and editor reject saying stories amusing and original at first but all pretty much in same key. Then I get letter from publisher saying magazine going out of business except for last issue enclosed with my first story and also check and also other two stories not publishing. They say tight market.

  Reading story in magazine discourage because cleaning up grammar seems to have taken out heart but as editor explain readership of science-fiction magazines wants good grammar and so he does this for me because I have fine idea at first and what he call “instinctual feel.” So this is situation right now: one story publish two stories w
ould be publish but return with no money one story rejected no good and one story half-finished because of news I receive. White coupe de ville say I put this very good you not misunderstand.

  I understand that you are agent. That your job as agent is to sell stories of writers and deduct ten percent (10%) of sale price after sale. I ask you to sell this story I send with letter; it is the second (2nd) story I wrote which he would have bought had it not been for accident. Once you sell story you get next story to sell then next then I finish up fifth and so on. I have much to tell as you see also true and real message which must be explained now.

  I also enclose copy of publish story in magazine so that you can see I am publish writer.

  Dear Sir:

  In answer to your question I engine mechanic in Cadillac dealership in Paramus New Jersey eight miles from the Washington Bridge this is how I got material for story and how I got what you call “convincing portrait of Cadillac car.” Cadillac overhead valve V-8 fantastic big engine four hundred and seventy-five cubic inches since nineteen seventy-one standard, five hundred cc in Eldorado convertible and coupe both turning two hundred and seventy-five horsepower. Engine was once big and simple but now is big and complicated due to intake manifolds complex carburetor attachments high-temperature condensers and other technical things to meet new emission control requirements. Working on overhead valve V-8 all day most jobs relating to poor carburetion with underhood temperatures near one thousand degrees farenheit enables man to understand workings of Cadillac car.

  Cadillac car is a simple and elegant tool and engines last forever. Know from transmission and electrical system men in shop that in Cadillacs these go all the time fuses popping bands slipping but even in auto graveyard on Pennsylvania Avenue Cadillac engine still turns over, still works; engine is heart of car and will not die. Transmissions and electrical not so good also front wheel alignment terrible very hard to wheels balance but not this department. Working under hoods of Cadillac vehicles gives me good understanding of cars and I put this understanding in my stories which Mr. Walter Thomas complimented me upon and published one would have published two others in his magazine.