by Brian Keene
I loaded Amber into the van and we drove slowly home. Both of us were crying too hard to speak.
The survivors couldn’t remember much. The cops and the media quickly made the official conclusion that it had been a riot, another example of teen violence. Reporters hung around town for a few days. Preachers banged on their pulpits and thumped their bibles, blaming it on devil music. If they only knew...
Chrissy’s remains were never found. She was listed among the three hundred who died, along with Kris, Jen, Katie, and Steve.
Marty and Vicki sent Amber to a private college where she learned to play the violin. She’s getting pretty good at it.
I’m dating a new girl now. I met her at a bookstore, and I guess this is what love feels like. She turned me on to stuff like Yanni and John Tesh. In fact, we’re going to see Tesh in concert tonight.
Hey! Don’t knock that music until you’ve tried it...
I AM AN EXIT
I found him lying along the interstate, bleeding in the moonlight under the sign for Exit Five. It was bad—real bad. Blood covered everything; from the guard rail and median strip to his frayed blue jeans and crooked birth-control glasses with the cracked lens. They called them birth control glasses because wearing them insured that you’d never get laid. You only got glasses like that in the military and in prison. He didn’t look like a soldier to me.
Far away, barely visible through the woods, an orange fire glowed. A hint of smoke drifted towards us on the breeze.
I knelt down beside him, and he struggled to sit up. His insides glistened, slipping from the wound in his side. Gently, I urged him back to the ground and then placed my hand over the gash, feeling the slick, wet heat beneath my palm. The wind buffeted the Exit Five sign above our heads, and then died.
“Don’t try to sit up,” I told him. “You’re injured.”
He tried to speak. His cracked lips were covered with froth. The words would not come. He closed his eyes.
With my free hand, I reached into the pocket of my coat, and he opened his eyes again, focusing on me. I pulled my hand back out, keeping the other one on the gash in his side.
“Robin.”
“Sorry friend. Just me.”
“I was—trying to get home to Robin.”
He coughed, spraying blood and spittle, and I felt his innards move beneath my palm.
“She’s waiting for me.”
I nodded, not understanding but understanding all the same.
He focused on me again. “What happened?”
“You’ve been in an accident.”
“I—I don’t—last thing I remember was the fire.”
“Sshhhhh.”
He coughed again.
“My legs feel like they’re asleep.”
“Probably because you’ve been lying down,” I lied. “They’re okay.”
They weren’t. One was squashed flat in several places and bent at an angle. A shard of bone protruded from the other.
“D-do you have a cell phone? I want to call Robin.”
“Sorry friend. Wish I did, so we could call 911. But I’m sure someone will come along. Meanwhile, tell me about her.”
“She’s beautiful.” His grimace turned into a smile, and the pain and confusion vanished from his eyes. “She’s waiting for me. Haven’t seen her in five years.”
“Why is that?”
“Been in prison.” He swallowed. “Upstate. Cresson. Just got out this morning. Robbery. I stole a pack of cigarettes. Can you believe that shit? Five years for one lousy pack of smokes.”
I shook my head. I’d been right about the glasses. And the sentence indicated he wasn’t a first time offender. Pennsylvania had a three strikes law, and it sounded as if he qualified.
A mosquito buzzed in my ear, but I ignored it. In the distance, the fire grew brighter.
“We’d been dating before it happened,” he said. “She was pregnant with my son. I—I’ve never held him.”
“They didn’t come visit you?”
“Not enough money. Cresson is a long way from Hanover—almost on the New York border. We didn’t have no car.”
He paused, struggling to sit up again. “My legs are cold.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “The important thing is to keep talking. Tell me more.”
“I—I got out this morning. Couldn’t wait to get home and see her and the kid. Kurt. We named him Kurt, like the singer, you know? The guy from Nirvana? She wrote me letters every single day. I used to call her collect, but Robin still lives with her folks, and it got too expensive. I’ve s-seen pictures of Kurt. Watched him grow up through the mail. I want to hug him. My stomach is cold.”
“It’s a cold night,” I replied, trying to take his mind off of it. He was losing a lot of blood. The smoke was stronger now, heavier. It blanketed the treetops and drifted over the road like fog.
“The State got me a Greyhound ticket from Cresson to Hanover. Rode on that damn bus all day, and I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. Too excited. There was a McDonalds at one of the stops, and that’s the first time I’ve had a Quarter-Pounder in five years! Couldn’t wait to tell Robin about it.”
His eyes grew dark.
“There was this one fucker on the bus though. Guy from Cresson, just like me. Never saw him before. He was in a different block. He was on his way to Harrisburg. Fucker started the fight, but the bus driver didn’t believe me and threw me off.”
“Really?”
“Yeah!” He broke into a violent fit of coughing, and I thought that would be it, that he would expire. But then it subsided. “Fucker threw me right off the bus. Right here on the road. I had my thumb out to hitch a ride when I saw—I saw the fire!”
He sat upright, eyes startled.
“Shit, I r-remember now. There’s a house on fire!”
“Yes,” I soothed him, forcing him back down. “Yes, there is. But there’s nothing you can do about that now. Somebody should be along shortly. What else do you remember?”
His eyes clouded.
“T-the fire—and then—a horn? A loud horn, like on a tractor-trailer, and bright lights.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Mister? I don’t feel too good. I don’t think I’m gonna make it. Will you d-do me a f-favor?”
I nodded. His skin felt cold; the warmth was leaving his body.
“Give my love to Robin and K-kurt? Their address is in m-my wallet, along w-with t-t-their phone number.”
“I’d be happy too.”
“I—I s-sure-a-a-appreciate t-that, Mister.”
He smiled, safe in the knowledge that I would give his wife and child his love. Then he turned his head to the fire in the distance. His brow creased.
“I s-sure h-hope the p-people in that h-house are a-alright...”
“They are fine now,” I told him. “There were four of them. Daddy, Mommy, and the kids, a boy and a girl. The Wilts, I believe their name was. Exit Four. I killed them long before I started the fire. So don’t worry yourself. They’ll never feel the flames.”
“W-what?” He tried to sit up again, but I shoved him back down, hard.
“They were Exit Four. You are Exit Five. Hold still.”
I pulled the knife from my jacket and cut his throat. There wasn’t as much blood as I’d expected, most of it already having leaked out while I kept him talking. I wiped the knife in the grass and placed it back in my coat. Then I fished out his wallet and found Robin and Kurt’s address and phone number. I smiled. They lived just off the Interstate, at Exit Twenty-One.
Twenty-One. And this was Five. Sixteen more exits, and I would keep my promise to him.
I walked on into the night, the distant wail of fire sirens following in my wake.
I am an exit.
STORY NOTE: Many readers tell me this story is one of their favorites. The tale came in a single, sudden burst. I usually write to music. The night this was written, I was working on the first draft of my novel Terminal, and listening to Johnny Cas
h’s “Give My Love To Rose” and Nine Inch Nails’ “Mr. Self Destruct”. When the story idea came, it was the perfect fusion of fatigue, music, caffeine, and creative energy. The lyrics from both songs kept running around in my head. I thought about Cash’s protagonist dying along the railroad tracks, begging the stranger to give his love to Rose, while in the background, Trent Reznor whispered “I am an exit.” I wrote the first draft in the next half hour, and the second and final drafts the following day. The story was so well-received that I eventually wrote a sequel to it (which follows).
THIS IS NOT AN EXIT
“You ever kill anyone?”
He licks his lips when he asks me, and I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t really want to know. His eyes dart around the hotel bar before coming back to me. No matter what I say, my answer will barely register with him. The question is perfunctory. He desires the act of confession. He’s killed, and it’s eating at him. It weighs on him. He needs to tell.
“What?” I pretend to be shocked by the question.
The young man is maybe twenty-one or two. Still learning his limits when it comes to alcohol. His slurred words are barely noticeable, but the empty beer bottles in front of him reveal everything. He leans closer, nearly falling off his stool.
“Have you ever killed someone?”
This is his conversation starter. A chance to unburden. Or to brag. This is a beginning.
An entrance.
I close entrances.
The first person I ever killed was named Lawrence. I’ve killed so many people over the years that they blur together—a nameless, faceless conglomerate. But I remember Lawrence. Pale and pasty. Hair on his knuckles. Rheumy eyes. He drove a red Chrysler mini-van and the glove compartment was full of Steely Dan cassettes and porn. Lawrence cried when I cut the sigils into his skin. Mucous bubbled out of his nose and ran into his mouth. Disgusting back then, but oddly amusing now. It brings a smile to my face, like thoughts of a childhood friend or first love.
In the years since, I’ve streamlined my efforts. I no longer bother with sigils or ceremony. I no longer speak the words of closing. The mere act of killing accomplishes my work. Spilling blood closes the doors. I don’t need the rest of the trappings. Indeed, I prefer to act quickly these days. A shot in the dark. A knife to the back. Burn them as they sleep. Over and done. No muss. No fuss. Move on up the highway to the next exit. There are miles to go and doors to close before I rest, and I am getting older. Robert Frost took the road less traveled, but I take all roads. Speed and efficiency are the key. I didn’t know that, back when I killed Lawrence.
I know it now.
I am swift. My avatar is a hummingbird. Metaphorically speaking, I move through the night at eighty miles per second, traveling from blossom to blossom, taking their nectar and then moving on.
I tell the young man none of this. Instead, I say, “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”
“I have. A few years ago.”
I sip my scotch and dab my lips with the napkin. When I respond, I try not to sound disinterested.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Seriously. I’m not bullshitting you.”
I say nothing, waiting, hoping he’ll unburden himself soon so that I can go to my room and sleep. Dawn is coming and I must be on my way.
He signals for another round. We sit in silence until the bartender brings our drinks. The man glances at my half-full glass of scotch and I smile. He sets the drinks down and helps another customer. The young man picks up his beer and drinks half the bottle. I watch his throat work. He puts the bottle down and wipes the condensation on his jeans.
“My girlfriend’s name was Janey,” he says. “I was eighteen. She was fourteen. I mean, that’s only four year’s difference, but people acted like I was a fucking child molester or something. I wasn’t, dog. I knew Janey since we were little kids. Our parents took us to the same church and shit. We were in love. Her old man freaked when he found out we were doing it. Somehow—I don’t know how—he got the password to Janey’s MySpace page and he read our messages. He told her she wasn’t allowed to see me anymore. Then he called my folks and said if I tried to contact Janey again, he’d call the cops and have me arrested as a pedophile. He actually called me that—like I was one of those sick fucks Chris Matthews busts on that show. You know?”
I don’t. The only television programming I watch is PBS, and only when the hotel I’m staying in offers it. But I nod just the same, encouraging him to continue. I hope he’ll hurry up. I am bored.
“Well, Janey sent me a text message the next day. Her dad found out and he smacked the shit out of her. So I went over there and knocked on the door, and when he answered, I told him I wanted to talk. He was mad. So mad that he was fucking shaking, yo. But he let me in. Said we were gonna have this out once and for all, and then he never wanted to see me again. He made Janey stay upstairs in her room. I heard her and her mother arguing. I asked if I could get a glass of water and he said yeah. So when he went into the kitchen to get it, I followed him. They must have just gone grocery shopping, because there were a bunch of empty plastic bags lying on the counter. I picked up two—double-bagged, like they do for heavy stuff, you know? There was a little bit of blood inside, probably from steak or hamburger or something. I remember that. And while her dad’s back was still turned, I slipped those bags over his head and smothered the motherfucker.”
There is no regret in his voice as he says this. There is only grim satisfaction. His smile is a death mask. He takes another sip of beer and then continues.
“Upstairs, Janey and her mom were still hollering at each other, so I grabbed a knife from the drawer and tip-toed out of the kitchen. Janey’s little brother, Mikey, was standing there. He screamed, so I stabbed him, just to shut him up.” He chuckles, but there is no humor in it. “Yeah, I shut him the fuck up, alright. I remember when I pulled the knife out, blood just started gushing. It was hot and sticky, you know?”
I do indeed. I know all too well what another’s blood feels like on your hands. How it smells. How it steams on cold nights and turns black when spilled on asphalt. How it dries on your flesh like mud, and can be peeled away like dead skin.
I tell him none of this. Instead, I finish my scotch and reach for the second glass. I hold it in my hands, not drinking.
“How did that make you feel?” I ask.
He blinks, as if he’d forgotten I was there.
“W-what?”
“Killing your girlfriend’s brother. How did you feel about it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t really feel anything at the time, except maybe scared. Janey’s mom heard him scream. By the time Mikey hit the floor, she was running down the stairs, hollering at Janey to call 911. So I chased her down and shut her ass up, too. I didn’t really think about it. I just did it. The news said I stabbed her mom forty-seven times, but I didn’t count.”
I arch my eyebrows, bemused. Forty-seven is a powerful number. It has meaning in certain occult circles, but I doubt he is aware of the significance.
“I went into Janey’s room. She was hiding in the closet. Crying and shit. I told her we could be together now. We could leave, before anybody figured out what had happened. Take her parents car and just fucking drive, dog. Just hit the road and see where it took us. Go live somewhere else. Together.”
I know where that road leads, but I don’t tell him that, either.
“But Janey... she... she wouldn’t stop hitting me. I slapped back and the knife...”
A shadow of genuine emotion—the first I’ve seen him express—flashes his face. I raise my glass and drain it. Then I set it on the bar and slide two twenty-dollar bills beneath it.
“I’ve got the tab.” I rise from the stool.
“Yo!” He grabs my arm, and I allow him to pull me close. “You gonna call the cops? You gonna tell somebody?”
I smile. “No. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Bullshit. You’r
e gonna go outside and call someone.”
I grab his hand and squeeze. Hard. He flinches. My face is stone as I step away.
“I’ll do no such thing,” I say. “I have heard your tale and it means nothing to me. Do you think yourself some great murderer? You’re not. You’re an amateur.”
“Fuck you.”
“On the contrary. Fuck you. You play at being a killer, but have you murdered anyone since your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Well, there you go. If you really want to transcend, you’ll go out tonight and continue your spree.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No. I am the last sane individual in the world.”
I leave him sitting there and walk away. I leave the hotel bar and instead of returning to my room, I sit on the smoker’s bench outside and keep careful watch on the lobby through the big glass doors. Out on the highway, miles from here, a big rig’s air brakes moan. They sound like a ghost.
I only kill out of necessity. I only do what needs to be done. There are doors in our world, and things can come through them. What is an entrance, but an exit? I shut those doors. I close exits.
Eventually, I see him stumble through the lobby, heading for the elevators. He is far too inebriated to notice me re-enter the hotel. He just leans against the wall, waiting for the doors to open. I smile and nod at the desk clerk. The doors slide open. He steps inside, staring at his feet. I join him.
The doors close.
“What floor?” he asks, still looking at his shoes.
I do not answer.
He looks up and I cut his throat before he can scream. It is a practiced stroke. Perfunctory. Clinical. But I grin as I do it, and my heart beats faster than it has in many years.
I am breaking my rules, just this once. I am killing not out of necessity, but out of justice. Out of mercy. This is about putting down a rabid animal.
This is not an exit.
But I am.
STORY NOTE: This tale tells you a little bit more about The Exit (as I’ve come to call the serial killer)—but not so much as to reveal everything about him. Who is he? Why is he killing people at highway exits? Well, I know, but I’m not telling. Not yet, anyway. He was supposed to appear in my novel A Gathering of Crows, but about halfway through the first draft of that novel, I realized that he was stealing the show, so I went back, changed the plot, and wrote him out. But you will see him again, in a novel-length work, and the rest of his secrets will be revealed there.
