To the Vanishing Point

by Alan Dean Foster

  "I wish we knew more about Mr. Begay, though."

  "We know he’s human. In a place like this that’s good enough for me. And Mouse trusts him."

  "I thought you didn’t trust Mouse."

  "I don’t yet. Not entirely."

  Burnfingers had stopped. They crowded close behind him.

  "Wait here." They complied as he disappeared around a corner. Minutes ticked toward oblivion. Frank was starting to worry that they were being set up when their newfound friend finally returned. "All clear. Come quietly."

  Following him into another hallway, they passed something that lay in a heap off in a corner. It wore a red-orange uniform over bright green skin. A single fang protruded from the upper jaw. Both eyes were closed tight and the row of spines that ran from the base of the skull to the sacrum lay limply against the monster’s back. Green blood trickled from the misshapen forehead.

  "Did you do that?" Fear and admiration mixed in Wendy’s query.

  "Had to. He was on station here and I couldn’t talk him away. So I waited until he looked elsewhere and then I clobbered him."

  Frank’s gaze lingered on the unconscious beast as they hurried past. "He’ll be pissed when he comes to."

  "This whole place will be in an uproar when you are discovered missing. They will search the station first. That should allow us a good head start."

  "Won’t they see the motor home leave?" Alicia wondered.

  Burnfingers shook his head; a terse, economical gesture. "Not unless some are standing around out in the parking lot. There is no reason for them to do so. They will expect you to be wandering around lost inside the building, which is exactly what you would be doing without my help."

  "It just occurred to me," Frank said, "that if they find out you’ve helped us and this doesn’t work, what they do to us will be nothing compared to what they’ll do to you."

  "Don’t worry about me. Remember, I am crazy."

  "You can still feel."

  "Pain is only a different state of mind. You sound like an old woman, Sonderberg. They are not going to catch me, and they are not going to catch you, either."

  Then they were running past the solid quartz door Burnfingers opened for them, out into the lot. Across the road, the endless line of vehicles containing the Damned awaited their turn to pass through the Gates. Screams and moans emanated from within as panicky, fearful faces hammered on locked windows.

  A few patrol cruisers were parked nearby. There was also something that looked like a giant toaster on wheels. Which, Frank mused uneasily, it might well have been. Their motor home gleamed whitely against the stark surroundings, as out of place in that parking lot as a beluga whale in a school of salmon.

  Frank was relieved to find it still locked. He dropped the keys twice before he got the door open. Everyone piled in. Still no sign of alarm from within the station. The lot was devoid of officers, while the demons who worked the line of traffic across the street were too busy to pay attention to anything going on behind their backs.

  Frank slipped gratefully into the driver’s seat and jammed the key into the ignition.

  "What if it doesn’t start?" Alicia whispered tensely.

  Frank growled at her as he turned the key. The engine turned over immediately, a warm, purring sound.

  Burnfingers was standing between the two captain’s chairs, watching the station. "Okay. Move out, but not too fast."

  The lot was big enough to give Frank plenty of room to maneuver. He’d backed up, swung around, and was about to pull out into the road when something with four eyes and vestigial leathery bat wings came running toward them, waving its clawed hands urgently.

  "What should I do?" Frank said tightly.

  "Stop."

  "Stop? But we — "

  "Be calm, Mr. Sonderberg. Roll down your window."

  Frank complied reluctantly, forced himself not to recoil from the stinking monstrosity that leaned close for a look at them. It could do so easily because it was at least nine feet tall. The nasty expression it wore relaxed when it espied a familiar face.

  "Janitor, what you do here with these humans?"

  Burnfingers grinned. "These here tourists took a wrong turn back up the highway apiece. Honest mistake. I’m giving them a guide out."

  "That so?" The winged apparition made an unpleasant gurgling noise. "I heard somethin' about that." It rested a clawed hand on the windowsill. Frank did not look at it. Those thick scaly fingers could easily pluck him right out of his seat. "Whatsa matter? Don’t you folks like our hospitality?"

  "We’re on vacation." Somehow Frank found the wherewithal to talk calmly and rationally. "We were on our way to a warm destination, but not one quite this warm."

  Again the gurgling laugh, followed by a display of four-inch-long teeth in a gaping mouth. "Let you go, huh?"

  "That’s right," said Burnfingers, nodding. "No reason to keep them. It was a mistake in traffic control."

  "All right." The tall demon’s drool dripped down the inside of the door. Frank quietly moved his left foot clear of the noisome liquid. "Seems a shame to hafta let such sweet people go." It shrugged, an unexpectedly human gesture. "But if that’s the decision, it not my business. What you going do with them?"

  "They’re a little nervous," Burnfingers explained easily, "so I’m just going to show them the on ramp. I’ll walk back. I can use the exercise."

  The demon nodded once, leered at Frank. "See you folks in a few decades, right?"

  "You never know," said Frank, astonished by his facile reply.

  The hand which looked capable of lifting the motor home off the pavement released the windowsill. "I’d tell you to be good, but that would be bad for business. Right, Burnfingers?"

  "Not really my department." Burnfingers smiled and waved as the demon returned to his duties across the road. Still smiling and waving, he whispered to Frank. "Okay. Now go like hell, Frank Sonderberg."

  The partly paralyzed Frank put the motor home back in drive and thromped the accelerator. Kicking up sand and gravel, the big vehicle clawed its way back onto the access road. Their lane was deserted, that opposite bumper-to-bumper. Frank was glad all the traffic was on his side so Alicia wouldn’t have to see what was taking place inside some of the cars and vans waiting their turn to deliver the condemned to their fate.

  "Here," said Burnfingers. "Don’t miss the ramp. There is no other."

  "I’m on it." Frank swung the wheel to the right. The motor home plunged down the on ramp, picking up speed as it descended. They were at fifty by the time they hit the empty freeway. No traffic on their side, but plenty headed in the other direction, slowing as it prepared to exit.

  "Made it!" Frank shouted gleefully, pushing them up to sixty.

  "Maybe." Burnfingers was staring back the way they’d come, his eyes narrowed.

  A moment later they heard the sirens.

  "Oh, God," Alicia was mumbling, "oh, God, not again, not now!"

  Grim-faced, Frank tried to shove the accelerator pedal through the floor. The motor home raced past sixty-five, heading toward a futile seventy. The tri-axled beast couldn’t outrun a family compact, much less a highway patrol cruiser fueled by Lord knew what.

  "We aren’t going back with them," he told his wife quietly. "No matter what. Tell the kids to strap in. Get everybody secured." She nodded, left her seat to comply. Frank kept his eyes fastened to the highway ahead as he spoke. "Burnfingers?"

  "Very right, Mr. Sonderberg. You keep going. I do not think I could talk to them anymore." Frank sensed rather than saw the big Navajo straighten and turn curiously. "Hey there, missy, what are you doing?"

  A rush of warm air reached the front of the motor home. Someone must have opened the big rear window, back in the master bedroom. Frank was about to protest when his ears were filled with a high-pitched quaver. The single note rose and fell but slightly, hardly varying at all in pitch or intensity.

  His attention was diverted by something that spanged a
gainst his sideview mirror. The top half, glass and metal alike, had been melted. He wondered what kind of bullets their pursuers used.

  Enough of the mirror remained to show the half-dozen patrol cars that were pursuing. Sirens wailed, rotating lights flared threateningly, and the sickly sunlight gleamed on bright red-orange hoods. Rising above the hellish cacophony was Mouse’s single, unwavering note. No mysterious words to this song, no elaborate contrapuntal harmonics: just one note sung with all the power at her command.

  Their pursuit began to fall by the wayside, one car after another pulling over or stopping dead on the pavement. Two brushed past each other at high speed, causing the one on the left to veer sharply. It slid onto the sand shoulder that bordered the slow lane and rolled several times. Behind the retreating motor home a dull boom was chased by a pillar of smoke.

  By now the relentless unvarying note was sending shivers through Frank’s whole body. He clung determinedly to the wheel. Everyone else was trembling, too, but the effect on the pursuing demons was far worse. Even so, one last cruiser hung grimly on their tail, closing ground between them even as the last of its companions screeched to a halt behind it.

  Pulling alongside, the screaming din of its siren penetrated the glass to claw at Frank’s soul. Knowing that the motor home was ten times heavier, he considered swerving sharply in an attempt to shove their assailant off the road. Even as the thought occurred to him, Alicia was letting out a warning shout.

  He ducked and something smashed through the glass where his head had been a moment earlier, forming a perfect hole half an inch in diameter. There was a thump atop the roof. Frank jerked instinctively and they slid across into the fast lane, tires screeching in protest. The move forced the remaining cruiser into the sandy median strip. It spun out and stalled.

  Mouse had stopped singing, unwilling or unable to hold the saving note any longer. Scratching sounds moved from the roof to the walls. Then he saw it, clinging to the side of the motor home and grinning at him through Alicia’s window. Two long, vampirish fangs protruded from the lower jaw of the man-sized cadaver. It stared at him out of tiny, evil button eyes. Then he saw the red revolver. He saw why Mouse’s song had not affected it.

  It had no ears.

  "No," he whispered as the decaying finger tightened on the trigger.

  The shot wasn’t fired. A look of surprise came over the creature’s face as it turned toward the rear of the motor home. As it tried to reaim the gun, its head exploded. Green blood and bits of steaming flesh splattered the window. The decapitated body clung to the metal a moment longer before dropping away.

  A dull roar had preceded the execution. Burnfingers Begay closed the rear window he’d been leaning out of and came forward, his expression one of solemn satisfaction. In his right fist he held a handgun the size of a small cannon. While Frank tried to slow his heart, the Indian removed a box of cartridges from his backpack and calmly reloaded the massive pistol.

  "Four-fifty-four Casull," he announced in reply to Frank’s unvoiced question. "Not as pretty as our lady singer, but effective in its own way. Even the most eloquent sentence can benefit from proper punctuation."

  He finished the loading and slipped the pistol into a leather holster, which he carefully placed back in his pack. Frank caught a brief glimpse of the holster. Arcane Navajo symbols and floating stars had been engraved in the cowhide.

  "I wouldn’t think that would be very effective in a place like this. I thought you had to use black magic or something special, like Mouse’s song."

  Burnfingers let out a grunt as he closed the cartridge box. "There are all kinds of magic, my friend. Cold lead works very well in Hades."

  "Another gift from your father?"

  Burnfingers smiled. "No. This I bought for myself, in a pawnshop in Flagstaff. It is not traditional, but I find it comforting. Its chant is short."

  Alicia sat up in the seat opposite her husband’s, moaned when she got a look at what had smeared itself all over her window.

  "They let you bring a gun in with you?" Frank’s tone was disbelieving.

  "It was part of my personal goods. Why take it away from me? They knew I dared not use it back there."

  Mouse was gulping lemonade from the refrigerator. The effort of holding the single note for so long had put a severe strain on her throat. "This will not stop them. They won’t give up so easily."

  Burnfingers leaned forward for a look at one of the rearview mirrors. "I know they will not, but we have a good start now. In a little while I think we will be out of their jurisdiction."

  "That’s no guarantee of safety. Not when the fabric of existence is coming apart. Nothing is as it should be. Realities are crossing unpredictably. Not even Hell is stable anymore."

  "Maybe not, but we have someone who I think can drive his way even out of Hell." He clapped a huge hand on Frank’s shoulder.

  Frank felt as though he’d just been knighted.

  After a while he was able to stop glancing at the mirrors. There’d been no indication of further pursuit for some time. Wendy and Steven filled glasses with ice and soda for everyone. The longer they drove, the more the land outside grew normal. The endless procession of the Damned shrank until the oncoming lanes were empty again save for the occasional car or truck. Cacti straightened, green and brown, once more healthy succulents instead of human beings frozen in poses of eternal torment. The sky brightened and there were no unwelcome stains on the pavement.

  "Check it out." He gestured forward. They were coming up fast on another road sign. It gave only the distance remaining to Las Vegas and several small intervening towns. There was no mention of a Hades Junction or anything like it.

  "We’ll make it by tonight." He settled back against the padding, the feeling of relief almost painful. "Everything’s okay again. No gambling for a few days, though. I think we’ve done enough gambling for a while." He laughed, but it was a forced sound. Alicia knew it but smiled back anyway.

  He glanced around. "Wendy! Why don’t you put a tape in and turn up your machine so we can all hear?"

  His daughter didn’t try to hide her surprise. "You want to listen to my music?"

  "Why not? Come on, put something really radical on. After what we’ve been through a little heavy metal would be soothing."

  "I don’t listen to that much metal, Pops."

  Pops. How delighted he was to hear that mildly contemptuous appellation once more. "Well, then, whatever you’re into right now."

  "Okay, you asked for it." She removed her earphones and turned up the volume on the compact recorder. Soon they were rolling down the highway to the accompanying strains of Huey Lewis, Bon Jovi, and Cyndi Lauper.

  "Real food." Frank whispered as he drove. "Gaming. Television. Civilization."

  "It’s funny," Alicia was saying, "but we can’t ever tell anybody what happened to us. No one would ever believe."

  "I’m having a hard time believing myself." He raised his voice. "Hey, Steven! Why don’t you come up here and join your folks, kiddo?"

  "That’s cool, Dad. I’d rather stay back here for a while, if it’s okay."

  "Sure it’s okay." Despite his son’s smile Frank knew the boy had suffered badly from their experience, maybe worse than any of them. Just seeing parents threatened could traumatize a sensitive child deeply. "There’s ice cream in the freezer."

  "I know, Dad." The boy smiled wanly. "It’s all right. I’m okay."

  Mouse started to turn. "Perhaps I can help him."

  "No." Burnfingers stopped her. "It’s been a long time since I had the chance to talk to a worthy child. The few who passed me in that hot place deserved to be there."

  Mouse stared up into his eyes, then nodded sagely. "You are crazy. No wonder you were able to keep your sanity."

  Burnfingers just smiled cryptically and walked back through the motor home until he came to Steven’s couch. He sat down on the floor and crossed his legs.

  "Troubles, boy?"

  Steven
glanced past him, toward the front of the vehicle where his parents sat. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I’m still scared, Mr. Begay."

  "Burnfingers will do." The boy’s knuckles were white where his fingers clutched at the upholstery. "They cannot bother us no more, Steven. Mouse’s singing made most of the bad things give up. I took care of the rest."

  "You sure did." Steven’s grip relaxed slightly and a flicker of interest replaced some of the terror in his eyes. "You shot 'em, didn’t you?"

  "That’s just what I did. Want to see my gun?"

  The boy drew back slightly. "No! I’m afraid of guns."

  "No reason to be afraid, if you know what you are doing. You’re not afraid of a hammer, are you? Or a saw?"

  "N-no."

  "Well, a gun is just another kind of tool."

  "I never thought of it like that before."

  "That is because you live in the city, where people think of guns wrongly. Tell me what else you are afraid of."

  "Fire. I’m scared of fire. That’s one reason why I was so frightened back there."

  Burnfingers shook his head and chuckled. "Another tool. Fire is a gift the gods gave man long ago. If you learn to know it and how to make use of it, then it will be your good friend forever. There is no reason to be frightened of it."

  Steven sounded uncertain. "Mom always warned me to be careful of matches and the stove and things like that. I just don’t feel comfortable around them." Burnfingers noted that the boy’s hands had finally relaxed, no longer dug for dear life at the fabric of the couch.

  "Be careful, of course. But friendly, too. There’s more than one reason why I am called Burnfingers Begay. Want to see a trick?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Just between you and me. Not for your mom or dad or anyone else."

  Steven peered past the big stranger. His parents were in the front seats, chatting to each other. Wendy had her eyes closed as her feet tapped time to the music. Despite not reacting to the rhythm, Mouse looked as if she was listening. He turned back to the powerful, soft-spoken man who had saved him and his family, and suddenly he was no longer afraid.