by Stan Rogal
“Yeah, weird.”
“Yeah.”
“At least it didn’t hit anything or kill anyone.”
“No.”
“At least not this time.”
“Yeah, right.”
They both nod and return to the task of crowd control.
“Move along, please. Nothing to see here. Move along.”
At police headquarters, detectives Maxwell and Shorter study a wall map indicating a section of highway framed in heavy black felt pen. Maxwell sticks a pin near the intersection of Eglinton Avenue and Black Creek Drive. The pin has a round, red head. Maxwell steps back.
“That’s the furthest south so far,” Shorter says.
“Yeah. Probably why we were able to get to it before someone else beat us to the punch.” Maxwell scratches his shoulder. “They send it off to the lab?”
Shorter rolls her eyes and chuckles. “Sure. But, what do they expect to find? It’s a big rubber tire around a metal rim. Same as the rest.”
“Yeah.” Maxwell remains studying the map, maybe half-expecting the pieces of the puzzle to fall together with the addition of the latest pin. “I know. But I’ll tell you what, somebody better find out something and quick. The brass is getting itchy. This is the fifty-seventh wheel-off in less than a year.”
“Reported,” Shorter says.
“Right, right. Reported. And every one of the bastards along the 401 between the Allen Express and the 400. It’s like a Devil’s Triangle of flying wheels.”
“Don’t say that too loud.” Shorter grins impishly.
“Say what?”
“Devil’s Triangle. The press would have a field day and the phones wouldn’t stop ringing.”
“Yeah. As it is, that stretch of freeway’s become a sort of Mecca for every religious fanatico and New Age nutball in the country.”
“And points beyond. I hear they’ve set up charter flights from as far away as Australia. It’s become something of a phenomenon.”
“Spare me the gruesome details, please. It’s bad enough these lunatics are lining the road hoping for a personal glimpse of the miracle.” He spits the word ‘miracle.’ “But, they’re interfering with our investigation by stealing the wheels out from under us.” Maxwell purses his lips and makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “What do you suppose they do with them, anyway? Sure as hell don’t use ‘em as swings in the backyard.”
“Set them up as shrines, I imagine.”
“What, like in their basements? Most of those suckers wouldn’t even fit through a normal sized door. You think they take a chainsaw to the wall?”
Shorter throws her hands into the air, like: Maybe, who knows?
At this moment, Gerry Taylor, a reporter for the Star, rushes into the office. He always rushes into the office, even if it’s simply to say hello. He’s about five foot eight, stocky build, nimble, full of energy, type who loves to hear himself talk. Dresses impeccably in the morning — ironed bright white shirt, burgundy silk tie, polished black shoes, sweet breath, clean armpits — and by coffee break he’s in sweaty disarray: shirt untucked, stained and wrinkled, tie loose, shoes scuffed, searching for a bathroom in order to gargle and spray.
Otherwise personable and friendly, depending on your inclinations.
“Hey, guys! What’s the scoop?” This is Gerry’s classic reporter line.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Maxwell sits his lanky frame in a chair and clasps his hands behind his neck. He’s about thirty-eight years old and going prematurely bald.
Grass doesn’t grow on a busy street, he says.
“Waste of time. Sarah, you look lovely. Max, you’re as charming as ever.”
Outside their jobs, the three are casual friends, get together for a drink or a bite after work, maybe take in the odd movie. At one time, years ago, there was even a romantic rivalry between Gerry and Max over Sarah. Though perhaps this rivalry only existed in the minds of the two men since Sarah never made overtures one way or another. At any rate, it was over now. After Gerry’s initial attempts were met with a cool (though civil) reception, he threw in the towel, leaving the way open, he figured, to Max. Then, nothing much materialized between these two either. A few dates, that was it, otherwise a complete washout in terms of establishing any kind of intimate and/or permanent personal relationship.
Gerry never asked why; didn’t see the point. After all, it was still the three of them together as friends. That was the main thing, so probably better for all involved in the end. Especially since they often need to work together and who needs the added drama of sexual politics getting in the mix? Besides which, Max is the quiet sort and likely wouldn’t have told Gerry even he did ask.
Curious though just the same.
“Any news on the latest miraculous event?”
“Put a sock in it, Gerry.”
“What? No believers in the house?” He turns from Max to Sarah. “Sarah? I’m ashamed. Good Catholic girl like you? Your mothers should’ve raised you better.”
“Lapsed Catholic, I’m afraid.”
“No such thing. Once in the fold always in the fold. It’s like walking around with a bell around your neck. Just takes the slightest breeze to ring it and, ding, you’re back on your knees reciting one hail Mary, two hail Marys …”
“Uh-huh, I see.” Sarah fiddles with the gold cross dangled from her necklace. “Well, there’s nothing to report. The wheel’s been hauled off to the lab.” She leans her butt against the edge of the desk and crosses her arms. She has short thick legs, wide hips, a slim waist, long torso and small breasts. She always wears her skirts a few inches below her knees and her blouses buttoned to the top. Her face is roundish with brilliant sad green eyes, chunky chopped red hair, little makeup and pensive full lips. In fact, her lips are her finest feature in that they physically reflect every thought and emotion that runs through her. As now, when they pucker impishly toward Gerry, recognizing that beyond or behind his playful questioning, he is methodically inspecting her body. The former fire that burned inside him may have been reduced to a mere spark over time but it wasn’t out completely and it certainly didn’t prevent him from enjoying some small amount of sexual innuendo and harmless teasing.
Or so he figures. Sarah lifts one foot in front of the other and locks her ankles.
Gerry tosses a look straight back at her. Max catches it all and sighs: Whatever. Gerry being Gerry and par for the course. Some people never learn.
“What about the driver’s story?” Gerry closes in on Sarah. “He claims that the truck had been fully inspected and passed with flying colours.”
“They all claim that,” Sarah says.
“I checked. It was, and it did.” Gerry’s face leans into Sarah’s.
“Then you know as much as we do.” Max rises from his chair and grabs his coat. “Let’s go out and get a sandwich.”
Gerry lets out a laugh, pulls away from Sarah and charges over to the map. “But even you have to admit, it’s all beginning to look more than a little strange.”
“How so?” Sarah asks.
Sarah and Max enjoyed listening to Gerry repeat the obvious. He had a talent for it. It occurred each time he came in to discuss a story and Sarah wondered whether Gerry was aware of this habit or not. Max had his own theory: Like most reporters, Gerry was a detective wannabe and always considered himself one step ahead.
“Get serious — no flying wheels anywhere else in the country and we’ve got close to sixty in the past year?” Gerry covers the floor.
“There’ve been reports …” Sarah says, raising her eyebrows.
“Unsubstantiated. What about that group that claims responsibility?”
“The Legion of the Almighty? You think they’re snapping metal bolts using the power of their minds?” Max says, laughing.
“They say this is an omen from God; a warning that He is about to destroy Toronto the wicked, with them leading the charge.”
“Like Sodom and Gomorrah, yeah?” Max asks.
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“Precisely.”
“To be fair,” Sarah says. “There are other groups that claim it’s a sign of fundamental change; a rebirth, if you will, and that we’re actually entering a stage of renewed hope, freedom and eternal joy; ecstatic love.” Her words and tone cause the men’s jaws to drop. They are truly dumbfounded and amazed. They stare at her then at each other.
“What?” Max says, as if escaping from a dream. “You mean, like, wheels escaping their bonds, freeing themselves from the tyranny of a cruel, corrupt, corporate and mechanistic society or something?” He uses his fingers as if to put the words in quotes. “C’mon. Give me a break, please.”
“Sarah, the eternal optimist,” Gerry says. “Well done. Bravo!”
The men laugh. Sarah sighs and turns her gaze in the direction of the map.
“You hear what they’re up to now?” Gerry revs up once again.
“Who?” Max asks.
“The Legion of the Almighty, who’ve we been talkin’ about? They’ve set up a twenty-four hour candlelight vigil around the grave of that guy who was killed.”
There has been one fatality to date. A man in his early thirties, returning home from working the late shift. He and his van were met head-on by a flying wheel. Police pronounced him DOA. Around his neck he wore a St. Christopher medallion.
“Yeah, I heard. I mean, what’s that all about?” There’s irritation in Max’s voice, though perhaps tinged with a hint of lurid intrigue at the same time.
“They figure his body will be resurrected, flaming sword in hand, prepared to slay the infidels. The Second Coming. Fire and blood.” Gerry makes a mock, broad swipe with his arm, past Sarah’s neck. She twists her lips and glares.
“Great. That’s just great.” The phone rings and Max answers. “Right. Thanks,” he says, and hangs up. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“What’s up?” Sarah asks.
“The Legion of the Almighty have lain claim to their martyr, now apparently everyone else wants theirs.”
“What is it?” Gerry pulls out a pad and pencil.
“There was another wheel-off on the 401 near the Allen Express. When they saw it happening, about a half-dozen people from various factions suddenly broke from the crowd and tried to step into the wheel’s path.”
“Anyone hurt?” Sarah asks.
“Not by the wheel. A driver coming from the other direction had to swerve to miss the crazed on-rushers. She ran off the side of the road and suffered minor bruises and a few broken ribs.”
“It’s always the innocent bystander,” Gerry says.
“What are we supposed to do? We can’t clear them all away. There must be a few thousand of them scattered along the highway and the numbers are growing every day.”
Sarah is correct on this score. Within hours of the media announcing the latest development, thousands more make the pilgrimage to Toronto, with many camping out on both sides of the 401, some in lean-tos and tents, others in vans and motor homes. As they settle in, they begin to pray in their own way and toward their own ends. Most are merely passive onlookers, but several hope to be one of the chosen to be martyred beneath the treads of a flying wheel. Still others arrive to combine the spiritual with the monetary, setting up food and concession stands. Racks of cheap, fake souvenirs and tawdry T-shirts are available. Fortune tellers are plying their trade. Crafts people are out in full force, peddling everything from holy rocks to God’s Eyes to matchstick constructions of Mack trucks with missing wheels to glow-in-the-dark wheel nut rosaries.
No one has the faintest idea what might occur, if anything, but each wants to be there when it does. The police are powerless. It’s impossible to remove what has become a small city cloistered along the shores of an asphalt river. Threats are of no consequence. Tickets given for breaking various bylaws are immediately tossed on a pile of similar papers or crushed and thrown into makeshift fires. No one gives a good flying fuck about the law. The law is passé; it’s obsolete; it’s gone bust. Whether awaiting a tragic end or a brighter beginning, the devoted are convinced that the time is near and earthly rules and regulations no longer hold dominion over them.
A plan proposed to ban traffic along the infamous stretch of highway is vetoed by members of City Council. They claim that, not only is it necessary to maintain the free flow of the artery in terms of the greater public good but business, otherwise, is booming due to the flying wheel phenomenon. The city is making money — a shitload of money. While the camped pilgrims themselves are required to purchase basic necessities, the entire city and surrounding area is packed with transient tourists eager to witness the goings on from a safe distance. Hotels and bus lines are even providing day trips, boxed lunches and other refreshments included. One way or another, everyone wants their share of the action; everyone demands their little piece of heaven.
“Has everyone gone crazy?” Max asks. “Or is it just me?” He paces the office.
“I don’t know,” Sarah says. “Maybe there’s more to it.”
“Not you now, too?”
“Remember the guy who was killed?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. We tried to get his parents to press charges against the trucking company, right? They declined. Instead, they teamed up with the Legion of the Almighty and joined the vigil. Also a rumour some Hollywood agent offered them a cool million for their story if the son comes back to life, which doesn’t surprise me these days. Sick.”
“His name was James Corrigan. Initials J.C., right? He worked for a place that made kitchen cabinets, making him a sort of carpenter. Get it?”
“What?” Max shoots her a look. “Oh. Oh! OK, OK! Yeah, I get it, I get it, already! I mean, are you kidding me, or what? Huh? You’re kidding me, right? C’mon Sarah, get real.”
“I’m just saying …”
“I know what you’re saying. I know. Now, you get this — James Corrigan is dead. His head went through a fucking car windshield and he ain’t coming back. No way, no how. Furthermore, the next time a wheel comes loose, there’ll be a few more martyrs added to the list. Do you want that?” Max stares at Sarah, who doesn’t answer. There’s a look on her face that Max is familiar with and it scares him. “Sarah? Sarah?”
“I don’t know. If it be God’s will …” She runs her fingertips along her gold neck chain and rubs the cross.
Max bites his lip. He isn’t much into religion himself, but he knows Sarah has strong leanings, though he’s unsure exactly how far or in what way. It was something they could never come to terms with in the past and a big reason why their attempt at romance was short-lived. That and the fact he couldn’t figure out how to please her. On any level, sexual or otherwise. She always came across as generally needy, he just didn’t know for what. Or from whom. He had to admit, for all the years they’ve known each other she’s still pretty much a blank to him in terms of who she was and what she wants.
He draws a cigarette from a half-empty pack, lights up and inhales. Sarah watches with genuine curiosity. Max quit smoking over five years ago.
“There’s no smoking here, y’know? It’s a law,” Sarah says.
“Yeah? So, call a cop.”
There have been no incidents of flying wheels for four straight days. The crowd’s mood has definitely soured. Previous feelings of gaiety have turned to gloom; in some cases, anger. To make things worse, it’s August and the temperature is sitting in the high twenties to low thirties. Adults scream at each other, parents scream at children, children scream at pets. Fights break out for no particular reason. Close quarters and poor sanitation practices result in the air being filled with an acrid stench. Garbage is piled everywhere attracting flies and rats. People are literally walking in their own urine and feces. The natives are getting restless. There is a general attitude that something major must occur soon one way or another, pro or con, otherwise murder, bloody murder.
And it does.
At the crossroads of the Allen Express and the 401 a lone woman appears. She’s
dressed in rags, her head is shaved and her forehead is smeared with a cross of ashes. She speaks to the throng using a police bullhorn. The woman is Sarah Shorter.
“Listen to me,” she says, wailing. “God refuses to reveal Himself to you because you have offended Him. You have taken His chosen sacred place and defiled it. There are people here who do not truly believe, but come merely to satisfy their own personal greed. The money changers must be cast from the temple.” Sarah grabs the edge of a patio umbrella and topples a hot dog stand. “The merchants must be driven from the sight of God.” She overturns a jewellery case and pulls down a display of souvenir T-shirts adorned with a picture of a giant wheel topped by a halo. Before anyone can react, she upsets a dozen or more other cases containing everything from food to tattoo decals to Tarot cards. Many cheer her actions while most stand by in shocked amazement. Suddenly, a semi roars into view. Arms automatically shoot skyward — pick me, pick me — and everyone freezes to witness the semi’s approach. The single body part that moves on any one individual is a set of praying lips.
“Oh my God, oh dear God, oh God, please accept this most wretched creature as the instrument of your great plan …”
The semi covers ground and disappointment can be read on the faces of those passed by (or passed up, as the case may be) as no wheel detaches to transport someone to the promised land. Sarah allows for no such twist of fate and refuses to wait for the perfect alignment of stars. Instead, she lets out a mighty whoop, dashes onto the highway and throws herself in front of the huge rig. Her body vanishes instantly beneath the rolling wheels. Hundreds of others immediately follow suit, charge from both sides of the highway toward the truck while the driver attempts unsuccessfully to steer clear of the onslaught.
“What the fuck!” he yells. “Get outta the fucking way! Get outta …”
Too late. By the time he grinds his truck to a halt, at least a dozen bodies lie dead: scattered, bloodied and broken both on the road and blown off to the side, their mouths ripped into grotesque smiles across their faces.
