"There is no 'front'," his dad would tell him. "Sometimes, you're right, there is an accident, but usually there's just too many cars for the size of the freeway and the lanes get congested and that causes the rest of the cars to slow down."
"But the traffic jam doesn't go on forever," Coleman would say. "There has to be a beginning. There has to be a car that's at the front of it."
"There is no front," his dad would repeat.
And Coleman would nod, pretending to understand, though he really didn't.
Now, flying over the Santa Ana Freeway in the station's helicopter, he looked down at the winding snake of traffic that snarled through the city below. Early morning sunlight glinted off thousands of windshields, creating what looked like a sparkling river.
The pilot glanced over at him. "Nervous?"
Coleman shook his head. His palms were a little sweaty, but he wasn't really nervous. This would be his first traffic update for a real radio station, but he'd been doing live broadcasts for the campus station for the past two years, and the prospect of being on the air didn't frighten him a bit.
"Four minutes," the pilot said.
Coleman adjusted his headset and checked his mike. He looked down at the packed freeway below.
At the front of the traffic jam.
He quickly looked over at the pilot. "Do you see that?" Coleman asked, pointing out the copter's window. Four cars, moving in sync, drove forward slowly in an even line across the width of the freeway. In front of the cars, the four lanes were clear, free of traffic. Behind them, vehicles were logjammed for miles.
The pilot glanced down disinterestedly. "Jammers," he said.
"What?" Coleman asked.
"Two minutes to air time." The pilot flipped a series of switches on the panel in front of him. The station's traffic lead-in came over their headsets.
Coleman quickly shuffled his notes, freeway number and jotted down a sentence describing the tangled mess below. He wiped sweaty palms on the legs of his pants. "Traffic blocked on the southbound 605 from the 91 junction to Spring Street," he said into the microphone. And he felt a thrill of excitement pass through him as he realized that many of those car radios on the freeway beneath the chopper were tuned into his voice. "There's a chemical spill in the far right lane of the Golden State Freeway. . ."
***
"I wish I'd had a camera," he told Lena that night. "It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. Four cars, in a perfect row, moving about five miles an hour and blocking traffic all the way to La Mirada."
"Why didn't you mention it in your report?"
"I don't know," he admitted, surprised that he hadn't thought of it before. He leaned back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "Jammers," he said.
Lena looked at him quizzically.
"Jammers. That's what Red called them. Jammers."
"What does that mean?"
Coleman sighed. "I don't know," he said. "I forgot to ask."
***
Traffic was blocked on the southbound San Diego Freeway, and Coleman had the pilot follow the winding ribbon of cars to see how far the traffic jam extended. The helicopter, its front end lowered as it cruised at full speed, passed over Torrance, Long Beach, Seal Beach, and Huntington.
"There it is," Red said, turning in a wide circle over the freeway.
Four cars were moving slowly southward in a straight line, blocking all lanes.
Coleman checked the time. He had fifteen minutes until his first report, and he'd already noted the condition of all necessary freeways. He turned toward Red. "Cruise in a little lower, will you?"
The pilot stared at him as if he'd just asked him to crash the helicopter into the side of a building. "I can't do that," he said.
Coleman frowned. "Why not?"
"The Jammers are down there."
"And just who are these Jammers?"
Red shook his head. "You got a lot to learn, kid" The helicopter swung wide and headed north toward downtown L.A., moving in a straight line instead of following the path of the freeway.
"Where are you going?"
"Back."
"What the hell's going on here?"
The older man said nothing.
"Fine. Then I'll just have to ask Andreas when we get back to the station. He'll tell me."
Red sighed. "I guess I should've warned you ahead of time. I should've laid out the rules of the game. It's my fault, I thought you already knew."
"Knew what?"
"About the Jammers." There was a seriousness to the pilot's tone of voice, a sober, almost grave undercurrent that Coleman had not heard before.
"Who are the Jammers?" Coleman tried to keep his voice firm and steady, but against his wishes it came out sounding hesitant.
"You've seen them. They cause the traffic jams."
"Are they hired by someone?" He was confused. "Do they do this for fun?"
"I don't know who or what they really are. No one does. But they're a fact of life up here. Reporters, pilots, everyone who flies regularly knows about them."
Coleman looked at him. "You're afraid of them, aren't you?"
"You're damn right I am. And you should be, too. They're dangerous. They're. . ." He took a deep breath. "You can't get too close to Jammers, so it's best just to stay away. If you fly too low, if you try to follow them. . ." He left the sentence unfinished. "Just leave it be, huh, kid? Just do your job, give your reports, tell everyone which lanes are blocked on which freeway."
"Come on. You tell me some bizarre story about people you call Jammers, and you don't expect me to be a little bit curious?"
"That's the problem with you reporters," Red said. "You're too curious. That was Hawthorne's problem, too."
Clay Hawthorne, Coleman's predecessor, had been killed two weeks earlier in a helicopter crash on the Santa Monica Freeway.
Coleman looked down. They were passing over the 710. Below them, four cars moved in tandem slowly, blocking traffic for miles behind them.
***
"I don't like this," Lena said.
"It is kind of creepy," Coleman admitted.
"What do these cars look like? Are they all black, like hearses or something?"
He shook his head. "They're just average, no specific color, no specific make or model. Generic."
"Maybe this is some kind of joke or something. Or a hazing ritual."
He laughed. "Yeah. My little radio station, in the midst of downsizing and budget cuts, is going to spend thousands of dollars to hire people to drive slowly down different freeways to tie up traffic in order to break me in."
"Well, when you put it that way. . ."
"They can't even afford to provide me with a new helicopter."
That made her sit up. "You mean you're flying around in some beat-up hunk of junk?"
"It's not as bad as all that. Really. It's all right; just a little on the old side."
"You be careful. Make that pilot fly safely. And make sure you stay as far away as possible from those Jammers."
"Don't worry," he told her. "Red wouldn't fly me by them even if I wanted to go."
***
He was off on Saturday and Sunday, and Coleman tried to think of freeways that would be crowded. It was almost summer, the weather warm and pleasant, and he knew that a lot of people would be going to the beach. So he woke up Lena early on Sunday morning and told her that they were going to Corona del Mar for a picnic.
"The beach?" she said. "It'll be packed."
"It'll be fun. Besides, it won't be that crowded if we leave early and get there before the hordes descend. Come on."
The freeway had stopped up before they were even halfway there. Traffic slowed from 65 miles an hour to 40, to 30 then to ten. Soon they were creeping along at a rate even the speedometer wouldn't register, staring at a sea of bright red brake lights before them.
"Let's get off the freeway," Lena suggested. "I think surface streets would be faster."
Coleman shook his head. "It'll
clear up in a minute," he said.
The traffic did end a few miles before the beach, disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared, but though he looked for some sign—any sign—of the Jammers, he saw nothing.
***
Coleman pointed down at the freeway through the copter's windscreen. "What about those cars directly behind them?" he asked. Those drivers must know what's causing the traffic jam. They have to be able to see that there's only a single line of cars in front of them. They must know that it's clear sailing in front of the Jammers."
"Do you hear any horns?" Red asked.
Coleman shook his head. He didn't, but that wasn't to say there weren't any. He doubted that he could hear a rocket engine over the roar of the chopper blades.
"There are no honking horns," Red said. "Either those drivers know and are afraid to honk because of what might happen to them—or they're in on it. Either way, they're accomplices. Or they're Jammers too." He flipped the switches on the panel in front of him. "One minute to air time."
***
There was traffic on his way to work the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
No matter what time he left the house, no matter what route he took, Coleman ended up in a traffic jam, and he grew angry and frustrated as he thought of the Jammers.
It was almost as though they were doing this on purpose, he thought. It was almost as though they were playing with him.
***
"I shouldn't be doing this." Red's voice sounded thin and scratchy over the cheap transmitter. "It's wrong."
"Only people from the air get hurt. You've seen the cars on the freeway behind them. Nothing happens. They're fine."
"I don't like it."
Coleman drove aimlessly, not answering. He had called in sick this morning, but had told Red his plan yesterday afternoon. "You're a moron," the pilot had said. "You've only been on the job two weeks and you're a bigger moron than Hawthorne ever was." But after several hours of intense persuasion and several Happy Hour drinks at El Paso Cantina, Red had agreed to help out.
Coleman's heart was pounding in his chest. Half of him was excited, thrilled to the gills with the idea of seeing some of the Jammers up close. Half of him was terrified. The transmitter crackled noisily, but Red's voice was silent.
"I've found them," the pilot said a few moments later. "The 91 freeway just east of Rosecrans, heading west."
"Rate of speed?"
"Ten, maybe. At the most."
Coleman did some quick calculations. Even hitting all the red lights, he could still be on the freeway well before the Jammers reached Torrance. Assuming they didn't disappear before then.
He turned around at an abandoned Exxon station and headed south. "Thanks Red," he said.
"I'm sticking with you," the pilot told him. "I don't want anything on my conscience."
"But aren't you supposed to be—"
"I'm AWOL," he said wryly. "I've already called it in. Engine trouble. They'll get it from downtown for the next half hour."
Coleman drove quickly, feeling more confident than he knew he should. His plan was simple. He would get on the freeway well before the Jammers, pull off to the side, pretend that his car had broken down, and watch as they drove by. Nothing more. He wasn't going to follow them or join them or do anything foolish.
He just wanted to see what they looked like.
Coleman reached the freeway in less than fifteen minutes, pulling onto the on ramp. The lanes were unnaturally deserted, and only one pickup sped by him as he slowed to a stop on the soft shoulder. He picked up the transmitter mike. "You up there?"
"Right here," Red said.
Coleman crouched down and looked through the windshield up into the sky. High above, he could see the station's helicopter circling the freeway in wide arcs. The sight gave him courage.
"I got you covered," Red said.
"Thanks," Coleman told him.
He sat there, staring out at the empty lanes. The deserted freeway made him nervous. The lack of vehicles was unnatural, a sight he had never seen outside of a movie, and the reality of it made him tense up. His hand muscles hurt from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, and he had to force himself to let go. He rolled down the windows, then turned on the radio, flipping through the dial, but nothing emerged from the speakers save static.
"They're coming," Red announced finally, and even through the crackle, Coleman could hear the fear in his voice.
He glanced in his rearview mirror. A mile or two behind, a line of cars was moving slowly toward him. He tried to swallow but his mouth had suddenly become very dry. His palms were sweaty.
The cars came closer.
This was stupid, he told himself. He could speed away right now, get off at the next exit, lose himself on the surface streets and be safe. There was no reason for him to do this. He had nothing to prove.
But he wanted to see the Jammers.
"I think you'd better go," Red said.
Coleman didn't answer.
"I don't like this. This is a bad idea."
The cars moved closer.
Now they were little more than a mile away, and he could see that the vehicles were not quite as ordinary as they had appeared from the air. They were all mid-sized sedans, but each of their hoods seemed to be customized. One came almost to a point, another was rounded, two were forked. The car in the lane closest to him, a black sedan, had a peculiar looking grill that reminded him of a malevolent smile. As it drew closer, Coleman could see that it was made of mirrored glass rather than chrome and spelled something out in foreign characters he did not recognize.
He could see nothing through any of the windshields except darkness.
The line of cars was now ten yards behind him.
Now seven.
Now five.
As one, the cars braked to a stop, even with his own parked vehicle. He quickly rolled up his window and locked the door.
"Get out o f there!" Red screamed over the transmitter.
The door of the closest car opened, and an old man stepped out. A perfectly normal old man. He smiled at Coleman and motioned for him to roll down the window. Coleman sat unmoving, too stunned to react. He had been expecting something different. A hideous monster, perhaps. Or an animated corpse. Or. . .something. But not this strangely ordinary old man. His gaze shot skyward for a second. Red's copter was buzzing wildly over the scene.
The old man motioned for him to roll down the window, Coleman opened it a crack. "Are you all right?" the man asked. "We saw that your car had stalled and thought you might need some help. "He took a wobbly step forward. "I can give you a ride if you need it."
"Who are you?"
"Name's Carl Jones." He motioned toward the customized hood and grill of his car and grinned, showing missing teeth. "Nice wheels, huh?"
"What are you doing here?"
The old man looked puzzled. "Our car club patrols this stretch of freeway every day."
Car club? Was that possible? Were all these traffic jams really caused by a group of doddering, well-meaning old geezers who just drove too slow?
Honks were sounding from the cars behind them.
"Come on," the old man said. "I'll drop you off at the next gas station."
"That's okay," Coleman told him. I think I just flooded the engine. It'll be alright in a minute."
The old man chuckled. "It doesn't look like you're going anywhere to me." He motioned toward the side of the vehicle facing the freeway, and Coleman noticed for the first time that the left half of his car sat lower than the right. He opened the door, got out and saw that he had two flat tires.
"I guess you do need a ride, huh?"
"That's okay. I'll just use my cell and call Triple A."
"Won't get a signal here. And there's no call boxes on this section of the freeway."
Was the old man sounding a little too insistent? Was he trying a little too hard to give Coleman a ride?
R
ed shouted something incomprehensible from the transmitter.
"We can't wait here forever," the old man said. Horns were honking behind them. Several drivers were yelling out their windows for the cars to start moving. He opened the passenger door and gestured for Coleman to get in the car.
Feeling numb, Coleman looked down at his two flat tires then up at the kindly face of the old man. It'll be okay, he told himself. It'll be all right. He sat down in the front seat of the sedan as the old man walked around to the other side. The seat felt soft. Too soft.
The old man got in the driver's side and both doors closed simultaneously. The inside panels, Coleman saw now, were smooth and featureless, with no door handles.
The old man started the ignition and all four cars began moving forward as one.
Coleman glanced back at the vehicles behind them, the ones whose owners had been yelling loudly only a few minutes before, and saw that they were empty. No drivers sat behind the steering wheels.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Red's helicopter plummet to the ground in flames.
"There is no front," the old man said, and his voice sounded like that of Coleman's father.
"What the hell?" He turned frantically toward the old man, panicking, but the driver had already started to morph. The wrinkled skin was running, melting, changing color. Coleman glimpsed beneath the shifting flesh a thing of darkness and emptiness.
Then he was thrown back in his seat as all four cars shot quickly forward.
Author, sculptor, musician, philosopher, architect, Bentley Little is the coolest man on the planet. That is his gift, that is his curse.
—SPORTING THE WATERS OF THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE
by Greggard Penance
Speculative Zone 28.499 N / 67.583 W
There is no sense of time or locale, just the sway of the boat to the ocean's violent fit. The water swells, pushes the craft up and bursts over the port side, then recedes, pulling it back. The shipmates keep their feet apart for balance, grab hold of rails, poles or equipment until it passes. Between these bursts, they move around, pause, anticipating the next jolt.
Horror Library, Volume 4 Page 6
