To the Vanishing Point

5

The fabric of existence, unraveling like a ball of twine. Chaos yclept Anarchis. Sirens with lavender eyes who came from a civilization of eerie musicians and sang like whole choirs of electronic instruments. Armies of oversized rodents that fought with tiny knives and axes and gazed at you out of eyes wet with malevolent intelligence.

Somewhere between Barstow and Baker Frank had unknowingly taken an off ramp named Madness. But he couldn’t be going mad because his whole family was seeing the same things. It was all much too real. Certainly his fear was. His fear and frustration.

Why him? Why innocent, ordinary Frank Sonderberg? Hadn’t he worked his butt off all his life? Hadn’t he been a good father and husband, not hitting the kids any more than absolutely necessary, not cheating on his wife except maybe once? Wasn’t he understanding even of his daughter’s freako friends and his son’s alarming passion for junk food and candy? Why did the damnable fates have to go and pick on him and his family when all they wanted was a little safe, clean excitement and to sit by a pool for a few days? He knew he was nothing special. Why not pick on the president, or a general, or some brilliant scientist? Why the owner of a chain of sporting goods stores?

He knew why. It was all because He was the One who had Stopped. Him, Frank Sonderberg and kin. They were the ones who stopped for Mouse, thereby aligning themselves with her and her mission. According to her, if they hadn’t stopped and she’d been left standing rideless by the side of the highway much longer, the world would soon perish in a cataclysm of unraveling reason.

Had she maybe overstated the situation just a little to keep them from throwing her off? Might her theorized Armageddon not have come in his lifetime?

No use supposing, as he’d told his kids on more than one occasion. The fact of the matter was that they had picked her up. She was real, as were the gas station attendant with his hidden tail, and the syrupy bleeding vegetation they’d passed, and the rat army. So how could he dispute everything else she’d told them?

She’d given no guarantee she was any better than the other unnatural creatures they’d encountered. No guarantee at all, except — he’d seen the evil in those compact rat faces, had heard it in the old attendant’s chuckle. And she’d driven off the rat-things. That meant she could protect them from similar attackers. Perhaps there wouldn’t be any more attacks. Perhaps they’d drive straight through to Vegas, drop her off somewhere, wave good-bye, check into their hotel, and start pumping quarters into slots. The only narrow, pinched faces he wanted to see from this point on were those belonging to the habitual gamblers who packed tight around the craps table.

They’d take in Wayne Newton and maybe he’d even let Wendy persuade him to go see Tina Turner. When they were suitably relaxed and tanned they would take a limo to the airport and fly home. He’d completely lost his desire to explore this damnable, ominous desert. Fine with him if the next time he saw these blasted mountains it would be from thirty thousand feet.

"I don’t have time to save the world," he murmured to himself. "I’ve got a family to look after and a business to run."

He’d whispered it under his breath, but Mouse heard nonetheless. "That’s the trouble with you people. You don’t have any time for your world. You’ve time for your business and time for your religions. You’ve time for your families and time for your fun. But you don’t have time for the fish and the birds, for the land and the air. No time for the trees. No time for — "

"Spare me the eulogy," Frank said, interrupting her. "I said we’d get you to Vegas, and Frank Sonderberg’s not a guy who goes back on his word. Ask anybody in sporting goods west of the Mississippi. East, too, pretty soon. I’m thinking of expanding into Chicago."

Alicia turned in surprise. "Frank! You didn’t say anything about that."

He tried to sound casual about it. "It came up at the executive meeting about a month ago. Carlos and Garrison agree with me. They think it’s time. I sent Garrison into Chicago a few weeks back to start scouting locations. Got to keep moving if we’re ever going to be nationwide."

"I’m so proud of you, Frank."

"Yeah, well, I guess it won’t mean much if this young lady doesn’t make it to her Vanishing Point."

"I assure you, Frank Sonderberg, that all your hopes and dreams will be for nothing, as will everyone’s, if the Spinner is not soothed."

"You know something?" he said suddenly, surprising even himself. "I’ve never been afraid of any challenge that’s been put to me. Never. And one thing I’m for sure not afraid of is chaos. Because if you’d ever seen what goes on in my headquarters, you’d see that I have to deal with it every day."

As they drove east he found himself feeling better about their situation. Nothing else had materialized to attack the motor home. The sky had become normal once more, and even the plants lining the shoulder were looking healthier. It would have been nice to write it all off as a dream, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He was nothing if not realistic. To run a nationwide business you had to be. No, they hadn’t dreamed any of it.

Perhaps the worst was behind them. Maybe Mouse’s singing had frightened off any other potential assailants. Or maybe Evil was hunting for them elsewhere. Maybe even on another line of existence. Hadn’t their passenger told them that Chaos was bad at organized pursuit?

They passed another sign indicating they were coming up to Hades Junction. It didn’t matter whether it was the renamed, misplaced Baker or not because he had no intention of stopping. Not until the sky was stained with neon. Having filled the motor home’s tanks at the threatening old man’s station, they could cruise straight in to Vegas without a break.

The desert sky was bright and reassuring. No fog, no rain clouds, no unnatural dimness. It was ninety-five degrees outside, baking hot, and that was how it ought to be.

So relaxed had he become, he didn’t even get excited when the engine began to cough and sputter and the big vehicle started to slow. Pumping the accelerator only intensified the coughing from beneath the hood.

Alicia eyed him uneasily. "Frank?"

"Relax, sweetheart. Sounds like a clogged fuel line. Maybe the gas that old fart sold us was as old as he was. It’s starting to mix with the good stuff we bought in Barstow. No big deal."

Of course, if they’d been close to empty when they had filled up at the ancient station with bad gas, the motor home would have died a mile or two east of it. Could that have been what the old man had had in mind all along for them?

If so, he’d miscalculated. Frank had only stopped to add a few gallons to tanks more than half full.

"Could be the filter, too," he said cheerfully. "Whichever, should take just a minute or two to clean it out."

He carefully checked all three rearview mirrors, expecting the highway behind them to be empty. It was actually more of a relief to see the big rig coming up fast behind them. It rumbled past as he pulled off onto the shoulder. A packed station wagon followed close on the heels of the truck. Both were additional signs of normalcy.

He set the emergency brake, rose from his chair. "Have a cold drink or something, darling. I’ll have us back on the road in a jiff."

She was trying hard, he saw, not to panic. "All right, but don’t take any longer than you have to, Frank."

"Don’t worry. I mean, it’s hot outside, right?"

She moved to join him. "Would you like something cold when you finish?"

"Anything with ice and caffeine." He gave her a quick kiss and they exchanged smiles. As he headed for the door she moved to the refrigerator.

The hot sun felt good on the back of his neck. Maybe, he mused as he made his way around to the front of the vehicle, I shouldn’t get on Steven’s case so much about all the junk he eats. He glanced in the direction of his own inescapably mature gut. It wasn’t that many years ago that he could still see his belt. Now, even when he inhaled deeply, it was difficult to locate the leather band that held up his pants. Whoever had made dining so enjoyable had a lot to answer for.

Slipping his left hand under the Winnebago’s hood, he flipped the security latch and raised the metal cover. A single support rod held it in place. The big engine smelled warm but not overly hot. Ignoring his suspicions for the moment, he took the time to check the oil level, coolant overflow tank, even the brake fluid. Only then did he hunt for the fuel filter. If it was just the filter, they’d be back on the road in a couple of minutes. If he had to clean out the line they might have a problem.

The little plastic cylinder looked like the carbon-loaded filters Alicia used on the den aquarium. Using a pair of pliers he detached it from the line, resisting the urge as he worked to look over his shoulder every thirty seconds. But there was no elderly, grinning gas station attendant hovering nearby ready to offer advice of an uncertain nature.

He could hear the welcome whoosh of other cars and trucks racing past, glad of the familiar sound. Birds get nervous when they become separated from the rest of the flock, he told himself.

Alicia looked up from the refrigerator. "Where are you going, dear?"

"Just outside for a minute, Mom." Wendy paused impatiently in the doorway.

"I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. What if some of those horrible little rat-things are still out there?"

"Naw. They’re all gone. Mouse sang 'em all away. There’s nothing out there anymore. Everything’s back to normal again. Dad’s been outside for a while and nothing’s bit him on the leg. Come on, Mom! I’ve been cooped up in here for days."

"Just for a few minutes, then, and stay close to the motor home."

Wendy sniffed boredly. "Why not? There’s nowhere to go out here anyway."

Slipping on her headphones, she turned up the Walkman’s volume a notch and stepped outside, squinting at the bright sunlight. A glance forward showed her dad working quietly, his head hidden by the open engine compartment.

Might as well circumnavigate the world, she told herself glumly. Pivoting neatly, she danced toward the back of the motor home. Maybe one or two of the ugly rodent-things that had attacked them had been caught up in the back axles and bumper. It would be interesting to see one of them close up, to see if they’d really been carrying little axes and knives or if it had been all an invention of their overactive imaginations. Maybe they’d just been regular rats all along. It had been dark and hard to see during the attack, and everything had happened so fast.

There were damp stains all over the motor home’s undercarriage, and a few really gross chunks of unidentifiable flesh, but nothing resembling a complete corpse, rodentlike or otherwise. So intent was she on the chassis she didn’t see the tall figure that came up quietly behind her until she happened to notice the moving shadow on the ground nearby. With a start she whirled, only to relax as the figure smiled down at her.

He was a hunk. More than that, he was almost beautiful, with delicate features like Michael Jackson’s. His hair was blond and straight. Altogether a striking combination. If she’d studied harder in English she could have labeled him saturnine.

"Sorry," the young highway patrolman said apologetically. "Didn’t mean to startle you." He peered past her as she straightened self-consciously. "You folks having a problem? Too bad. You almost made it to town. Travelers usually don’t break down this side of town anyway. Most everybody who makes it this far usually makes it all the way without any trouble, but I guess you can break down anywhere, isn’t that right?"

She nodded, furious at her muteness but terrified of saying the wrong thing. He was a lot older than she was and she didn’t want to start out with him thinking of her as some dumb kid.

He was clearly puzzled. "Fact is, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone break down right hereabouts."

"An old man sold us some bad gas," she explained, not knowing what else to say. At least it wasn’t dumb. "My dad’s trying to fix the fuel thingy right now." Twenty-three, she thought. She stood as straight as possible, wishing she was wearing something more flattering to her figure than a T-shirt and jeans, though the jeans were tight enough.

Looking past him she finally noticed the patrol car parked on the shoulder. She hadn’t heard or seen it drive up, but then she’d been poking around beneath the motor home in search of rat bodies. She turned down the Walkman and the rhythm in her head eased. Now she could hear him without straining.

"Jack’s already up there." He nodded toward the front of the motor home. "Helping your dad, I guess. He’ll fix whatever it is. Jack’s swift with mechanical things. Me, I’m still learning the route. Oh. My name’s Joe."

"At least it isn’t Jill." She put her hand to her mouth, giggling. "I’m sorry. I wasn’t making fun of you."

"Hey, that’s hot. Important thing is you’ve got a sense of humor. Most of the folks we meet out here are pretty uptight about the heat and their destination." His smile was just this side of overpowering. "You’re a refreshing change."

"Thank you." She knew she was blushing but hoped he’d put it down to the effects of the sun. "I never saw a highway patrol car like that before."

He looked back at the parked cruiser. "Like it? It’s the latest model."

"Pretty sharp. What is it? A Camaro or Firebird?"

"Naw. Want to see? You’re going into town anyway."

She frowned slightly. "I don’t think so. I think my dad’s going to want to go straight through to Las Vegas once he gets the engine fixed."

The patrolman laughed uproariously, as though she’d just made the perfect joke. "That’s beautiful! You’re too much. Just meeting you has made my day."

Instantly she forgot her initial and obviously unwarranted suspicions. "I’m glad I was able to make somebody’s day. Ours hasn’t been exactly perfect."

"How could it be, headed the way you’re headed, on the road you’re on?" He put a gentle arm around her shoulders. "Come on, let me show you the car. We’ve got a communications system you won’t believe."

Wendy allowed herself to be nudged along. "My mom said I should stay near the motor home."

He stopped, took his arm away. "Hey, you’re not afraid of me or anything, are you?"

"Of course not. Why should I be?"

He nodded. "Somehow I knew you wouldn’t be. I’m looking forward to meeting your folks. You’re really a special family."

"We aren’t all that special."

She had to admit the patrol car intrigued her. It was low and sleek and looked like it was doing a hundred standing still. It wore a full complement of roof lights, the yellow ones rotating brightly as they approached. The emblems on the doors were kind of funny, but if it was a local sheriff’s car, it wouldn’t wear the familiar California Highway Patrol symbol.

The paint job made up for the odd insignia. Yellow on crimson, she decided, was much cooler than white on black.

"Fuel filter."

The resonant voice brought Frank’s head around fast. He breathed easily when he caught sight of the uniform, badge, and the smiling, clean-shaven face of someone his own age looking concernedly back into his own.

"Didn’t hear you drive up."

The sergeant jerked a thumb backward. "Parked behind you. Don’t like backing up when I don’t have to."

"Neither do I. Especially in this sucker." Frank indicated the motor home.

The other man chuckled appreciatively, nodded at the filter Frank had removed. "Why don’t you let me do that?"

"It’s all right. I can handle it."

"Please? As a favor. Playing with combustion’s a hobby of mine. Don’t get much of a chance to get my hands dirty, working patrol."

Frank shrugged, stepped aside. "Suit yourself." He handed the sergeant the plastic cylinder. "Get many breakdowns hereabouts?" he inquired conversationally.

"Not a lot." Sunlight flashed from his mirrored sunglasses.

His smile was bright as the sunshine, which surprised Frank. You’d think a cop forced to work this featureless, miserable stretch of interstate would be in a bad mood most of the time, especially with summer coming on fast. But this one appeared downright ebullient.

"What trouble we do have is with folks who try turning around once they get this far. They pull out into the median and get themselves stuck. Then we have to call a tow to pull 'em out. You should hear the wails and screams when they get the bill."

"You mean they get this far and then they try going back to Barstow?"

For some reason this struck the sergeant as insanely funny. When he finally stopped laughing he could only shake his head weakly at the memory of it. After wiping his eyes he held the filter up to the sun. He kept it there, studying it intently, until Frank started to worry for him.

"Better watch it."

"No sweat. Light doesn’t bother me." He lowered the cylinder, rolled it between his fingers. "This is your problem, all right. Clogged."

Frank nodded. "Thought it might be. Old fart down the road apiece sold me some bad gas."

"Tall, skinny, ugly son of a bitch?"

"You know him?" That was a stupid question, Frank thought. Of course he’d know him. Anyone working this piece of highway would know every full-time and semipermanent inhabitant within a dozen miles, probably by name.

He wondered if the sergeant would know anything about intelligent rat-things.

"Tell me something. How’d he ever get an off ramp put in out there? It doesn’t show on the map." He took back the fuel filter, examined it himself.

"Guess he’s got some pull," the sergeant theorized.

Frank put the filter to his mouth and blew. A few bits of road grime flew out the other end. Embarrassed, he took a deep breath and blew harder. More grime was expelled, but the filter was far from cleared.

"Really bad gas," he murmured, breathing hard.

"We’ve had plenty of complaints about that guy. I guess you can’t blame him. Most of the business goes straight into town. He has to work for everything he gets. Here, let me have a go." Frank passed the cylinder over, curious to see what the patrolman could do. He wasn’t particularly big, and if he possessed unusual reserves of lung power they weren’t visible from the outside.

Lung power didn’t enter into it. To Frank’s shock the sergeant put the cylinder to his lips and inhaled. He kept sucking until a stunned Frank thought the man’s face was going to collapse in on itself. Only then did he remove the cylinder from his mouth and smile hugely.

Even then Frank didn’t suspect something was seriously wrong until the sergeant sniffed appreciatively — and swallowed.

"Here." The patrolman extended the hand holding the now perfectly transparent filter. When Frank made no move to take it, the man added, "You’ll need this back."

"Yeah. Yeah, right." Not knowing what else to do, his thoughts churning furiously, Frank gingerly took the cylinder and moved to reinsert it on the fuel line. "What — what did you do with all that gunk? You didn’t really swallow it, did you?"

"Sure! You don’t think I’m going to waste it, do you? That old stuff may not be so good for your engine’s digestion, but when it’s aged like that it acquires a real tang." He licked his lips approvingly. "Premium unleaded. Wasn’t sure I’d like the stuff when they started switching everything over. Turned out to be an improvement. Taking out the lead changed the flavor, but this way you get more of the original hydrocarbon essence. Not to mention the additional distilling it’s undergone." He threw back his head and roared anew, this time producing not only rich, deep laughter but a gout of blue flame pure enough to have issued from the nozzle of an acetylene torch. It shot four feet into the air. Frank felt the heat of it keenly.

As laughter and fire faded, the sergeant removed his silver sunshades and Frank saw his eyes for the first time. Vertical pupils set in irises of intense yellow. Cat’s eyes. He wanted to scream, dared not.

A finger dug road grit from one eye, then the glasses were slipped back in place. "I’m no connoisseur." As Frank fought to still his trembling hands, the otherwordly officer methodically checked the positioning of the filter. "Can’t afford the really good stuff. Racing fuel, top octane. Nice to sneak a swig now and then. Keeps you alert and on your claws. Of course, we’re not supposed to drink on duty, but a quick shot now and then’s not going to upset anybody’s applecart, right?" Frank nodded numbly.

"Besides, back at the station they really don’t know what the hell’s going on out on the road. All they know is what they read in our reports. They’ve got enough vices to deal with at the Entrance without worrying about the staff’s. That’s one of the compensations of this assignment. You have some privacy." He coughed and blue flame exploded in a narrow stream from his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glanced at the surrounding desert and said conversationally, "Starting to warm up again. First time in months it’s been comfortable out here."

Frank retreated as inconspicuously as possible. "Thanks for the help."

"Hey, no problem. That’s what we’re here for."

Both turned as the patrol cruiser sidled up next to them, out in the slow lane. A tall, much younger officer partly rose from his seat on the driver’s side to shout over the top of the car. Frank couldn’t tell for certain, but he thought the younger patrolman’s eyes looked normal.

"Hey, Jack!"

"What’s up, Joe?"

The younger officer glanced briefly at Frank. "Seems we’ve got a problem here."

"Problem?" The sergeant turned apologetically. "Excuse me a minute."

"Sure thing."

As the sergeant moved to check with his partner, Frank hurriedly re-entered the motor home. Panting hard, he locked the door behind him.

Alicia was staring at him. "What is it? What’s wrong now?"

Without replying he threw himself into the driver’s chair and started the engine. It spat a few times, clearing the last of the bad gas from the fuel line, before turning over.

"Nothing," he told her, grim-faced. "It’s nothing."

She moved up next to him. "Don’t give me that, Frank. I know you better."

A tapping on the driver’s window made Frank jump in the seat. The sergeant was standing outside, his voice barely audible through the glass. He made rolling-down motions with one hand. Trying to stay calm, Frank nudged the power window control, lowering the small vent window.

"Something the matter, officer?"

To Frank’s surprise, the inhuman sergeant appeared uncomfortable. "I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come into the station, sir."

"Why? What’ve we done wrong?" Once the motor home was up to speed Frank had no intention of slowing down or stopping at any station, no matter how many guns or what kinds of allies the officer produced. But motionless as they were, stuck off on the paved shoulder, they were vulnerable.

"I don’t know that you’ve done anything wrong, traveler. But there’s an irregularity. Nobody’s sure about it, but we ran a computer check and your license and vehicle aren’t in there."

"Then somebody’s not checking the right place. We rented this outfit in Torrance. I can give you the name of the rental outfit, the salesman who turned it over to us, and any other identification you need. If there’s some problem with the plates that’s the rental company’s concern, not mine."

"It’s nothing like that." The thing tipped its cap back on its head. "But I’m still going to have to ask you to follow us in."

"I’m not sure I want to do that." He had a hand on the shift lever, ready to throw it into drive on a second’s notice. "We haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve as much as said so yourself."

"That might be." The officer sounded genuinely apologetic. If only, Frank thought frantically, his eyes had been normal and his taste for flammable liquids not so pronounced. "I have to insist. Like you say, this probably has nothing to do with you, but it’s not my place to decide blame or responsibility. We just patrol this section of highway. Don’t make things difficult for me. It’s been a tough week."

Turning, he nodded in the direction of the patrol cruiser. When he saw what the thing was looking at, Frank rose halfway off the seat.

"Wendy!"

His daughter stared back at him from the front seat of the cruiser. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t seem especially frightened.

"If you’ll come along peacefully, please," the sergeant said, repeating his demand.

"What’s my daughter doing in your car? You have no right to — !" But the sergeant ignored him as he climbed into the back of the cruiser. Flashing its red lights but no siren, it rolled twenty yards forward before stopping. Only then did the driver run the siren a couple of times. It sounded distinctly like a human scream.

Frank clutched the wheel for support. Alicia had come up beside him, worry in her voice and in her expression.

"What’s going on, Frank? Why is Wendy in that police car?"

"I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know why Wendy’s in that car, but they want us to follow them and with Wendy there we don’t have a lot of choices." The siren raced again, a terrifying sound. "Get Mouse. Tell her what’s going on and ask her what we — "

"I already tried. She’s asleep in the back. I can’t wake her up. I’ve never seen anyone sleep so soundly."

"Yeah, singing’s hard work," he said sarcastically. A rising wail came from the police cruiser, like a pig being butchered alive. "Keep trying."

Pale, Alicia nodded and rushed to the back of the motor home, ignoring Steven’s queries. With a wrench almost hard enough to break the shift lever, Frank pulled out into the slow lane. Automatically, he checked the rearview. There were two cars coming up fast, but as he pulled out they both changed to the fast lane.

He caught a brief glimpse of the passengers in the second car. A young man and woman. The woman was pounding on the inside of the rolled-up window. Her expression was wild, her hair disheveled. The driver of the car sat motionless behind the wheel, both hands affixed to the plastic circle. They went by so quickly Frank couldn’t be certain, but it looked to him like the driver had no face.

The two cars vanished over the horizon. The police cruiser accelerated, and Frank, feeling utterly helpless, fed gas to the motor and followed.

"What’s happening?"

Frank saw Mouse, still sleepy-eyed, standing behind Alicia’s seat. Somehow she kept her long hair from tangling while she slept.

He explained and when he was through she nodded knowingly. "Another thread has broken. The end has entwined with your line of existence."

"They’ve got Wendy with them. They ordered me to follow."

"You’re doing the right thing. If your daughter was here I might be able to help." She stared at the patrol cruiser keeping ten car lengths in front of them. "Now we can do nothing until we have her again."

"They’re not going to hurt her, are they?" asked Alicia. She was fighting back tears, fighting to keep control, Frank saw.

"From what your husband has told me they have no reason to. That is not a guarantee, but it offers reason to hope."

"This is what you meant about this Evil allying itself with Chaos, right?" Frank wanted to accelerate, to pull around and use the motor home’s greater weight to run the ominous cruiser and its occupants off the road. Wanted to see the car roll over and over among the weeds and Joshua trees until it exploded in a ball of flame. Instead he followed meekly. "They were waiting for us."

"You told me they were not expecting you."

He sat a little straighter. "Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. That’s what the sergeant said."

"Then we are still an anomaly to them. We must break away before they learn who I am."

"Who are they?" Alicia asked. "What is this place?"

"An outpost of Evil. That much is certain. What kind of Evil we do not yet know."

They fell silent, following. Other vehicles passed them regularly now. Frank tried not to look in their direction, hoped Alicia did not. Steven remained in the back, absorbed in his comic books, for which Frank was grateful.

Each car featured the same blank-faced driver, gray robots immune to everything but their driving. Chauffeurs on a concrete Styx. Like the cars and trucks, the passengers they were convoying came in all sizes, colors, and shapes.

Frank watched as an open-topped Jeep went bouncing past, towing two middle-aged men behind it. Both were naked and obviously had been dragged a considerable distance. Their bodies were raw and bloody and yet they acted lively enough. Probably more alive than they wanted to be. A big blue Lincoln cruised by smoothly. An attractive woman of middle age hung out the rear back window. She was screaming and waving both arms frantically. He had a quick glimpse of her companions in the back seat. They were ugly and alien enough to stop a sensitive man’s heart.

The Jeep and the Lincoln were exceptions. The majority of vehicles that roared past had all their windows rolled up. Their human occupants were visible only as jerking, gesticulating silhouettes, tormented shadows riding in the back of Chevrolets and Mercedes and VWs. Frank wondered if there was a formal relationship between the class of vehicle and its passengers, as well as the kind of tortures they were undergoing.

Only the motor home drove in the slow lane. We’re normal, he thought. Maybe that’s why these cops find us abnormal. A check of the speedometer showed they were doing fifty. Their captors were driving cautiously.

The landscape commenced a radical metamorphosis. This time it wasn’t a matter of a few stunted, distorted plants. The sky had turned a pale greenish hue, sickly and unhealthy-looking. Pools and ponds of molten sulfur and other unidentifiable acrid fluids pockmarked the terrain on both sides of the highway. He turned the air-conditioning up all the way. They might freeze, but at least they could breathe. The air outside stank of rotten eggs and burning flesh. The distant mountains were now obscured by steam and mist rising from pools of boiling mud.

Once Frank thought he glimpsed a line of at least fifty men, women, and children yoked to an enormous four-wheeled wooden cart. The cart had barred sides through which twisting, contorting bodies tried to squeeze. Blood and excrement formed a noisome trail behind the great wheels.

Squatting atop the front of the cart, wielding long metal whips, were a pair of nightmare faces with bulging eyes and long fangs. They had no legs and bounced up and down on a pair of muscular arms. All in a nightmarish glimpse as the motor home cruised past, its air-conditioning humming efficiently. After that he ignored the terrain on both sides of the highway and concentrated on the road ahead.

Whatever else might happen, he did not want to break down in this country. Alicia rested a hand on his leg. Even going fifty with the air conditioner running on high he could still hear occasional pitiful screams from the passing cars. The shrieks of the damned filled the air beyond the barbed-wire fences that delineated the limits of the highway.

Only the cacti had done well here. They had ballooned to enormous sizes, with spines like swords. Prickly pear and jumping cactus, cholla and devil’s tail covered the ground. Everyone he’d seen beyond the fence had been naked and barefoot.

It took him a moment to recognize a different humming sound. A glance in the rearview showed Mouse cuddling a frightened Steven. Apparently he’d forsaken his comics for a look outside and had been traumatized by what he’d seen. Now she was doing her best to reassure and comfort him.

"It’s all right," she was telling the boy over and over. "Everything will be all right."

"But I want to go home." Steven’s voice was barely audible. "I don’t like this place. I want to go home."

"In good time we shall all return home."

Alicia raised no objections to Mouse’s maternal exertions, realizing that their visitor was doing a better job of calming her son than she could herself. She had enough trouble fighting down her own hysteria. All she could do was concentrate hard on the taillights of the police car in front of them, concentrate and not think.

Once she’d made the mistake of looking to her right, at the land beyond the highway. She’d seen half a dozen creatures, each no taller than four feet, stockily built and clad in black pants striped with yellow. They surrounded two women, a mother and daughter. Each time the women would try to run through the circle, two or three of the imps, or devils, or whatever the creatures were, would grab the naked figures and throw them back into a pile of bed-shaped cacti. Both women were thick with imbedded spines, and blood trickled endlessly down their bodies. Beyond them two young men fought to escape a similar circle. It struck her then that the men were trying to reach the women, and the women the men. Shuddering, she turned away from the ghastly sight, praying that the four were not related.

The smooth unbroken concrete roadbed was a white slash of normality in the midst of nightmare. That, and the police cruiser ahead that held her daughter.

"Frank, what’s going to happen to us?"

"Nothing’s going to happen to us." He said it because he didn’t know what else to say, and because he strongly suspected that to give in to pessimism in this would be to give in to madness. "We’ll get out of this all right. Wendy, too. It’s just a mistake on somebody’s part. Like the patrolman told us."

"He’s not a patrolman."

"I know that!" Immediately he apologized for snapping at her, conscious how close he was to the breaking point. He lowered his voice. "I just don’t know what else to call him."

She was sobbing now. Softly, not hysterically but steadily. "What’s going to happen to us, Frank? What is this place? Where are we?"

"I think you know where we are, Alicia. I think we’ve both known for several miles. It can only be one place, and it isn’t Baker."