Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

8

The street exploded with light, bright and blinding, bearing down like a curse from Heaven and forcing me to close my eyes and throw my arms up against my face.

After the stars stopped going supernova behind my lids, I slowly opened my eyes and saw that both sides of this cliff-lined street were being illuminated by rows upon rows of huge stadium lights that rose easily a hundred feet above the surface of the road. I wondered how they’d managed to install them at the tops of the cliffs, and then realized that these weren’t cliffs or hollowed mountainsides at all.

They were cars.

Crushed, smashed, mangled, and twisted, stacked dozens atop dozens, held together by steel beams and girders that had been welded into place to form main spannings and supports, creating something like a life-sized shadowbox. The stacks

(dead piles?)

rose so high I almost couldn’t see the tops of the damn things. Each car-cube was roughly the size of a large building, nine or ten stories high, separated from its neighbor by a space of maybe 30 feet. It was in those spaces where the stadium light towers were installed, and as we passed the first group and I looked through those spaces I saw that the car-cubes not only lined both sides of the street but extended backward for what seemed miles, a giant child’s building block set, each one placed at a point equidistant from those beside, in front of, and behind it. It was like something out of an Escher painting.

“Where did all of these come from?” I asked.

“Everywhere,” replied Dash. “They come from all over the place in the U.S.”

“And sometimes Canada or Mexico,” said Sheriff Hummer. “If someone drives here from Canada or Mexico, they’re on our roads, so their ass is ours if something happens.”

“‘Ours’?” I said.

“Ours,” replied Dash.

“Well, technically,” said Hummer, “they belong to Road Mama and Daddy Bliss, but since the rest of us are family, we like to think of them as ‘ours’. That answer your question?” “Not really.” “Don’t worry, things’ll be explained to you.” Ciera came up alongside us in the meat wagon, waving and smiling before hitting the turn signal and taking a side road. “She’s using the shortcut,” said Dash. Hummer nodded his head. “I got eyes, little brother.” “Daddy Bliss told us we weren’t supposed to take no shortcuts tonight.” “And Ciera will have to explain herself to him, so it’s not our problem.”

“But he won’t do anything to her, he never does. It ain’t fair! How come she gets to do whatever she wants and the rest of us gotta do as we’re told?”

“Because Daddy Bliss favors Ciera, you know that. She was the last person he brought into the family himself.”

Dash folded his arms across his chest and pressed his chin down, pouting. “Yeah, well, still…it ain’t fair.”

“Not much is, little brother. Don’t need to keep reminding ourselves.”

We made a left, turning onto a stretch of road where the car-cubes were replaced by typical middle-class houses on a typical middle-class street. All the lights were on inside each house, and several people were standing on their front porches, watching us pass by.

“Gonna be a big night for everyone here, Driver,” said Hummer. “A big night.”

I swallowed, leaning forward. “Why are you called ‘Hummer’?”

The sheriff looked into the rear-view mirror. “Because that’s what I was driving when I got myself and my little brother killed. It was my fault, I was screwing around, pretending that the goddamn thing was a tank, I accidentally side-swiped a semi, lost control of the wheel, and went over the side of a bridge.”

“I was pretty scared,” said Dash. “I was all bent over and crying. That’s how I busted open my head on the bottom of the dashboard.” “And I was the driver,” replied the sheriff. “That’s how it works.” I returned his stare in the rear-view mirror for a few moments more, then said, “Fuck you.” “What was that?” One of his hands snapped down to the butt of his gun. “I said fuck you. I’m supposed to believe that you two are dead, is that it?” “We ain’t dead,” said Dash. “Just Repaired,” said Hummer. He pronounced the second word with such awe and reverence I could almost see the capital ‘R’.

I looked at the houses we were passing. The people on the porches all had something wrong with them; some used canes or crutches, some were in wheelchairs, others had arms missing or in slings, and a couple of them wore those square metal-cage get-ups that people who suffer severe neck injuries are saddled with using.

“What about them?” I asked, nodding toward the onlookers.

“Repaired,” said Hummer. “Everyone who lives here has been Repaired or is in the process of being Repaired. Sometimes the Repairs aren’t that big of a deal, like with Dash and Ciera and me. But some Repairs, they take a bit of work.” Dash looked at me and nodded his head. “So this is, what? Zombie Town U.S.A.?” Hummer glared at me. “I’d watch the sarcasm if I was you. And, no, there aren’t any zombies here. Only the Repaired.”

We turned off the street and hit a long patch of road that wound through a heavily industrialized section of town. Factories small and large lined both sides of the road for nearly three miles, and judging from the amount of noise and smoke pouring from each building, things were busy.

It was only as we were turning off onto another street that I caught a glimpse of any of the factory workers (which I think was Hummer’s intention, seeing as how he was driving not only slowly but quite close to the curb). A large set of heavy iron doors were open, giving me a clear look into the foundry where one of the workers was emptying a vat of white-hot molten metal into an arc furnace. Despite the shimmering heat waves and sparks scattering as the liquid metal gushed down, I got a very clear look at the man.

His right arm had been replaced by a steel prosthesis whose components had been molded, bent, twisted, and press-punched into something that was meant to look organic and serve the same function as his missing arm. It had an elbow joint that bent easily enough and a semi-robotic hand with five finger-like appendages. The wires and conduits that snaked through the openings in the metal were in a configuration comparable to that of veins. The prosthesis moved stiffly, and every time the worker turned his back to us, the highly-polished sheet of silver chrome used to replace his shoulder blade caught the light and threw it back into my eyes. I was still blinking when the worker stopped what he was doing, rose straight up, and—like he’d known all along that he was being observed—turned to face me.

The left half of his face had been Repaired, as well. I saw the bright protruding taillight that had taken the place of his eye, the section of sheared metal that served as his jawbone, and what I swear looked like seat leather that now replaced the flesh of his cheek. He lifted his robotic hand and waved. “Believe me now,” said Hummer, “or do you want us to get out so I can make a personal introduction?” “…incredible…” was all I could get out. “No,” said Dash, “just Repaired, that’s all. Ain’t no big thing, really.” Hummer laughed and sped up the cruiser.

I turned around in the seat, staring out the rear window, and saw the foundry worker walk out into the middle of the street and watch us drive away. Even after his body disappeared into shadow, I could still see the bright red light of his Repaired eye.

I was about to ask Hummer where they got the parts to Repair people, then thought of the car-cubes and knew the answer.