Red Limit Freeway

Chapter 5

I woke up and discovered that a red-hot piece of metal was buried somewhere in my head. I was lying on a low cot in a small, one-room log cabin. There was a tiny window above me; outside it was dark. I turned my head very slowly and saw two loggers―all the men seemed to dress the same here―playing a listless game of cards at a rude wooden table in the middle of the room. What looked like an oil lamp, a bit off center on the table, illuminated their bored faces. One of them, lean and tall with cynical dark eyebrows and slicked-back hair, looked over at me, then looked back and took a trick.

"He's come around."

The other one was fair and fat and everything the first one wasn't, only worse. He glanced over. "Should we tie him up?"

"Nah. He's wasted."

True. I tried getting up. The shard of hot metal throbbed and I collapsed, groaning.

The skinny one chuckled. "Weed and alcohol. My, my, my. Bad combination, that."

I had had weed, copious alcohol, and a whomp on the head for good measure. Lethal was the word for that combination. My mouth… oh, Lord, my mouth. Septic odors arose from within it, emanating from a coating of coppery-tasting sludge at the back of my throat. There was a great ball of limy wool where my tongue should have been. I swallowed and almost heaved.

"One thing, he can hold his liquor."

"Lucky for him. He would've choked to death on it."

There was a chance of that happening yet. This was not a hangover. This was a catastrophic illness. My eyes were hot ball bearings turning in their sockets. They seemed to click when I moved them. I closed my eyelids, the insides of which had somehow become lined with sandpaper.

This was obviously a bad dream. It was the weed. I couldn't accept a fact that, for what seemed for the eightieth time this week, was a prisoner. I did not like these things happening at such regular intervals. For the first time in a good while, I was getting very angry.

Dammit, I wasn't that sick. I creaked up to a sitting position and swung my legs to the floor. The hot metal fragment became the flame of a plasma torch performing a curettage inside my skull. I propped my head up with both arms on my knees. Massaging my forehead, I took deep breaths and tried to will the pain away. When the throbbing subsided to mere agony, I looked up. The two of them were regarding me clinically.

"Whatever the outcome of this," I croaked, "I'm going to kill the both of you."

"Easy," the skinny one warned.

The chubby blond one laughed. "Nasty in the morning, isn't he'?"

I sat there for a while, head in hands. Presently, nausea began to rise from my middle on a slow freight elevator. When it got to my chest I started coughing. It was the kind of cough that signals something is going to come up and can't be stopped.

The tall one was pointing at something to my right.

"Put it all in the bucket. Get one drop on the floor and you'll lick it up."

There was a wooden bucket on the floor near the foot of the bed. I reached and dragged it over just in the nick of time. A lot of beer came up along with remnants of lunch, but it wasn't enough to exorcise the demon. Dry heaving commenced, with nothing to dredge up but my insides.

A chuckle. "Didn't have a proper hold on that liquor after all."

Chubby made a face. "He's making me sick."

"Deal, will you?"

"Something about the sound, you know? When I hear someone doing it, I―"

"Deal!"

I was sick, but I was overdoing it, not exactly knowing how the ploy would work. But it was the only card I had. "God, my stomach," I moaned. "On fire…"

"Get him some water," Chubby suggested.

"Are we playing hearts or hospital?"

"Gimme some water," I begged. "Please."

They played for a while. Then Chubby glanced over again. "Oh, let's give him some, Geof."

I did my imitation of a sick man until Geof relented. Chubby got up and went to a sink against the far wall. On it was a long-handled pump that creaked as he worked it. He crossed the room bearing a metal cup full of water. He approached warily, watching for a sudden move. I was not up to making one. He set the cup down on the floor about a meter in front of me, and backed away.

I got unsteadily to my feet, shuffled forward, stooped, and picked up the cup. When I straightened up, I saw Geof leveling a slug-thrower at me.

"Thanks," I rasped to Chubby.

"No trouble."

I sat back on the cot and drank a few mouthfuls, then poured some water in my cupped palm and splashed it on my face. It felt wonderful. I drained the cup and set it on the small table beside the bed.

"Lie back down," Geof told me, still holding the gun. "You'll feel better. Also, I won't have to make any holes in you."

I obeyed.

"Good," Geof said, laying the gun on the table. "Stay that way."

They continued their game while I lay there thinking. I was beginning to feel the slightest bit better, but decided to continue the malingering act. After about ten minutes I sat up.

"I have to take a piss," I announced.

Another argument ensued. Geof allowed that he didn't care if I wet my breeches. Chubby protested that it was his cot, and he damned well wasn't going to lose a perfectly good mattress. They bickered back and forth.

Finally Geof slammed the deck of cards down on the tabletop. "All right, you take him out if you want to play nursemaid!"

Chubby rose from the table and withdrew a small biolume torch from his hip pocket.

"Wait'" Geof said. "I'll do it. When he asks you to shake it for him, you'll probably give him the gun so you can use both hands."

He got up and pointed the slug-thrower at me.

"All right, you. Out the door, stand on the porch and let fly"

"I gotta do more than that," I said.

Geof scowled, thinking it over. You can't argue with nature. "Right," he grumbled. He took the torch from Chubby, crossed to the front door, opened it and gestured me through with the gun. "March," he said.

I made it seem quite an effort to get up, which it was to a degree. I hobbled to the door and went out.

Outside, he illuminated a path through the trees. I took it; Geof followed at a close distance. Perhaps a little too close for his own good. The path ended in a little grove wherein stood an outdoor facility of the kind I had not seen since we knocked down the one on our farm on Vishnu. This specimen was even more primitive. Ours had been designed so that the stored biomass could be easily retrieved for use as fertilizer and energy.

I stopped short, feigning indignation. "I gotta use that?"

"So sorry, Your Royal Highness. Get moving." He shoved me, then edged up until he was walking at my side, holding the.gun on me as we drew up to the door.

Geof was a tough guy, but not very bright. In fact, it seemed as though he were making it too easy for me. He stood at an angle to the door such that… Well, I'd give it a try.

He held the barrel of the gun almost to my head. "I want the door wide open, now."

I took hold of the crudely carved wooden handle and pulled. The door swung easily. "Right," I said, and yanked the door back hard. It hit his other hand and knocked the torch from it.

The momentary distraction was all I needed. I reached out with my left hand, ducking to the right, and twisted the gun from his hand, almost taking his trigger finger with it. Luckily, the weapon didn't discharge. There had been no scuffle. In the space of a second or two, I owned the gun and Geof stood there in shock, nursing his reddened index finger. I stopped, picked up the torch and played the beam on his face.

"Well, Geof, who are you working for?"

He said nothing, shielding his eyes.

"I want to know who you're working for, and if you don't tell me, I'll shoot you dead now."

"Moore," he said quickly. "Zack Moore. I didn't―"

"That's all I wanted to know."

"Please don't shoot me."

"I'll consider it. I've met your type… Christ, I don't know how many times." I shook my head and clucked. "Why do you exist? It's always baffled me."

He declined to answer.

"At the heart of great mysteries," I said, "silence, always silence." I sighed. "Okay, Geof, inside."

He didn't move.

"Inside."

He entered the shack and turned around.

"Down the hole."

"What!"

"Another mystery, Geof. Always wanted to know if it could be done."

"You're insane."

"Possibly. Get down that hole. Now."

"I'll never fit down that"

"Try."

"I won't!"

"Geof, remember what I said in the cabin? I'll kill you right now, and then stuff you down. Climb down, and I might not shoot you."

"You'll have to shoot me."

"Suit yourself." I stepped nearer, to make sure of my aim. "Wait" He looked. "It's too small."

"Do your best."

He did his best. After perhaps five minutes, he was hung up around his rib cage.

"I'm stuck!"

"You're skinny enough. Try harder. Exhale."

The shoulders presented a real problem, but with a few suggestions as to how to maneuver and a little brute force applied with my hoot, he managed to slide his left arm down between his side and the rim of the hole.

"Uh!… Uh!… God!"

"A little more. C'mon, inhale and force it. You can do it, Geof."

After an agonizing minute or so, his left shoulder popped through the hole. I put my hand on top of his head, splayed my fingers, and pushed.

It was a surprisingly long drop. The splash echoed hollowly.

"Geof?

No answer.

I took a different path back to the cabin.

Peering through the small rear window, I saw Chubby making tea, standing by the rusty wood stove. I circled to the front porch and waited by the door.

It didn't take long. He came out the creaky front door and stood on the edge of the porch, looking out into the night.

"Hi, Chubby."

He yelped and jumped a half-meter straight up. Then he turned slowly.

"Look, mate―" he began.

I leveled the gun at him. "I want the truth from you."

He swallowed. "You've got it."

"How long were you supposed to keep me here?"

"Until Zack sent somebody for you."

"How long would that be?"

"I don't know. He just said to keep you quiet for now."

"Okay. How far are we from the Bandersnatch?"

"Not far. Two kilometers, a bit more."

"Which direction?"

He pointed directly opposite the outhouse. "Take that path. When you come to the road, turn left and go about half a kilometer to the fork. Then bear right. It'll take you straight to the Bandersnatch."

"How far from here is the road?"

"About ten minutes at a good pace."

"You two carried me all that way?"

He shook his head. "No, one of the bigger lads slung you over his shoulder."

I stepped toward him.

"Are you sure about the directions?"

He nodded emphatically.

"I won't kill you now," I said coolly, "but if I've found you've steered me wrong, I'll be back."

"I swear it!"'

"By the way, thanks for the water. It was mildly decent of you."

Relief made his face sag. "Well, it's all right, really. Geof is a bit harsh sometimes. He's not" He glanced toward the outhouse worriedly. "What did you do with him?"

"He's having dinner. Tell me, is that huge purple creature standing behind you usually dangerous?"

He laughed, turning around to look. "Don't let that worry you. You'll see all sorts―"

I clipped him with the gun butt and sent him sprawling in the dirt. Then I dragged him back inside. This done, my head was throbbing so violently I thought I was hemorrhaging. I wasn't. That tea sounded like a good idea. I wanted to get moving as soon as possible, but I needed to recover a bit more. I poured boiling water from a rusty saucepan into the teapot and put the lid on. A cross-country trek at night through an alien wilderness would be dangerous, not to say foolish, in my present condition, but I had to get back to the Bandersnatch soon. I was worried about Darla and the others. While it was hard to believe that Moore could, with impunity, detain or abduct six people and an alien, it was possible that he owned this planet and had free rein.

No. I knew whose unseen hand was at work here. Pendergast. The master of the Laputa was a force to be reckoned with in the Outworlds. The ship must have limped into port. Messengers in high-speed roadsters would have been dispatched to get word out that I must be found and my "map" confiscated. Moore must have nabbed Winnie, poor thing. She must be frightened to death. And they'd need Darla to translate. Maybe they'd round everyone else up for good measure.

Tying Chubby up proved to be difficult since there was no rope handy, which I thought strange for a logger's cabin. Obviously Chubby did not work for a living. I resorted to tearing the bedding into strips with a dull kitchen knife. I trussed him up as well as I could―he was still out cold and looked as though he'd stay that way for a while―dragged him over to the cot, and dumped him in.

What was in the teapot wasn't a tea I was familiar with, and I don't know why I expected it to be, but it was good. I drank a cup, poured another and drank half. Then I searched the cabin for Sam's key, not really expecting to find it. A quick frisk of Chubby turned up nothing. Did Geof have it? I hadn't thought to ask him. Then out of an alcoholic fog came the memory of Darla reminding me to take the key from the table as I was leaving on my ceremonial quest. I had told her to keep it, I remembered, lest I lost it while running around out in the bush like a wacko. Besides, I had been drunker than a skunk.

But if Darla was now in Moore's custody…

Well, we'll have to see. Time to get the hell out of here. I finished the tea, tucked the gun in my belt, took the torch, and left.

These woods were strange, strange. I now knew full well what Lori had meant by "funny feelings." As I walked, the memory of what I had seen just before being knocked out grew sharper, though I was still having trouble distinguishing it from the crazy dream―stuff I had swum through on the way to full consciousness. I didn't want to dwell on it, though. Best to keep my attention on where I was going.

The path began just where Chubby had said it did. It went straight for a few meters then twined through the underbrush, bearing generally downhill. All around, immense treetrunks stood like columns in a vast dark temple. I had a vague sense of presences lurking among them. I was worried about the torch. Moore and a band of his men might be coming this way. A light appearing up ahead then suddenly vanishing might clue them in that somebody who didn't want to be sociable was about. They'd damn well guess that it was me. No, I'd have to walk in total darkness.

I stopped. Why not test my eyes now? I flicked off the torch.

Moonlight. I could see quite well. I walked a few paces. Down the path a break in the canopy let a tiny glowing bit of full moon peek through. I stood watching it for a while. It was so bright it almost hurt my eyes. The strange-colored foliage around me glowed shy. From the darkness under the trees came twittering sounds, sharp clicks, rasping buzzes. The longer I stood there the more sounds I heard, coming from farther and farther away. Everything, everywhere, seemed to throb with life. A whooping cry came from my right and startled me. It sounded vaguely human. A plaintive wailing began in the opposite direction. It was a long way off, but sounded less vaguely human. I didn't like it, nor did I care for the muffled porcine grunting that came from behind.

I moved forward, telling myself that a light would only attract whatever was out there. I didn't believe myself, but walked on into the half-gloom anyway. I'm like that. I can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

I felt better physically. I was no longer certain I was going to die. A garden-variety agonizing headache had settled in, and the nausea was mild, with gusts up to medium-awful. But I was getting better with each step. Nothing like a brisk walk in the woods. The air was pleasant, bracing but not chilly. The smells were numerous, like an assortment of perfumes, heady and invigorating. Soft, milky moonlight dripped through the branches overhead. There was no wind. The path was worn and smooth, springing to the step like a bed of moss. The whole environment seemed more like a park than a wilderness. I half expected to see painted benches and trash receptacles along the way. The path turned sharply to the right, then began a gradual climb. I walked on, increasing my pace, trying not to jump at every chitter and twirp that sounded in the bushes as I passed. Damn, these woods were alive. Insects mostly. Just insects, he said, grinning nervously.

Those smells… The perfumes of the night. Intoxicating they were, and I couldn't tell whether their effect was to dampen my trepidations or augment them. Or maybe cause them. Ordinarily I have no fear of the dark, and while I have all sorts of respect for the uncertainties of an alien world, I'm not afraid to walk one alone. I've done it many times before. But there was something about Talltree that tapped into a reservoir of primal… stuff: Stuff that lies moldering in the human hindbrain. This was the archetypal enchanted forest. Fearful, yes, but also magical, preternatural, alive with ancient mysteries.

Damn, a fork. Chubby had mentioned one, but he'd been talking about the main road, hadn't he? The paths diverged into the night and I stood there a moment, trying to tell which one looked to have taken the most traffic. The one to the left seemed a little wider. I flashed the torch on it briefly. Okay, to the left.

The undergrowth thinned out, revealing puddles of silver light on the forest floor, beds of pale-petaled flowers moonbathing within them. To my right and up a gentle grade, bluegray shelves of rock paralleled the path, outlining what may have been an ancient stream bed. I thought I smelled water nearby. Sure enough, the path descended to a quiet, narrow stream which I took in two hops, using a wide flat stone in the middle as a springboard. The path wound up a gentle grade. I still heard the snorting to my rear. It was beginning. to worry me a little, because whatever was doing it seemed to be following the path. But it didn't sound as though it were gaining, just yet.

"Bleu."

I stopped. Someone or something, off in the bushes, had said bleu. Not blue, mind you, or blew, but bleu, with an admirably correct nasal intonation of the vowel.

"Bleu," came another voice. It was rather a flat statement, matter-o-fact.

"Bleu," confirmed still another from a different direction.

"Bleu," the first voice agreed.

"Okay, so it's blue," I said. "So what?"

Silence for a moment. Then: "Bleu!"

I started walking again, peering into the shadows. I couldn't see a thing.

"Bleu?" It sounded like a question.

"Damned if I know," I said.

"Bleu," another voice stated.

I walked through this laconic dialogue for two or three minutes, bleu-sayers to either side. Nobody got really excited, save for an occasional bleu! or two.

What had Chubby said? Ten minutes at a quick pace? I was sure I'd been walking for at least that long. I rarely wear a watch, and now regretted it. Time to start thinking about doubling back and taking the other fork. Well, I'd go a little farther. Besides, that snorting and snuffling did sound a little nearer now. I was sure of it. Or was I just getting spooked? Easy enough to get spooked with things bleuing at me out of the darkness. Sounds I could deal with. It was all the same to me, as long as the speaker remained anonymous. I wasn't up to making new acquaintances right then.

I stopped. I thought I heard splashing.

"Greep."

This last was near enough to make me jump. I backed down the path, then turned and began jogging.

The snorting and snuffling was definitely louder and now took on a menacing quality. Whatever was doing it was also grunting, panting, gibbering, and possibly slavering.

I ran, setting off a chorus of greeping in the undergrowth.

The path went uphill for a ways then leveled off. I was soon out of the land of the Greeps and into neighborhoods where other voices spoke. Warble, chirp, breep, chitter, jub jub, you name it, somebody was saying it. The forest was alive with gossip. He's running! Look at him run! they seemed to babble. Tremulous cries, frantic war-whoops came from the distance. Word was spreading. The thing behind me was gaining, its wide snout pushed to my scent. Panicky screeching came from the treetops along with the nervous flap of leathery wings. A small, rounded dark shape lay ahead Of me on the path. It squawked and bolted into the weeds. I heard hooves pounding against the turf off to the right, twigs breaking in the path of some frightened running thing. That made two of us. The thing behind me was big and sounded as if it were moving on two huge feet. It was running now, chasing me, gibbering maniacally. The path went into an S-curve, straightened, then went into a hairpin turn to the left, leading up the slope of a steep hill. I puffed up the trail, turned into the switchback, listening to the sound of thumping feet below me. The thing was fast, gobbling up distance in big strides. The hill didn't slow it down. I raced up the trail. The sounds it made were nightmarish, half-human. There was a note of ravenous glee to it all, a fiendish chuckling as if it reveled in the pleasure of the chase.

Three more switchbacks and I gained the top of the hill. The trail continued along a ridge, then swung into the trees. I decided to make a stand. I didn't think I could outrun the thing and the dash up the hill had taxed me. Getting off the trail would be a good idea. If the thing were big it might have trouble following me through the underbrush. I hoped.

The trail swung right and ran along the narrow crest of the hill. The underbrush grew thickly on either slope. Something big lay across the path ahead―a fallen treetrunk. I drew my pistol, took cover behind the trunk and took aim up the path. It was coming. I couldn't see anything yet, but it was coming. It didn't slow, didn't hesitate, kept running full tilt, drooling in anticipation, its feet whumping against the mossy softness of the trail. It growled, it giggled, it heaved and panted. It made one hell of a lot of noise. All around, the forest screamed in a mounting crescendo of terror. Flocks of panic-stricken creatures took wing into the night. Unseen things in the shadows burbled and greeped and went bleu! Voices in the trees shrieked their dismay. Thousands of tiny things stampeded through the brush. The beast shambled toward me, its breath like blasts of steam. I still couldn't make it out. No good; I'd have to be able to see it to shoot it.

I got up and ran like hell. I didn't really want to shoot it. You can never tell with a completely unknown creature. It might eat slugs for breakfast. Maybe its vital organs were in its feet. Maybe it had armor plating ten centimeters thick. What do you do when the thing shrugs off your best shot? As a rule, shooting at an alien unknown is a last resort. But I was up against it. If I ducked into the brush first I might never get another chance for a clear shot. I was sure it would follow, thick underbrush or not. My heart pounded against my breastbone with enough force to crack it. Starriggers sit too much to keep in shape. I was going on pure adrenaline; I didn't think my lungs were working at all.

Light up ahead―moonbeams falling across the path. I ran on through into the shadows on the other side. I skidded to a stop, turned, crouched, and aimed.

The thing slowed. It stopped just at the edge of the pool of light. It stood there panting and snarling. And I still couldn't see it.

I aimed for the probable center of the source of all that nonsense and emptied the clip of the machine-pistol at it. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrruppp! Four seconds to unleash a hail of superdense metal pellets. My best shot. I leaped off the path into the brush, thrashed my way through a clump of broad-leafed weeds, stumbled, tripped, broke through the other side, and rolled down a steep incline. Thorny tendrils snagged at my jacket, twigs whipped my face, rocks bruised my ribs. I rolled and rolled until I finally got to my feet, letting momentum carry me up. I jogged down to level ground, slipped, fell and crawled behind a tree. I listened.

All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.

Silence. Everyone had shut up real suddenlike.

The hush continued for what seemed several minutes. It probably wasn't that long. At some point I decided I could start breathing again. I gasped, wheezed, and choked for a while, then got my breath. I kept listening. Nothing moved, nothing spoke. Then…

"Bork?" something to my left said tentatively.

I sighed, listened for a while longer.

"Bork?" it asked again.

I levered myself to my feet and leaned against the treetrunk. I took a deep breath. "Yeah," I said. "Bork." I wiped grit off my face, brushed dirt from my jacket. "Definitely bork."

Another voice borked up ahead, then others took the cry, glad the question was all settled.

Slowly, the forest came back to life, but the mood now was subdued.

I rested, squatting at the base of the tree for a few minutes. Then I walked along the bottom of the hill searching for a clear way up. There wasn't one. I wasn't really interested in going back up there. The thing might only be wounded, lying there in the path. Or maybe I had missed the damn thing. I didn't know and didn't particularly care to find out.

About fifteen minutes later, I had to admit to myself that I was lost. I had thought that picking up the trail again would be easy―just walk a little way along the base of the hill, then push through the underbrush until I came out on top. I did that, with some difficulty, and found what I thought was the trail I had been on, but it couldn't possibly have been because I followed it in the direction I'd come from and everything was unfamiliar. No switchback trail up the slope, no stream, nothing. I had walked a good distance along the bottom of the hill, wanting to pick the path up at a point well away from where the wounded creature could have been, but I must have gone a bit too far. The terrain had proven more complex than I had thought. I had chanced upon a completely different trail running along the same ridge, maybe a branch of the original one.

But it wasn't. I doubled back along it but didn't find another path intersecting it. In fact, the trail petered out completely. I was completely disoriented and totally lost.

I wandered for over an hour. I was calm now. The forest was familiar territory even though I didn't know which way was out. It seemed merely magical, not menacing. I heard music, or thought I did. It was just on the edge of audibility. Haunting music. At first I thought I might be near the Bandersnatch, but it was like no music I had ever heard. What sounded like a female voice sang with it. She was calling to me, I thought.

I sat on a stump and rubbed my temples. Let's not fall for that old routine. No siren voices luring me onto the rocks, please; or, more appropriately, no hamadryads to lure me up a tree. What was wrong with me? I felt high. I was high. On what, I didn't know. Certainly not beer―my God, that was hours ago. My hangover was completely gone. I was fine physically, maybe a little sore along the ribs and back. I looked up. I was sitting on the edge of a clearing on the slope of a gentle grade. In the middle of the clearing was a low mound of moss and ferns. It looked pretty. I looked up. The sky was spattered with a million stars. I gazed upward for a long while; then movement below caught my eye.

Something on two legs―a pale figure in the moonglow―shot into the clearing, made a quarter turn around the mound, and shot out again. It happened so fast I couldn't get a clear impression of what the creature had looked like. It hadn't made a sound. I shook my head and shrugged. I got up and came out into the clearing to the edge of the fairy ring of moss. I looked up again. Stars. No matter where you go in the universe, the stars look the same. I considered that thought. Profound. I rubbed my forehead. I was still high.

Something was moving against the stars. A meteorite.

No, it was traveling up. Strange angle… couldn't be.

It exploded, blossoming into starbursts of red, white, and blue. At once, I came down from my high. The strange dream I had been walking through evaporated.

Sam's signal flare! And he was close!

I took off like a deer through the clearing and plunged into the trees. The gradual slope continued down to a sharp dip, at the bottom of which was a logging road. I drew the torch from my pocket, flicked it on and ran to the left. I was going home.

As I jogged down the road I thought about the nightbeast that had chased me and I was struck by the total improbability of the incident. Didn't nocturnal predators usually stalk their prey silently? Not that guy back there. Nothing like announcing your intentions to the entire countryside. But maybe that was his style. It didn't make sense, though. There was the distant possibility that I had imagined it all, but I could barely bring myself to consider it. Just what does "imagine" really mean? Had I been hallucinating? Not one of my habits. None of it made any sense no matter which way I looked at it.

I loped along for about five minutes, then saw headbeams sweeping around a bend in the road. I heard the familiar whine of Sam's engine and broke into a sprint, waving the torch.