Multiplex Fandango (38 page)

The essence of existentialism is that the individual is responsible for his actions.
He'd killed, been responsible, punished himself, and attempted to redeem himself.
He'd thought he'd done right, only to find out that by doing what he did, he'd denied the dead man's soul heaven.

Had he been too prideful?
Sure he was proud of himself for his sacrifice.
Was that why he was being punished?
Was that why he felt so horrible?

A hundred more questions shot across Gibb's mind, every other one piercing his psyche, wounding him with doubt.
Who had he become?
He'd lived someone else's life for so long, where did he end and where did Stephen Jones begin?

The rage built inside him until he finally exploded with emotion.
Gibb hammered at the steering wheel with both hands until they ached.
He beat the dashboard with the flat of his hand.
He screamed over and over, his anger trying to overwhelm the mechanical whine of the siren.
When he finished he was out of breath.

Spent.

Gibb turned off the siren and slowed the car until he pulled to a stop on the side of the road.
He turned off the ignition, but left the keys.
He opened the door and stepped out.
He removed his utility belt and threw it in the passenger seat.
He removed his star and placed it carefully atop the dash.
He took out his wallet, and flipped through the credit cards and memberships to different police benevolent associations.
Instead of deciding what to remove, he just tossed the whole thing into the car.
There was nothing in there that was really him.

The last thing he did was lock the door and close it.
They'd find the car and wonder what had happened.
They'd check his house.
They'd wonder where he went to, but never find out.
Gibb was done with it all.
It was time for him to discover who he was.
It was time for him to let go of everything.

He stood on the side of the road for about fifteen minutes.
Cars automatically slowed when they saw the flashing lights of the cruiser.
They didn't know what was going on, their greatest fear to get pulled over for some violation.

It wasn't until the convoy came into view that Gibb finally stirred.
Led by the three bikers, the convoy pulled to a stop in front of him.
Rev Bosco
e
stuck his head out the window.
Upon seeing Gibb, he nodded, then pulled himself back inside the Cadillac.

Gibb stepped to the door of the bus.
With a whoosh it opened.
The driver was a middle-aged black woman and her smile embraced him.
"Come on, honey.
If you wanna ride, you better get on," she said.

Gibb stepped aboard and found an empty seat.
No one paid him much attention.
They seemed intent on their own problems, their gazes towards independent horizons.

This was not a problem.

Gibb completely understood.

He'd need some time to himself before he could be himself, whoever that was.
He’d have plenty of opportunity to figure it out, too.

Shrines to the dead along Southwestern U.S. highways almost outnumbered the cacti.
In fact, the number seemed to have increased in recent years.
When he'd first began working as a highway patrolman, it was only the occasional cross placed by one of the local Mexicans to bless the ground on which a loved one had died.
Now it seemed as if crosses grew out of the ground.
Almost every fifty feet was a shrine placed in memory of some driver who'd lost control, or fallen asleep at the wheel, or been the victim of a drunk driver.

These shrines stand like mileage markers for the dead along the highways of the living, mostly ignored, sometimes remembered and forever present.
And they’d remain that way until the wood of the crosses crumbled, the shrines collapsed and all who knew the deceased had themselves died and forgotten the reason for the enshrinement.
Then, and only then, would the souls be free to travel on to that far country, past what is known, to continue a journey long postponed.

Their only chance of early release lies with the Redemption Roadshow, El Hombre Quemado and the Long Cool Woman, envoy to the living, arbiter for the dead and speaker for the millions of imprisoned souls held fast by the memories of who they once were.

***

Story Notes: Monica Kuebler of
Rue Morgue
and Mistress in-charge of Burning Effigy Press pulled me aside in
Salt Lake City
and asked me for a novella for her new imprint. She gave me the pitch and I was impressed. I said yes, then submitted a long story I had called Long Cool Woman. Monica loved it, but told me it wasn’t long enough. Five thousand words later Long Cool Woman became Redemption Roadshow. The sense of place and the shrines along the road in
Arizona
are a real thing. I just took it one step farther and asked a few questions which became the underlying themes of the story. As you know by now, I write a lot about responsibility. This story takes it to the nth degree. I’ve had a lot of folks ask me to write more stories featuring the Burned Man and the Long Cool Woman. I think I’m going to. I just haven’t thought of a good idea yet. This one was also a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award.

Weston Ochse (pronounced 'Oaks) (1965
–
Present) lives in Southern Arizona with his wife, and fellow author, Yvonne Navarro, and Great Danes, Pester Ghost Palm Eater, Mad Dog Ghoulie Sonar Brain and Goblin Monster Dog. For entertainment he races tarantula wasps, wrestles rattlesnakes, and bakes in the noonday sun. His work has won the Bram Stoker Award for First Novel, been finalist for Bram Stoker Awards for Long Fiction and Short Fiction, and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for Short Fiction. His work has also appeared in anthologies, magazines and professional writing guides. His novels include
Scarecrow Gods
,
Empire of Salt
and
Blaze of Glory
. He thinks it's damn cool that he's had stories in comic books.

Weston holds Bachelor's Degrees in American Literature and Chinese Studies from
Excelsior
College
. He holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from
National
University
. Weston is a retired U.S. Army intelligence officer. He has been to more than fifty countries and speaks Chinese with questionable authority. Weston is a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, a purple belt in Ryu Kempo Jujitsu and a green belt in the Hawaiian martial art of Kuai Lua.

Visit him online at
www.westonochse.com
.

Dark Regions Press
Dark Regions Press is an independent specialty publisher of horror, dark fiction, fantasy and science fiction, specializing in horror and dark fiction and in business since 1985. We have gained recognition around the world for our creative works in genre fiction and were awarded the Horror Writers Association 2010 Specialty Press Award and the Italian 2012 The Black Spot award for Excellence in a Foreign Publisher. We produce premium signed hardcover editions for collectors as well as trade paperbacks and ebook editions for more casual readers. We have published hundreds of authors, artists and poets such as Kevin J. Anderson, Bentley Little, Michael D. Resnick, Rick Hautala, Bruce Boston, Robert Frazier, W.H. Pugmire, Simon Strantzas, Jeffrey Thomas, Charlee Jacob, Richard Gavin, Tim Waggoner and hundreds more.  Dark Regions Press has been creating specialty books and creative projects for over twenty-seven years.

The press has staff throughout the country working virtually but also has a localized office in
Ashland
,
Oregon
from where we ship our orders and maintain the primary components of the business.

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,
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