The Black Seas of Infinity (15 page)

Climbing back into the driver’s seat, I hit
the gas, spinning the truck out onto the main road, back in the
direction I came and toward the interstate. I don’t know where I
am. There might be a quicker way, but better to waste time taking a
known route than get lost in the middle of nowhere.

After an hour of tooling down the roads of
rural America, the scenery alternating between small wooden
domiciles and bark-encrusted trunks, I re-enter the small town. As
I pass the house I stole the truck from, I scrutinize the weathered
abode, the dingy wood paneling geriatric and seedy in the radiance
of full daylight. It appears to be vacant. I speed by my old
Mustang, nestled like a lost pet on the side of the road. I feel a
wave of sentiment and for a moment consider abandoning the Land
Rover and refueling the Mustang instead. But I know that’s not the
best course. The Land Rover is way more reliable—every rebuilt old
car seems to be plagued with minor problems. In light of my current
situation, any hindrance, no matter how small, could end up being
significant. Not to mention, the four-wheel-drive capability of the
Land Rover might come in handy.

I still feel like I’m leaving something
behind. Thinking back on my life, it seems something or someone is
always getting left behind. I see the exit for the interstate on my
right. Ascending the ramp, I head south. It’s now midday, and the
sun bleaches out everything. Where are the clouds of last night? I
spin the radio dial, trying to pick up a news channel. Nothing
except white noise. I keep driving.

An unending sea of trees curtains the
highway, their leaves ablaze in the dying throes of fall. The
forest gives way to steep gray crags of rock as the road cleaves
through roughhewn precipices, the woods flowing up and over the
summit in florid convoys of dazzling foliage. Chain link fences
hold the glacial masses of slate at bay, omens of a less than
stable precipice. The shoulders occasionally break away into frail
sidewalls of metal railing, the Spartan balustrade demarcating a
yawning abyss beyond.

The hazy vista below often nurtures a small
town, the scattered buildings nestled amongst the sweeping
woodland. I used to feel like time spent traveling was a waste, but
not now. I have an abundant supply, everything seems fresh and
different, and the feeling of peace amid the recent turmoil is much
appreciated.

The sun crosses the sky, the time change
almost palpable as the hope of early morning turns into the
blinding reality of midday, slowly fading into the regret and
creeping demise of early evening.

Drawing in on the New York City area, I would
guess I’m probably roaming through the outskirts of Westchester. I
see a car or two, heading away from the borough, but no traffic
heading in. I decide to avoid the city. It’s a little too risky at
this point. But I have to wonder how it’s holding up. Is it in
chaos? New York City was always a strange place, tension bubbling
under the surface, everyone such an expert at his or her game face
that you never really saw the person beneath. I’m curious to know
how the city is faring, but I have a streak of luck going with this
stolen vehicle. I don’t want to risk losing it in a major city. The
woods thin out, and buildings start to emerge. At first, it’s the
placid white stone of small businesses, but that quickly
metamorphoses into the tall, dark contours of projects. New York’s
great hope—and look how that panned out. They look eerie and
abandoned, a core of urban debasement and failed experimentation,
rendered neutered and fallow amidst a disheveled throng of forsaken
highways.

I turn off at the exit for the George
Washington Bridge. Endless looping rows of concrete interstate
swirl around me, the edifices giving way to the wasteland that is
the Bronx in a cacophony of scruffy buildings and seedy businesses.
There are actually a few cars on the road here. I wouldn’t expect
any less from a city of nine million. The interstate twists into a
curving exit up onto the bridge. There are no tolls on the New York
side. I wonder if the booths on the other side are manned. I notice
a little more traffic here, a few vehicles on the opposite
expressway, but still not amounting to much. Especially compared to
the madhouse urban congestion can be.

I take the lower roadway, and even though the
entrance ramp is empty, I see a few other cars on the bridge. I
pass an old, white BMW sedan on the left. Peering over, I see a
middle-aged Spanish guy wearing a low-slung baseball cap, his upper
lip sporting a thin mustache garnishing pockmarked, olive skin. He
flies past so quickly that I can discern little else. I notice his
eyes, staring blankly forward as if lost in thought... or worse.
Not that it matters, in the grand scheme of things. I’m sure
everyone’s life has been changed, and there are a million stories
to go with the huge population.

I break out of the shadow of the bridge and
onto the brightly lit highways of New Jersey. For a moment I feel a
strange sense of escape, as if the city is dying and doesn’t want
to let me go.

The sun is falling, the glare of the fading
day reducing my line of sight. If there were traffic, I’m sure it
would be moving slowly, as if battling with the car shade in an
effort to make out the road. But there is no traffic, and my truck
blazes a forlorn trail through the deserted highways of New
Jersey.

It isn’t long before I encounter another
tollbooth, the small concrete huts splayed across the road in a
dilapidated train. The booths are unmanned, the wooden gates torn
asunder. The pieces lie strewn across the asphalt in fragments of
black and white. Splintered stumps jut out behind the tollbooths,
winsome reminders of societal collapse. The dying sun casts
everything into a stark disparity of blackened silhouettes and
fiery edges. I was never a fan of Jersey, but at least the highways
are monstrous tracts, abetting escape from the suburban
corpulence.

Past the ruined gateway, steady streams of
faceless commercial buildings flow by on both sides. Their dusky
gloom gives the area an overtone of abandonment. A decadent
civilization that’s further lost what little vitality it had in its
desertion. The sooner I’m out of here the better.

The gas needle continues to fall, and after
several hours I need to make a stop. I pull over on the grassy
strip straddling the interstate and tug apart the ignition wires.
I’m standing halfway out into the fast lane, but there is no
danger, only a gossamer breeze that tugs gently at my pant legs.
Golden stretches of asphalt extend out in a flaxen river, the
shining surface stamped obliquely with a thin queue of white lines.
Hulking concrete sidewalls deface the roadside, their brusque
enormity topped by a sunny cavalcade of bleary treetops. I empty
both cans and the water bottles, and I still haven’t filled the
tank. I’ll see how far this gets me. I kick the empty cartons from
the road and circle back around. Scraping the wires together, I
glance up at the fuel gauge. Three quarters of a tank. At least
it’s all highways for now.

Darkness has now descended, and my headlights
catch a large metal sign on the side of the road.

“Welcome to Pennsylvania!”

A few minutes later, I start to notice an
undulating dark mass blocking out the stars. An approaching storm?
Something tells me no. As I keep cruising, my headlights start to
fog up. A thick rolling smog obscures my vision. It looks like
smoke, and there’s a lot of it. The air grows hazy, the whole
panorama enveloped in a thick mist. My line of sight dwindles, and
I slow down. The air grows dense and polluted. It’s not affecting
me, but it’s probably a serious impediment to anything living.

Holy shit!

On the opposite side of the road is a sedan
engulfed in flames, its metal carcass moldering in an ashen pyre of
Middle America come apart at the seams. The scathing light
irradiates the highway, highlighting the woods beyond with a
flickering glow. I see another car abandoned on the roadside in
front of me, its doors hanging limply half-open, as if the
occupants left under extreme duress. It’s a blue Honda Civic. An
everyman’s car. Not a good sign.

The smog thickens, and the interstate climbs,
ascending onto a high rampart. I hear explosions far ahead, in what
I assume is downtown. Dark obstructions force me to weave
haphazardly as I cruise through what has become an obstacle course.
Nothing living seems to be moving around in the thick soup, but I
slow down regardless. The last thing I need is to flip this vehicle
in the middle of what looks like a war zone.

The wind picks up, clearing a rift through
the smoke, and I can make out a large body of water off to my left.
The rippled surface shimmers in the glare of a city ablaze. Small
shockwaves reverberate, rumbling through the Land Rover and causing
the ground to tremble. Flashes of light spark off like mammoth
fireworks, pulsing through the smog, followed closely by a massive
tremor. The smoke starts to fight back against the breeze, gushing
in with renewed vigor and blanketing everything. My Rover lurches
continually, vibrating with small impacts. I jerk the wheel, trying
hard to avoid the blurry silhouettes. A piercing wail cuts through
the din, a wretched dirge that suggests more an animal in pain than
anything human. Sickly thumps follow, accompanied by an organic
crunch that sounds like gnashing bone.

The dense banks of filth swirl in a confusing
vortex, burying the lines of the road in an impenetrable miasma. I
don’t dare slow down, but for all I know I’m headed toward the side
of the bridge. The Rover starts to vibrate violently over uneven
ground, and something slams into the side with a wet thud. I step
on the gas, and the truck bounds forward. Small particles bombard
the windshield, materializing out of the billowing clouds just
before a suicide run into the glass. Splatters of grimy ocher dot
the glass, sprawling out in viscous tendrils of slime. Shadowy
forms, their details obscured by the smog, float in and out of the
mist.

Just as the maelstrom seems unnavigable, the
haze thins out, and I can make out more of the roadway. It doesn’t
look quite as chaotic as it did seconds earlier, mainly just
littered with small debris. I could swear there was something else
in the chaos I just passed through. Something larger and more
foreboding. The fog recedes as I distance myself from the dying
city. It’s looking like it’ll be a long drive to Mexico.

CHAPTER X

THE FIRST TASTE OF SOUTHERN
HOSPITALITY

It’s still night as I roll into Baltimore, the
dreary industrial city almost unrecognizable in the current climate
from the urban sprawl I remember from my days in Virginia. There’s
no ambient luminosity, but the glare of my headlights cuts a
depressing view through the bleak landscape. Drab gray buildings,
rundown structures propped up by an obstinate refusal to fall.

The houses escalate into a more advanced
strip of manicured road. The sandy asphalt progresses into smooth
lanes of concrete, the highway mantled by a spurt of green signs.
The roadsides are edged with squat barriers of stone, a somber
queue of trees lining the periphery. A glint of glass and steel
glowers through the woods, a constant reminder that the trees
compose a thinly veiled shield from the manmade ennui that lies
just beyond.

The highway elevates, surmounting a low-lying
bridge as it surges through the bowels of Baltimore. A car passes
in a flash of brilliance on the opposite side. It’s the only car
I’ve seen in an hour.

The road escalates into a multi-lane complex
of concrete dividers and towering brick sidewalls. Forlorn
electronic signage announces absolutely nothing as I close in on
the blackened maw of the Fort McHenry Tunnel.

I slow down to thirty as I roll in. Filthy
white panels line the walls in a coating of cheap ceramic. The
polished edges reflect the gleam of my headlights in a milky sheen
that looks neither healthy nor friendly.

The tunnel twists in a constant sharp curve,
reducing my line of sight to a few hundred yards. My headlights
expose a shadowy form. It looks like a homeless bum, his grubby
billow of black pants and worn work boots smothered under a bulky
huddle of threadbare brown rags. As I roll past his head turns,
glowering at me in a deranged grin of rotted teeth. Greasy strands
of black hair shroud his filthy mug, while specks of dirt and
spittle besmirch his salt and pepper stubble. An ancient scar rides
up his cheek, curving around the orbit of his eye and terminating
in a confluence of wrinkles as it weasels into the eyebrow. I keep
driving.

Dawn has crept in as I reach the outskirts of
Northern Virginia—and my first real signs of trouble. The
expressway spreads out into a wide bridge of concrete, the level
span pedestrian and bare. Smooth asphalt flows into stubby
sidewalls, the entire expanse far too Spartan and open. A barricade
of sandbags chokes off the far end. Armed guards, as well as some
tanks and other mechanized vehicles, are scattered about behind the
barrier.