Read Online The Cauldron by Jean Rabe, Gene DeWeese - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean Rabe, Gene DeWeese
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costing him another twenty miles and dumping him into a detour-ridden subdivision where he managed to lose another forty-five minutes looking for the opposite-direction on-ramp.
Two and a half hours after he’d started, he passed the exit to the motel he’d stayed in the night before. One more exit, he thought, and I’ll catch some breakfast.
Breakfast was a disaster—or rather, finding the Interstate after eating was a disaster. For a Federal highway, he told himself angrily, it was pretty damned elusive. After a half-hour hunt, Carl came upon it by surprise and got going in the right direction, his jaw clenched. After that, he stopped only once more, for gas.
Even so, the sun was settling toward the horizon through layers of brilliant orange and cerise clouds by the time he neared Morgantown. He’d managed, one way or another, to stretch an eight- or ten-hour drive into more than fourteen.
His whole body was stiff and his bruises ached, but now, at last, a sign promised him Morgantown lay ten miles dead ahead. All he had to do was keep driving.
Past the sign, though, he began to feel disoriented. With each new curve, each hill, he was gripped more strongly by the conviction that these woods, these fields, were part of some ghostly overlay on the real landscape.
If he didn’t turn back, right here, right now, before that overlay was peeled back, he’d be trapped in that hidden reality, the same way he was always being trapped in his nightmares, the same way he—
Absurd! He gave the volume control of the radio a savage twist. The beat of fifties rock thudded in his bones, Little Richard singing Long Tall Sally .
That’s real, he told himself. That exists, better believe it. Carl sang along until the next tune blared: Huey “Piano” Smith and the Clowns’ Rocking Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu. A couple of miles later, a kid at the side of the road putting his hands over his ears made Carl laugh, bringing reality flooding back. He reached forward and lowered the volume to a comfortable level just in time to see the city limits sign.
MORGANTOWN, it said, in white letters on green—well, of course, what else?—POP. 41,387.
Carl frowned. It had been barely 20,000 when he’d left. Population doubled in eight years? He shook his head. At least it explained why things looked different—and the double-sized phone book back in the library. Ghostly overlay, indeed! Hell, even Roseville had changed in the eight years since he’d moved into the duplex, say nothing of Creighton. Stupid to think Morgantown hadn’t changed at least as much.
Still, it was unsettling, and it only grew worse as he drove on. The open fields that had flanked Route 22 as it approached the bypass had been replaced by a pair of shopping malls, complete with farm-sized parking lots and triple-screen theatres, their program boards belligerently facing each other across the highway. Toward town, where he recalled two smooth lanes of buff-colored concrete between fields of corn, stretched four lanes of potholed asphalt lined with gas stations, motels, a McDonald’s and an Arby’s and a Burger King … used car lots, new car lots, a Wendy’s, a K-Mart …
Carl made a huffing sound. All this, in just eight years?
Streetlights came on as he passed through an unfamiliar, faded residential district. In place of the soft incandescence and enameled shades he remembered was the hard-edged glow of mercury vapor, mounted on starkly plain arms that held them out directly over the traffic lanes. Well, why not? That’s what they had in Roseville. Probably didn’t even make incandescent lights anymore.
Minutes later, he discovered that downtown had changed as much as the bypass, but in reverse. One of the three movie theatres where he’d lounged in a plush seat eating Good ‘n’ Plenty candies while Flash Gordon roamed the far reaches of space on Saturday afternoons was now the Jesus Children Church, recognizable only by the old marquee.
Two and a half hours after he’d started, he passed the exit to the motel he’d stayed in the night before. One more exit, he thought, and I’ll catch some breakfast.
Breakfast was a disaster—or rather, finding the Interstate after eating was a disaster. For a Federal highway, he told himself angrily, it was pretty damned elusive. After a half-hour hunt, Carl came upon it by surprise and got going in the right direction, his jaw clenched. After that, he stopped only once more, for gas.
Even so, the sun was settling toward the horizon through layers of brilliant orange and cerise clouds by the time he neared Morgantown. He’d managed, one way or another, to stretch an eight- or ten-hour drive into more than fourteen.
His whole body was stiff and his bruises ached, but now, at last, a sign promised him Morgantown lay ten miles dead ahead. All he had to do was keep driving.
Past the sign, though, he began to feel disoriented. With each new curve, each hill, he was gripped more strongly by the conviction that these woods, these fields, were part of some ghostly overlay on the real landscape.
If he didn’t turn back, right here, right now, before that overlay was peeled back, he’d be trapped in that hidden reality, the same way he was always being trapped in his nightmares, the same way he—
Absurd! He gave the volume control of the radio a savage twist. The beat of fifties rock thudded in his bones, Little Richard singing Long Tall Sally .
That’s real, he told himself. That exists, better believe it. Carl sang along until the next tune blared: Huey “Piano” Smith and the Clowns’ Rocking Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu. A couple of miles later, a kid at the side of the road putting his hands over his ears made Carl laugh, bringing reality flooding back. He reached forward and lowered the volume to a comfortable level just in time to see the city limits sign.
MORGANTOWN, it said, in white letters on green—well, of course, what else?—POP. 41,387.
Carl frowned. It had been barely 20,000 when he’d left. Population doubled in eight years? He shook his head. At least it explained why things looked different—and the double-sized phone book back in the library. Ghostly overlay, indeed! Hell, even Roseville had changed in the eight years since he’d moved into the duplex, say nothing of Creighton. Stupid to think Morgantown hadn’t changed at least as much.
Still, it was unsettling, and it only grew worse as he drove on. The open fields that had flanked Route 22 as it approached the bypass had been replaced by a pair of shopping malls, complete with farm-sized parking lots and triple-screen theatres, their program boards belligerently facing each other across the highway. Toward town, where he recalled two smooth lanes of buff-colored concrete between fields of corn, stretched four lanes of potholed asphalt lined with gas stations, motels, a McDonald’s and an Arby’s and a Burger King … used car lots, new car lots, a Wendy’s, a K-Mart …
Carl made a huffing sound. All this, in just eight years?
Streetlights came on as he passed through an unfamiliar, faded residential district. In place of the soft incandescence and enameled shades he remembered was the hard-edged glow of mercury vapor, mounted on starkly plain arms that held them out directly over the traffic lanes. Well, why not? That’s what they had in Roseville. Probably didn’t even make incandescent lights anymore.
Minutes later, he discovered that downtown had changed as much as the bypass, but in reverse. One of the three movie theatres where he’d lounged in a plush seat eating Good ‘n’ Plenty candies while Flash Gordon roamed the far reaches of space on Saturday afternoons was now the Jesus Children Church, recognizable only by the old marquee.
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