Chapters (42)
- DEDICATION
- EPIGRAPH
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- ALSO BY RICHARD KADREY
- CREDITS
- ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
As the fog began to dissipate he could hear a few cars in the distance still plowing into the back end of the stalled traffic. The stranger shook the windshield glass from his coat and hair. He climbed over the piles of smoldering metal back to the big rig. He didn’t bother checking on Bill. He knew what he’d find. He just clambered over the top of the cab and onto the freight container. It was surprisingly quiet up there, he thought. Just some blaring car horns and the occasional scream. There weren’t any more cars to add to the pileup, which was a little disappointing. He should have gotten on the roof while they were still moving. Now that would have been a show. Still, he couldn’t complain about the climax of his little play. And best of all, the sandwich was good. Chicken salad, and not the awful kind with mustard.
When the ambulances and TV news crews began to arrive, the stranger knew that the fun part of the show was over. He wadded up the sandwich paper and tossed it over his shoulder. When he climbed to the ground, he found a water bottle on the shoulder of the road. Ah, he thought, the play had climaxed while I was on the truck. But this, this is the denouement.
He opened the bottle and drank from it as he started south again.
SEVENTEEN
QAPHSIEL’S NOSE ITCHED. HE’D TOSSED AND TURNED all night and when he finally awoke, he realized that he’d rolled away from the sycamore where he’d gone to sleep and was back in the bushes again. Always the damned bushes. He scratched his nose and arms. It had happened so many times before that he didn’t even bother getting up. He just rolled out of the bush and back under the tree. Along the way, he felt every twig, rock, and crushed beer can through the threadbare sleeping bag. He’d found the bag in the abandoned zoo in Griffith Park. Full of empty cages and walkways, it’s where he slept most nights. Sure, he could pull gold out of thin air, but even the seediest motels would rather have a wad of crumpled twenties than a fistful of extremely questionable shekels.
The night was clear and cool, but something pressed warmly against his back. He wriggled around in the sleeping bag, banging his head against the trunk of the sycamore, and finally managed to get out the map. He sat up with his back against the tree and opened it.
“Oh, my.”