They were watching me, big surprise.
I walked toward it, and with every step I took the camera shifted its position to keep me in view.
“So these clothes,” I said. “I’m guessing they were, what? Taken from the bodies and repaired, as well? Is that what all these are? Dead men’s clothing?”
“Yes,” said a voice behind me.
I spun around, nearly tripping over my own feet.
“Easy there, Driver,” said the nightmare in the doorway. “Mustn’t hurt yourself. Think of what it would do to our insurance deductibles.” It laughed and rolled forward. “I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, that’s somewhat problematic.”
It—he—wore no shirt and had no arms or legs, and sat in an electric wheelchair that was guided by one of those attachments that enables the user to steer by using his or her mouth. As he rolled closer I saw that he wasn’t sitting in the chair at all—he was attached to it by a series of clamps that were soldered into the frame of the chair and disappeared into his flesh at waist level. The skin at the entry point was swollen, red, and crusted at the edges with dried blood.
“My given name is Henry,” he said. “But everyone here calls me Daddy Bliss.”
A series of three curved iron pipes curled out of his back and down into the wheelchair’s battery. Every time the chair moved, these pipes shuddered.
“I do apologize for not dressing appropriately—one should always look one’s best when greeting a new visitor—but you caught me during one of my quarterly tune-ups.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude. You know—staring at you.”
Daddy Bliss nodded, giving me a close-up view of the matchbox-sized rectangles with electrical wires implanted in his skull. The skin of his exposed scalp was also crusty and red where it joined the metal. It was impossible to see where or to what the scalp-wires connected because they hung down his back, mixing in with a bundle of other wires that were held together by plastic clamps. What I could see—too clearly—were the two clear plastic bags that dangled from the metal IV pole attached to the right arm of the wheelchair. The tube from the first bag—a catheter—snaked downward and then up into his penis, which was hidden behind one of the metal waist-clamps. The bag was filled not with urine but a thick black liquid, and as I stared, I realized that the liquid wasn’t going into the bag, it was flowing downward, into him.
“Motor oil,” he said. “It seemed to me you weren’t about to ask, so I thought I would get right to it.”
“Motor oil?”
“A highly…specialized brand, mixed with my own blood but, yes, motor oil nonetheless. The second bag contains a liquid protein supplement that helps keep me both alive and regular.” To illustrate this last point, his bowels groaned, and something moist and heavy dropped into an unseen container housed within the wheelchair’s lower casement.
I was glad I couldn’t see it.
“My apologies,” said Daddy Bliss. “But I had Thai food for dinner, and it always goes right through me. But don’t worry, the casing is quite solid, you can’t smell it.”
“Do you ever get out of that chair?”
“Oh, goodness gracious me, no. I would lose my mobility, silly boy. Do you have any more questions along these lines?”
I thought of Dash, Hummer, and the foundry worker and said, “Why haven’t you been repaired like the others I’ve seen?”
“It’s a question of compatibility, my boy. Just as the human body will reject unacceptable organic tissue, the same goes for iron, steel, aluminum, plastic, any man-made alloy or other such material…it’s a question of trial-and-error. Some of us have been able to be Repaired almost immediately, while others—like myself and Fairlane, who you’ll be meeting later on—have to make due with more…primitive results.
“For myself, I made the decision long ago to not attempt any further Repairs. It’s an excruciatingly painful process, despite the advances we’ve made, and each member of our ever-growing family is given the right to say ‘No more’ at any point in that process. The younger ones—like Dash, Ciera, and our resplendent Sheriff Hummer—are strong, and willful, and can deal with the pain of a full Repair…which is why they can interact more openly with the outside world. Any more questions at this point?”
“Nassir.”
“Sir, is it? So respectful. I like that right down to the ground. Yes, I do.” He bit down on the guidance device and turned the chair around. “Come along, Driver. There’s much to show you, and time is not exactly on our side.”
He rolled out the door and I followed.
10
We passed through the office and made a left, going through the same doors to the vending area that Dash had taken earlier, only now the cafeteria was empty. Daddy Bliss moved toward a set of weight-activated doors at the far end. They hissed open as soon as his wheels touched the mat in front of them.
We entered a long, brightly-lit concrete corridor.
“Our family album,” said Daddy Bliss. “Feel free to stop and look at whomever catches your fancy. We were forced to eschew the traditional bound albums some time ago, for reasons I’m sure you’ll come to understand.”
Every inch of wall space was covered by hundreds (if not thousands) of framed photographs, each one more gruesome than the one before; a car split nearly in half by the tree it had slammed into, the body of the driver splattered across the windshield; a head-on collision between two SUVs, the vehicles so demolished it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended, their drivers’ bodies little more than pulpy smears; broken bodies of passengers who’d been thrown free, their shattered remains glistening with blood, sometimes covered in one another’s internal organs…it was a photo essay of a slaughterhouse.
“As they were when the Highway People came to them,” said Daddy Bliss.
“Why keep such…gruesome reminders?”
“Because each of us must never forget our beginnings. Neither the Highway People nor—more importantly—the Road would approve.” He said it with such awe and reverence I could see yet another capital ‘R’.
I looked at him. “The Road?”
He gave a short nod of his head. The wires in his skull stretched as he did so. “The Road demands its sacrifices, as any self-respecting god would.”
“God?” I said. “So that would make you…what?”
He smiled. “Think of me as the high priest.” He began turning the chair around. “Shall we, then? Get on with it?”
I stood my ground. (Not as heroic or brave as it sounds—I was still scared as hell.) “What exactly are we getting on with?” He stopped, sighed, then turned back toward me. “Why must you try my patience so early on in our relationship, Driver?” “I wasn’t aware that we had a ‘relationship’.” “Oh, we do, Driver. That we do.” “What’s going on? What are you planning to do with me?”
“That is for the Road, and not me, to decide. I am only your guide—and you’re making it dreadfully difficult for me to discharge that duty. What the Road decides, it decides between midnight and dawn. We have only a few hours remaining before your options run out. Cooperate, and you may just be on your way back home come first light. Continue to be difficult, and here you’ll remain for the rest of your days.” He rolled closer, glaring at me. “Do I make myself clear?”