The Black Seas of Infinity (27 page)

There seems to be no end, the mammoth
structures on both sides of the highway closing in. It’s like I’m
in some strange movie, the pawing horde trying to pull me into
their deranged world. Headlights dart around me in droves, like
giant insects fluttering down the corridors of an industrial hive.
This is the first major metropolis I’ve been in since my
transformation, and it’s a foreign city to boot. I feel a bit
overwhelmed and out of place. I hear someone yelling at me in
Spanish. Twisting my head, I see a red pickup truck has pulled up
next to me, the passenger screaming his head off. I stomp on the
gas, the FJ 40 jerking forward with a grumble. The truck easily
levels with me, the passenger still shouting something. I turn my
head and stare at him. It’s a young Spanish guy, early twenties,
with a backwards baseball cap and wispy black mustache. The leering
eyes and upturned mouth collapse into a look of astonishment,
followed quickly by fear. His back arm slaps the shoulder of the
driver, and a sheltered blur turns toward me. A piercing screech
fills the air as the pickup jerks backwards and out of my view. He
must have slammed on the brakes. A minute later, the grating sounds
of smashing metal fill the air, followed almost instantly by a
drove of squeals and collisions. I glance in the rear view mirror
to see a multi-car pileup. It’s kind of amusing, but probably
spells only trouble. I’m sure it will bring the local law
enforcement. I turn back and notice the fuel needle is almost on
empty. When it rains it pours. As if on cue, the blare of sirens
erupts behind me.

It’s a dark blue sedan marked “POLICIA
FEDERAL,” the front grille sporting a bull bar that partially
cloaks the headlights. Beams flare from the roof, drenching the
street in a blaze of glory. It looks like a Dodge Charger. No way I
can outrun that. Time to change tactics. I stomp on the brakes. The
worn tires instantly lose traction, and I spin wildly out of
control. The wheels collide with the concrete curb, the whole frame
slamming to a halt with the sudden impact. Untethered by a seat
belt, I fly out the open door. Sailing over a concrete island and
through an open lane of traffic, I just miss an oncoming truck as I
smash into a huge pine tree. The trunk convulses violently, dousing
me in a shower of needles as I plunge face first into the weeds. I
lift my head just in time to see the spinning carcass of the FJ 40
heading toward me. I start to pull in my legs, almost making it as
the crumpled shell hits me, flinging me out in a semicircular spin
across a lane of traffic and into a tree.

I blast through in a volley of wooden strips
and sap. Cratering the sandy asphalt, I land elbow first and fall
forward into a roll. Just as I struggle to my feet, an
eighteen-wheeler honks its air horns, bearing down on me in a mass
of corrugated metal. I spring into a dash, bounding across a
parking lot filled with delivery trucks. Running along the wall of
a warehouse, I slip around the rear corner and tear forward into
the night. A grove of trees, a short stretch of grass, and I
stumble into a small backyard. Glancing around desperately, I dart
off to the left, into a thin wood line.

Past the woods, I emerge on a one-way street.
A blue Nissan pickup is headed straight for me, the shrill warning
of its horn heralding its approach. It slows down as it draws near,
its headlights enveloping me in a blinding glow. I step to the side
of the truck and pounce forward. My fingers tear into the passenger
door. Grasping the frame of the truck with my other hand, I rip the
door off its hinges.

The passenger, a chubby, middle-aged man
decked out in a black T-shirt, gapes back in terror. A moaning
gibberish escapes his lips, and he fumbles his way through the
door, almost falling as he staggers out. His feet catch the cement,
and he flees in a mad dash toward the neighboring trees. Climbing
in, I grab the wheel and step on the gas. The truck flies forward,
passing a few buildings before rolling into an intersection. Some
sort of park is ahead of me, and skyscrapers rise up in a jumble of
suspended lights to my left. I spin to the right, hopefully away
from downtown and toward Route 57D.

I roll into a giant traffic circle. Cars dart
around me, honking their horns in impatience. It’s all one way. I
can see the road I need to be on, but neighboring lanes prevent me
from crossing. I jerk the wheel and head back in the direction I
came. Large ranch-style buildings flood in on the roadsides. All I
need is one side street! If I go back too far, I’ll end up right
back where I came from. A small road opens up on my right. It’s so
sheltered by a tree that I almost fly right past. I spin out in a
squeal of burning rubber, pulling myself right at the last minute.
One short block that looks all too familiar, and I wheel out onto
the street I just left. The crumpled remains of a door lie nestled
amid the sandy dross of the roadside. I reenter the road, glide
past the street I turned on, and keep going. I’m traveling so fast
I skid off the roadway, cleaving through the small stretch of grass
in a slippery wobble. Jerking the wheel violently, I manage to pull
myself right. A flash of lights and a guttural wail, and I realize
I’m now headed the wrong way down a one-way street. As I roll onto
the shoulder bordering the park, a truck passes with an angry roar.
I slow down to thirty and keep rolling down the roadside, a
succession of cars honking at me as I pass. Without even noticing,
I roll into an intersection. I’m almost through when a vehicle
clips my rear bumper hard. I hear squealing brakes, and manically
spin the wheel as I hit the gas. A two-lane highway crops up in
front and I bound onto it. Cars swarm around. I must have entered a
major thoroughfare. Looking ahead, I see that the oncoming
expressway forks. Left looks like it heads back toward the main
artery through the city, and I angle that way. A looping roll up a
small incline, and I’m back in the flow of traffic. Motorists speed
by on all sides as I meander through the lanes in an attempt to
reach the far right-hand side. It’s the slow lane, at least in the
US, and it’ll help disguise the missing door.

This highway must pass through some park.
Rows of trees throng in on the right, the somber hollow of the
forest distancing me from the city lights. Hopefully I’ll be out of
this metropolis and in the woods soon. The faster I’m away from
civilization, the better.

C
HAPTER
XVII

GUERILLAS IN THE MIST

As luck would have it, I make it fairly easily
through most of Mexico City. A map I glanced at weeks ago registers
as a photographic record in my new form. I don’t remember specific
names and details so much as a vague impression of what avenues to
take. I was on Paseo de la Reforma, took a right on Al Insurgentes
Centro, flowed overtop a main artery that I wanted to be on, spun
around, headed down Cafe Xola, and merged into traffic on Calle
Viaducto Presidente Miguel Aleman. All with the nebulous sense that
I was somehow heading the right way. Apparently Mexico City is a
mammoth labyrinth of overgrown buildings ensnared in a rat’s nest
of roadways. Capillaries swarm in and out within an elaborate web
of one-way streets, blocked off lanes, and disorienting side roads.
People pop in and out of view, yelling at one another in Spanish,
honking their horns, revving their engines, a whole overloaded
range of misanthropic reactions. People in large cities seem to
thrive off hostility, and despite the circumstances, some things
apparently don’t change. Viaducto leads to Calz Ignacio Zaragoz,
which lets me out on Ctra Federal Mexico Puebla, also known as
Route 150, and my ticket out of here.

The cluttered structures give way to more
residential dwellings as I slowly escape the city. It’s way more
sprawling than any Western city I’ve been in. Large stores and
warehouses refuse to give up their debasement of the land,
constantly resurrecting themselves like some endless cabal.

I’m surprised my one-door pickup has lasted
this long. The engine throbs heartily in a utilitarian drone, the
dashboard lights glowing in an orange blur under a screen of
stained Plexiglas. Wind whips through in a steady vortex, the
currents from the missing door challenging the influx from the open
window. Houses roll by in a steady stream of boxy shadows and
pinpricks of light, the whole panorama playing like a fleeting
slideshow through the gaping doorframe. The gas needle rests
serenely in the middle. Half a tank—that should get me far enough.
This little four-banger probably isn’t much of a gas guzzler.

Route 150 finally progresses into tilled
fields, a thin barrier of trees lining both the roadside and the
median. The dawn is approaching, the dark purple sky leavening into
a faded grayish blue. Fog rolls in from the hinterlands, blanketing
the road in a white haze. I roll past a small cluster of houses,
the pint-size settlement hiding a larger industrial building in its
midst. I briefly wonder what purpose it serves. The sun crests the
horizon, casting a radiant sheen across the tilled fields.

The road ascends into wooded foothills, and I
see more palm trees fraternizing with the pine and red gum. The
lush foliage crowds in on all sides, almost smothering the road. I
wish I could just pull off here and vanish into the wild, but it’s
way too large a country, and I still have the smaller city of
Puebla ahead of me. After that it should be smooth sailing: 150D to
145D, a turn onto 180D at the town of Minatillan, then on to 186 at
Villahermosa. Once past, I should be free and clear.

The forest provides all too brief an
intermission before I’m tumbling down into the depressing openness
of grassy fields. A smattering of residential dwellings isn’t far
behind, and I cruise by the sleepy buildings in the pale blue light
of early morn. Fog clusters around the sleepy domiciles. It’s the
last gasp of night, soon to be burned away by the austerity of day.
Nighttime always seemed more surreal to me, the possibilities far
greater. I wonder if that will continue. The strange effects that
light and season have on the human body might fade. Their
influences grow stronger with age in humans, but is that because of
an enfeebling of the mind? Or a lack of information in youth?
Children fear nothing, it seems, but given time they grow into
crotchety old men that jump at their own shadow. I don’t want to be
scared of the unknown, but I also don’t want to lose my array of
associations that gives me a personalized outlook on the world.
Some believe that all human reactions are simply an intricately
stacked queue of millions of sensory experiences. That there is no
free will, just the imperceptible interaction of an uncountable
number of encounters. If that’s the case, with a lack of uniquely
human stimuli, will I metamorphose into some insensate entity? And
if true, is this necessarily a bad thing?

My pass through a few smaller towns is a
breeze. The sun climbs in the sky, washing out everything. San
Martin Texmelucan de Labastida is my first major worry. As I roll
in, the lanes widen, traffic picks up, and a couple of the locals
stop and stare. The pint- size cab provides me with a little
concealing shadow in the intense splendor of early morn. I obey the
traffic lights, keep my vision forward, and make it through the
town without a problem. Puebla is next.

As luck would have it, Route 150D skims by
the town in a swarm of four broad lanes. It’s become a bright,
cloudless day, making me feel more than a little exposed. An
eighteen-wheeler rumbles by on my left, followed by the clamor of a
Volkswagen bug. It’s probably a ’70s model, cracking electric blue
paint and whining belts testifying to a lack of TLC. The passenger
is young, with a closely cropped mane of black hair and
acne-scarred olive skin. He slowly turns and notices me. With a
horse croak, his eyes bug out, his jaw drops, and he turns hastily
around in an effort to alert the driver. I really don’t need this
right now. Stepping on the gas, I draw level with the truck and
harmonize our trajectories so we’re running parallel down the
interstate. With a squeal of rubber and the coarse sputtering of an
old diesel engine, the bug pulls out into the fast lane and
attempts to round the truck. I stay level, just slightly aft of the
truck cockpit, and hope those thickheaded kids won’t do anything
that will further complicate my life. As if on cue, I hear their
bug swerve closer. It sounds like they managed to pull in front of
the truck. My suspicion is confirmed a minute later when an air
horn lets out a thunderous bellow, followed in rapid succession by
a piercing metallic crunch. The truck starts to jackknife, the tail
end swooping forward toward my rear. I mash the gas pedal to the
floor, pulling ahead just in time to see the crushed rear quarters
of the bug. The splintered windshield is covered in blood, and it’s
spewing a rain of sparks as the buckled front of a Mac truck
bulldozes it forward at sixty miles an hour. The cockpit of the
truck starts to drop, followed almost immediately by a back end
that whips around in a crescendo of flailing metal. The metal
haunch crunches down on the bug, the resulting pileup blocking out
all three lanes in a massive grind of rupturing metal and
splintering glass. I face forward and keep driving.

Puebla was the last major city, and I now
roll through endless hinterlands. The sun has passed the midpoint
and is slowly dropping toward the west. Usually the days seem to
pass so quickly, but ever since I lost the need to sleep, time
appears to have slowed down. Maybe it’s a factor of being awake
twenty-four-seven. Maybe it’s a matter of new terrain and endless
run-ins that keep me on edge. Or the abrupt transitions from slow,
drifting boredom to hyperactivity, and then just as quickly back to
boredom again.