Kenneth Tingle - Strangeville (2 page)

You have to love technology. Once, when I was around six years old, my parents and I drove to Florida for a vacation. My father had to go through a big book of maps just to get us there. Now, a quick search on the Internet and you can get anywhere by printing out a few pages of directions.

The guys who made maps must have been really ripshit when this all started. Imagine you’re the owner of a map company, living in a big old mansion, and then “poof” overnight, it’s all gone. To be honest, if it were me, I would be mad enough to kill someone.

I printed out the directions to get me to Aunt Peggy’s house and looked at the map for a moment. It would be pretty easy—take Route 95 all the way down to the Washington, D.C. area and then cut inland to Virginia. Everything went very smoothly; the car rental company actually dropped the car off at my house, I had a suitcase in my closet, and I was packed and ready to go in less than an hour. I looked around my apartment for a moment and took a long gaze at the picture of my parents sitting on the end table. They looked so happy hugging each other on their fifth anniversary.

“Wish you guys were coming with me,” I said out loud.

I grabbed my suitcase, locked the door behind me, and headed down the stairs.

You can get Route 95 just north of Boston, and in no time I was heading south. Long drives always drove me crazy, so I wondered what I could do to pass the next sixteen hours it would take to get there. I flicked the radio on, “Here I go again on my own, going down the only road I’ve ever known…” I turned it back off.

What was it with the radio? It seemed like there was some divine disc jockey that always played songs according to my situation. Like when I went to kill myself; happy songs and words of encouragement from Bobby McFerrin and Wilson Phillips. This always seemed to happen. I never told anyone about it out of fear they would bring me to an institution for delusions.

“Really John, a divine disc jockey spinning tunes for you? Maybe it’s God working at the radio station. Come with me, we have a special room for you.” So I pretty much kept it to myself.

Massachusetts isn’t very big, especially in width, so I was in Rhode Island in about an hour. That’s the smallest state in the country. My father used to say, “If you’re ever driving through Rhode Island, don’t sneeze—you’ll miss it.” I didn’t sneeze, but I was in Connecticut in another two hours. That’s when all the toll bullshit started. I don’t know if they got me leaving Connecticut or entering New York, but some lifeless man skinned me for a few bucks as I passed his booth.

Route 95 goes through the Bronx, and as I passed through, I wondered what was going on. I could see people walking on the sidewalk thirty feet above me. Was the Bronx built on a mountain? Then, as I entered a tunnel, I realized that the highway was cut into the earth around there, so only the road was lower than the city. Some of the people I saw on the sidewalk above had that Bronx look, like they would enjoy beating the hell out of someone.

All I remember about New York is bridges, tunnels, and tolls, tolls, tolls. They even got me when I was leaving the state. And, in no time, New Jersey was picking my pockets, too. That’s when the driving started to get to me. I got on the Jersey Turnpike and it just went on, and on, and on. My eyes grew heavy, and more than once my head started to drop. Then I’d snap out of it at the last second before I drove off the road.

I rolled the window down and stuck my head out for a second to let the cool air blow in my face. I’m sure the ambulance companies loved this highway; people dozing off and crashing all the time. It probably kept them in business. To make things even worse, they got me really good when I finally got off. I pulled up to the tollbooth and handed her my ticket.

“Nine dollars,” she said, smacking gum in her mouth.

“Nine dollars! Are you shitting me? Nine dollars for a toll?”

“That’s what the ticket says, buddy.”

“I can’t believe this!” I snapped, handing her a ten dollar bill.

“If ya don’t like it, don’t take the Jersey Turnpike next time.”

“Like I really had a choice,” I said bitterly as I drove off.

But it didn’t end there. They got me in Maryland and Delaware, too. When you enter the state, they stick a ticket in your face. Then “bam” as you’re leaving, it’s time to get out the wallet again. I began to feel like vultures were picking off my flesh as I drove along. So it was an incredible relief when I finally pulled off Route 95 onto Route 495 heading inland into Virginia.

I glanced at my directions; it should be pretty easy now—look for West 66 and take it from there. My head was nodding again, and like some sort of a reflex, I glanced at the dashboard clock to see how long I’d been driving—twelve hours. I turned on the radio to stay awake, “I went down to Virginia seeking shelter from the storm….” was blasting. I quickly clicked it off.

What the heck was this? It felt like someone was watching me from above, maybe even antagonizing me. Like I said, I never told anyone about this, and I sure as heck never will.

I pulled off the road into one of those twenty-four hour gas stations to get some badly needed coffee. When I went to pay, I asked an old guy behind the counter how far I was from Lynchburg.

“That’s way the hell down yonder,” he said with a southern accent.

“How many hours is
way the hell down yonder
?” I asked with a little humor in my voice.

“Shoot, I reckon a good three or four, anyhow.”

I thanked him, used the restroom, and got back on the road. It was dark now, but I found West 66 and turned onto that route. I sipped my extra strong French roast coffee and it perked me up a little. My cell phone beeped—the battery was down to one bar so I turned it off to save what power was left.

“Crap, I forgot my charger,” I said out loud.

I had a really bad habit of doing that, sometimes blurting things out as soon as they popped into my head, even if I was alone. I saw the sign up ahead for Route 81 and I started to feel a little relieved; there should only be a few more connections to catch. Well, if I had known what was coming, I wouldn’t have felt relieved at all, because that’s when the shit hit the fan.

I was going down 81 for two hours or so, just zoning out and driving along in the dark, when suddenly it occurred to me I had better check the directions. I was only supposed to go an hour or so before I hit South 29.

“Son of a bitch!” I yelled, slapping the dashboard in frustration. I pulled off the highway in the very next town.

It was eerily quiet as I cruised through the center of this small southern village. All the stores were closed. There were few traffic lights, and even fewer cars on the road. It was a quaint little place with red brick buildings and a small park with a few benches. A stray dog ran through my headlights, and then the creature quickly disappeared around the corner of a building.

I noticed a light on in a small storefront directly across from me; it looked like a laundromat or something similar. I got out of my car, and as I walked over towards the door, I noticed the windows were all fogged up. There was a buzzer on the side of the door—
bzzzzzt
it hummed as I pressed it.

After a moment I heard the door buzz and it quickly swung open. An enormous black woman was standing there, sweating profusely in gym clothes. Behind her I could see all the machines for working out. It seemed strange to me that such a small town would have one of those twenty-four hour gyms, the kind where each member had a key and could go in whenever they wanted. She was taller than me, her arms twice as thick as mine, her body large and slightly overweight.

“Hi, I’m a little lost. I’m heading to Lynchburg, and I passed the right exit a long time ago. Is there a way from here?” I asked.

“Lynchburg! Saaaweeeet Jesus, woo wee y’all lost!” she said shaking her head for emphasis. “Hmmm…,” she went on, “…ain’t no easy way from here. I’m guessin’ y’all need 210 to get down that way.”

“How do I get there from here?”

She wiped some sweat from her face with a towel.

“Like I was sayin’, ain’t no easy way.”

I tried to understand the directions that began spewing out of her mouth, but with her accent and my mental exhaustion, it was a difficult task.

“Awright, go up a block to North Street, go to the second blinkin’ light, y’all go right. Then about three blinkin’ lights down the road…”

That was all my exhausted brain could retain. She went on some more, but the directions ended something like this, “When y’all passin’ through the mountains, the road twistin’ an turnin’ like a rattlesnake, best be real careful. And another thing, them deer come runnin’ out from the woods like a buncha fools. Folks be a-smashin’ their cars up all the time on them roads.”

I could tell she was anxious to get back to her workout.

“Thanks a lot, you’ve been really helpful.”

“My pleasure. Like I said, best be careful. I don’t wanna be seein’ no picture of y’all on the side of a milk carton.”

I found North Street and even the second road I needed. After that it was a little of a guessing game. I figured if I kept going south, I would eventually get to the Lynchburg area. It was pitch black on these roads and houses became further and further apart until I didn’t see any at all, just thick green forest on each side of the road. After a little while, I felt an incline as I was driving—I must be entering the mountains. The woman wasn’t lying. The road began to twist and turn as it grew steeper up the mountainside. Like some kind of a nervous habit, I made the mistake of turning the radio on, and of course this song was playing, “There’s always gonna be another mountain, I’m always gonna wanna make it move…”

“That does it!” I yelled out loud and clicked it back off. “No more radio!”

The road was constantly twisting and turning as I made my way up the mountainside. My senses were on high alert as I waited for a deer to spring out at any moment. A light flashed on in the dashboard and it made a little
ding-dong
sound; it was the gas tank symbol telling me I was really low on gas. Now what? Even if I tried to make it back to that little town, there was nothing open. Surely I was near the top of this mountain! There must be something open on the other side. Someone told me that when the gas light flashes on, you have about thirty miles left. It never occurred to me that you would get much less mileage driving uphill, so I foolishly drove on.

It wasn’t long before I reached the peak. Now I had to keep my foot on the brake as I twisted and turned downhill on the other side, but at least I wasn’t using much gas. It became very tedious and nerve wracking to say the least. I had to keep slowing the car down every time a bend in the road came up, which was every minute or two. Step on the brake, go, step on the brake, go, step on the brake, go. I did that over and over for a good half an hour as I twisted and turned down the side of the mountain, all the while expecting a deer to come barreling out into the side of the car. More than once I screeched on the brakes just before I went off the side of the road.

Eventually the road started to level off and I realized I was at the bottom.

“Whew, thank God,” I said with a sigh.

It seemed even darker than before. My headlights exposed only thick green vegetation on each side of the road, beyond that only endless black. It wasn’t long before the car started to sputter and hesitate. Then when I stepped on the gas, I felt no power. The car shook a little and just died. With the little bit of momentum left, I rolled to the side of the road and put it in park. Of all the stupid things I had ever done, this was by far the stupidest—forgetting to get gas in a strange state.

“Good job, shithead,” I said to myself and slapped the steering wheel out of frustration. The clock on the dashboard said 11:00 p.m. Should I just sit here and wait? Maybe a car would go by. But, then again, who would stop in the pitch black of night to help some guy, a guy stuck in some mountain forest?

I turned the ignition off so the battery wouldn’t die, and the dashboard lights faded away. It was completely black now, like I was under water or something. “Creeee, creeee, creeee” went a chorus of crickets all around me, like the creepy music they play in movies just before someone gets killed.

“Whoooo, oooooh, whoooo!” came out of nowhere, echoing through the trees.
Just an owl
, I thought, comforting myself. Some other screeches and howls started. One creature broke the silence, and then another answered from somewhere else. A shiver went up my spine and I made sure the doors were locked. Sometimes it was quiet for a few minutes, then some blood-curdling screech would erupt in the distance and I would sit up straight. Not a single car went by in three hours. I turned the key and looked at the clock—2:10 a.m.

What if I had made the wrong choice? I was waiting for a car to maybe stop and help me, but what if it was a bunch of drunken crazies that came by and murdered me in the woods? My mind suddenly went to a movie I had seen a few years ago; some teenagers got lost in a place like this and people dragged them to a cabin where they ate them.

I figured the next town had to be right up the road, so I grabbed my suitcase from the back seat and reluctantly opened the door. I didn’t bother to turn my cell phone on; there was no way I could get any reception in these mountains. Besides, I only had one bar of power left—I had better save it. Even if I called 911, I had no idea where I was so they couldn’t even come for me.