End of the Road Read online

  Also edited by

  Jonathan Oliver

  The End of the Line

  House of Fear

  Magic

  END OF THE ROAD

  EDITED BY

  JONATHAN OLIVER

  INCLUDING STORIES BY

  PHILIP REEVE

  LAVIE TIDHAR

  ADAM NEVILL

  VANDANA SINGH

  BENJANUN SRIDUANGKAEW

  IAN WHATES

  S. L. GREY

  ZEN CHO

  PAUL MELOY

  SOPHIA MCDOUGALL

  ANIL MENON

  JAY CASELBERG

  RIO YOUERS

  HELEN MARSHALL

  ROCHITA LOENEN-RUIZ

  First published 2013 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN (epub): 978-1-84997-650-3

  ISBN (mobi): 978-1-84997-651-0

  Cover by Nicolas Delort

  Introduction and story notes and arrangement copyright © 2013 Jonathan Oliver.

  “We Know Where We’re Goin” copyright © 2013 Philip Reeve.

  “Fade to Gold” copyright © 2013 Benjanun Sriduangkaew.

  “Without a Hitch” copyright © 2013 Ian Whates.

  “Balik Kampung (Going Back)” copyright © 2013 Zen Cho

  “Driver Error” copyright © 2013 Paul Meloy.

  “Locusts” copyright © 2013 Lavie Tidhar.

  “The Track” copyright © 2013 Jay Caselberg.

  “Dagiti Timayap Garda (of the Flying Gardians)” copyright © 2013 Rochita Loene-Ruiz.

  “I’m the Lady of Good Times, She Said” copyright © 2013 Helen Marshall.

  “The Widow” copyright © 2013 Rio Youers.

  “The Cure” copyright © 2013 Anil Menon.

  “Through Wylmere Woods” copyright © 2013 Sophia McDougall.

  “Bingo” copyright © 2013 S. L. Grey.

  “Peripateia” copyright © 2013 Vandana Singh.

  “Always in Our Hearts” copyright © 2013 Adam Nevill.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction, Jonathan Oliver

  We Know Where We’re Goin, Philip Reeve

  Fade to Gold, Benjanun Sriduangkaew

  Without a Hitch, Ian Whates

  Balik Kampung (Going Back), Zen Cho

  Driver Error, Paul Meloy

  Locusts, Lavie Tidhar

  The Track, Jay Caselberg

  Dagiti Timayap Garda (of the Flying Gardians), Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

  I’m the Lady of Good Times, She Said, Helen Marshall

  The Widow, Rio Youers

  The Cure, Anil Menon

  Through Wylmere Woods, Sophia McDougall

  Bingo, S. L. Grey

  Peripateia, Vandana Singh

  Always in Our Hearts, Adam Nevill

  About the Authors

  Also from Solaris

  INTRODUCTION

  JONATHAN OLIVER

  THE ROAD STORY is a genre explored widely in film, from the dark – Mad Max, The Hitcher, Long Weekend – through to the comic – Any Which Way but Loose, Identity Theft. In literature, the road story is a central part of fantasy, the journey itself often making up the better part of the tale – The Lord of The Rings and Steven Erikson’s Malazan Book of The Fallen series being good examples. However, while there are fantastical elements to many of the stories to be found here, this is not a fantasy anthology per se. Like its sister anthology, The End of The Line (2010), End of The Road presents stories that are dark in tone, often venturing into outright horror. The key word I used when contacting contributors to submit to this collection was weird.

  And we certainly start in a very weird world, with Philip Reeve’s ‘We Know Where We’re Goin’, in which our young protagonist embarks on a journey that cleverly subverts the expectations of the quest narrative. Destination (expected or otherwise) is a theme running throughout this anthology, but often it is the journey itself that is the key to the tales. And that needn’t be a physical journey (though, naturally, the majority of these tales do feature one); the journey into the self is also explored in various ways. Benjanun Sriduangkaew’s beautiful and moving ‘Fade to Gold’ explores identity and desire while depicting a creature from Thai myth. ‘Through Wylmere Woods’ by Sophia McDougall likewise plays with identity and self-discovery in a rich tale that is a companion piece to ‘MailerDaemon’ from Magic (2012). I also love the way Sophia plays with the idea of what constitutes a road, with her depiction of the electronic highways of the World Wide Web. Lavie Tidhar’s ‘Locusts’ mixes the cultural and spiritual journeys of its protagonists with a story from history that is told in an usual and immersive style.

  Nightmarish hitchhikers have often featured in horror movies and I was somewhat surprised to have only one hitchhiker story submitted for this anthology. However, ‘Without a Hitch’ by Ian Whates is a cracking tale, and Ian cleverly subverts our expectations of the weird hitchhiker tale. As this story demonstrates, strangers met on the road may not be what they at first seem. Paul Meloy’s black-as-night horror story ‘Driver Error’ certainly stands as testament to this, as does Rochita Loenen-Ruiz’s rather more exotic ‘Dagiti Timayap Garda (of the Flying Gardians)’, in which a Filipino soldier makes the mistake of thinking he knows the person he meets on the road. In Anil Menon’s ‘The Cure’ we have four strangers on a very unusual pilgrimage; a tale that plays with the nature of story itself.

  Every time we venture out onto the road, either in a vehicle or on foot, we take a risk – the nature of which is starkly revealed with grim regularity in news reports. The violence that potentially awaits us on the road is chillingly explored in S. L. Grey’s stark tale ‘Bingo’, in which desire and a car wreck meet, echoing Ballard’s Crash. Rio Youer’s ‘The Widow’ meanwhile tries to find meaning in the wreckage only the find herself face-to-face with a phantom. Jay Caselberg gives us ‘The Track’ in which a journey into the Australian outback meets with the faceless horror that can find us there. ‘Always in Our Hearts’ by Adam Nevill tells the story of a hit-and-run driver and the horrifying manner in which he pays the price for his actions.

  We travel to arrive, and arrivals are key to several stories here. ‘Balik Kampung (Going Back)’ by Zen Cho tells the story of a ghost reluctantly lead to an understanding by her personal demon. ‘I’m the Lady of Good Times, She Said’ by Helen Marshall starts with an arrival and works its way backward to unravel a tale of a haunted man. In ‘Peripateia’ the scientist protagonist arrives at an understanding of the universe that changes everything, but also very little.

  As travel features so much in this anthology, I wanted a bit more of a world genre feel than I’ve perhaps had with my previous anthologies. I made sure to source writers not just from the US and the UK, but also from other areas of the globe. In this I am indebted to Lavie Tidhar for his help in leading me to brilliant writers whose work I wasn’t already familiar with.

  It’s been a joy to embark on every journey you will find here, so, for you, it’s time to buckle up, sit back and prepare yourself for the ride.

  Jonathan
Oliver

  August 2013, Oxford

  WE KNOW WHERE WE’RE GOIN

  PHILIP REEVE

  Philip Reeve’s story begins with a journey and a destination set very firmly in its protagonist’s mind. But like many of the journeys in this collection, the unexpected starts to happen the moment the first step is taken. There are shades of Russel Hoban’s Riddley Walker here, in the fragmented language of the tale, but shining throughout is Reeve’s own dry wit and a compelling story that will draw the reader along the Road and into the heart of the unknown.

  FROM THE CAMP at Frunt End I liked ter look back sumtimes the way we’d come, an see the Road stretchin away from me down into the low lands. Strate as a measurin stick it lay across the ruffness and muddle o them wild places. But instead o feet an inches it was marked with my ’memberins, and the graves an birthin places o my family.

  I could ’member back to when I was just a bitty girl an we was pushin the Road thru kindly country, along a wide valley with woods an green hills on eyther side an a river windin down its middle like a silvry snake. There was plenty o time in them days fer me an the other kids ter lark an laze along them shady river banks while the growed-ups discuxed how best ter get the Road across, an the smiths an carpinters got busy buildin the bridges that was goin ter carry it.

  But that was all so long back that I could scarcely see that green valley now from up at Frunt End; jus the far twistins o that river sumtimes, shinin faintly thru blue distance an white ruffs o mist. Past few years we’d bin climbin agin, up stony steeps where nort but black pines grew, towards high mountins that walled off the sky. The huntin parties had ter go long miles ter gather all the food we needid, an there was scarce enough forage fer the piggs nor grazin fer the cattle nor timber fer makin the gas to fuel our trucks an diggas. The goin was so bad the Road had ter be laid in zig-zags some places, tho each ziggin an zaggin section of it was still strate as a ruler, so Foreman Skrevening sed it did not deviate from Rightchus Strateness.

  We was following a path that stretched up inter them mountins like a ghost Road. My Ma tole us mebbe it was the way some other Road had gone, built by other folks in the long-back. Sumtimes we found a cuttin they had made, an sumtimes on a river bank there’d be the crumblin stone piers where a bridge had stood. But even so it was slow hard goin on them steeps an screes, an often there would come a girt landslide an take away the work o weeks, an half a dozen o the workers with it.

  The year I turned 14 we only made ten miles, an the year after that was wurse. Back in that river valley me an the other kids had dreamed such dreams o how things would be when the Road got all the way ter Where We’re Goin, the fine houses an cloaths we’d have there an the food we’d eat. Nowdays all we hoped fer was ter reach the top o them mountins fore we died, an look down inter the lands that laid beyond. But mebbe that was somethin ter do with growin up, too. When you get older you learn ter make your dreams littler, cos the little ones don’t die so easy.

  So up an up we went, cuttin an levellin the roadbed, layin the first fill o gravel fer drainidge an then the hardcore on top. Rollin it flat, then meltin an porin over all the black ash-felt that was delivered by the supply convoys from Where We Started.

  An then 1 day Foreman Skrevening went drivin his jeep up ahedd to see what would be needed fer the layin o the next stretch, an he came back lookin like his own ghost, so wan an woeful. Turned out the way was blocked by a girt heap o massy bolders that must have come tumblin down off the mountinside since the surveyors last checked the route.

  I was 16 by then, an workin as a mechanic in the motor pool, so I was amung the first ter hear that doalful news. I listened ter Foreman Skrevening tell it ter Purser Judd while I helped Steg Carrack ter fix a leaky gas pipe on one o the diggas.

  Can we go round? asks Judd.

  Not without deviatin from the way o Rightchus Strateness says ol Skrevening. An not even then without goin twenty miles from the path that was planned. An how many years an lives would that take? We must blast our way thru with splodeys, that be the only choice we has.

  Purser Judd shook his head at that. We ant got no splodeys, he said. We used up the last back in the spring, clearin that long cuttin 5 mile back. We won’t have none now till the next convoy comes up, an that could be 6 months more.

  Well then, says Skrevening, we’ll have ter send someone back along the Road ter Where We Started an fetch some. Or else sit an look at that rockfall fer 6 months.

  But who we goin ter send? asks Judd. We need all the workers on the Road. Can’t spare noboddy.

  An thats where I stuck my noase in. Scrambled out from under the digga an grinned up at them ter let them know I’d bin listenin ter it all. I was promised ter marry Purser Judd’s boy Danil the followin year, an I knew after that my life would be nothin much but babies an women’s work fer a long way, an tween you an me that was not a prospeckt I girtly relished. So here I saw a chance ter have 1 bit o time ter meself, 1 proper adventure fore I turned inter a mum. Added ter which, I’d bin thinking o them nice green places we’d took the Road thru back when I was bitty, an it seemed ter me it might be sweet ter look on them agin.

  So I says, I’ll go.

  An naturally there was a certin amount o old-mannish worryin an head shakin on account o me bein a girl. But they all knew I was as strong as most o the lads, an as brite as any o them. An I’d bin working as grease monkey fer Steg Carrack fer years, helpin tend all the jeeps an steamrollers an diggas, so I’d be able ter sort out any breakdown that befell me on the way. So fore too long it was decided, an then it was just a matter o sayin my goodbies ter Ma an my sisters an brothers an Danil.

  Danil was the worst o all o them. I think Ma understood why I wantid ter go, an mebbe wished she could have gone herself. My brothers an sisters was too bitty mostly ter proply unnerstand what dangers I’d be goin inter. But Danil knew all right. Dimpsey, he says, you plannin ter drive that rig all the way back ter Where We Started on your own, an you just an unwedded girl?

  Maybe I wont hav to go the whoal way, I tells him. Your dad reckins there might be supply caches here an there along the way, in case o ‘mergencies like this. An if not, well, I got the Road ter drive on, ant I? The best Road ever built, what’ll take me strate ter Where We Started.

  Them caches will be empty, Danil says. Ant you heard, the hills back-a-way are full o wild crooked men, an they’ll have robbed them caches out by now. An what’ll they make o you, Dimpsey?

  Well, says I, I recken I can cope with crooked men, an I showed him my Da’s ol gun what Ma had gived me, an the belt o bullets that went with it.

  That still wernt enough ter make Danil happy. Yore duty’s here with me, he says. But I din’t think it was, not yet. When I got back an we was wed he’d get ter order me about however much he liked, but till then I reckined I was free, an the Road was callin me. I spent my whoal life helpin build it, I thought, it would be a proper pity not ter travel it, just once.

  THE RIG WAS a big 6-wheeler. Not as big as the convoy trucks that brung the tar an ash-felt up, but big enuf that I felt like a queen sat up in the driver’s cabin, with my hands on the wide steerin wheel an Steg Carrack lookin up at me with oil on his ugly face an worry in his eyes like it was his own child I was takin out o camp.

  You treat her proply, Dimpsey, he tole me, an she’ll carry you ter Where We Started all right. When your comin back all loaded up with splodeys, you go slow, an let some air out o the tyres mebbe. You jostle them splodeys too much an they’re liable ter blow you ter bits an my rig with you.

  An I laughed an tole him I’d be careful an started the big roarin engine so I couldnt hear what further wise advice he had ter offer, nor any o the things Danil shouted as I went rumblin out o camp an away down the Road, with my brothers an sisters running alongside fer a way an then fallin behind 1 by 1 till I was alone at last.

  SO OFF I set, drivin back down the Road we’d made, back past old campsites an cuttins an infills I ’membered bein built th
e year before, an the year before that. The rig ran well down them long zig-zags, an soon Frunt End an the smoke o the camp an the ash-felt vats was outer-sight behind me, an I was passin thru country I’d clean forgot. I went past little fields and vegtabble plots that had helped feed us for a season and was now gone back all to weeds and wild agen. An I saw knobs o rock an white roarin rivers that had bin part o my life fer a week or a month or however long it had took ter get the Road across them, an all sorts o ’memberins woke in me now I saw them agen.

  I parked up that night in an old campsite, near the place where a landslip had took ten worker’s lives. Their grave markers was standin by the Road, dark mountin slate with names scratched on, the usual Judds an Vaizeys an Skrevenings, an also some Tains, my own kin. I shared some o my supper with them, scatterin crumbs o black bread an sprinklin beer on the graves in the hope the ghosts wouldn’t come botherin me while I slept. An they din’t, so that was OK.

  Next day an the day after I pressed on, an found meself pretty soon down at the bottom o those mountins it had taken the Road half my life ter climb. Ahead o me lay that green valley o my happy ’memberins, an beyond it the Road climbed up agen inter more hills, but lower an kindlier ones, I hoped.

  At first the land on either side was clear, just stumps showing where we’d hacked the trees down for wood gas, but new trees was growing, and the further I went the taller they was. There had bin rain, but now the sun was out, an the wet ash-felt line o the Road was shinin in the light, stretchin away an away inter the farness, an I felt so proud just lookin at it, an thinkin o all the people who’d laboured so long an hard ter draw this Strate an Rightchus silvery line across the world.