The Damned Highway by Nick Mamatas Page B

raccoon.
    â€œProfessional tool of the trade. Nothing to worry about. How do you feel?”
    Smitty leans back in the seat and closes his eyes. “I feel . . . I dunno. It doesn’t really feel like anything. Are you sure these things can—” And then, before he can say anything else, his body begins to spasm.
    â€œHot damn,” I shout. “Now we’re getting somewhere. This is science!”
    â€œI’m proud to be a stogie from Tuskegeee,” Smitty shrieks in a high singsong voice. “A place where even balls can have a square!” He flops on the seat, arms and legs jittering, head lolling back and forth so hard that for a moment I fear he might snap his neck. Frothy saliva bubbles appear on his lips, and when he moans, it is a deep, mournful sound—the kind that breaks your heart, if you happen to have one. But I have no time for tugging heartstrings or sad sentiment. I am a man with a mission.
    â€œWhat do you see, Smitty? Quick! Tell me everything. Where are you? Do you see President Nixon?”
    â€œNo. Oh, God. Oh, goddamn. They’re shooting up the high school. All dressed in black . . . They . . . Where’d they get guns like that? Hell, they’ve got better rifles than what we had over in the Nam. And they . . . oh, I can’t watch. I don’t want to be here. The blood . . . that poor girl’s head. It’s just like fucking Nam . . . It’s like being back in the jungle . . . I’ve got to go! They’ll find me. Better hide behind one of these tables.”
    â€œWhere are you, man? Beneath the White House? Talk to me, damn you.”
    â€œNo . . . not the White House. I’m . . . I’m in a . . . in a high-school cafeteria, I think. Or maybe . . . no . . . no, it’s changed. It’s all changing. The world turned . . . changed colors for a second . . . I think I’m in New York City now. Yeah! That’s it. New York City. God, I always wanted to see this place! It’s really something. Look at those buildings.”
    â€œWhat’s happening in New York?”
    â€œNothing and everything. People are rushing around. I guess on their way to work. Oh, look! Look, Lono. There’s the Twin Towers, all bright and shiny. Damn if that ain’t something to see.”
    I check my watch again and decide it would be best to just let him ramble, rather than trying to guide him through the vision. Obviously, he isn’t seeing what I saw, but his hallucinations are interesting nevertheless. I can easily record it all now, until it is time for me to go, and then play it back later and try to make sense of it.
    â€œIt’s such a pretty day, too. Ya know, I always figured the sky over New York would be all polluted and cloudy, but it’s not . . . It’s very blue. And warm. And . . . holy shit. Look at that! It’s a fucking airplane. I reckon he’s flying too low. He ought to . . . Oh my God. He . . . goddamn . . . the fire. Oh, Lord, I can’t look. Two of them. How could there be two of them? That ain’t no accident . . . And the people are jumping . . . and . . . and . . . where did they go? Where did the skyscrapers go? There was all that dust and smoke and now they’re . . . oh, wait a minute. I see . . . they’re not there because I’m not there anymore. Hey, mister, it’s . . . your father or someone. Oh man, a gun. The words on a typewriter—no, just one . . . counselor.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about, Smitty? Something happened to the World Trade Center?”
    â€œNo, I’m in New Orleans . . . Hell, I know this place. Done so many runs to New Orleans and back. But it looks . . . different, somehow. More . . . I dunno. The sky is . . . Boy, this storm is really bad. I reckon it’s gonna . . . oh, hell no! Oh, Christ. Jesus fucking Christ! The wind . . . the wind! Sounds like a goddamned freight train. The water keeps getting higher and