Commuters
by Walt Hicks

I was traveling at a dizzying ninety-five miles per hour (coinciding with the Interstate sign), bumper to bumper with about one hundred of my closest friends.  It was 7:30 a.m., Monday morning, and my thirty-five mile commute into West Palm Beach, Florida had begun routinely, and was proceeding at high speed without incident.

 Feathering the throttle gently on my 1999 Ford Excursion, I closed within inches of the rear bumper of a Volvo Wagon.  The little old lady (blue haired bouffant and gnarled knuckles on the steering wheel barely visible) eyed the massive SUV in her rear view nervously, finally scooting to the center lane, almost sideswiping a Miata.  I glared at her over my shades as I blew past her.  Another one bites the dust.

I had to laugh as I observed her giving me the finger and mouthing obscenities in the Excursion's billboard sized side mirror.  You eat with that mouth, lady?

 The laugh froze in my throat as the old lady's visage abruptly transformed into a bleached white skull.  Her eyes, bulging in anger, were still there,  as was her flailing tongue.  Her middle finger raised in wrathful salute had also gone skeletal.

I closed my eyes, nearly swerving into the median, trying to shake off the horrific vision.  The little old lady receded into an obscure white blur behind me, and I figured that the morning sun was playing a grotesque trick of light on me.  I chuckled uncomfortably, and pressed the accelerator until the speedometer read a comfortable 95 once again.

Approaching the NorthLake Boulevard exit just north of  West Palm, the traffic had all but stopped.  Upon observing the ocean of brake lights in the distance, I let off  the accelerator and eased to the center lane, coasting eventually to a crawl, finally applying the slightest brake pressure to come to a stop.  There were several emergency vehicles scattered at various angles in the median, lights flashing urgently.  The  thumpa-thumpa-thumpa overhead signaled the arrival of the media helicopters, assuring that the tragedy would make the six o'clock news.  Like the rest of the ghouls, I craned my neck to see.   A silver Volvo Wagon had evidently lost control and barrel-rolled into the median, after taking out several hundred feet of guard rail.

The line of traffic edged forward slowly, some cars pulling out of line, heedlessly driving over the shoulder to gain egress from the gnarled interstate.  I tapped my fingers on the dashboard in time to a jaunty alternative rock song playing on the radio.  Someone was cheerfully singing about the End of The World.

A captive audience insulated in our vehicles, we were all untouched by the sickening atrocity unfolding in the narrow strip of cultivated grass separating southbound from northbound.  It was as if our side windows were television screens and we were all watching death and destruction on the evening news, or even worse, for entertainment.  I was nearly on top of the accident scene when I heard something above the blood lusting camera crews a few hundred feet above us.

 It was the ancient, leathery sound of wings, reptilian wings thrumming the heavy, humid air.  Occasionally, a faraway primordial screech dissected the morning like the Grim Reaper's Death Scythe.  I looked at the blank, slack-jawed faces around me; evidently, I was the only one who heard the sounds.  The beating of wings became louder, almost unbearable.  I frantically searched the skies, even rolling down the driver's side window and thrusting my head out to get a better view.

Then I saw them.  At the wreck.  They vaguely resembled Florida's gruesome turkey vultures, except they were approximately the size of a Miami Dolphin defensive lineman.  The paramedics who worked feverishly trying to extricate the unfortunate victim from the mangled wreck, were evidently oblivious to the huge avians, who had come to roost on either end of the Volvo, perched on the ruined, slowly rotating tires.  One of them looked directly at me and uttered an ear-piercing scream.  A clear, viscous fluid oozed from its substantial, masticulating beak.  The other swooped past one of the rescuers, snapped off the rear view mirror, and swallowed it whole.

Transfixed by the terrifying tableaux unfolding before me, I almost didn't recognize the unfortunate driver, who by then was being removed from the wreckage.  It was the old lady I had passed not twenty minutes before.  The one whose flesh seemed to melt away before my eyes, revealing pale bone.  None of this was possible.

Nor was what happened next.

Edging past the harried paramedics, the creatures descended on the disfigured corpse, ripping clothing and flesh indiscriminately, wolfing down large fleshy morsels hungrily.  With their thick, bluish tongues, the creatures popped out the old woman's staring eyeballs and ate them slowly, as if savoring a delicacy.  I searched the faces around me frantically.  Everyone stared, but with the same dispassionate, mindlessly glazed-over gawk.  The bird-things rapidly stripped her of flesh, consuming her breasts and arms, her abdomen and legs.  The paramedics ultimately strapped a naked skeleton onto the gurney, the creatures slurping errant shreds of flesh from the gleaming bones until the rear doors slammed shut.

Again, they looked directly at me, screeched loudly (almost like a triumphant laugh), then flew quickly into the sky on a ten-foot span of leathery wings, disappearing within seconds.  A split-second later, a shrill whistling sounded, then the pair of demon vultures slammed into the pavement at an impossible velocity and vanished.

 An air horn from the tractor trailer rig behind me jolted me from my shock.  I eased the Excursion into the right lane, then to the shoulder, where I put it in gear, shaking uncontrollably.  I had to be losing my mind  -- that was the only explanation.

After fifteen minutes of helpless trembling, I managed to convince myself that the shock of seeing someone die on the interstate before my eyes had caused me to hallucinate, and that the old lady I had seen in the Volvo Wagon was only a coincidence.  I suppose the fact that I took the tedious, traffic-snarled U. S. One route into work for the next two weeks belied my specious rationalizations.

Understandably, I was unable to sleep well during those two weeks; with the darkness came the hellish visions that left me haggard, testy and worn.  Normally a jovial sort, I had in short order managed to alienate my family, friends and co-workers.  Of course, I could not tell anyone what I saw -- what I thought I saw.  Finally, I screwed up my nerve and eased the massive Excursion onto the I-95 on-ramp, heading for work.

I kept the SUV in the right lane, at exactly the speed limit, 70 miles per hour.   Both fists clenched the steering wheel until my knuckles ran bloodlessly white.  My shoulders hunched together, I clung to the wheel like a life preserver.  I watched the rear mirrors nervously, certain that I would see a pair of large, dark winged figures swoop down from the skies, rip the metal roof off the Excursion and strip my body of flesh down to the bone.

In spite of the ice-cold air conditioning circulating in the cab, clammy perspiration ran down my spine, welling at my lower back.  A bead of sweat ran down my nose and dripped to the floorboard.  Something flashed into view in the rear view mirror, and my heart lunged into my throat.

It was a rusted black Chevrolet 4 x 4 truck riding on enormous tires, the maniacal driver gesticulating wildly behind the wheel.  I gasped, saw bursting stars in my field of vision, and quickly swerved the Excursion onto the shoulder as the madman rushed past me.  Once he roared by, I was able to guide my SUV slowly back into the right lane.  Weaving recklessly through the morning traffic, the Chevy truck quickly disappeared from sight.

Almost there.  Almost there, I kept telling myself.  My body ached from the sustained tension, and my heart pounded dangerously in my chest.  Approaching NorthLake Boulevard once more, my heart suddenly froze and my bowels nearly let go.

The traffic ahead was deadlocked, angry brake lights wavering ominously in the heat.  In nearly the exact spot the Volvo had rolled, I saw the Chevy truck.  Upside down, the massive tires spinning slowly, the roof crushed level to the hood.  A bloody, mangled arm reached frantically through the shattered rear window.  Paramedics and the fire department were just arriving on scene.

Frantically, I searched for an escape route.  I was boxed in on either side, front and back.  The older man in the Cadillac to my right looked at me and smiled evilly, licking his lips sensuously.  A thick rope of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth, smearing the driver's side window.  He directed his empty gaze toward the wreck.  I think he started masturbating.

Above, I heard the deafening thrum of wings beating the stagnant morning air.  One of the creatures I had seen weeks earlier swooped from the heavens, snapped off the hapless crash victim's grasping arm at the elbow, and spiraled back into the sky without even slowing down.

I screamed aloud and Cadillac Man next door squeezed his eyes shut in pleasure.  Flooring the Excursion's accelerator pedal, I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, and smashed the front of the Cadillac, shoving it out of my path.  Weaving in and out of the snarled traffic, narrowly avoid some vehicles, damaging numerous others, I finally managed to clear the accident scene.  All ahead clear, full speed ahead.   I watched the rear mirrors in abject terror, the dark winged figures circling, swooping and diving over the crash, undoubtedly ripping flesh, sinew and muscle from the dying Chevy driver.  And his eyes . . . God, his eyes.

Glancing down at the speedometer, I noticed my forward momentum had reached over 110 miles per hour.  Alarmed, I eased off  the accelerator, searching for the next exit.

An unexpected gust of wind unsettled the Excursion, and I had to fight to maintain control.  Something thudded heavily on the SUV's roof.  The front of my jeans ran warm and wet -- something was abruptly sitting in the passenger's seat.

I may have fainted; my mind may have snapped at that point.  How long was I unconscious?  I have no way of knowing, but when I came to myself, I was slumped in the driver's seat, arms limp by my side.  The Excursion was sailing along at over 90 mph.  On the wheel was a gnarled, three-appendaged talon holding steady the course.

"Thought we lost you there for a minute," a calm voice intoned.  It sounded like a game show host.

I grabbed the steering wheel.  Thought fleetingly about slamming on the brakes when a voice behind me presented a veiled warning, "It's a nice day for a ride."

Stealing a sidelong glance, then one in the rear view mirror, my worst, most impossible nightmare was realized.  The creatures were riding along with me in the Excursion!

The cab of the SUV had become stifling with unnatural heat and the overwhelming stench of death, rot and sulphur.  Something thick and black like tar oozed from the thing's slimy feathers onto the leather seats.  The leather scorched and smouldered.  Its curved black beak dripped blood and I could see dangling shards of flesh clinging to the serrated edges.  The thing shifted on its folded-under wings and regarded me with obsidian, bottomless crow's eyes.

Swallowing hard to keep from vomiting, I asked, "Wha -- what do you want?"

The one behind me swatted the back of my head.  "For you to keep your eyes on the road for one thing."  I nearly fainted.

The bird-thing sitting beside me laughed, practically shattering my eardrums.

"So very few of you can see or hear us," he explained.  "We are always fascinated by those of you who can."

"But why -- why me?" I was weeping openly by now.

The metallic-appearing beak fashioned itself into something that resembled a wry grin.  Pink, shredded skin fell to the floorboard.

"Who knows?  Who cares?"

The creature regarded my eyes hungrily.  The thick blue tongue flicked from the open beak, tempted.  The beak slammed shut -- with the ominous echoing sound of   a jail cell door closing.

They laughed at me malevolently, and I could suddenly see -- and feel -- tens of millions of flyblown corpses from the ages, rotting on the hardened floor of a hellishly hot, barren desert, with hundreds of the winged creatures swooping, picking the remains at their leisure.  But the eyes were all gone, of course.  There, dessert was first.

"We're commuters, like you," the one beside me finally allowed.  "We have a little farther to travel than you, though.  Live on the sun, work in Hell."  The blunt, offal-coated tongue caressed my cheek like death's timeless whisper.

"I suppose you could say we think of this place as a  . . . drive-through."

"Drive safe," the other admonished sarcastically.  Then the pair of demons flew through the roof, arched out of sight for a moment, then at terminal velocity or better, soared through an overpass, vanishing beneath the interstate before me.  Off  to work they go.

Shuddering, I removed my seat belt, floored the gas pedal and headed straight for a bridge abutment.  That was the last thing I remember.

I was lucky to have lived, they say.  The fact that my seat belt was unfastened allowed me to be thrown clear of the wreckage, which exploded into flames.  The force of the behemoth SUV's impact weakened the bridge structure so severely, the bridge was subsequently condemned and had to be rebuilt.  I made the evening news, three nights in a row.

At least the Veteran's Administration Hospital gave me an upper-floor room with a view.  It's pretty nice, semi-private with cable television.  The TV screen is usually blank, like the expression of an early morning commuter on I-95.   When I'm not in restraints, I can often be found in my wheelchair next to the window overlooking a certain dangerous stretch of Interstate 95 in the distance.

I love watching the morning commute.

©1999 Walt Hicks