North of Norfolk, by John B. Rosenman

The symbol glowed at Farlan from the upper right of his car’s dashboard, exactly where the charging system light was supposed to be. The only trouble was, it wasn’t the battery, and it wasn’t red like it was supposed to be but a deep, rich purple.
     Farlan swore. Dammit, why did this have to happen now? He’d been looking forward to getting home after a long hard day crunching numbers for the Baker account, and then he had turned on the engine and found this. What the hell was it? Farlan was a world-class accountant, but he knew almost nothing about cars. The charging system light meant something was wrong with the battery or the alternator connected with it. But he had never seen this warning light before, let alone in purple. Was his engine about to explode? He flashed on a mental image of himself halfway home, stranded on the expressway with a smoking engine while impatient drivers honked and swerved around him.
     C’mon, fasten your seat belt and hit the road. The car’s good enough for the short haul.
     It wasn’t. He’d barely turned onto the expressway when the damned thing made a high bliiiinnnng! sound and froze dead in its tracks. Then it seemed to rear back like a horse and shoot forward. Ahead, in the distance, a huge eighteen-wheeler waited, promising disaster.
     Farlan slammed on the brakes. When that did nothing, he frantically twisted the wheel, then turned off the ignition and yanked the emergency brake. Nothing worked! His car continued to streak ahead. How was that possible? Was he dreaming, asleep at his desk? Or maybe he had gone stark raving mad. Either way, fear clogged his throat and twisted in his guts like razor wire.
Directly ahead, the rear end of the truck loomed as big as a mountain.
     He screamed and threw up his hands, but there was no impact. Trembling, he lowered his hands.
     To his amazement, he saw no truck, only a car far ahead. He twisted around to look out the rear window. Behind him, the truck was already small and fading fast.
     God Almighty! What had happened? What was happening?
     This was crazy, a nightmare. How was he still alive? Moaning in terror, Farlan wiped sweat from his brow and tried to make sense of things as his car sped on at tremendous speed. A panicky glance at the speedometer indicated that he was moving at 110 plus. Hell, he was off the damned dial! And the car that had been far ahead of him was coming up fast.
     A few seconds later, here it was – he was going to crash again!
     But there was no crash. This time he had found the strength to keep his eyes open and had witnessed the impossible. At the last instant his car had seemed to flick somewhere else and just shoot around or over or through the vehicle ahead. He could already see it growing small in his rearview mirror.
     How could this be? He drove a plain ’97 Grand Am, V6 and 150 hp. Yet the speed, the power was incredible. Outside, the air howled and blasted the car as trees flashed past in a blur. Christ, if he went any faster, he’d lift right off the road!
     Suddenly the turbulence stopped and the car felt different. Now it seemed insulated from the outside world, gliding on with no sense of movement. If it weren’t for cars and trees streaking by, he’d think he was standing still.
     “I put in a few modifications, Mr. Farlan.”
     The mechanic at the station had spoken with a strange accent. Yes, he remembered it clearly. I put in a few modifications. Come to think of it, he had been an odd looking bastard. Small and wiry, with a faintly purplish skin tone, as if he didn’t get enough sunlight.
     His exit whipped past. Farlan gasped and screamed, then screamed again. Oh God, even if he wasn’t killed, how was he going to get home? It was like the devil was driving.
     911. He must call 911. Try to get some help.
     But no, he’d better call Charlotte first. Despite his situation, he dreaded her displeasure.
     Farlan unclipped his cell phone and called his wife. One ring... two... three.
     A click at the other end. “Hello?”
     Now that she had answered, Farlan didn’t know what to say. That he’d been kidnapped by his car and was heading for Richmond? Maybe he could say the brakes didn’t work and he had to keep going. No, that wouldn’t do.
     “Uh, look, Charlotte. I’m afraid I won’t be home for a while.”
     “Why?”
     “Something came up. I won’t be home till late.”
     “Where the hell are ya, Jack?”
     “Uh, I’m not sure. North of Norfolk, I think.”
     “You think?” Her voice hardened. “Don’t you know?”
     “Not really. Please, Charlotte –”
     “Jack, I want you home soon. And don’t forget to buy that salmon on your way. I want it for dinner tonight.”
     Salmon. Farlan hated it but never had the nerve to tell her or stand up about anything. Fortunately, at that moment, Charlotte’s voice disappeared. He clicked his cell but it had gone dead. No calling back or trying 911. He put it away, his heart hammering in fear.
     C’mon, concentrate on the situation. Find a way to control it.
     But that seemed impossible. By his estimate, his
modest Grand Am must be doing at least 150 now, and in the next few minutes he saw it whisk past vehicles as if they were frozen. How could this be?
     I put in a few modifications.
Oh yeah, that was for sure. His car acted crazy, as if it were possessed by a demon. Everything he’d tried to stop it had failed.
     Then suddenly his car did a new thing. It shimmered, then jumped. As it did, his eyes rolled back, and he blacked out.
     When he came to, his car was suspended in space, surrounded by so many stars he couldn’t even count them. They looked like diamonds scattered on infinite black felt. But that was crazy, he must be seeing things. He gnawed his lip and peered out the windshield. Though the ride was as smooth as a baby’s behind, he sensed he was moving even faster than before. Two hundred miles an hour? Perhaps even more.
     Farlan tried to crank down a window to get a better look. No dice, and the other windows didn’t work either. More of the little bastard’s modifications.
     In the distance, a white light spun. Flick, flick, flick, flick – so bright he had to cover his eyes. Yes, he must be in space, even though it was impossible. There must be a perfectly rational explanation for this, something as simple and ordinary as the figures he added up at work. Five and five make ten. Always have, always will. Still, how the hell could he account for this? And how was he ever going to get home? He’d die out here amid the stars, and no one would ever know what happened to him.
     Suddenly his car shimmered again. It seemed it was going to...
     This time he fainted even before the jump. When he opened his eyes, things looked stranger than before. The air outside the car was filled with spectacular colors, and they stretched forever. Blue, green, red, yellow. And he was heading straight for a fiery comet. No, he refused to believe that. It must be an optical illusion. Or maybe a hallucination. He had been working too hard lately.
     The car veered and made a ninety degree turn. This time he felt it, almost snapped his neck with the whiplash. Things settled down and the car coasted like silk into a vast purple swirl of dust and gas and streamers that seemed to stretch forever. Molten rocks, as big as a football field, shot at him, but the car dodged as if it had a brain of its own. He screamed until his throat grew raw.
     Numbers. As an accountant, he had sought sanctuary in them - from life, and from the incessant pressure of others’ demands. Nine minus two was always seven, which was so much easier to cope with than his wife’s constant badgering and fault-finding. In desperation, Farlan sought security in numbers now. Let’s see, his car had registered about 172,000 miles when he left the office. How many had it covered since? He glanced at the odometer and felt his heart do somersaults in his mouth.
     892,623,855.
     And the gauge clicked on and on, more numbers than it had room for, yet he could see them clearly. His mind boggled as he grasped the total. Madness! He turned away, realizing that numbers, his one source of comfort, were betraying him.
     But there was no sanctuary in what he saw dead ahead. It looked like a burning sun, a gigantic, boiling, red-hot cauldron.
     Those hellish modifications, he thought. I’ve got to believe they’ll protect me.
     His car made another detour and plunged. Though Farlan had his seat belt on, he realized it wasn’t needed. There was some kind of internal stabilizing force at work.
     His car came to a stop and something whammed into the driver’s door. The door irised open then closed around something in a tight seal. Farlan found himself gazing down a golden tube. It was about three feet high, thirty feet long, and at the end...
     He rubbed his eyes. Looked again. No, he hadn’t been wrong. A small purple creature huddled there, sucking his thumb. Looked like some kind of toddler. As Farlan watched, the kid raised his face and stared at him.
     Oh God, Farlan thought, it’s an alien. Stunned, he raised his hand and touched the inside of the tube. You might as well be honest with yourself, he told himself. All your life, ever since Tommy Duggit whipped your ass in the playground, you’ve been a coward and avoided trouble. But you sure as hell can’t run this time or deny the truth. This child’s not only alien, he’s the offspring of that crazy asshole who tinkered with your vehicle, and you’re sitting in a super souped-up car, quadrillions of miles from Earth in some distant nebula, looking at a gold tube like it’s the Yellow Brick Road and you’re going to see the Wizard.
     He giggled hysterically. I’m not in Norfolk anymore. Not only that, it looks like I’ve come halfway across the galaxy! And I’ve always been afraid to travel. Hell, I broke out in hives the one time Charlotte and I visited Detroit.
     Get a grip, he told himself. Think. What was he supposed to do, what was the point of this madness? He wanted to believe he was asleep or imagining this nightmare, but something had changed inside him and he found he no longer cared for such lies. No, any way he cut it, he was faaaarrrr from home, even farther away than Detroit.
     At the end of the tube, the child went reeeep and started to crawl toward him. But he’d come only a few feet when something snagged one of his legs. He tried to shake free, but he was caught.
     The child started to mewl. It reminded Farlan of a sick cat who’d been abandoned by his mother.
     Which is probably what he is! Farlan thought. Or maybe it’s the father who left him. Suddenly he had an idea that staggered him. Is it possible the mechanic upgraded my Pontiac so I could bring his kid back to Earth?
     But why didn’t the bastard just do it himself? It made no sense, yet Farlan had no doubt it was true. He had been sent here on an intergalactic rescue mission.
     I wonder what Charlotte would say about this, he thought. But he knew the answer, could clearly imagine her disbelief and cutting ridicule, which would reduce him to goo.
Unbuckling his seat belt, Farlan climbed out into the golden tube, which shimmered with light and reminded him of an umbilical cord. “I’m coming, kid,” he called, wondering where the air he was breathing came from. “Stop bawling.”
     After six feet, though, he stopped. Is it really me doing this? he thought. Is it really me up here among the stars, risking my life to bring ET home? What if I’m trapped in this thing and can’t get back to my car? What if I die here? Suddenly he felt disoriented, as if he were in a dream.
     He shook it off. C’mon, forget the fear. You can do this!
     The problem was, the damned tube was transparent, and he made the mistake of looking down. What he saw froze his sphincter. Space stretched below forever. The universe was a bottomless well, and when he tore his eyes away, he saw blazing comets and a huge, pulsing star. That thing’s gonna explode, his mind screamed, then a number from what little he knew about astronomy came to comfort him. Yes, but not for hundreds of years, he thought. I’ll be long dead by then.
     Gritting his teeth, he crawled on, the top of the tube just inches above his head. Keep your eyes on the kid. Think of nothing else. The closer he got the more alien the child appeared. Maybe Dad could pass for human back on Earth if you didn’t look too close, but his boy never could. Even if he weren’t such a dark purple, his face looked fishlike, and his body had what must be gills. Maybe he’d grow out of it later, but right now, he resembled something from a Walt Disney movie.
     But he’s not scary, he thought. Hell, he’s just a kid in a fix.
     When Farlan reached the child, he saw at once what the problem was. Some kind of tendril had wrapped about his leg in an intricate pattern. Farlan struggled several long minutes to untangle the knots, finding them so slimy he didn’t even want to touch them. When he finally freed the boy, the tendril twisted like a snake and wrapped about his own leg.
     He grunted in pain as it tightened and tried to free himself. The tendril throbbed and tightened still more. He felt a searing barb of pain and broke out in sweat. Oh no, he was going to die! Terror ripped through him and he forgot about the boy. All he wanted to do was save himself.
     Another tendril appeared. He saw it wiggle across the floor of the tube and then rise in the air. It struck, aiming at his throat.
     He ducked and seized the tendril holding his leg, savagely tearing at it with both hands. To his immense relief, it came apart. He knocked the other tendril away and frantically crawled back toward his car.
     The child. You can’t leave him.
     Farlan hesitated, caught between cowardice and conscience. With a sob, he turned and crawled back. One of the tendrils was reaching for the kid again, but he smashed it aside. He seized the boy’s purple hand, pulling him toward the car as fast as he could.
     “C’mon, son,” he said, “Uncle Jack’s taking you home.”   
     The trip back to his car went quickly, and soon they were inside. Even as Farlan settled the child in the bucket seat next to him, the tube withdrew and the door irised shut.
     “Here, kid,” Farlan said, “let me buckle you in.”
     But before he could, the child leapt into Farlan’s lap and threw his arms around his neck. Farlan patted the boy’s back, his eyes wet with tears. Why hadn’t he and Charlotte ever had kids? Maybe there was still time.
     The car rumbled. “Okay, kid,” Farlan said. “You can sit on my lap, but hold tight. I think we’re about to take the ride of our lives.”

    If anything, the ride back was even wilder than he expected, only now he enjoyed every minute, transfixed by cosmic fireworks beyond belief. This time, for some reason, his Grand Am made three jumps, and each time, the child laughed with glee. Wherever Farlan looked, he saw glorious, multi-colored wonders, but no matter how mind-boggling they were, or how insane the jumps, he didn’t lose consciousness once.
     Then their journey was over and they came down from the sky, descending till they landed in the parking lot just behind the Baxter Service Center in Norfolk, Virginia.
     The garage door rolled up and the car rolled in. The mechanic was waiting for them, his face filled with desperate hope and yearning. To Farlan, he looked like a man praying for a miracle.
Holding the child, Farlan got out as the garage door came down. The mechanic rushed to them, his odd, purple face filled with joy and gratitude.
     “Oh thank you, thank you!” He held out his arms. “Yimity!”
     The boy squirmed in Farlan’s arms. He set him down and the kid ran to his father’s embrace.
     “Bless you, for bringing my Yimity safe to me!” Barely five feet tall, the mechanic had an accent which sounded Yiddish.
     “May all your descendants praise you!”
     Farlan mumbled something dismissive. He felt exhausted, yet was filled with curiosity. Who, exactly, was this mechanic, and where did he come from? Did the kid have a mother, and if so, where was she?
“Why didn’t you get Yimity yourself?” Farlan asked.
     The mechanic glanced nervously out a window. “They’re watching. Your country has tightened its borders and surveillance lately.”
     “You must be kidding.”
     The other cradled his son in his arms. “Mr. Farlan, they almost caught me entering your country. If I had tried to bring Yimity, we both would have been caught.”
     “Why not just send the car alone? With all your modifications . . .”
     “I had to be sure. I needed someone who could react in a crisis. And thank the stars I chose you! I never expected Yimity’s safety pod to be invaded by that creature.”
     “But why me?” Farlan asked.
     “I liked your face.” The mechanic raised what looked like a pen and pointed it at the car. “There, I’ve cancelled most of the modifications.”
     “It only gets 25 miles a gallon again?”
     The mechanic laughed, or more accurately, squealed. “No, I haven’t restored everything. Your Pontiac will never need gas or anything else again. It should also be maintenance free. Treat it well, Mr. Farlan, and you won’t ever need to buy another car.”
     Farlan nodded. “Thanks for the tour of your neighborhood,” he said. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
     “And thank you for your courage. Yimity tells me that you saved him from certain death.”
     Telepathy? Well, Farlan thought, if I can believe a trip across the galaxy, I can believe that. He patted the boy’s head and moved to his car. “Good luck,” he said, “I hope you like our country.”
     “One moment, please.” The mechanic held out a silver cube. “A small token of my appreciation. It will make your life so much easier.”
     Farlan looked at it. “Thank you, but I won’t need it. You already gave me a better gift. Later, though, when I have time, I do have a few thousand questions to ask.”

     When Farlan reached home, it was five minutes to nine. Not bad, he thought, for a round trip of 15,000 light-years.
     Charlotte snatched the door open even before he got his key out. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
     He shrugged. “I got caught in traffic.”
     “For nearly four hours?” She stared at him with dark, intense eyes that had so often intimidated him. “Where did you go – Detroit?”
     He smiled and glanced up at the stars. “Even farther.”
     “Huh! And I bet you didn’t buy the salmon I asked you. Am I right?”
     How many times had her tone unmanned him? Farlan wondered. How many times had it quelled whatever small independence he had? Now he found himself merely amused. 
     “Listen here, Charlotte,” he said. “Go get your coat. There’s been a change of plans.”
     She hesitated, and he noted with satisfaction her first suspicion of the new order.
     “What for?” she snapped. “And what do you mean by ‘a change of plans?’”
     He laughed and gently touched her cheek.
     “It’s simple, my dear. I hate salmon, and tonight you and I are going to eat out.”

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©2006 John B. Rosenman