The Racer | Dystopian Future | Podcast

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Do you feel a sharer up your spine from fear. Yes,
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it's another story from the Night's Shade Diary. You know
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what that means. Check under the bed and make sure
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no one or nothing is there. Is the closet door
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securely shut. Then leave your disbelief behind, amp up your
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imagination and hang on tight for another ride into terror
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and mystery. And like all good horror stories, just imagine
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it's a dark and stormy night, and remember screaming like
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a little girl is permitted. The racer by ib melt
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Your Willie felt the familiar intoxicating excitement. His mouth was dry,
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his heart beat faster, all his senses seem more aware
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than ever. It was a few minutes before eight hundred hours,
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his time to start. This was the day from all
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the Long Island stars arding fields. The racers were taking
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off at fifteen minute intervals. The sputter and roar of
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cars warming up were everywhere. The smell of oil and
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fuel fumes permeated the air. The hubbub the great crowd
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was a steady tin. This was the biggest race of
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the year, New York to Los Angeles, one hundred thousand
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bucks to the winner. Willie was determined to better his
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winning record of last year thirty three hours, twenty seven minutes,
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twelve seconds in time, and although it was becoming increasingly difficult,
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he'd do his damnedest to better his score too. He
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took a last walk of inspection around his car. Sleek,
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low slung, dark brown. The practically indestructible plastic glass top
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looked deceptively fragile, like a soap bubble, not bad for
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an old fashioned diesel job. He kicked the solid plastic
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rubber tires, and the time honored fashion of all drivers,
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Hank was giving a last minute shine to Neil's sharp
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duror steel horns protruding from the front fenders. Willie's car
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was a nicknamed the Bull without reason. The front of
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the car was built like a streamlined bull's head, complete
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with blood shot, evil looking eyes, iron ring, the flaring nostrils,
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and the horns. Although most of the racing cars were
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built to look like tigers or sharks or eagles, there
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were a few bulls, but Willie's horns were unequaled. Cars
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seventy nine ready for start. In five minutes, the loud
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speaker blared Cars seventy nine. Willie Connor's driver, Hank Morowski,
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mechanic readier car for start and five minutes, Willia and
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Hank took their places in the bull. At a touch
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by Willie on the starter, the powerful diesel engine began
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a low purr. It drove slowly to the starting line.
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Last check, said Willie. Right came Hank's answer. Oil and fuel,
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forty hours, cooling, fluid sealed, no sleeps check Enerjean tabs check,
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Thermo drink check. The starter held the checkered flag high
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over his head. The crowds packing the grand stands were
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on their feet, hushed, waiting, here we go, whispered Willie.
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The flag fell. A tremendous cry rose from the crowd,
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but Willie hardly heard it. Accelerating furiously, he pushed his
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cart to its top speed of a hundred and ninety
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miles an hour within seconds, shooting like a bullet along
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the straightaway toward Manhattan. He was elated, exhilarated. He was
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a racer and full of tricks. Willie shout through the
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tunnel directly to Jersey. Well, grumbled Hank. Can you tell
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me now, Toledo, said Willie Toledo, Ohio.
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On the throughway.
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We should make it in under three hours. He felt
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a slight annoyance with Hank. There was no reason for
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the man to be touchy. He knew a driver didn't
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tell any one the racing routine he'd selected. News like
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that had a habit of getting around. It could cost
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a race for his score. There's not much chance of
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anything coming up until after we hit Toledo, Willy said,
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But keep your eyes peeled.
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You never know.
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Hank merely grunted. It was exactly ten forty eight hours
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when the bulls streaked into the deserted streets of Toledo. Okay,
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what now, asked Hank. Grand Rapids, Michigan, said Willie laconically,
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Grand Rapids. But that's that's an easy three hundred miles detour.
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I know, are you crazy? It'll cost us a couple
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of hours. So Grand Rapids is all the way up
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between the lakes, so we'll be expecting us up there.
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Oh oh yeah, I see, said Hank. The time is
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in everything. My friend whoever said the shortest distance between
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two points is a straight line. The score counts too,
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and here's where we pick up our score. The first
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Tragy act never even knew the racer had arright. The
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bull struck him squarely, threw him up in the air,
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and let him slide off its plastic glass back, leaving
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a red smear behind him, somewhat to the left of Willie.
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All in a split second near Calvin Coolidge and I
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prudent Kohd found herself too far from cover when the
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racer suddenly came streaking down the campus. Frantically, she sprinted
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for safety, but she didn't have a chance. With a
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driver like Willie behind the wheel. The razors sharp corn
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and the right fender sliced through her spine so cleanly
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that the jar was in even felt inside the car.
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Leaving town, the racer was in luck again. An elderly
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woman had left a sanctuary of her stone walled garden
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to rescue a strained cat. She was so easy to
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hit that Willie felt a little cheated. At twelve thirty
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two hours they were on the speedway, headed for Kansas City.
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Hank looked in an awe at Willie.
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Three.
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He murmured, dreamily, A score of three already, and all
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of them kills for sure. Do you really know how
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to drive? Hank settled back contentedly as if he could
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already feel his twenty five thousand dollars cut in his pocket.
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He began to whistle. The racers are roaring off key.
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Even after his good score. It annoyed Willie, and for
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some reason he kept remembering the belatedly pleading look in
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the old woman's eyes as he struck her funny that
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should stay with him. He estimated Tod hit Kansas City
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at around eighteen fifteen hours Central time. Hank turned on
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the radio. Peoria, Illinois was warning its citizens of the
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approach of a racer. All spectators should watch from safety places.
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Willie grinned that would be him. Well, he wasn't looking
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for any score in Peoria. Dayton, Ohio told of a
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racer having made a tragic accident score of one, and
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fort Wayne, Indiana was crowing over the fact that three
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razors had passed through without scoring once. From what he heard,
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it seemed to Willie he had a comfortable lead both
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in time and score they were receiving Kansas City. Now,
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an oily voiced announcer was filling the time between racing
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scores with what appeared to be a brief history of
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racing and the most popular spectators sported the latter half
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of the twentieth century were such mildly exciting pursuits as
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boxing and wrestling. Of course, the spectators enjoyed seeing the
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combatants trying to maim each other, and there was always
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the chance of the hope for fatal accident. Motor racing, however,
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gave a much greater opportunity for the tragic accident, so
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exciting to the spectator. One of the most famed old speedways, Indianapolis,
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where many drivers and spectators alike ended as bloody tragic acts,
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is today the nation's Racing Shrine. Motor racing was already
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then held all over the world, sometimes with scores reaching
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the hundred mark, and long distance races were popular. The
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modern race makes it possible for the entire population too.
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Willie switched off the radio. Why did they always have
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to stress the score? Time was important too, the speed
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and the endurance that was part of an ace racer
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as well as his scoring ability. He took an energying tab.
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They were entering Kansas City. The checkpoint officials told Willie
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that there were three racers with better time than he,
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and one had tied a score. The bull stayed just
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long enough in the checkpoint pitch for Hank to make
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a quick engine inspection. Then they took off again. It
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was eighteen eighteen hours when they left the city limits behind.
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They'd been driving over nine hours, about fifty miles long.
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It throw way to Denver. Just after passing through a
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little talent called Lawrence, Willie suddenly slowed down. Hank, who
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had been dozing, set up an alarm. What's the matter,
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he cried, What's wrong? Nothing's wrong, Willie said, irritably.
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Relax.
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You seem to be good at that, But why are
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you slowing down? You heard the checkpoint record. Our score
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has already been tied. We've got to better it, Willi
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answered grimly. The plaster rubber's tires screeched on the concrete speedways.
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Willie turned down an exit leading to a class to road.
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Why down here, asked Hank. You can only go about
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eighty miles per hour. A large lumisigne appeared on the
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side of the road ahead, it announced, Willie pointed, Lone
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Star eleven miles that's why, he said, curtly. In a
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few minutes, Lone Star came into view. It was a
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small village. Will He was trailing as fast as he could.
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On the secondary road, he plowed through a flock of chickens,
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hurtled over a little mongrel dog which crawled yelping towards
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the safety of a house, and the waiting arms of
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a little girl, and managed to graze the legs of
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a husky youth who vaulted a high wooden fence. Then
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they were through Lone Star. Hank activated the little dashboard screen,
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which gave him a rear view. That's not going to
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do much for our score, he remarked, sourly. Oh, shut up.
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Willie exploded, surprising both himself and Hank. What was the
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matter with him? He couldn't be getting tired already. He
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swallowed a no sleep that help. Hank was quiet as
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they sped through Topeka and took the through way to
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Oklahoma City, but out of the corner of his eyes
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he was looking speculatively at Willie, hunched over the wheel.
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It was getting dusk.
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WILLI switched on his powerful headbeams. They had a faint
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reddish tint because of the coloring of the bull's eyes.
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They had just whizzed through a little bird named Perry
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when there was a series of sharp cracks. Willie started,
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there they go again, chortled Hank. Those dumb, hindulant hicks, Well,
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never learn they can't hurt us with their fly poppers.
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He knocked the plastic glass dome effectually takes atomic pellets
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to get through this baby. Of course, he must be
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on edge to be taken by surprise like that. He'd
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run into the anti racers before, just a handful of malcontents.
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The racing Commission already declared it illegal. Still at every
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race they took pot shots at the racers, a sort
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of pathetic defiance. Why should anyone want to do away
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with racing? They were entering the outskirts of Oklahoma City.
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Willie killed his headbeams, no need to advertise. Suddenly, Hank
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grabbed his arm wordlessly. He pointed there, garish and gaudy
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gleamed the neon sign of a theater.
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Willie crawled slowly.
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He pulled over to the curb, and the dark car
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melted into the shadows. He glanced at the clock twenty
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two oh three hours. Perhaps down the street, a man
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cautiously stuck his head out from the theater entrance. Warily,
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he emerged completely, looking up and down the street carefully.
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He did not see the bull. Presently, he ventured out
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into the center of the roadway. He stood still, listening
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for a moment. Then he turned and beckoned towards the theater.
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Immediately a small group of people emerged at a run.
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Now the acceleration slammed the racers back in their seats.
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The bulls shot forward and bore down a little knot
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of petrified people with appalling speed. This time, there was
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no mistaking the hits. A quick succession of pars had
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Willie calling upon all his driving skills to keep from
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losing control. Hank pressed the clean spray button to wash
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the blood off the front of the dome. He sat
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with his eyes glued to the reary mirror. Man oh man,
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he murmured, what a record, what a score. He turned
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to Willie, Please, he said, please stop, Let's get out.
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I know it's against regulations, but I just got to
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see how we did. It won't take long. We can
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afford a couple of minutes time now. Suddenly Willie felt
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he had to get out too. This was the biggest
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tragic act he'd ever had. He had a vague feeling
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there was something he wanted to do. He brought the
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car to a stop. They stepped out. Within seconds of
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deserted street was swarming with people. Now the racers were
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out of their car, they felt safe and curious. A
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few of them pressed forward to take a look at Willie. Naturally,
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he was recognized. His photo had been seen in one
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way or another by every one. Willie was gratified by
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this obvious adulation. He looked around him. There were many
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people in the street now, But but they were not
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all fawning and beaming upon him. Willie frowned. Most of
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them looked grim, even hostile.
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Why what was wrong?
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Wasn't he one of their greatest racers, And hadn't he
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just made a record score, given them a tragic act?
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They wouldn't soon forget? What is the matter with those hicks?
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Suddenly the crowd parted slowly. A young girl walked up
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to Willie. She was beautiful, even with a terrible anger
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burning on her face. In her arms, she carried the
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still body of a child. She looked straight at Willie
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with loathing in her eyes. Her voice was low but
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steady when she said butcher. Some one in the crowd
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called careful, Muriel, but she paid no heed. Turning from him,
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she walked on through the crowd, parting for her. Willie
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was stunned. Come on, let's get out of here, Hank
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said anxiously. Willie didn't answer. He was looking back through
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the crowd to the scene of his tragic act. Never
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before had he stopped, Never before had he seen this close.
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He could hear the moaning and sobbing of the Mames
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over the low murmur of the crowd.
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It made him uneasy.
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Back there, they were hurriedly to get the tragic axe
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off the street. There were so many of them, Butcher
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all at once. He was conscious of Hank pulling at him.
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Let's get roaring, Let's go quickly. He turned and entered
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the car. Almost at once. The street was empty. He
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turned on his head beams and started up, faster and faster.
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The street was dead empty. No, there some one holding up.
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It was Butcher, No Muriel. She stood rooted to the
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spot in the middle of the street, holding the child
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in her arms and the glaring head lights. Her face
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was white, her eyes terrible, burning dark. Willie did not
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let up. The car hurdled down upon the lone figure
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and passed. They had lost thirteen minutes. Now they were
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on their way to Old Passo, Texas. The nagging headache
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Willy suffered the whole week of planning before the race
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had returned. He reached for no sleep, hesitated a second,
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and took another. Hank glanced at him worriedly. Easy boy,
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Willie didn't answer that anti racer, get under your skin,
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Hank suggested, don't let.
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Him bother you. Butcher, she said, butcher.
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Willie was staring through the plastic class dome at the
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racing pool of light from the headbeams. The bull was
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tearing along the Thruway at almost one hundred miles per hour.
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What was that there in the light. It was a face,
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terrible dark eyes getting larger, larger, Muriel, It was Butcher. No, Muriel, No,
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it was a racer, a racing car with Murray's face shrieking.
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Down upon him.
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Closer, closer. He threw his arms in front of his face.
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Dimly heard, Hank shot Willie. He felt the car lurch automatically.
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He tightened his grip on the wheel. They had kareem
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closed to the shoulder the speedway. Willie sat up ahead
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of him. The road was clear and empty. It was
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still dark. When they hit al Passo, the radio told
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them their Oklahoma score five and eight, five kills eight mames.
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Hank was delighted they were close to setting a record.
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He'd already begun to spend his twenty five thousand dollars.
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Willie was uneasy. His headache was worse, his hands were clammy.
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He kept hearing Muriel's voice saying, Butcher, butcher, butcher. But
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he was not a butcher. He was a racer. He'd
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show them he'd win this race. Al Passo was a disappointment,
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not a soul in sight.
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Phoenix.
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Next, the clock said, oh, six fifty eight hours Mountain standard.
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When they roared into Phoenix, the streets were clear. Willie
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had to slow down to take a corner. As he
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sped into the new street, he saw her. She was
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running to cross the roadway. Hank whooped, go, Willie Go.
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The girl looked up in an instant in terror her face.
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It was the old woman with the car. No, it
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was Muriel, Muriel with the big dark eyes. In the
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last split second, Willie touched the power steering. The bull
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responded immediately and shot past the girl. She scampered to safety.
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What the hell's the matter with you?
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Hank roared at Willie. You could have scored? Are you
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out of your head? We don't need her. We'll win
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without her.
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I I yes, Why hadn't he scored? It wasn't Muriel.
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Muriel was back in Butcher in Oklahoma City.
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Damn this headache?
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Maybe so, said Hank angrily, But I want to be sure.
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And what about the bonus for setting a.
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Record ten thousand apiece? And we're closed?
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He looked slyly at Willie. Or maybe you've lost your nerve.
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Wonder what the commission will say to that. I've got
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plenty of nerve, WILLI snapped. Prove it, said Hank quickly.
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He pointed to the dashboard map, slowly tracing the progress.
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There see that village with a screen name wiki Up
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off the throughway. Let's see you score there. Willy said nothing.
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He hadn't lost his nerve. He knew that he was
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the best of the racers. No one could drive like
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he could constant top speed and the stam on it
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took the split second timing the inerring judgment. Well all right,
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Willy agreed. They hadn't even reached Wiki Up when they
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spotted the farmer. He didn't have a chance. The bull
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came charging down upon him, but at the last moment
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the car veered slightly. One of the horns ripped the
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man's hip open. In the rear view screen, Willie saw
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him get up and hobble off the road. You could
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have made it a kill, Hank growled, coccusingly. Why didn't
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you pad rode, Willie said, The wheel slipped on a stone.
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That's what must have happened.
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He thought.
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He didn't consciously veer away from the man. He was
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a good racer. He couldn't help a bad road. Needles
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was left behind. At ten forty five hours specific standard time.
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No one had been out. Hank turned on the radio
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to a needle station had just left the city going west.
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No other racers reported within twenty minutes of the city.
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We repeat, a racer has just left. Hank clicked it off.
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Hear that, he said, excitedly. Twenty minutes. They don't expect
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anyone for twenty minutes. He took hold of Willy's arm.
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Turn around, here's where we get ourselves that record score.
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Turn around, Willie.
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We don't need it. I do I want that bonus?
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Willie made no answer. Listen to me, you two bit.
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Hank's voice was menacing you, or nobody else is going
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to cheat me out of that bonus. You've been acting
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mighty peculiar, more like an anti racer ever.
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Since you stopped that tragic act back there.
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Yeah, that girl, that anti racer who called you a butcher. Listen,
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you get that record score, or all report you to
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the commission for having slooped around a tragic act. You'll
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never race again, never race again. Well, he's brain was whirling,
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but he was a racer, not a butcher. A racer.
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Record score, Yes, that's what he had to do. Set
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a record, be the best tam racer of them all.
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Without a word, he turned the car. In minutes, they
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were back at the Needles suburbs, that building, a schoolhouse,
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and there marching orderly in two rows with her teacher,
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a class, a whole class of children. The bull came
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charging down the street, only a couple of hundred feet.
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Now to that record score. But what was that?
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It was?
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They were Muriel. They were all Muriel, terrible dark eyes. No,
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there were children, the child of Muriel's arms. They were
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all the child e Muriel's arms were they already moaning
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and screaming. Butcher, Butcher. No, he couldn't butcher them. He
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was a racer, not a butcher, Not a butcher. Deliberately,
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he swung the car to the empty side of the street.
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Suddenly he felt Hank's hand up on the wheel. You dirty,
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lousy anti racer, the mechanic snarled. As he struggled for
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the wheel. The car lurched. The two men fought savagely
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for control. They were only yards from the fleeing children.
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With a violent wrench, Willie turned the wheel sharply. The
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car was going one hundred and sixty five miles an
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hour when it struck the schoolhouse and crashed through the
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wall into the empty building. The voices came to Willy
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through a thick wadz of cotton, and they kept fading
370
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in and out, dead instantly. But the racer still it
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sounded like the voice of Muriel. Muriel keeps calling for
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Willie tried to open his eyes. Everything was milky white.
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Why was there so much fog? A face was bending
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over him, Muriel, No, it was not Muriel. He lost
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consciousness again. When he opened his eyes once more, he
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knew he was not alone. He turned his head. A
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girl was sitting at his bedside.
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Muriel.
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It was Muriel. He tried to sit up. It's you,
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but how the girl put her hand on his arm.
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The radio they said, you kept calling for Muriel. I knew,
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never mind that. Now she looked steadily at him. Her
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eyes were not terrible, not burning, only dark and puzzled.
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Why did you call for me, she asked earnestly. Willy
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struggled to sit up. I wanted to tell you, he said,
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to tell you I I am not a butcher. The
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girl Garld, looked at him for a long moment. Then
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she leaned down and whispered to him, nor eracer