3. Highway to Hell

The interior of the vehicle smelled as if it had housed an entire rock concert, or maybe just Gene Simmons; urine, sex, vomit, and a half dozen other scents that he would rather not try to identify lurked in the roomy compartment, although there were no marks or stains to suggest where the smell came from.

It was just there.

“D-driver?” John gasped, breathing through his mouth. As it only seemed to ensure he tasted the scents, he said again, louder; “Driver?”

The tinted glass between the rear compartment and the driver’s seat didn’t budge, but after a moment a small speaker clicked on, even as the vehicle lurched into motion.

“Yes, sir?” The driver’s dry, emotionless voice piped through the speaker, not sounding the least bit concerned with the condition of his passenger.

“Driver, is there a fan or something you could turn on in here? The limo smells a bit-“ a hacking cough tore from John’s throat; “-rank.”

“Sir, my apologies, but the vehicle’s fan is broken. May I recommend that you open a window? The weather is lovely.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” As the speaker clicked off audibly, John lurched to one of the windows, pressing the button to lower it. The window gradually slid down (far to slowly for his tastes,) but even after opening all the windows he could find, the smell showed no signs of fading away. Finally, desperate for some fresh air, John stuck his head out the window.

He was treated to a view of the golden fields of grain swaying in a light breeze, and a lungful of fresh air before a fly, apparently following some guided course, flew into his mouth and straight down his airpipe.

Hacking and pounding his chest, John pulled his head back in as he flailed about the interior of the limo, a low, alien-sounding rattle forming at the back of his throat. He could feel the damned insect fluttering around his windpipe, and it was several excruciating minutes before he finally managed to extract it. Either that, or it chose to fly out on his own.

Swatting angrily at the fly (and missing entirely,) John was suitably wary of sticking his head out again, choosing instead to just keep his face near the rearmost one, so that the car’s slipstream blasted a bit of fresh air into his face. He could still smell the horrid interior, but the scent was now diluted a little, until it was almost bearable.

“You know, driver… what’s your name, anyway?”

There was no reply, but the car did lurch a bit as it followed a gentle curve with all the skill and grace of a drunk fraternity member, (which, yes, is a redundant title.)

“Whatever… I’ll call you Drives Atrocious Vehicle Erratically. We’ll shorten it to Dave. That fine with you, Dave?”

Still no reply.

“Good to hear. Well, Dave, I don’t much remember how I got here… last thing I remember was that I was planning to walk down to the store for some breath mints, maybe stare shyly at the woman working the counter, and probably read a newspaper without buying it. Still, I have come to a conclusion, Dave. Do you want to know what that conclusion is?”

Predictable silence.

“That conclusion is that I don’t like this place one bit. I’ve had possessions not even my own broken and thrown about the room, was tackled and stripped down by two brutish fellows who look less as if they should be guarding anything and more as if they should be being guarded. Does that strike you as fair, Dave?”

Out of the corner of his mouth, John murmured in a gruff tone; “No, sir, that sounds completely unfair.”

“That’s right, Dave! Completely unfair, in fact it’s a crime. Then I come out here, expecting a nice, relaxing drive. Only the vehicle smells as if it once housed Jabba the Hutt, and when I tried to get a bit of fresh air, I nearly suffocated on a kamikaze insect. Now, I ask you, Dave, does that sound like a good time?”

“No, not at all, John, sir! How do you put up with me and my stupid, stupid town?”

“Because I don’t have a choice, Dave, my verbally challenged companion! Because I have no idea where I am, I have eighty five cents and a Blackberry that lacks a battery, and I’m fairly certain that murder is still illegal in this country.”

Jonathan was just about to start mimicking his gruff Dave voice again when the voice piped through the intercom; “Sir, with all due respect, you do have the brochure.”

John’s steadily building momentum of ranting rapidly collapsed from this simple, and yet incredibly helpful comment. Color flushing across his face, the man murmured; “I’m sorry, Da- er, driver.”

“Quite all right, sir.”

“No, I had no right to say what I did.”

“All’s forgiven, sir, you were frustrated.”

Feeling like a complete prat, Jonathan cleared his throat, opening his box of possessions and extracting the pamphlet. A closer look at the cover didn’t show much; the words ‘Moving Forwards, One Innovation At a Time’ and the silhouette of a man pointing… well, he just seemed to be pointing away, really. Maybe it was meant to represent looking into the future?

What was really odd was that the silhouette had bizarre protrusions, one popping up on either side of its head.

Grunting, John shrugged slightly and flipped the pamphlet open; the first interior page had what looked like a fork as the silhouette, and a few equally positive but mysterious comments.

-The Beginning of the End Never Looked So Similar.

-Now Lust Free!

-Just Like Home, Only Better at Being Worse.

The second page had a bizarre diagram; a campfire symbol had a large diagonal line slashing through it, while beside it a picture of Paris Hilton had a green checkmark running through it. Underneath the two images was, quite simply;

‘Our New Direction.’

The final interior page was a great deal simpler to understand, but it nonetheless left John’s head swimming, and his heart pounding; it was one statement, with a little happy face beside it.

‘Welcome to Hell.’

2. The Devil’s Doritos

It took five hours- which, because the clock was broken, felt like five years- to work out the misunderstanding; as it turned out, a pocketful of loose change (which had chosen not to make any noise when John had run,) had set off the metal detector. Of course, it took an incredibly awkward strip search to accomplish this, and the sight of a box of latex gloves on a shelf had driven John into a fit of begging and near-sobbing.

Some small measure of mercy had finally been provided, and so no gloves had been used, but John had nonetheless received a stern, very long speech about ensuring the safety of your fellow convict (John had asked what they meant by ‘convict,’ but had been pretty much ignored,) before being given a small box containing the possessions that had been found on his person.

The items were ones John was quite certain he had not possessed at the time of his death; the pocketful of change, which John had stuffed in his pants pocket without counting, the Blackberry, which was missing batteries, a bottle of Advil, and finally a pamphlet, titled; “Moving Forwards, One Innovation At a Time.”

Carefully walking out of the Security Office, the box under his arm, John was understandably more focused on his surroundings, head darting from side to side as if expecting something else to leap out and grab him. Still, once more, the terminal was deserted.

When John passed by a snack machine, he paused, glancing at it; a shining chrome and metal contraption, it was mostly empty, but still had a few chocolate bar and chip selections to choose from.

A snack will probably help settle my nerves… John thought sullenly, shaking his head; Then I can figure out where I am… and, for that matter, why.

Reaching into his pocket for the change, he extracted all of it into one palm and began to silently count the nickels, dimes and pennies as he approached. By the time he reached the machine, he determined he had a dollar and twelve cents. Squinting slightly, he glanced at the remaining chocolate bars, which were amassed along the top two rows.

One dollar and fifteen cents each… damn…

Shaking his trousers and suit jacket in an attempt to force some missed change to reveal itself, he did hear a musical jingle around his left pant pocket. Reaching in, however, he could find nothing; even patting the entire leg turned up no bumps that suggested coins. Worst of all, he was starting to feel hungry.

Irritation turned into mild relief as he saw that the chips, on the bottom rungs of the machines, were only one dollar. Shaking his head and muttering, John straightened and began carefully feeding change into the machine, one coin after another. Once the last coin was in, he keyed in the proper sequence for a bag of regular chips.

Absolutely nothing happened.

After pressing the sequence four more times, John caught sight of the small display just above the keypad.

$.98

“That can’t be right…” Shaking his head, John took a couple of steps back and glances at the floor, seeing if he had maybe dropped any change. He even got on his belly, peeking under the snack machine, but no coins revealed themselves.

After another futile pat-down of his clothing, he finally pressed the change-return slot; he only got eighty five cents back.

When he limped painfully towards the front door (he had given the machine a frustrated kick,) he once more found that he was not alone; standing just inside the door, an impeccably groomed man in a full tux stood, expressionless as he held up a large sign.

On the sign said “John Miler.”

John wandered over, straightening his worn suit jacket self-consciously. He was effectively ignored, even when he stood directly in front of the man with the sign, and it was after a few moments that John cleared his throat loudly.

The well-groomed man turned his head slightly, arching a brow; “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, actually,” nodding, John gestured at the sign; “Think you might be here for me.”

“Are you John Miler?”

A pause, and another clearing of the throat, “Well, actually, no, I’m John Miller.”

“Apologies, sir, but I am looking for a Mister John Miler.”

“…right, well… you sure you don’t just have it misspelled?”

“Sir?”

“The name!” That came out a bit louder than John had intended, and so the rest was virtually a murmur; “I mean, isn’t it possible that you made a small mistake in spelling the name? Which would lead to mistaken pronunciation?”

“Why, sir, are you expecting a car?”

No.

“Yes, yes I am!” John barked, doing his best to look like someone who could order a personal driver on a whim. The fact that he wore clothing which could only have been considered ‘Formal’ or even ‘Presentable’ ten years ago made a considerable dent in this, along with the fact that his entire body was trembling slightly.

Still, after being subjected to a suspicious gaze, the driver finally nodded, stepping back and gesturing to the door.

Nodding briskly, clearing his throat and doing his best to maintain the self-confident façade, John stepped out of the building. He wasn’t terribly surprised to see that nothing outside helped to provide a clue as to where he was; beyond the airport’s deserted runways, there was only a long dirt road and a yellow field that seemed to stretch out for an eternity in all directions.

The car in question was nothing short of a limo, impeccably polished until the black paint job was gleaming in the sunlight. The driver strode to the door and pulled it open, gesturing to the interior and waiting for the passenger to enter.

Climbing into the limo with a small grunt, John dared to hope that maybe things would start looking up.

When the limo door closed, and Miller realized how wrong he was.

1. The End

This is the end.

That’s what Jonathan Miller’s first thought had been when he had seen the large truck barreling down on him, driver flipping him the finger as if it were actually his fault that he had attempted to cross the street while the ‘Walk’ sign was on. Most peculiar was that the driver had been a woman; had Jonathan been asked to predict the manner of his own demise, being struck by a crazy male driver would have been near the top of the list (he lived in New York, although he was native to London,) but being struck by a crazy woman driver would have resided substantially lower.

Always thought they were such a level-headed gender… the poor victim thought as the car’s grill caught him just above the kneecaps, flipping him end-over-end across first the windshield, and then the roof. Death was instantaneous, which was actually fortunate, considering the amount of blinding pain he would have been in had he survived for even a few moments.

For the longest time, John’s consciousness floated in a void without substance or texture, and through his mind perpetually ran the same thought; Women were supposed to be nice drivers. In the absence of any physical reality, he was finding some small degree of comfort in focusing with an almost obsessive zeal on this conflict to his normal worldview.

In the small eternity that seemed to comprise his non-existence, he began to wonder if maybe this woman who had killed him had had a bad day; maybe her husband had cheated on her, and she was upset about it. Maybe she had no husband, or boyfriend, and she was upset about that. Maybe she was going through her period.

So focused was he on delving into the psychological reasons he was smeared across a woman’s windshield, he began to forget why he was floating in nothingness to begin with, and he also failed to notice that slowly, subtly, substance was beginning to manifest. Like silt settling at the bottom of a lake, gravity and texture were gradually restoring themselves. John didn’t notice he had knees until he felt them starting to cramp out, and it was only when he opened his eyelids that he realized he suddenly had eyes. That, and there was something to see.

It was an airport. An empty airport, at that.

Looking down at himself, John realized that he was now dressed in a sweat-stained dress shirt, wrung and worn suit jacket and slacks that, for reasons he’d rather not have thought about, seemed particularly worn out in the crotch area. At his side, a large duffle bag lay, zipper open; a quick inspection of the contents revealed more clothes, some paper, pens, and a Blackberry.

“What…?” he croaked, immediately starting to cough; his mouth and throat felt as dry as cotton, and it took him several moments of swallowing and grunting to get some moisture to form.

Not interested in looking over the Blackberry at the moment, John instead picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, striding in the direction of airport security; he was a frequent flier, and so he could feel the slightly comforting routine of departure settling in; he was fully expecting to pass through security unmolested (since picking on those leaving an airport seemed to be overkill, even in these hyper-cautious times,) so he was more than a little surprised when he was stopped by two burly security guards.

“Sir, can we please see the bag?” One of them asked, even as the second one yanked the duffel bag from John’s shoulder, nearly taking his right arm with it.

As the accosted (and much smaller) John belatedly mumbled; “Yes, yes, go ahead,” the second guard strode to a nearby table and dropped the bag onto it. Opening up, the bruiser rooted around, soon emerging with a small silver object. Striding over to John, he held it up; “Mind telling me what this is, sir?”

“Um… a nail clipper?”

“And this?” A small attachment was rotated until it protruded from the clipper.

“A nail file, I guess… I’ve never used one…”

“Sir, do you realize that this could potentially be used as a dangerous weapon?”

“I’m trying to leave the airport… look, could you tell me where I am, I seem to be a bit lo-”

Cut off by a sharp snap as the guard broke the nail file in two, John could only jump slightly and yelp as his tormentor stomped back over to the bag, turning it upside-down and dumping the entire contents onto the table.

Socks, shirts, and the Blackberry hurled in all directions, the last item actually tossed gently to John as opposed to flung violently from one end of the terminal to the other. The next object that the man held up was, of all things, a bra.

“Sir, is this yours?”

“No! I mean, none of it is mine, but that certainly is not mine at all!” Oddly, even though the terminal had been virtually empty since John’s arrival, a second glance beyond the metal detectors revealed that a sizable crowd had suddenly, inexplicably materialized there, every single one of them glancing between John and the offending brassiere. “I have no idea how that got there. I mean, for that matter, I have no idea how I got here either-!”

“Sir this brassiere has an underwire.” The first guard interjected, the second one nodding solemnly.

“-and I… wait, what?”

“An underwire. Are you aware, sir, that a bra’s underwire could be used as a potentially deadly weapon?”

“Wait, what would I do with that, whip someone to death? Or wrap it around their neck and suffocate them over the course of five minutes?”

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, sir,” the second guard noted suspiciously.

“I haven’t given it a great deal of thought, you dumb son of a-“

“Insulting a security personnel could be construed as a declaration of hostilities, sir.”

“I believe we should give him the full search,” the first guard added, glancing at the second.

“That would be the prudent course of action.” Came the agreement.

“Wait!” John interjected, waving his hands in front of him; “Look, fine, fine, if you think that the stuff is dangerous, then keep it, keep it! Keep the goddamned bag, too! I just want to get out of here and get my bearings, all right?”

There was a long pause, both guards glancing between John and each other, an apparently complex code of lifted eyebrows, shrugs and grunts passing between the two of them, and a less complex code of glares and scowls directed at John. Finally, they seemed to come to some form of arrangement.

“Very well, sir,” the first guard agreed sullenly; “We’ll keep the bag and most of its contents. You may keep your electronic device. This is your first and only warning, however.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Swiveling on heel, mostly interested in getting the Hell out of there so he could find out where the Hell he was, John all but dashed across the terminal, failing to notice the metal detector before he stepped through it.

Naturally, it went off.

John didn’t even have time for a comforting swear or two before he was viciously tackled from behind, the combined bulk of both security guards driving him to the ground and nearly knocking him out.