Route 666
/If you have become road-weary of strange and scary highway paranormal stories—those featuring a translucent lady in white walking the shoulder of Cemetery Road, or of vanishing hitchhikers picked up along the way, or of finding claw marks on the roof of the car from some flying beast (particularly Mothman) after a terrifying chase, or the many ‘we was abducted by aliens when drivin’ home one night’ tales, then click to my next. Or … stick around and read this one about two newlyweds who lost their way because they followed Satan’s directions rather than ones that were already plotted out. Their demise is true.
————
"If you ever plan to motor west,
Travel my way, take the highway that is best.
Get your kicks on Route 66."
Lyrics by Bobby Troupe; covered by, among others, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Chuck Berry, Perry Como, the Rolling Stones, Depeche Mode, Natalie Cole, and William Shatner
"I'm on the highway to hell." AC/DC
Robert Reynolds came home from a Windy City high-rise to some great news—the fold-out map of Route 66 he ordered the week before had come in the mail—the entire length of it highlighted in bright red ink! Giddy, wife Kimmy already had it accordioned out on the dining room table awaiting him, along with two extra dry vodka martinis.
“Come see, Rob! Come see! Come see!” she tremoloed, nearly jumping out of her Capri pants. He brought his highball and studied the chartography, her scarlet manicured fingernail tracing the way westward.
“Well, it winds from Chicago to L.A. More than two thousand miles all the way,” he said in wanderlust, anxious and awed by the prospect ahead of them. He sipped and loosened up his tie. “Check this out—it goes from St. Louie down to Missouri! They say Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty.”
Kimmy, her guiding index finger hovering over the Great Plains, replied, “might be, but I’d hate to live there or in any other flyover state around there. Yikes! No culture or fast-paced city life, slowpokes with low IQs, no pro sports teams, museums, no haute couture restaurants or open-minded citizens, but plenty of guns, God, Jesus and Nixon lovers. I’d rather be dead which would occur quickly because I would die of ennui within a week. My mind, body, and soul need the synergy of Chitown. ”
Can you imagine?” Bob answered, scrunching his face as if the olive he just plucked off the toothpick was a lemon wedge instead. “Everything beyond the suburbs is nothing but cornfields and clodhoppers—a dismal inferno of a life. We will be just passing through though thank God. Anyway, back to our map. Think of it! We’ll go through Amarillo and Gallup, New Mexico, Flagstaff, Arizona—”
“Don’t forget Winona,” she interjected.
“Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino," he answered back, following the red-laquered pointer. “All the way to Santa Monica! Our first American road trip! Should be a far cry from our Paris honeymoon. Two weeks on the open road this time. Americana vs. haute culture. Bon voyage sur roues!” Rob shouted haughtily, toasted and sealed the deal with a red-lacquered kiss. “Here’s to getting our kicks on Route 66.”
Two weeks later they packed up their straight-off-the-showroom floor ‘62 Cadillac Eldorado and headed for the Golden State. Their first stop in the vast desolation of cornfields and clodhoppers was at Lincoln, Illinois where they stopped to gawk at the ‘World’s Largest Covered Wagon’, 24 feet tall, complete with a very large – and very studious-looking – wooden Abraham Lincoln riding the buckboard. The couple yawned ... awed not.
“Not quite the same kick as going eye-to-eye with the Mona Lisa, is it hun? Kimmy said and giggled all the way to Springfield to pay homage to the remains of the very real – and very dead – Abraham Lincoln buried under ten feet of cement. “Okay, okay … one point for Old Abe–this rates as high as our tour of Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, gazing gracefully at the remains of Bizet, Chopin, Delacroix, Wilde.
They drove on: from Springfield, Illinois to Springfield, MO, with a stop for lunch at Dell Rhea’s Chicken Basket in Wilmington and another at the St. Louis riverfront, recently bulldozed flat, the site being prepared for the 630-foot stainless steel Gateway Arch soon to be erected there. At Halltown, they gassed up at a service station and asked the attendant how far it was to the Wigwam Motor Lodge, their planned stop for the night.
The cheerful soul chatted friendly as he checked the oil and tire pressure and squeegeed the windshield of splattered bugs. “Oh, she’s right up the road a piece, I’d reckon about another sixty-seventy miles. I think you’ll enjoy sleeping in a concrete teepee once you get there,” he told them. “Most folks do. However, it’s still a one-hour drive and it’s getting dark now, but you can shave off some time ‘cuz I know a shortcut. By the way, my name’s … uh…Chuck.
Bob and Kimmy eyed each other suspiciously, yet both were anxious for a warm bath and bed and the sooner the better after their first day on the road. ‘Chuck’ prodded on about the brand new asphalt just put in. “Would be a smooth ride in this baby.” He removed the nozzle and promised with a wink, “be at the Wigwam before you know it.”
“What do you say, Kimmy dear? It’s been a long day’s drive and I really wouldn’t mind some rest … and a little warwhooping first if you know what I mean.”
She put up a feeble argument. “We should really adhere to the map, although mee give sompun special to paleface if shortcut taken,” she said, mocking the broken Native dialogue as spoken on TV westerns.
“Okay let’s at least consider it.”
The attendant’s ears perked up. As did the forked tail stuffed inside the pants of his spiffy starched and pressed uniform. Recruiting suckers for a life of desolation and damnation spent in a place of eternal dismalness was greasy work.
“What’s this shortcut, then?”
“Well . . . instead of getting back on Route 66, you’ll wanna leave here turning north, up Highway 6. It winds around the back way, but will shave off a good half-hour driving time,” the gas jockey lied to the potentially promising souls. “As our commercial jingle says, ‘You can trust the man who wears the star, the big bright Texaco star!’” He closed the car’s hood and whispered to himself, “although I wouldn’t put much faith in a guy with a pentagram patch stitched to his cap!”
The Reynolds paid the $3.75 fillup with a traveler’s check, thanked the kindly service station attendant for his benevolent advice, and turned off to a fork in the road––the Highway 6 arrow pointed left; the Route 66 arrow pointed right. After a little deliberation and a few deep yawns, the Caddy headed for a little warwhooping.
Highway 6 was newly paved all right, the freshly painted lines reflecting brilliant from the high beams like Elvis’ smile in Technicolor. A smooth ride just like Chuck said. Until a few miles in when the pavement started to show hairline cracks that grew wider with each guzzled gallon of leaded gasoline.
“The San Andres fault wasn't on our itinerary, Rob, I don’t believe,” Kimmy half joked, but getting a little worried as now potholes began to open up, which soon became larger and deeper, then became fissures, then sinkholes. The Caddie was now like a French tank maneuvering around a bombed-out Western Front. Now the two-lane merged into one, unlined and unmarked, then graveled, then a rutted dirt road that resembled an old farmer’s face. Then they passed a road sign that read: MILES AND MILES OF NOTHINGNESS AHEAD. PLEASE DRIVE ALERTLY. A peek out the window glass revealed a landscape of treeless flatness that surrounded them in the darkening twilight.
The next road sign ten miles later marked the start of the trail’s end: NO U-TURNS.
“We are still driving north and have no way out now, I’m afraid,” Bob groaned as the tank plowed on, now realizing they had been led to be lost. The next road sign up the cattle path confirmed his suspicions: HELL 5 MILES. “Should have stuck to the map.”
“Ooooh Rob!” Kimmy wailed in desperation as they passed a billboard of the Texaco guy in full-devil regalia smirking down on them, ‘HA! HA! NO SALVATION NOW! the word bubble read.
The odometer clicked off: 1,334 … 1,335 … 1,336 … 1,337. When the last road sign was horrifically read the Reynolds knew they were forever doomed to lives of tortuous boredom. It read: “WELCOME TO IOWA! ENJOY YOUR STAY!”
By CraigE
From: United States