Boyd’s White Knuckle Tours” Incident No. 139 – Cody Goodfellow’s Manuscript and IH-5

“Boyd’s White Knuckle Tours”
Incident No. 139 – Cody Goodfellow’s Manuscript and IH-5
Team Members:  Michael Louis Dixon & Boyd E. Harris

##

It was 5:23 PM Saturday afternoon in sunny Burbank, California, when Cody Goodfellow handed Boyd the manuscript – the perfectly formatted novella: “What the Gods Eat”.  Surrounded by last minute shoppers flowing through the dealer’s room, Boyd gripped it in both hands, thanked Cody and told him that he would try to read it on the way home tomorrow.  Cody cracked his signature Cody smirk, and rushed out of the dealer’s room to get ready for the Bram Stoker Awards banquet, which was to take place in a couple of hours.

When Boyd moved to put the manuscript into his briefcase he stalled.  There was an odd feel to its pages. He gripped the thick document in both hands, feeling a steady warmth that emanated throughout its bulk. Cody must have had his bag sitting in the sun, he considered. Suddenly he felt a presence standing close behind him, almost leaning up against him as they peered over his shoulder. He thought it must be a customer trying to get a sneak peek and he quickly flipped the manuscript over and slipped it into his briefcase. When he turned around there was nobody there, and as a matter of fact, most of the customers were near the back, crowding around a table where a Stoker Award winning author was signing his latest chapbook. He glanced back at the table but Michael Louis Dixon was at the other end boxing up the issues of Dark Recesses Magazine. He shrugged and went to help Michael pack away the rest of the books.

##

The following morning progressed in the stumbling hazy fashion typical of a long weekend of too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Despite his simmering hangover, Boyd was optimistic that he’d get plenty of recovery time on the long drive to San Francisco. He nodded and waved to other Stoker attendees checking out, and moved to the front door.  He caught a glimpse of Michael’s car pulling up to the curb. The hatchback popped open. Boyd gathered up his bags and heaved their heavy bulk into the trunk, each bag jam-packed with books—both unsold Cutting Block copies and ones he’d purchased from other dealers –all mixed in with his clothes.

*Note to future Cutting Block Press buyers: Boyd’s dirty underwear was hermetically sealed in Ziploc storage bags.

Boyd climbed aboard, slammed the door shut with a grunt. He immediately regretted the action as his ear drums pounded on his brain. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a sigh and Michael lurched the vehicle forward. Something grabbed Boyd on the top of his head … a proverbial giant hand that squeezed. As the car pulled away the invisible hand clamped down tighter until Boyd yelled, “Stop!”

Michael hit the brakes and the car screeched to a halt. “What?” he exclaimed with a mixture of concern and consternation.

Boyd shook his head.  “Don’t know.  Something’s wrong.  Did you do a last run through of the room?”

“Yes, and so did you.”

Boyd turned and leaned over to the back of the car, and looked.  “Something’s missing.”

Michael noted, “What did you forget?”

He turned back to look out the side window, and not ten feet away his briefcase was leaning against the base of a lamppost. It called to him and he felt his heart race. It wasn’t the briefcase itself that demanded his return—no, it was the manuscript buried inside its folds that called to him. 

Boyd was sure of it.

##

 

Interstate 5 is a long boring ride through limitless monotony.

“Congress Created Dust Bowl,” Michael said with bit of triumph in his voice. “That’s twenty-one.”

Boyd woke from a doze and looked about confused for a moment. A dream of plunging through a dense jungle burnt away as his eyes focused on the desert landscape passing by outside. He remembered only a strong sense of urgency as he’d fled through the foliage. His skin battered and cut by the verdant obstacles. When he tried to recall what he been pursuing the last bits of the dream vaporized. The final images left him with the feeling that he may have actually been fleeing for his life.

“You’re so cute when you sleep,” Michael said. “You have this fish out of water look about you.” He pointed out some drool that had accumulated on Boyd’s chin.

Boyd cleaned himself up and looked about the inside of the car for something to do.

“Number twenty-two,” Michael shouted and slapped the steering wheel.

Boyd grabbed his briefcase from the back seat. The air conditioning made the car feel fairly cool but when he set the bulky thing into his lap Boyd was taken aback how warm it felt. He ran the palm of his hand along the flat side and could feel the rectangular outline underneath the sleek pleather surface.

Boyd said, “I know – why don’t I read you Cody’s novella?”

Michael pointed to a ‘dust bowl’ sign on a barren piece of land and shouted, “Number twenty-three.”  Then he looked at Boyd and nodded.  “Great idea.” 

Boyd reached into his case, and felt warmness, thought to himself, 98.6°?  As he pulled the manuscript, from the pocket, he swore he felt a couple of throbs, like heartbeats, before retracting his hand with the document.

##

Boyd tried to read but was interrupted by a call on his cell phone—it was someone from his day job with menial questions that couldn’t wait until Monday. Soon he was fielding multiple calls from family and coworkers. When he found himself with a quiet phone in his hand, Boyd powered off the device.

They were most of the way to San Francisco when Boyd finally began to read “What the Gods Eat”.

“What’s the address I need to drop you off at?” Michael interrupted.

“Um,” Boyd thought for a moment, “I don’t know.” He powered up his phone again. I’ll give my friend Raj a call and find out. A moment later he said, “1105 San Perdido.”

Michael entered this into his GPS and smiled. “Now we’re good to go. There’s no need to think about a thing.”

Boyd read out loud as they drove until Michael interrupted him. “What the hell?”

Boyd turned and looked at Michael. “What?”

Michael poked at the GPS. “I don’t know why it’s sending us this way.” He stabbed at the device a few more times and frowned. “It’s sending us all around the bay instead of just across the bridge.” He continued to punch buttons and the screen flickered. “Shit! I missed the exit we should have taken.”

The brake lights flared on the cars in front and Michael cruised up rather too quickly.

“Watch the road,” Boyd knocked Michael’s hand away from the GPS. The car jerked to a much slower speed as Michael overreacted with the brakes. “I’ll fix the GPS. You just pay attention to your driving.”

He didn’t know what he was doing but after a few minutes Boyd announced that he’d solved the GPS problem. Michael looked over at the screen and squinted.

“I’m not sure that’s the best way, but I think it’ll get us to your friend’s house.” He leaned closer and stared at the screen. “Boyd?”

“Yeah?”

How come it’s all in Spanish?”

##

Boyd returned to reading the story as Michael continued on the plotted route.

Fifteen minutes later, the GPS device hiccupped and the screen went blank. Michael cursed the gods of technology and smacked the top of the unit. It flashed back into service but the display was all wrong—it didn’t look like the Bay Area anymore. It spoke in Spanish and said something like, “calculando”. The images continued to jump as more robotic Spanish words jumbled from the tiny speaker.

Boyd, who has lived on the border of Mexico, understood some of it.   “Did it say something like three-thousand miles?  And I was sure it mentioned Mejico … Mexico.”

Michael turned white.  “I thought I heard that too.” 

He reached out to turn the machine off, and just as the LED screen faded, both men witnessed a string of Mayan symbols on the screen.

“That’s it,” Boyd dialed his cell phone. “I’m calling Raj again.” A few minutes later he had the simple directions written on the back of Cody’s manuscript.

As they inched their way through an unexpected traffic jam, Boyd was able to complete the reading of “What the Gods Eat.”

He slid the manuscript, which continued to run a near human body temperature, into the briefcase.  A moment later, Michael exited the highway, made a few turns, and found himself on the destination street.

As they pulled up to Boyd’s friend’s house, Michael flipped on the GPS again.

“What are you doing that for?” Boyd asked.

“I want to see if I can get it to work.” Michael’s eyes had a determined look. “I paid almost three hundred dollars for this thing.”

The screen flicked through its boot up process and began to load the maps when suddenly the whole display turned a bright blue. Small white lettering appeared at the top.

Michael gasped and turned pale. “Oh my god.” He pointed at what was written there.

Boyd leaned in and peered over his shoulder.

It read ‘catastrophic error code: 2012’.