Carl the Death Driver
Chapter.3: Love’s Lasting Ride • Part.6
Introduction: Here is the sixteenth installment of “Carl the Death Driver”. With the approval of the assistant branch manager, Porter and Bingo were done with work for the day. Escaping from their bank duties, they set a course to an early afternoon celebration at their favorite bar. Tripping on his favorite synth-drug of choice, Porter was blindsided by the barmaid and told of his buddy’s departure. Soon, he found himself alone on Polk Boulevard being summoned by a liquor store sign in the sky. Porter felt severely parched and the dry air scraped his internal passageways. Still, he was fluid with good vibes and had energy to spare. Before he found his way home, he’d have to appease many strangers and appeal to a mute machine.
So Far: Carl’s lifestyle and habits unfolded through the beginning of this story as we learned about his isolated existence and details about his death. Just after Carl passed and his home went silent, an inexplicable vehicle was unleashed from the confines of his detached garage. This vehicle caused mayhem in the neighborhood, and the same car may have been involved in the death of some local teens. Some insights about Carl’s backstory were revealed with a focus on his college sweetheart Annette. More recently, we’ve discovered Victor Porter and what led to his working at a local bank. Now, the circumstances leading up to Victor’s initial encounter with Carl’s mysterious car are being revealed.
Porter couldn’t see anyone in the liquor store. A friendly greeting echoed from somewhere unseen. He yelled back an equally friendly hello, in order to convey that he was a good customer with best intentions. Standing before the refrigerators near the back of the store, Porter felt obligated to answer more benign questions from the invisible storekeeper. He mechanically responded about his good day, the nice weather, and agreed that the Dodgers needed to improve their bullpen. The light banter reminded Porter of his innocuous interactions with bank customers awaiting a meeting with his boss. It was the happy talk that Miss Durand coached everyone at the branch to speak. The long tail of Porter’s feel good drug made it easy to filter anything coming at him with an eagerness to please and a strong desire to be extra friendly.
Porter couldn’t decide between an inexpensive liter of bottled water, an overpriced sweet tea, or a room temperature cherry pomegranate Pedialyte. The dryness in his throat was extending to his nasal passages, and he felt a headache coming on. Although he wanted something cold to soothe his throat, the warm electrolytes in the tangy cherry pomegranate fluid would counter some of his alcohol intake. The back of the store smelled like wet cardboard masked by pine scented air freshener. Porter wanted to complete the transaction and find his way outside. He became fixated on fresh air.
As he headed to the front of the store, an eclectic display of whiskey and bourbon begged his attention. Porter couldn’t resist a small bottle of Buffalo Trace. This would go well with his boozer breakfast of link sausages and a runny fried egg sandwich. When he approached the register cluttered with dozens of different types of bottle openers, there was still no sign of the proprietor. Peering over the counter, Porter finally found the mystery voice — a middle aged Korean man crouched on a step stool. The man sat with his back to the counter, absorbed in the sports page. Before him, a customized shelf held sixteen mini-monitors, all side-by-side, covering every angle of the store. The man didn’t turn to Porter, but pointed to a spot on one of his monitors, “On that shelf, everything is on special. You picked a good one. Half price for you young man.”
A horrible high-pitched car horn poured into the open doorway as Porter emerged from the liquor store. Two other cars tooted their horns in support. Harsh and angry, the horns wailed, their aggression intensifying with each passing moment. Three vehicles were caught in a standoff, blocked by what looked like an abandoned vehicle in the parking lot’s exit lane. As Porter stepped out onto the stamped concrete walkway of the strip mall holding his brown bag, shouts were aimed in his direction. With no questions asked, somehow Porter was presumed to be the owner of the blocking vehicle.
“Hey buddy, move your damn car!” a man roared from his driver’s side window. Emboldened by the bark of the initial call out, a woman in the car behind volleyed in protest, “Park and then buy the booze!” She sneered through her windshield. “Dumbass drunk.”
Porter felt his legs move involuntarily. He took two hesitant steps toward the abandoned vehicle before stopping himself. Porter’s judgement was impaired and his immediate disposition leaned toward trust and aiding anyone in need. Yet something momentarily held him back through his distorted state of reality. The cacophony of horns started once again, but with a touch of empathy to coax him to move along and clear the obstruction to their path. Porter stepped toward the door of the empty car. While tightening his grasp on the neck of the whiskey bottle beneath the brown bag, he took a quick glance back at the aggravated stares willing him to get in and be on his way. He couldn’t resist the force of the collective souls and complied with their demand.
The car before him was weathered with a vintage exterior. Beneath a streamlined body were wide tread wheels designed for heavier loads. The windows had a dark silver tint. Still, Porter could discern a sporty contemporary interior that belied the outer chassis. He didn’t know that much about cars beyond aesthetics and electronic features, but it was clear that he was looking at someone’s personal project.
And why didn’t the driver just park the car in a proper space? How it was left there near the curb in the exit lane gave every impression that the owner ran into one of the stores to retrieve something. But the owner was not in one of the strip mall stores and the owner would not come looking for his missing vehicle. The owner of this car was miles from the current location, dead on his kitchen floor.
Porter opened the car door and took a seat in LUVCARL. In the seconds it took to enter the mysterious vehicle, place his purchases on the passenger seat, and shut the door, fragmented thoughts fired and streamed through his mind. Is it on — is there a key fob? Is there a key? Is the owner watching? Smells musty. The seat’s cold. Is it stolen? Park the car? Drive away? Beneath the panic of questions and observations there was a baseline instinct to get out and flee. That action was somehow tamped down and suppressed by the ongoing badgering and beeps behind him. Porter was pinned in and resolved to locate the keys, move the vehicle, and then park it.
Porter found himself in an oddly sterile cockpit. The interior was dimly lit. A red glow beneath the steering wheel allowed him to conclude there was no lock cylinder. He quickly scanned the dashboard for a start button or any familiar controls, but found none. His feet stomped around the footwell in an attempt to locate the brake and accelerator. There were no foot pedals of any kind. It was a completely hollow space. Porter’s eyes darted around in search of a key fob or mobile device left behind. All the while, he frantically wiped his hands across every surface within reach. Devoid of anything to interact with, Porter could only feel speakers embedded in the center stack below air vents.
The chorus of hostile horns and howls resumed and reached their highest intensity. The back-up grew longer and louder as two more cars entered the exit lane. A number of curious onlookers stepped out of store fronts including the friendly liquor store owner. The kind Korean man gestured for Porter to move forward.
Inside the idle car, the surrounding sounds were ever present but slightly muffled. The urgency of the moment was growing and adrenaline infused Porter with focus. He began to shout out commands believing he was sitting in some kind of autonomous vehicle. “Start, turn on power.” Nothing happened. “Activate forward motion.” His panic-born premise of an intelligent vehicle dissolved and turned to desperation.
Curious bystanders transformed into a ticked-off audience. They implored Porter to move the car. Then they closed ranks and raged within inches of the car.
“Car, engage drive mode.” Still, nothing changed. “Drive, go to your destination.” He was pleading with a brick and trembling with a raw, visceral dread. His eyes caught a light flickering in the center console. Then his body froze hearing a high frequency hum behind the dash. Porter jumped in his seat when a hand slapped the rear window. He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself forward. A primitive groan of trapped frustration escaped his lungs. Porter screamed into the windshield, “I need to get the fuck out of here!”
Teaser: Struggling to make the car move and dealing with the vitriol of angry strangers, Porter is thrown into shock. The vehicle enters launch mode and the scene warps from a parking lot stalemate to the chaos of traffic-filled streets. Surrounding roadways are not safe. Porter is the accidental driver of a car he can’t drive, and a high-speed reckless ride unfolds. Serving as witness from the front seat, Porter takes in the carnage caused by the vehicle he inhabits.
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