The Damned Highway Read Online Free

and scan the headlines. The big story is the Irish Republican Army’s continuing campaign of terror in Ulster. Here we are, five days into the new year, and there is already speculation that 1972’s outrages will eclipse all others. Nineteen seventy-one saw the murder of Ulster Defence Regiment members in their homes, the assassination of a senator from Stormont, and over six thousand other terrorist incidents, including two hundred attacks on police stations, a thousand bombings, and the deaths of hundreds of civilians, including children.
    â€œYe Gods,” I mutter. “Happy New Year.”
    â€œReading about the Troubles?”
    Nodding, I hand him the newspaper and reach for my cigarettes, wishing the acid would kick in. Where is Jack Kirby when we need him the most?
    â€œIt’ll get worse,” the vagrant says. “You just wait. The last Sunday of this month will be very bloody. There have been signs and portents.”
    I flick my lighter open and touch flame to cigarette. Then I inhale, snap the lighter shut, and blow smoke in my new companion’s face. He frowns as I poke him in the chest.
    â€œWhat are you jabbering about?”
    The vagrant squirms, clearly agitated. “The Troubles. The end of this month, there’s gonna be a massacre in Derry. The Brits will gun down twenty-six protesters. Cold-blooded fucking murder. They shoot ’em in the back. Run ’em down with tanks and trucks. Like I said, it’s gonna be bloody. It needs to be. That’s what he wants.”
    â€œWhat who wants? Stop raving like a lunatic and speak English, man! Obviously, you can read, so I must assume that you’re literate. Learn how to string a goddamned sentence together and communicate clearly.”
    â€œI am. It’s you who ain’t listening, writer guy. Oh yeah, that’s right. I know who you are, and I ain’t impressed. You need to pay attention to what’s coming. You need to get in touch with some starry wisdom, man. You dig? Starry fucking wisdom. Look. It ain’t dead if it’s only sleeping, and if you wait long enough, even death can bite the big one.”
    I dismiss his ramblings with a wave of my hand. “Wonderful. I’m trapped in this terrible place with a madman and a Nixon supporter who chews her gum too loud. This must be what hell is like.”
    â€œNo,” the bum says. “Hell ain’t like this at all. I know, man. I’ve seen it. And I don’t want to go back there again. Hell is cold and full of fungi.”
    â€œWell, of course it is. All the fun guys go to hell when they die.”
    He squints at me, eyebrows furrowing beneath the dirt and grime caking his face, and when he responds, his voice is barely a whisper. “And people think I’m crazy.”
    I take another drag off my cigarette and glance at my watch, wondering how long I have until the bus arrives, when—holy Jesus—the acid kicks in. I know this because a long, pale tentacle with a tapered, pink tip slithers out of the bum’s valise and creeps toward me. The tendril is almost translucent, and veins throb beneath the doughy flesh.
    â€œHoly Jesus . . .”
    The vagrant grins with his horrible mouth. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
    â€œIsn’t what beautiful? This bus station? No, it smells like a urinal and there are flies everywhere.”
    â€œNot this place. My pet. Isn’t it beautiful? It’s a Shoggoth.”
    â€œA what? You’re rambling again.”
    â€œWhen he comes back, everyone will have their own Shoggoth.”
    â€œSort of like a chicken in every pot and two cars in every garage?”
    The vagrant appears confused. “What’s that?”
    â€œThat was the American Dream.”
    â€œI don’t know about that. I don’t dream much. But he dreams. Deep beneath the ocean, he dreams .”
    The bum leans over and strokes the tentacle. I drop my cigarette on the