Route Six

ROUTE SIX

Sid Jannsen was a writer. He was a writer who created derivative stories directly from the works of well-known authors. Sid could take a novel of Dickensian stature, alter the characters and setting, and inject his own twisted sensibilities into the whole, resulting in a story that worked as well as the original, but with a darker feel. He always changed the characters and setting enough to avoid serious litigation, but not the scorn of many writers, editors and publishers, who saw through his pretense. His own publisher didn't seem to mind, however. His novels were a staple on the New York Times bestseller list.

Aware of the criticism, his wife, Sheila stood by him. She advised him to ignore those "jealous idiots".

Despite his serene countenance, the frequent criticism bothered Sid, but there was little he could do or say in response. He knew the critics were right. He never intended to write stories such as these, though. Before he had stumbled on his current writing formula, he had written three original novels, one of which, "The Rising", was actually available for sale in bookstores. Reviews were positive. But, "The Rising" didn't sell many copies. This led Sam, his agent to tell him, "Don't worry too much about it, Sid. You do good work. You know it takes a while for people to catch on to something new. Keep writing."

Something new. The words stuck in Sid’s head.

He kept writing with his agent's words ringing in his head. The result was a 560-page novel entitled "Promise". Critical reaction started slow, but the pace rapidly grew as word got around. The consensus was that "Promise" was simple plagiarism of "Great Expectations", by Charles Dickens. The thunder of angry critics everywhere began to resonate. Like an unambitious cult film, despite the negative press, the book took hold. Within its first month, "Promise" reached the New York Times bestseller list, notwithstanding the disparaging review in that newspaper.

Sid was shocked at its success, and thought he might be on to something. He kept writing. A review for his next novel, "Growing Up", complained that it was a "rehashed 'To Kill a Mockingbird' without any of that work's merit". It reached the New York Times bestseller list during its second week and stayed there for twenty more.

Over the course of ten years, Sid penned nine more books using this same formula. The critics had not warmed to him, although a few had admitted, "Jannsen was very good at what he did". His books, translated into ten different languages, were a guilty pleasure for millions of readers worldwide. They were the inspiration for both domestic and international book discussion groups.

Sid was now famous--a noted author. He remained the same modest and humble person he had always been, however. He remained accessible to his fans, and was neither arrogant nor smug. He still appeared at book signings all over the country and spoke at some of the larger book discussion groups.

###

Sid was a quarter way through a four-hour drive to a bookstore in Norwich, Connecticut where he was to sign copies of his latest novel. He had a bad cold and felt a little drowsy from the cold medicine. He never missed a scheduled appearance, and wasn't about to start now.

He set the radio on a classic rock station, with the volume raised just enough to filter out the road noise. Turning off the elevated interstate, he descended onto route six, a two-lane road that cut through a deep, dark forest. As he grew accustomed to route six, he thought about some of the characters in his next novel. The story concept was his most ambitious yet, an epic fantasy of good versus evil.

He was going over the characters, when one of them spoke to him--aloud.

"Master Jannsen, why do you intend to write about us?"

His right foot nudged the brake pedal as he peered out the driver and passenger windows. Now that was strange.

Sid never heard voices, and his characters never talked to him, but he distinctly heard someone speak. He glanced to his right, and adjusted the rearview mirror, searching for the source of the deep voice. He was alone in the car and alone on route six.

He blinked and shook his head. I'm hearing things. I should switch cough medicines.

"I have asked you a question!"

This time, Sid's right foot slammed on the brake pedal, and the car jolted to a stop. He looked over his shoulder into the back seat and found it empty. He continued to look around the inside of the car. His eyes settled on the radio. He reached over and turned it off.

He checked his mirrors and found no other vehicles on route six.

"Master Jannsen."

He jerked in his seat and yelled, "What?"

"Why do you insist on writing about us?"

"Writing about ... writing about who?" As he spoke, Sid looked all around the car. His foot found the gas pedal again, but with only enough force to keep the car moving below the posted speed limit. "Who are you?"

"I am one of the company whose story you would retell."

"You are... I... I don't understand."

"Our story has already been told, and quite well, if you ask me. It was certainly a tale worth telling, although we did not set out on our quest for the purposes of having its account become narrative. Despite grave and lasting hardship, we achieved victory. But, our company has parted."

A dawning realization came upon him then. The book. His next book, like all his other popular work, was to be an adaptation of a well-known work. The original was a tale of good versus evil in which a company of mythical creatures defeated a dark wizard and saved the land from his malignity. Many sacrificed and many more suffered, but in the end, good triumphed over evil. The battle, however, left many scars, and as a result, the company parted ways.

He drew comfort from the divination of a tiny part of this riddle. He adjusted himself in the driver's seat, and resumed driving five miles per hour over the speed limit.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I am ... present."

"You are ... present." He looked at the radio. "Okay. So, my mind is playing tricks on me. Fine. I can play along. Maybe it'll, you know, help the story along."

"I assure you Master Jannsen, although some manner of conjuring has me about you, the tricks, as you call them, are not of your mind."

Sid nodded his head slowly. "Alright." He licked his lips and glanced at the sky as route six rapidly passed beneath him. The sky, nearly cloudless when he first set out, was now a blotchy gray. He glanced at the radio. "So you're one of the characters in The Magus Opposed."

"If, by character, you mean one of the company in the tale, then yes. I am Magia."

Magia, he knew, was the one wizard in the company.

"Well, Magia, why are you, uh, here?"

"I am here to advise you that we do not wish to have our story retold."

"And why is that?"

"Don't you know?"

"No."

"We are ever weary from the quest and have no desire to face it again."

"I see." He took a deep breath and blew it out. "The thing is... Well, how can I say this, um, you see you're just characters in a story. You--" Before he could finish, he let out a terrified gasp, his eyes widening at the vision twenty yards from his car's front fender. He slammed on the brakes.

The car screeched to a halt, its tires squealing. Sid braced himself with the steering wheel and gaped at the vision beyond the windshield. Ten figures, most of them on horseback, regarded him, their weapons drawn. One of the horses was bucked, but the rider appeared unconcerned. Three enormous men brandished swords. Several other men of smaller stature wielded an assortment of axes, maces, and one nasty looking club.

"What the..." he said. He closed his eyes and shook his head like a dog, hoping to shake himself from the obvious hallucination.

He kept his eyes closed and whispered, "One, two, three, four...." He continued his slow count as if he were a child counting the seconds between thunderclaps, hoping the gaps of silence grow longer. When he reached twenty, he opened his eyes and peered out the windshield.

They were still there, as menacing as before.

The ten figures continued to stare at him in silence. His mouth worked, but his throat closed, and wouldn't let any words pass. His heart beat fast and he felt cold. The sky grew dark and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Who are these people? They look like characters in Magus Opposed, but what are they doing here? Why are they here on route six for pete's sake? Wow, that one on the left must be Sanafor. He's even bigger than I imagined. In Magus Opposed, Sanafor was a warrior and erstwhile king. Those smaller ones must be dwarves. Sid found himself gazing at the riders as fascination replaced terror.

Silence reigned all around them, but for the occasional snorting of a horse. The skies opened, a drizzle at first, followed by a heavy, windless rain. It was as dark as dusk, and the patter of rain broke the silence. The staring contest continued with no end in sight, Sid watching, awestruck, while the riders returned his gaze without emotion.

The lightning came with such quickness and ferocity, that it startled even the emotionless riders. Accompanied by a sharp crash of thunder, a jagged bolt of lightning exploded from the sky and struck a nearby oak tree. A large branch fell from the old tree, crashing off other branches in slow motion until it fell to the ground at the side of the road. One of the horses, the one that had bucked, started and bucked again, this time letting out a whinny. Holding tight to the reigns, the rider said, "Whoa, there!"

Sid awoke from his wonder. Well, at least they can talk. What do I do now? He made his decision and it involved getting the hell out of there. He looked at the dashboard and, noting the various lights, realized the car had stalled. He felt for the keys in the ignition, but they were gone.

Without thinking, he brushed his hands across the floor beneath his feet, feeling for the keys. He checked around his seat with no success. He reached down and felt around the floor, but couldn't see what he was doing. He looked out the window and sighed. There was no way he was going to look on the floor from outside the car--not in this weather and not with ten violent looking apparitions waiting for him.

He considered his situation for a moment while looking around the vehicle. He unbuckled his seatbelt and half slid, half climbed into the passenger seat, still keeping an eye on the riders who watched him, sentry like. Once in the passenger seat, he leaned across onto the driver's seat and lay on his stomach. He slid his head under the steering wheel and checked the floor. No keys.

"Characters in a story, you say?" said Magia.

Sid banged the back of his head on the steering wheel. "Ouch!" He slid out from under the steering wheel. Rubbing the back of his head, he pulled himself upright. He sat back and noted the riders still watching him.

He gazed at the radio and sighed again. "What do you want? Why are you doing this to me?"

A chuckle, deep and resonant, filled the car. "I told you. We do not wish--"

"To have your story retold," said Sid. "I know."

There was a moment's silence, broken only by the rain clicking on the car's roof, and the distant thunder.

Magia said, "You think we are but names in a story, Master Jannsen. You are wrong. We are much more. You see us before you, do you not?"

"Yes." He muttered, "This isn't happening. I am seeing things that I do not understand. It can't be real. I ... the cough medicine...."

His eyes settled on the contents of a little storage compartment below the radio. His mobile phone sat in the little compartment. He raised his eyes to the windshield. The riders remained. He lowered his eyes to the phone and snatched it from its resting place. He examined it with primitive fascination.

"Sheila."

He touched the "Phonebook" button, and cycled through a list of names until he came to his wife's name. He pressed the "Call" button and held the phone to his ear.

"This isn't real. I'm seeing things. This isn't real. I'm seeing things." The phone rang twice, then four times, then six. Strange, he thought, if she's not home, the answering machine should pick up after four rings. He let it ring ten times without a response, before lowering the phone from his ear. The digital display showed his home phone number. He touched the "End" button. Maybe the storm knocked the power out.

Outside, the rain continued its relentless assault on the car's roof, while the horses stamped their hooves, and the riders continued their solemn vigil.

Sid touched the "phonebook" button again, and cycled through the names until it displayed "Jake". He pressed the "Call" button and raised the phone to his ear again. He listened for eight rings before hanging up.

"We are not finished, you see," said Magia.

He jumped in his seat. "Okay! What exactly do I need to do?"

"Do? Cease your efforts. We would not make that perilous journey again. Master Jannsen, I ask you. Would you repeatedly risk your life and the lives of your friends, if but for no other reason than to entertain your readers?"

He thought about the question for a moment. "I suppose not, but, and I know you don't like it, but you are just characters in a story. A story! Fiction!" Now trying to hammer the point home, but to whom, he did not know, "It is something that someone made up! Make believe!"

"Nevertheless--"

"Listen, this is what I do. This is my job."

"If you feel this is a game of make believe, Master Jannsen, then use your imagination. Create something original."

"I ... I can't. That is not what I do! I retell stories!"

After a palpable silence, Magia spoke again. "Master Jannsen, you do what you do because you have grown accustomed to a walking stick. But, the truth is, Master Jannsen, there is nothing wrong with your legs."

Sid was silent. He stared at the radio while trying to think of something to say. He was about to speak when he looked up and gasped. The riders were gone.

The rain, while still falling, was noticeably lighter. Absurd, he thought, the whole thing, and turned his attention back to the car. The engine was still and the keys were not in the ignition. Stunned, Sid did a double take. The keys were in the ignition.

"What the...?" he stuttered.

He trembled, and reached out a tentative hand for the keys. He turned the ignition and waited, half-expecting the car not to start. The car did start, however, and, depressing the gas pedal, he steered carefully out of the ditch and back onto route six.

As he settled into cruising speed, the rain stopped, although the sky remained dark. The promise of daylight appeared a few miles up the road. He drove on.

I have to write. As if trying to perform some act of self-affirmation, he whispered, "It's what I do." There was no answer from the radio, and after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, he reached for the black knob, and switched it on. He found a local rock station, which was playing an old Eagles song about the cheating side of town.

He kept one eye on route six and another on the radio. "My editor and publisher are expecting this story. I have to write it." He cleared his throat. "I'm going to write it."

On the radio, Glenn Frey finished crooning “Lyin’ Eyes”. Mick Jagger began singing about walking through the woods. Sid remembered this song and was temporarily distracted. One of his favorite lines was coming up--something about sitting on a fence with a girl while watching a dragon in the sky.

He shook his head. “Damn. I imagined all this. I dozed off for a second and imagined all of this.”

A deep shriek filled the air. The windshield cracked, and the side and rear windows shattered. Sid didn't slow down, however. Panic filled him, but he willed himself to keep going. Shaking his head and squinting through the cracked windshield, his voice rose. "I am imagining this. I am imagining this."

The shriek came again, and this time Sid did slow down. He goggled through the cracked windshield. There was a massive shadow on route six, and it was coming toward him. He saw the piercing red eyes first and then its scaly wings flapping slowly as it descended. He let go of the steering wheel and began to scream.

###

"Mister Jannsen," said the television reporter, "your new novel, 'Two after Route Six', like your last two novels is a completely original work. It has been very well received by critics here and abroad."

"Thank you, yes, and I'm very appreciative," said Sid.

They were sitting in two comfortable looking low back chairs, between which stood a small, round table. Two coffee mugs sat on the wooden surface.

"Your last two novels have sold reasonably well, but not to the same level as your previous work. To what do you attribute this?"

Sid smiled. "Well, I think the fact that they have sold at all is a tribute to those who like my previous work and are cutting me some slack."

The reporter laughed.

"Seriously though," he continued, "I think for some people, there is a level of comfort in reading stories they are familiar with. It probably also explains why movie remakes often do well. My last two novels, as well as my new one are all, as you say, thoroughly original, and so the fact that I have written them may make people nervous." He grinned.

“Interesting. Really interesting. And you told me off camera that it all started about two years ago. You were scheduled to appear at a book signing, but were involved in a horrific automobile accident." She glanced at a notepad on her lap, before facing the camera. “The police and paramedics who arrived on the scene reported that you were raving and apparently delirious. Mr. Jannsen claimed to have seen something on the road. There was no evidence of another vehicle or vehicles and no obvious cause of the accident. It is believed that either Mr. Jannsen fell asleep at the wheel or swerved to avoid an animal and veered off the road.”

She faced him. “There was speculation about what you claimed to have seen, and, in fact, numerous reports surfaced detailing your comments to the police. The comments attributed to you led a number of people to believe you had suffered a breakdown of some kind. Many of them believed you were admitted to a psychiatric hospital that very day.”

Sid nodded. “That was, um, an interesting time.” He paused. “For a while there, I thought I’d had a breakdown. You know, none of it was very clear at the time. But a few weeks later, I was lying in that hospital bed reading a letter from a fan. That’s when it struck me.”

"What did?" asked the reported.

“It wasn’t so much of a breakdown, but more of a, well, a breakthrough. I needed to....” He gazed at his wheelchair and to the empty space below his knees. “I needed to give up the walking stick and use my legs.”