Passenger of the Night
by Nathaniel Barrett
part 1
I used to work the cab in Glowshrine City. From sundown to sunrise, twenty years on the job. The pay wasn’t bad; it was sort of like my arteries; money flowed in and out, enough to satisfy the expenses of a semi-stable life.
Nowadays, I write for a living, and there’s a reason I’ve never told anyone much about my past. That is because it’s absolutely absurd. So feel free to doubt the story I’m about to tell, because I really couldn’t care. Hell, it’s not my job to care. It’s your job to choose what you believe.
* * *
Let me begin by saying this: over the years, I have encountered practically every distasteful figure who compromised my city’s nocturnal population. Drunks, dealers, crime lords, hitmen; believe me, all of them. And yet, whenever I try to recall any individual character, nobody specifically comes to mind. They’ve all become like faces without eyes. Not one person I ever drove had a lasting trait distinguishable from the many like them who came before.
I have forgotten everyone. Everyone except the creature who called itself Raul.
Like all things in life which suddenly and inexplicably fall apart, it all started on an ordinary evening. I’d been cabbing people around the club district of Glowshrine, the only area in the entire city with lights not colored a pallid white, and buildings just tall enough not to feel overbearing. Yet the excess of drunks made pleasant customers a rarity, and the ever-present sounds of electronic dance music and emergency sirens disrupted the serenity of the drive. I suppose it had been fitting, then, that I found Raul beckoning for a taxi here.
“Hey, where you headed?” I asked Raul as he slid into the backseat of my cab. Raul was a stranger, but he wore a pair of khakis and a plain blue tee that were soothing to the eye. Better yet, he also seemed sober. Maybe I should’ve been concerned by those two unusual qualities, but the relief of a well-behaved customer gave me no reason to think further. Ha, how wrong I was. But when are our suspicions of others based on their appearance ever accurate? At that point, we are only judging ourselves against the world.
Raul ignored my question and asked one of his own: “Good evening, sir. Care to tell me your name?”
“G-Geraldo. Geraldo Marx,” I said, caught off guard.
“Cool. I am, well, I am not sure. But I suppose you may call me Raul for the time being,” he said. Then, his voice deepened. “Anyways, please take me to Boulder Woods.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve never heard of the place,” I said. “Can you give me some directions?”
Raul chuckled beneath his breath. His voice took on a heavier tone. “Think of the unluckiest number possible, and then follow it.”
Raul’s hulking voice sent a chill speeding down my spine. For a second, I wanted to expel him from the car. But then I remembered all the drunk customers I’d had that night, and the ever-present reality of bills to pay.
I ignored my instincts. “Are you talking about the highway?” I asked. “Route 13?”
“I like you. You’re sharp,” Raul said, grinning . “Able to think in metaphors without getting too caught up in them.”
I assumed that meant yes and started the engine. As I did so, Raul laughed. It was sinister and deep, like the cackle of a hyena from the bottom of a well. To keep sight of him, I repositioned my rearview mirror to an angle where his eyes remained visible. That’s when I noticed his eyes were red. Crimson eyes; evil eyes; the kind which spent more time leering than observing, and through the mirror, pierced my very soul.
“Oh, I’m sorry about those.” Raul said, catching my stare. “They’re just contact lenses. It’s part of my style.”
I faked a smile and withheld another comment, still a little put off, but not enough to refuse Raul’s money. When I put the cab in drive and slid into a lane, I tried to remind myself that the Woods shouldn’t be too difficult to find. Instead, I wound up thinking about my life, the many ways I could die, and everything else except the road ahead. For better or for worse, it wasn’t enough to make me stop driving.
* * *
It didn’t take long for me to realize I did not know the roads beyond my own extended neighborhood as well as I thought I did. Despite the years I’d bounced from place to place throughout inner Glowshrine, I hadn’t traveled much outside of it. Because of my lack of familiarity with the outer edges of the city, I missed the turn onto Route 13.
“Damn,” I uttered beneath my breath.
Raul said nothing.
I turned around at a gas station and later entered the dense highway. Like any experienced taxi driver, I merged into the left-hand lane and rode straight for the time being. I followed the path dealt to me by the cones and lanes and scanned every exit sign I could see. None yet promised a way toward Boulder Woods. Steel skyscrapers eclipsed the cab beneath a shadow, and my anxiety increased with every exit I passed.
I just sat still, restless and gutted, uncertain as to how I would find Boulder Woods or if there was something else this mysterious character really wanted, while also being faintly aware that with every passing second, my life would either continue on or end right there. Admittedly, I’d had thoughts like these before, but they were especially strong that night.
This daze broke when I reached an intersection on the edge of Route 13 North. The traffic light changed to red, and my pupils were narrowed by the swarm of brake lights ahead. I looked around after the light shepherded all the cars to a stop. The skyscrapers had been replaced by small stores and parking lots. Although it was quieter in this area than in Glowshrine, the overhanging lights and the glow of store front displays enveloped the traffic in a noxious brightness.
I glanced at the sign above the straight and right-turn lanes. It directed me to a town called Pinewood. When the light turned to green, I lifted my foot off the brake. I then caught a better view of the town. It was a rectangular grid of tightly packed flats which extended as far into the distance as I could see. There wasn’t a single tree anywhere, and certainly no forest.
I cut across the road into the left-turn lane and performed a u-turn to go back south on Route 13.
Raul growled as the car drifted around the intersection, and I could see green pimples flare across his face. “Have you ever left the city before?” he asked.
“N-no,” I said.
“Heh, so it seems I’ve found another mouse caught in a trap. Wiggle then, Geraldo, wiggle for the sake of your life.”
I did not respond.
Raul laughed. “Geraldo, tell me, why did you become a taxi driver?”.
“I just like this job.”
“The truth, Geraldo!”
“O-okay, fine. I-I never wanted to become a cab driver. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. It’s just money got tight, and I didn’t want to back myself in a corner. My p-parents also demanded I work a cab like my father, ’cause it pays well and gets you a free car.’”
Raul opened his mouth to chuckle at me again, and I saw it was filled with fangs. “So, you don’t want to be a taxi driver? That makes sense, considering how abysmal you are at it.”
He then leaned over the seat cushion and whispered into my ear: “Just remember that with every turn you miss, you waste more time completing the journey. I’d focus more, if I were you. And make no mistake about this, Geraldo because, if you fail this job, I will kill you. So please, my kind chauffeur, take me to the Woods.”
After threatening me, Raul reclined into his seat and hummed a chipper tune.
My nerves sank, and I drowned in my dread.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Nathaniel Barrett
