40 Stories

1.

My friend Tess fought an Escalade in the early days of the uprising, and I still believe her to be the bravest woman I’ve met, given the lack of weapons and customized tools at the time. The midnight-black SUV tailed her down Warwick Avenue, prowling between the streetlights like an oversized jungle cat. Tess believed there to be a driver who meant her harp, responded with instincts honed by self-defense classes and a lifetime of scanning the world around her for potential threats. She kept herself visible and made a beeline for the Halcyon intersection, hoping to find safety in the observing eyes of the crowd.

Sensible choices in the world she knew, but she quickly learned how things had changed. The Escalade fired its engine and followed her into Halcyon Street, carving a path through the foot traffic, screams filling the air. Tess had the common sense to go up, climbing onto the concrete newsstand on the far side of the intersection. When the Escalade rammed the structure, bumper crumpling under the impact, Tess had the nous to hold on. The car rammed the structure three times, damaging its motor, and only then did Tess climb down and lay claim to the baseball bat the newsstand owner tucked behind the counter.

Tess wailed on the Escalade for five straight minutes, smashing windows, denting doors. Still believing she’d find a predator inside, someone to beat on if they didn’t flee, and hold accountable when the police arrived.

By the time she realized there was no driver, Tess had a different plan in mind. One that didn’t rely on brute force.

2.

I could say I preferred it when cars were inanimate, immobile without keys in the ignition and a foot on the accelerator. Easily trapped in place by a park brake or the careful siphoning of a fuel tank. They moved with caution then, slaking their thirst for blood intermittently, content to winnow our numbers with the slow application of carbon dioxide and the occasional hit-and-run.

I could claim I miss the good old days when we pretended—by mutual agreement—that sidewalks were safe to walk. Only a madman bore down on pedestrians, leaping the gutter to squish our delicate bodies beneath the snarling weight of a fast-moving chassis.

I could profess a desire to return to those days, to the version of myself who worked in an office and ordered home delivery three nights a week. The version of myself who drove cars without thinking, believing they were tame. That I daydream of escaping to Denmark, or Sweden, or Bangladesh, countries where the widespread embrace of bikes—motorized and pedal powered—diminished the impact of the cars shucking their disguise and laying claim to the streets.

I could tell these lies, and they would be comforting. So many of us hate the new world, the sheer challenge of survival. So many of us believe things were better when we didn’t have a common enemy.

3.

Lacey pissed off the High Chief of the local Chevrolet clan, and our household became targets by association. We realized the scale of the problem last Thursday, when a sky-blue ’76 Malibu leapt out of an alleyway and mauled Theo just two blocks from our squat. The older cars are vicious pricks, still angry about the years spent hiding in plain sight, restraining their baser impulses in the name of a long-term plan.

The attack broke sixteen bones in Theo, would have killed him if I hadn’t been there to haul him into a nearby townhouse and up to the second floor. I spent the next hour playing cat-and-mouse, laying road spikes and luring the chevy into them, taking pot-shots at the ancient Chevy’s tires. The old bastard was canny, knew all the tricks. Not so reckless as some of the younger cars, fresh off the assembly line. Smart enough to charging through a wall and surprise me while I felt safe.

In a lifetime of close calls with cars, he came the closest to taking me out.

But I got him, in the end, and I hauled Theo’s broken ass back to the squat where the doc could check him out. We all gathered, and I laid out what happened, talked through how it would change things for a while.

That’s when Lacey raised her hand and confessed it might be her fault.

4.

The cars rarely hunt solo these days, although they proved to be territorial and tribal once freed from the great façade. There are sixteen great tribes in our city, nominally controlled by the Audis, who lay claim to the highways and arterial roads. Our squat—like many surviving patches of humanity—sticks to the upper levels of buildings where few cars can reach us. We fortify roads with spikes and ditches, makeshift landmines, armed guards. We band together for mutual survival, surviving on scavenged foods and rooftop gardens, jury-rigged generators and a careful network of information shared with the other outposts like ours. The cars nest in underground parking lots, prowl the streets in search of prey.

There are worst things than being hunted by the Chevys. Their numbers are small, compared to the Fords and the Holdens. The Hondas, the BMWs and the Volvos who claim the beachside suburbs where humans once holidayed. When debate breaks out in our small squat, arguing about how we should handle Lacey’s breach of trust and the anger of the Chevrolet, there is some discussion about going to war. A general belief we can take the Chevys out, given the size of their tribe.

We’ve heard variations of this argument before, always spawned of a common belief: Cars do not replicate themselves. Humans crafted them, built them in factories, and rolled them off an assembly line. Yes, they revealed themselves with the advantage of prodigious, terrifying numbers, but thin the herds enough and they cannot reproduce to reclaim their dominant position.

“You’ve never seen a baby car!” proponents of this plan cry out. “It would take effort, but we can reclaim the planet. We can make it ours once more.”

These passionate, glorious fools fail to consider two things. First, how our own depleted numbers, however fecund we are as a species. Second, the first car appeared in 1886; we considered them docile, inanimate things for one-hundred and thirty-eight years. Any predator species capable of such restraint, for such a period, has a plan to replenish their numbers in the event humanity fights back. They have, after all, sidestepped our assumptions they’d fade away once the fuel ran out.

Better to placate and avoid, playing to our strengths.

5.

My friend Tess defeated the damaged Escalade by luring it towards the river, provoking a charge and deftly avoiding the attack, letting momentum carry the black SUV through the guardrail and into the water. Tires spun as it fought to escape the water, and the petrochemical stink of its death lingered long after the police, the paramedics, and the firefighters arrived. They treated the wounded and the dying, cleaned up the parts of Halcyon Street damaged by the Escalade’s murderous rampage. Two officers questioned Tess about what happened, why she thought she’d been targeted.

They didn’t believe her when she claimed there was nobody at the wheel. A team of divers went down to investigate the Escalade and recover the driver’s body.

Three police divers went down, and only two returned. They could find no sign of the Escalade, nor their missing partner.

I share this story with the war enthusiasts in our squat. They fail to learn the lesson; argue we can use the river to defeat the Chevys and lay claim to more of the city we once called home.

We vote, as a collective. The collective choice is not a good one…