Hector’s willingness to engage in travel is admirable for a blind, naked rabbit, so it’s difficult to be frustrated when I discover he’s adverse to climbing uphill for more than a few moments at a time. The check-up Hector received early in our acquaintance suggested he’s enjoying the upper-middle age of a rabbit’s lifespan. He seems healthy enough but the hardships of his life have been weathered with stoicism alone. The creature is entirely unwilling to explore the more athletic forms of endurance this late in life and a certain world-weariness may have something to do with it.

All to say that I climb Bagger Hill with Hector strapped to my chest, looking like an alien parasite in a modified baby sling. If it were a day hike I might have considered leaving him behind in the kennel, strapped to the bike and covered against wind, rain, and predators. Hector is quiet, by default, and the trailhead is well enough off the beaten path that I doubt anybody would have been in a position to steal him or to question his abandonment. Sources say the trail to ‘The Y2Kave’ takes at least two days- and that’s quickly paced. I, like Hector, have slowed down, some. I plan for three days and pack for four. Toss a rabbit’s weight on top and you have a slow hike indeed.

‘It’s common enough to find oneself nostalgic for the simpler sort of apocalypse that Y2K embodied. Imagine humanity’s unraveling, not at the hands of some insidious nuclear power or by means of plotting and coups, but as a result of simple short-sidedness in the creation of its digital calendar systems. Imagine the collective grimace- the flashing double-zeroes on screens across the globe as planes fell from the sky and microwaves silenced and the streetlamps all went out. Imagine it happened at midnight- a great wave of darkness opposite the sun, revelers frozen with their champagne. Awake, as one might be during a plague. Surprised, as one might be by an atomic blast. Alive enough to be afraid.

Alabama’s ‘Y2Kave’ is a bit of a time capsule in that regard. It is the site chosen by a group of 20-something pessimists for their final days on earth, a tribute to a night of hedonism and paranoia. ‘The Y2Kave’ is far enough off the beaten path that it has been spared defacement. Animals find the place repugnant for some reason, perhaps the residual paint fumes or the unnatural coloring of the walls.

The small cave has become an unlikely respite from the modern world- but a temporary one. The dawn of the century was, by no means, an age of absolute contentment. ‘The Y2Kave’ is the product of fear- naïve fear, perhaps, but fear just the same. Few stay for longer than a week before the place’s subtle haunting drives them away.’

Hector and I reach the cave late in the afternoon, having overshot the turnoff half a mile before catching the mistake. I’m happy to find ‘The Y2Kave’ vacant. My sense is that visitors tend to be meditative rather that rowdy but I don’t savor the possibility of having to commiserate over the state of the world. Things are obviously bad. Let me suffer alone.

Hector is asleep when I set him down in the sling. He opens an eye when I reattach his harness and closes it again once I stand. I let him rest and step into the cave.

Shitholes doesn’t mention that some amount of purposeful conservation has occurred at the site of this ancient doomsday party. Empty bottles of discontinued wine coolers have been organized along one wall. Scraps of paper have been patched together and anchored by rocks. Several other items- a frisbee, a joint, a pack of Camels, a pair of glasses- have been inventoried in the back where visitors have identified them in chalk. Two halves of a Y2K emergency pamphlet have been rolled up and pressed into a wine bottle. It reeks of late-nineties graphic design, all 3D fonts and clipart despite the dire warnings.  

A controversial timeline of the party itself has been laid out on another wall, this also in chalk. The anonymous attendees of the original party seemed to have begun a mural early in the night- a visual depiction of human civilization from the beginning of time. The mural is largely western, beginning with a satirical depiction of Adam and Eve, leading into vague scenes of Egypt and possibly China, and slowing down once more for the founding of the US. To their credit, the artists had a pretty good memory of the past centuries’ American atrocities and less-satirical depictions of those events take up much of the remaining space.

The chalk timeline notes the drunken sloppiness of the painting as the timeline reaches 2000, at which point there is an unfinished sketch of the party itself followed by a couple dozen doomsday scenarios. Everything from nuclear war to alien invasion.

There is some internet chatter about a jutting rock near the end of the mural where paint has dried dark brown. Some suggest the party ended in violence, when drawn-out paranoia overcame the nihilism. The inclusion of twenty-odd cans of food and a rusted pot in the inventory suggests the potential for a longer stay- a half-hearted shelter for the early days of the end times. It doesn’t take much for humans to turn over so few resources.

I bring Hector into the cave a little later to see if he has a sense for the place. He hops here and there and he pauses briefly to lick at the bloody rock before I pull him away. After the novelty has faded he, like other animals, seems to be in favor of spending the evening outside.

It’s a clear night, and not so cold for mid-autumn. We sleep under the stars and pack up early the next morning. We make better time on the way down and are soon cast back into the troubled present, eased not by the respite itself, but for having recognized the futility of dwelling overlong in the past.

-traveler

‘It’s impossible to deny that small town America is made of denser earth than its cities, complicated as they are by sewage, subways, and secret means of egress for the billionaire elite. Small towns exert gravity such that passing vehicles slingshot by, hurriedly propelled between coasts. Long-time residents find their homes difficult to leave, weighted, as they are, by generational inertia.

The frequency of ‘Runaway Truck Ramps’ in rural America represents the nation’s half-hearted solution- a system that, in theory, would funnel the collected energy of a truckful of runaways into a single attempt to break from a small town’s orbit. Those who try to avail this service quickly realize the truth of the matter. Funding for the ramps fell through just months after construction began. Hopeful runaways will find that most are nothing more than hard-earned dead ends.’

Though Shitholes is right to warn against staking one’s escape on a random ‘Runaway Truck Ramp,’ a handful did make it to a later stage of construction before being de-funded. They aren’t complete by any stretch of the word. They aren’t particularly safe. They aren’t even particularly well-placed but their functionality is enough that travelers’ havens tend to spring up nearby. Hector and I spend a week near the lake at Pearl City and we let ourselves grow comfortable with the idea of staying put for a while.

When it’s time to leave, we take the ramp and find that leaving isn’t so hard after all.

-traveler

‘Though it goes by many names and leads in several directions, most agree that ‘The Sharp Right’ is a single phenomenon manifesting in multiple ways. The overall illusion is always the same- the sudden arrival of a traveler’s exit several miles before expected. Some describe ‘The Sharp Right’ as insidiously mundane. Others recall its exaggerated signage, something they only recognize after the fact. Massive signs. Flashing lights and warnings. The inclusion of exclamation points and underlines. Whatever it takes to force the driver into a sudden, panicked turn.

Of course, once the driver turns, ‘The Sharp Right’ disappears, giving way to whatever should be there on the shoulder of the interstate- a tree, a barrier, a precipice, or just enough of a slope to start the vehicle rolling.

 The frequency of ‘The Sharp Right’ is difficult to track for the fact that the majority of its survivors will never understand that their lives were threatened. A moment’s hesitation will have saved them and, though it may prove disorienting to find the true exit where it should be, most will chalk it up to exhaustion. The only lasting evidence of ‘The Sharp Right’ is the skid marks one sometimes sees veering right on a perfectly straight stretch of road- a trail of broken glass. A twisted traffic barrier.

‘The Sharp Right’ is among the few of the Wayside’s legally recognized oddities, it being a ‘hail mary’ for the wealthy drunk driver. As of publication there are no reliable means by which is can be detected or warded against. A traveler can only be advised to remain attentive, and to trust their intuition, even if their intuition takes them a little out of the way.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘The annual Halloween store appears mid-September and reaches its highest density in the following month. By Halloween night, its haphazard storefronts will occupy all available lots, will have consumed a handful of businesses here and there, and will seem, most certainly, a weed in the verdant capitalist garden of strip malls and shopping centers.

At the height of its invasion, most Halloween stores will collapse, expelling the remainder of their inventory into the parking lot to be swept up and carted off by bottom-feeding bargain hunters. The disbursement of costumes and decorations in second hand shops will maintain consumer interest and lay the foundations for the subsequent year’s Halloween bloom. Given its natural concession, the annual Halloween store will prove itself less a perennial weed and more a gaudy annual, a time-sensitive facet of the healthy consumption cycle.

There are, on occasion, some stores that mutate. These specimens continue past their prime- their presence not a matter of virulence but of a singular hardiness. At worst, a ‘November Halloween Store’ represents a benign eyesore- a blemish that calls into question the health of businesses nearby. Shoppers are advised to tread carefully, not for any danger inherent to the store, but in respect for the swiftness with which a healthy ecosystem will cannibalize the uncanny.’

It’s been over a decade since I’ve attended a Halloween party or any other function that might require a costume. It’s been nearly as long since I’ve been so anchored as to run the risk of needing candy for trick-or-treaters. The likelihood of a ‘November Halloween Store’ still having viable samples of either this late in the month seems unlikely anyway. What brings me to the ‘November Halloween Store’ is a simple vision: Hector in a rabbit-sized costume.

A carrot? A hotdog? A sphinx-like headdress? The costume itself doesn’t matter. What occurred to me in a tent-warmed mid-morning doze was the image of Hector in any costume, really, the sheer ugliness of the creature amplified to something altogether surreal by tiny angel wings or a wreath of flower petals.

Shitholes is right, though. There is something unseemly about the store as it stands at the foot of winter. Both the grocery and the day clinic that sandwich it seem wilted, their plate-glass windows heavy-lidded with fatigue or suspicion. There is no one inside the store, neither customer nor employee. A door to the back is ajar and the sounds of some streaming video or cellphone game spill out from inside.

The products are a mess. Thanksgiving has just begun to recede along an aisle in the back and Christmas has sprung in rashy patches, its tinsel creeping in and out of plastic jack-o-lanterns. The bulk of the store is still Halloween-themed. Someone has tried to repurpose samples of the inventory, pitiable attempts to market the longevity of items that are inherently seasonal. Rubber masks have been sewn into oven mitts and rain parkas, rippling noses and mouths. Pumpkins are stacked into mock totems and snowmen and even cacti, of sorts.

At the far back corner I find a swiveling rack of animal costumes and have knelt to examine a deeply discounted lion’s mane when the front door slams open, triggering the welcome bell with such force that it breaks from its string and arcs across the store, rolling to a stop at my feet. From between cans of false snow I see two men in Santa suits, their faces concealed by the white-bearded equivalent of a ghillie mask. They carry a crate between them, set it on the floor, and begin to assemble something on the counter. The noise is enough to draw a thin girl from the backroom. She steps to the register and pauses:

“Can I help you?”

“You don’t sell holiday shit no more,” one of the beards says, “Now you sell hotdogs.” He flips a switch on the machine on the counter and its rollers grind to life.

The second beard tears open a sack of hotdogs and dumps them into the machine where they squirm and grind and ostensibly warm. “No more Halloween. No more Christmas. Get the fuck out with your Thanksgiving garbage- now you sell hotdogs, got me?”

The girl opens her mouth to protest and the men slam their fists onto the counter.

“Hotdogs!”

The same thing happens when she tries, again, to speak.

I slip off my shoes and begin a stealthy exit toward the door but am immediately foiled by the loose bell at my feet. The scene at the register goes quiet and I hear one of the beards moving my way. He’s on me in a split second. I struggle but he twists my hood so that my jacket closes around my neck and he drags me up to the register.

“Got a customer, here,” the beard tells the girl.

“Got a purchase to make,” the second beard tells me.

I look at the lion’s mane costume in my hand and it’s slapped away by one of the beards.

“Howsabout a hotdog?” the beard asks me.

The sausages writhe in their aquarium, flop noisily against the glass.

“Uh,” I say, “Could I get one hot dog?”

The second beard open-hand slaps me across the face. The first repeats his question. “Howsa’bout a hot dog?”

“Howsabout a hot dog?” I ask, bracing myself for another slap.

Both beards nod and the woman takes a pair of tongs from the backside of the machine and captures a hotdog before it’s pulled back down to the bottom of the pile. She looks around for something to put it in and, after several uncomfortable seconds, I just take it in-hand.

“One dollar?” the girl asks, but the beards seem to have lost interest. They release me as soon as I hand her the money and drag the crate to a truck that idles on the curb outside. A third Santa beard waits behind the wheel.

I retrieve the lion’s mane once they’ve driven away but the shop’s phone rings each time I try to convince the girl to sell it to me- dead air or whispered threats by the look on her face. After the third time, she refuses to acknowledge that the store is anything but an eccentric hotdog dispensary. I leave empty-handed.

The dregs of November are always a tad bitter. Short days, long nights, and the fitful surrender of autumn to winter. A cold wind and a rattle of trees.

-traveler

I note the behavior of the first deer by sheer happenstance when Hector and I crest a particularly tall slope of the highway. The headlights pick it out standing on the road some ways ahead- far enough away that I assume it will be gone by the time we reach it. I slow, anyway, knowing there might be more in the forest nearby and when we finally close the distance I see that the thing hasn’t moved at all. When I stop, a few yards out, the deer turns its head. It had been craning its neck toward the stars.

‘Difficult to say why animals in ‘The Headlights’ focus on the sky, given that ‘The Calamity’ arrives from no particular direction. It certainly encourages those with religious leanings to weigh in with their brand of spirituality- all variations on ‘they know where they’re headed when the time comes’-type sentiments. In reality, it’s about as easy to dismiss those who think they can explain it rationally. Plenty of people have ideas about why animals can sense disaster but their conclusions are so conflicting that it’s safe to say they just know.

Herbivores are affected first, particularly those one might classify as ‘prey.’ Deer, elk, and most four-legged stompy forest creatures fall into this category as well as skittish rodents like squirrels and moles. The animals startle, freeze, and remain relatively frozen until ‘The Calamity’ occurs, sometimes days later. Scavengers come next (rats, racoons- even certain birds). Under long enough exposure, humans and other predators begin to slow as well. Survivors of various ‘Calamities’ report no particular knowledge of the oncoming disaster, only a paranoid apathy that some have compared to Martin Seligman’s discovery of learned helplessness.

A hotline was established in 2016 to gather reports of ongoing occurrences of ‘The Headlights’ but it has been of little use in preventing ‘The Calamity.’ On the contrary, several volunteers sent to verify information on-site have perished in the resultant disaster, having either misinterpreted the timeline or succumbed to the lethargy. As of publication, no ‘Calamities’ have been mitigated by the efforts of those responsible for the hotline. There are no known examples of a ‘rescue,’ whatever that might look like.

Travelers who recognize symptoms of ‘The Headlights’ are advised to turn-tail. Approaching a frozen animal is bad-practice in the best of circumstances but, assuming ‘The Headlights’ are to blame, there’s a decent chance that the first afflicted creature is well within reach of ‘The Calamity.’

In all this traveling I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a living deer up close. I wait for it to bolt or charge the bike, am tensed for either, but the animal breathes steadily and blinks at the light. Eventually, it turns its gaze upward, again, where the sky is clear but for a handful of stars.

The road through Belcroft is one of my personal shortcuts across the nation and home to my favorite coffee place. Turning back would mean losing a day’s worth of travel and forgoing a good cup of joe. I honk at the deer and its muscles jump under its skin. It takes an uneasy step away and then stops again. Movement along the shoulder draws my attention to several more deer to the right, concealed by brush. A dozen, all said. They, too, sway on their legs and watch the sky.

I look up, for a while, in case I can make out what they’re seeing. I weigh my options, wondering if I couldn’t make a high-speed pass through Belcroft, just to save time. I spend several minutes mired in indecision before I realize the danger I’m in. Hector and I turn back.

Belcroft is in the news the next day, emitting a plume of black smoke. I see footage of the cafe, half-collapsed, and turn my attention back to a weak mug of coffee on the table. Hector shakes symptoms of ‘The Headlights’ by noon and we’re on our way again.

-traveler