Edge

  Copyright © 2012 Koji Suzuki

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Vertical, Inc., New York

  Originally published in Japan as Ejji by Kadokawa Shoten, Tokyo, 2008, and reissued in paperback with revisions in 2012.

  eISBN: 978-1-935654-95-7

  Vertical, Inc.

  451 Park Avenue South, 7th Floor

  New York, NY 10016

  www.vertical-inc.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Missing

  Chapter 2: Rift

  Chapter 3: Chain

  Chapter 4: Awe

  Chapter 5: Fissure

  Chapter 6: Transition

  Epilogue

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Prologue

  September 25, 2011

  Soda Lake Road, California, USA

  Just over an hour had passed since Hans Ziemssen had turned off onto Soda Lake Road from Route 166, and he was beginning to feel vaguely unsettled. His rearview mirror reflected an endless expanse of sand, while ahead and towards the right the remains of a dried-up lake shone white with salty residue. It was a typical desert landscape in the Western U.S., but to the German Hans, it was unfamiliar and strange. The sun was beginning to sink over the western horizon, and the bleak, featureless landscape glowed reddish brown. There wasn’t another car in sight.

  Is this really the planet Earth?

  The strange feeling of unease stemmed from the sensation that he was driving on some heavenly body other than his home planet. Of course, the only photographs Hans had actually ever seen of the surfaces of other astral bodies were of the Moon and Mars. Both were drier than even this desert and much more barren, devoid of even the slightest sign of life. Here, there were still glimmers of coyotes lurking under trees and insects tunneling through the earth. But the further Hans drove, the more those traces of life receded, contributing to his mounting anxiety.

  In the seat next to Hans, his wife Claudia sat motionless, her lips pressed firmly together. When the desiccated lake hove into view on the right, she sat up, leaning her face towards the window. “Is that Soda Lake?”

  Hans shook his head quickly. “No. It’s further ahead.”

  Claudia sighed dramatically and fell silent once more.

  Uh-oh. Someone’s in afoul mood.

  They had arrived at LAX that afternoon, and Hans had hustled his wife into the rental car and driven off into the desert without so much as a rest. Perhaps they should have checked into a hotel in Los Angeles for the night instead. But since they only had ten days, Hans was anxious to get out into the desert and hadn’t wanted to waste a single night in the city. His wife, however, probably felt differently.

  Hans gave a low whistle and pointed at the lake, trying to direct Claudia’s attention to the landscape. “Still, it’s a bizarre-looking lake, isn’t it?”

  The various lakes here, large and small, all dried up completely in the spring and summer, baring their bellies to the sun. The rock salt in the water left the empty basins white. Hans gazed intently at this first dry lakebed. The much larger Soda Lake awaited them further up the road.

  The land around the lake was a dull yellowish brown, covered with grass of more or less the same hue. The mountains had gently rounded peaks and contours. Geographic strata lined their faces in units of tens of thousands of years like the age rings of a tree.

  It occurred to Hans that although the mountains varied slightly in shape, they were all the same height. These peaks had once been the baseline level of the land until the areas between them had eroded away leaving only these promontories behind. He wished he knew more about the local geology.

  Still, as he gazed at the white basin set in such desolate surroundings, he couldn’t help but feel that it had been deliberately fashioned by some great creator. From this distance, the salt deposits looked like snow, and the strange juxtaposition against the desert scenery had a mysterious effect.

  As Hans gripped the steering wheel of the rental car, for a brief instant, he felt almost like a god, contemplating the earth as the work of a divine artist.

  “Hans. We haven’t passed a single car.”

  Claudia’s remark jolted Hans back to reality. Far from being enchanted by the North American desert landscape, so exotic compared to their hometown of Frankfurt, the disgruntled Claudia was focused instead on the narrow road that stretched out before them and the lack of oncoming traffic.

  “There will be,” Hans assured her, even though he wasn’t so sure. It was true that they hadn’t seen a single car coming this way, nor were there any headlights visible in the rearview mirror.

  It was past six o’clock in the evening, and the sun hovered just above the skyline. In half an hour’s time it would be sucked below the horizon, and dusk would fall. From a woman’s point of view, the fact that they had yet to secure lodging for the night was probably extremely aggravating.

  In fact, Claudia was the one who had originally proposed that they roll with the punches on their North American road trip, checking into whatever motels they came across without advance reservations. Apparently she had taken a similar trip before they were married and had never come across any difficulty finding lodging each night. She’d come to the conclusion that motel rooms were always easy to come by. But as luck would have it, the neon signs on every motel they passed today read “No Vacancies.”

  When they had driven through Maricopa a little ways back, the motel there had been full, so Hans and Claudia had been faced with two choices. One was to head north on Highway 33 towards Taft to look for lodging. The other was to press on towards Soda Lake to find something there.

  Claudia had argued that Taft was a larger city, plus it was closer, so their odds of getting a room were better. But Hans had pushed for Soda Lake. It was a landmark he wanted badly to visit on this trip. If he conceded to Claudia’s urging to head for Taft, they would probably wind up driving towards the San Francisco area from there, skipping Soda Lake. For that reason, Hans was determined to try to make Soda Lake tonight, despite their exhaustion.

  “How do we know they even have a decent motel there?” Claudia had demanded.

  “When we get a chance, I’ll flag down an oncoming car and ask them,” Hans promised. That was roughly twenty minutes ago. It was hard to get a sense of the size of the town just by looking at the map. What if they made it to Soda Lake and there was nowhere to stay? Hans convinced Claudia that their unorthodox method of information gathering would see them through.

  But now they had been driving along Soda Lake Road for approximately thirty minutes without seeing a single car in either direction. To make matters worse, sections of the road were unpaved. They couldn’t drive any faster, and it wouldn’t make sense to turn around, either. At this point, they had no choice but to trust their luck and look for a room in Soda Lake. Perhaps everything would work out fine. On the other hand, it was clear that Claudia’s disposition would continue to worsen if they were still driving aimlessly after dark.

  The prospect of spending the night outdoors made Hans’ chest tighten. He wanted his wife to have a hot shower, a beer, and a good meal. The year after they had married, on a trip to Italy, a blunder on Hans’ part had caused them to miss dinner one night. The mistake had soured Claudia’s mood, spoiling the entire trip.

  As a man who had married a woman far better looking than he, Hans had to be constantly attentive to his wife’s volatile emotions. Though he made a better-than-average living and provided for her every need, Claudia had a tendency to resent even the tiniest transgression, punishing him by falling into a stony silence. In the four years he had been married to Claudia, Hans had lear
ned the hard way that it generally took an effort tens of times more grave than the original error to atone for each slip-up.

  For that reason, Hans was determined that his wife have a hot shower, a cold beer, and a comfortable bed that night. With those three requirements met, Claudia’s irritation was likely to subside. Sleeping outdoors was out of the question. For one thing, it was too dangerous. In the guidebook they had read back in Germany, it was the number one thing travelers were warned to avoid.

  “Book motels well in advance for road trips,” the book had also advised, but Hans and Claudia hadn’t listened.

  As the minutes ticked by, dusk settled slowly over the land. As the darkness deepened, Hans’ sense of urgency intensified as well.

  It was past 6:30 in the evening now, and the sun had almost disappeared behind the western horizon. Once they made it to Route 58, they were sure to find a motel there. But they had to pass Soda Lake first, and the elusive landmark had yet to appear. Hans had been looking forward to seeing Soda Lake, but it was now becoming apparent that he would only get to view it in darkness.

  When he finally spotted a recession between the mountains gleaming red in the light of the setting sun, he knew it had to be Soda Lake. At that exact moment, he also spotted a lone car stopped in the opposite lane up ahead. It was the first car they’d encountered since turning onto Soda Lake Road. The interior light of the red four-door Pontiac sedan glowed dimly, but its headlights were off.

  Given that they were already at Soda Lake, there wasn’t much point plugging the other driver for information. In the time it took them to pull over and ask questions, they could just press onwards to look for a motel themselves.

  But before Hans realized what he was doing, he found himself pulling over. It was a relief to finally see another vehicle, but there was also something about the situation that gave him pause.

  There’s something strange about this.

  Apparently, the impulse to investigate the unusual was stronger in men than in women. As the car pulled to a stop, Claudia let out a soft cry. “What are you doing, Hans?”

  “They’re stopped in the road,” Hans explained as he pulled the parking break.

  “I can see that,” Claudia retorted.

  “I just want to have a quick word,” Hans told her. From the looks of it, the red Pontiac had pulled over to attend to some matter or another.

  “About what?”

  “Whether there’s a motel up ahead. And if they have any vacancies.”

  “In the time it takes you to ask them that we could be there already!” Claudia protested, but Hans couldn’t contain his curiosity.

  “I’m just going to take a quick peek. You can wait here.”

  Hans got out of the car, leaving Claudia behind in the shotgun seat. He looked right and left, but sure enough, there was no sign of any approaching traffic as he crossed the road and walked north towards the motionless Pontiac, about ten meters away.

  With its interior light on, Hans could see into the car even at a distance. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the front or rear seats of the vehicle. Now Hans realized what it was about the car that had seemed odd. There was nobody inside.

  The driver probably got out to relieve himself. He’s probably just behind the car, Hans speculated. But even when he circled the vehicle, there was no sign of the driver.

  The car was parked on the shoulder of the sloped road, just beyond where the pavement ended. All four of its tires were on the sand. One of the doors on the driver side was ajar—that explained the interior light. Nothing interrupted the red skyline that defined the earth’s edge. No cacti, even—the only plant life in this arid landscape was grass.

  Hans walked a few more steps and then called out loudly towards the horizon. “Excuse me!” But there was no response, other than what sounded like the faraway baying of a coyote.

  When the baying stopped and silence returned to the desert, Hans suddenly became aware of the sound of guitar music behind him. Guitar music and a woman singing … The strains of an old Country Western song were leaking out of the car’s open door. The car radio was on. In a husky voice, the vocalist sang plaintively about betraying her boyfriend, who was away at war, and marrying another man. I hate to say it, but I have to tell you this tonight. It’s too late now. I’ll be wed to another.

  Hans turned towards the woman’s voice. He had the impression that the radio had just been switched on and the music had just begun. But that was impossible.

  There’s nobody in the car. I must have been so preoccupied looking for the driver that I didn’t notice the music.

  The car radio must have been on the entire time, Hans told himself. When he peered through the open door into the driver’s seat, he noticed that the keys were in the ignition and the car was vibrating slightly. There was nobody inside and yet the radio and the engine had been left running, it seemed.

  Hans continued to take stock of the situation. A woman’s cardigan and handbag sat on the passenger seat, and two open cans of Cola stood in the cup-holders in the console box between the front seats. There was no smell of cigarette smoke; in fact, the car smelled more like milk. The smell seemed to emanate from the child’s car seat installed in the back. A fluffy towel and a cup had been abandoned there, and the entire back seat smelled of milk as if a small child had been there just moments earlier. The cup itself was still half full of milk.

  From the looks of it, Hans was quite sure there had been either three or four passengers in the car. Accounting for the driver, the woman in the front passenger seat, and the small child in the rear, there was only room for one more.

  But where had they gone? All three or four of them seemed to have vanished into thin air, though the evidence suggested that they had been there just moments earlier.

  Hans stepped back from the car and once again scanned the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was just disappearing, but there was no sign of the missing people. It seemed as if the red glow of the horizon was stronger than it had been a moment earlier, as if time were moving backwards.

  Before setting out on this road trip, Hans had read about a number of urban legends that were currently generating buzz in the U.S. One of them popped into his mind now.

  They were short vignettes, passed along by word of mouth among the younger generation who held them to be true. There were lots of variations, but they all conformed to more or less the same basic structure. Hans found himself recalling one such tale now:

  This is a true story I heard from a friend at my school. My friend’s dad was driving on Highway 168, between Big Pine and Oasis. It was dusk. There were no houses in between the towns out there, no cars even. My friend’s dad was driving along, bored, when all of a sudden he saw three people walking along on the opposite side of the road. This is in the desert, way out in the middle of nowhere. A guy and a woman carrying a small child were just walking along the highway. The man and woman had this stupefied, blank look on their faces, and for some reason the man was carrying a crushed Coke can.

  My friend’s dad slowed down. He figured these people were trying to hitch a ride, right? I mean, what else would they be doing out there? And how did they get out there to begin with?

  But none of them even glanced at my friend’s dad’s car. They just kept on walking, staring straight ahead, with no sign of trying to hitch a ride. My friend’s dad found that pretty strange, but he kept going. But after a couple of miles he just couldn’t forget about those people, so he pulled a U-turn and went back. He figured he should at least try to talk to them. He figured he had a duty to at least ask them what they were doing out there and if they needed help. He wasn’t in a hurry or anything, so it wasn’t a big deal if he had to go out of his way a little bit.

  But when he got back, the three people were gone. It didn’t make any sense. Just a few minutes ago, they’d been wandering down the side of the highway. The land was totally flat and empty, with just the highway cutting through it, so where could they ha
ve gone? My friend’s dad drove another two miles before he gave up and turned around again, this time searching extra, extra carefully. But the three people were nowhere to be seen. They had vanished into thin air. So then, when my friend’s dad had driven onwards about five miles from where he’d seen those people, he came across a car totally flipped over onto its roof. There were black skid marks on the road, and the car was totally smashed up. Steam was rising up from the radiator and black oil was pooling on the road like blood. The smashed-up, upside-down window on the driver’s side was half open, and a man’s arm dangled limply out of the window. The hand was clenching a crushed Coke can, and it swayed gently back and forth, as if beckoning to my friend’s dad.

  There were a number of variations, and Hans had read similar stories in a number of books. Families of ghosts wandering the highways …

  The sight Hans beheld now was different. Everything about the Pontiac suggested that it had held passengers just moments earlier. But somehow, they had vanished from sight, as if swallowed up by the desert. In fact, it brought to Hans’ mind the image of a ghost ship at sea.

  On the one hand you had the vast ocean, on the other, a North American desert. The setting was different, but the common thread was the theme of an empty vessel, its inhabitants absent but the traces of their existence still very much apparent.

  Then again …

  Perhaps there was a much simpler explanation, Hans reminded himself. Maybe the car had broken down and when the family had pulled over, another car had happened by and given them a lift. Perhaps they had grabbed only the barest of necessities and headed back towards Route 58.

  That was probably what had happened. Hans had almost convinced himself when the scent of citrus reached his nostrils. The tangy, lemony scent hit him full force.

  Maybe some sort of desert plant gives off this scent, he mused. But the fragrance was so fresh and juicy. He breathed deeply, his nostrils twitching and his eyes widening.

  Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he thought he felt the earth vibrate ever so slightly. Not like an earthquake, really, more like something bubbling up from underfoot. Like when you stand above a subway vent and a train goes by below, sending up gusts of warm, humid air.