Kotzenburg Ch.7

Most Are Fairly Pleasant, Until You Meet Them On The Road

By Chris Wunderlich

Traffic had always been an issue in Kotzenburg. Those that didn’t arrive by rail faced limited, terrible options. Travel by water was virtually nonexistent, despite residing on the coast of Lake Erie, as anything heavier than a kayak was doomed in the shallow, muddy shore. To arrive on foot was practically unheard of—the big city was too far away, and there were few reasons to stop in-between. That left the roads—the few, congested, stop-and-go, light-filled, wholly despised roads.

                Most that made their commute to Kotzenburg from the big city rode the trains. They were unreliable, unpredictable, crowded, old, uncomfortable, and slow, but preferable to the roads. Everything the Hesse Manufacturing Company brought into the town, and everything they exported went by rail. At any hour, day or night, one could hear the trains whistling—and the commuters grumbling. But they had it easy, compared to those that dared to bring their cars into town.

                To get to Kotzenburg from the big city, you had to ride the highway out into farm country (a pleasant enough start). From there, you’d take exit 715 and follow Kotzen Rd. south (lovely to watch the cows, tractors, and crows). But Kotzen Rd. was deceiving, lulling its guests into a state of ease, only to place meaningless intersection after meaningless intersection in their way. When the farms disappeared, the barren land appeared. Country paths would cross with Kotzen Rd., trapping visitors at prolonged red lights, leaving them to wonder if farmers ever traversed the intrusive intersections, or simply insisted they exist. Perhaps they were built hoping the town would expand. Perhaps they were intentionally malicious. Red light cameras sprang up more often than trees.

                As Kotzen Rd. made its way into the town proper, it connected to every other main street, acting as a singular, inefficient artery in a messy grid of veins. This meant that every parent attempting to drop their child off at school, every factory worker late for their shift, every garbage truck and delivery truck and ambulance and horse-drawn buggy wound up on Kotzen Rd., eventually. And few vehicles ever moved at more than a snail’s pace. It was guaranteed madness, every single day.

                This made any culture revering the motor vehicle rather taboo. If you lived, or worked, or even visited Kotzenburg more than once in your life you regretted owning an automobile. That is, unless you joined one of the underground gangs that embraced such a taboo. Only in the earliest hours of the morning could one find the streets of Kotzenburg clear—exactly the time they would congregate. When a hush spread across town, it would inevitably break with the sounds of mufflers popping, engines revving, and maniacs shouting. The auto gangs of Kotzenburg took to the empty streets each night, tearing down every main drag, suburban laneway, and country dirt road they could find, often at speeds rivaling those on the distant highway.

                Though Kotzenburg residents grew accustomed to the loud cars in the dark, accepting them as another quirk in their little factory town, the street racers were never sanctioned by law. At first, the police tried to stop them, camping out on the longest roads, waiting for laws to be broken. But the speedsters knew where to avoid, and only the maddest would tempt the cops to a chase. When chases did occur, drivers were never caught. They were too fast. They were having too much fun.

                This street racing culture, though annoying to many and rightfully feared, remained harmless—until young Joey Brand took the wheel. Joey had been a troubled youth, dropping out of school to work in the factory. There, he was soon fired for questionable behavior. Had Joey been slightly younger, he would have fit in (nay, led!) the terrifying youth street gangs, but instead, Joey fell in with the speed demons—mostly retired factory workers, ex-criminals, and other outsiders who turbo-charged their vehicles for nightly joyrides. Joey grew to care about his car, and little else. One night, while blasting his way down Kotzen Rd., mocking the police as he passed, Joey lost control and flipped, smashing first into the curb, then a fence, then directly into the Hesse Microwave Factory. The resulting explosion woke everyone in town—immune to the sounds of racing, but surprisingly startled by nuclear detonations. Both Joey and his car vaporized—instantly. Hesse cleaned up the mess and kept it out of the news. The incident was only spoken about in whispers from then on.

                But many claim Joey didn’t leave that night. He may have vaporized, but his soul, they say, stuck around, unsettled. Maybe it was the radiation from the factory, maybe it was pure baloney, but a strange thing occurred after Joey’s disastrous accident. Kotzen Rd., formally the slowest route around, became possessed! Or it seemed that way, anyhow.

                Nobody knows for sure how, but night after night the traffic lights that stood at the inane, abandoned intersections disappeared. Cars began to speed from the highway to Kotzenburg, ignoring every crossing in their way.

Polly Cloud, Mayor Supreme, had hoped to build her new neighborhood along this north-end strip, and had originally sanctioned the development with the slow moving traffic in mind, while Vadim Domokos—Millionaire with an Iron Fist—brought his construction crew into town. The once barren landscape had begun its transformation, unprepared for the wild vehicles flying unabated in every direction. Polly sent her muscle, Bob Hogg, out to patrol the road and place stop signs along it. No matter his vigilance, the signs soon vanished as well. As Domokos went ahead with construction anyway, accidents occurred on a regular basis, often involving speeding cars and all-too slow construction vehicles. Vadim Domokos was determined—he wouldn’t let a cursed road stand in his way.

                And the changes to Kotzen Rd. weren’t limited to the outskirts—in town, things had sped up to a dangerous degree as well. Where once every vehicle had crawled along, now motorists raced through. Perhaps celebrating the flow of traffic, people ignored speed limits, police cars and stop signs. One could get from the highway to the Hesse Microwave Facility in under twenty minutes—if they followed the flow of maniacal traffic and blazed through town with reckless abandon, as was becoming custom. The streets were no longer safe. Drivers assumed control, over the law, over Polly—even over the gangs of kids who thought it “lame” to look both ways before crossing. Joey would have loved it. Of course, some say he’d caused the whole thing.

                Joey, perhaps a spirit, perhaps just a memory, was a powerful force in Kotzenburg long after his death. Indeed, Mayor Polly, desperate for a solution, was surely possessed by a speed demon when she declared her plan. They were to build a new highway extension, down into Kotzenburg, away from the road, where motorists could speed to their heart’s content and not worry about traffic lights or stop signs or pesky pedestrians. Yes, Joey’s spirit was to be satiated.

                Failing to secure funds from any branch of government, Polly convinced Vadim to fund the new highway. He jumped at the opportunity and purchased automatic toll machines before the first shovel broke ground. He’d always wanted to own a highway—especially one he could personally design and control. It was built on concrete stilts, high into the sky, circling the new neighborhood of Domokos, avoiding any Hesse controlled land. Mr. Skinner, in his infinite sorrow, bemoaned his further loss of control over the town. At night, when traffic became sparse, the street racers flew faster than they ever had before on stretches of the raised highway, flying above the homes, surely fueled by Joey Brand’s irradiated spirit. And during the day, commuters abandoned Kotzen Rd. altogether, blazing a path to the Microwave Factory in record time.

             Mayor Polly immediately saw the benefits the overbearing highway (named, embarrassingly, the Vadominator Parkway) had brought to Kotzenburg. Construction caused a minor economic boom. Dangerous vehicles were crashing into each other instead of buildings and people. And Vadim was over-the-moon, adding to his fortune with the ridiculous tolls he charged. Polly therefore commissioned further development, and Vadim was only too happy to oblige.

The Parkway soon towered over the downtown core, suburbs, the mall, schools—even the factory. Everywhere one looked, they could see cement pillars upholding the great racing strip in the sky. And even after every pre-existing avenue had been connected, with twisting on-ramps and appropriately alarming signage, construction continued. Polly refused to let the boom end. And this is why the Vadominator Parkway stretched out into the water, purposeless, with nowhere else to go. One could drive to the middle of Lake Erie if they were foolish enough to do so. Joey would have, probably, as fast as he could, right into the waves.