<< Back 10/9/02 A vehicle of sinister origin ‘Buick 8’ is vintage King By Gary Carden From a Buick 8 by Stephen King. New York: Schribner, 2002. $27.95 — 356 pp. According to reports from CNN, Time magazine and the author himself, From a Buick 8 will be Stephen King’s last novel. I am a bit skeptical since I remember when Kurt Vonnegut “retired” (he ended up doing a dozen more works); and Robert McCammon “quit for good” (that was 10 years ago and he is back this month with a 726-page epic). However, let’s assume that “big Steve” is sincere and proceeds accordingly. That means that I am going to relish this one — put it on like a new suit, put my hands in all the pockets and wear it downtown. From a Buick 8 is vintage King. Somewhere in western Pennsylvania, behind a state patrol barracks designated Troop D, there is an old garage that the troopers call “Shed B.” For the past 23 years, this bland and unadorned structure has weathered the elements. There is nothing outwardly distinctive about it — except it has remarkably clean windows. For over two decades, the patrolmen of Troop D sometimes stare through those pristine windows, their hands bracketing their faces as they peer intently at ... whatever is inside. Except for a rare visit by a politician, the general public never visits this remote installation. No one asks “What are you fellows looking at?” And even if such a question were asked, no one would answer. No, what is in Shed B is a carefully guarded secret. What is it? Well, it appears to be a 1954 Buick Roadmaster. But it isn’t. Let’s go back to the beginning. One rainy night in 1979, a high school dropout named Bradley Roach was working as a pump-jockey at the Jenny service station on SR32. Looking up from his flying saucer tabloid, Bradley sees a midnight blue Buick parked at the pumps. (Note that he did not see it drive in — it was suddenly just there.) The driver, dressed in a long, black coat and a floppy hat, says “Fill ’er up,” and vanishes behind the station. He never returns. The puzzled Bradley calls the highway patrol and the automobile is impounded until such time as the owner is found. That is how the Buick 8 ends up in Shed B. Gradually, it becomes obvious that things are not as they should be. For instance, there are no miles on the odometer, there is no license plate either, and despite the stormy night, there is no mud on the fenders. The dashboard doesn’t function and the steering wheel is too big. Pebbles placed in the tire treads fall out and scratches to the exterior paint “heal.” Things are even stranger under the hood with a motor block that doesn’t function. The exhaust system is made of something resembling Pyrex. In fact, the entire automobile (with four portholes on one side and five on the other) seems to be a simulation — an astonishing replica! For what purpose? Gradually, the Buick 8 becomes sinister and no one is allowed to enter Shed B except authorized personnel. When a curious trooper vanishes, Troop D realizes that they have become the unwitting guardians of both the Buick 8 and a secret that can never be revealed. Briefly, they consider the possibility of turning the car over to the FBI, the government or the military; however, in every instance, the troopers come to believe that the result would be disastrous. With everyone sworn to secrecy, a young trooper, Curt Wilcox, begins to construct a “containment strategy.” The Buick is monitored and filmed. Then, it begins to “gives birth” to a series of grotesque life forms (they are ejected from the trunk), each horribly misshapen and dying. One “delivery” looks a little like a bat ... then a fleet of beetles arrive, and a fish as big as a sofa. Occasionally, there are eruptions of light and electrical storms which disrupt communications. Wilcox learns to correlate radical drops in temperature with intervals in which the Buick is dangerous. Little by little, Wilcox becomes obsessed with the car’s purpose and origin. Where did it come from? What does it want? Learning the rudiments of vivisection, he does crude autopsies on the dead “children” (they tend to dissolve) and keeps records, files and videotapes on every new incident. He worries about the low-level humming, and wonders if the Buick “breathes” — exhales (a delivery) and inhales (someone is “sucked” into the car and emerges ... where? ). Although From a Buick 8 teems with tension and menace, much of the plot has to do with obsession. It is Curt Wilcox’s preoccupation with “a thing not of this earth,” that becomes his fatal flaw. As Wilcox becomes adept at interpreting the Buick’s evil nature, he seems to correspondingly lose a degree of his own humanity. However, the most terrifying moments in this novel occur when Curt and his fellow troopers catch a momentary glimpse into an alien world — an incomprehensible place that seems inimical, even lethal to us. Perhaps the most riveting moment comes when a hideous (and pathetic) visitor (another delivery) perceives our world and its inhabitants with the same terror and horror as we feel for it. At times, Curt Wilcox thinks that the Buick’s powers extend beyond the shed that contains it. Can it touch lives? Influence behavior? Manipulate suicides and “accidents?” Then, suddenly, Curt is dead, killed in “an accident.” From a Buick 8 is replete with marvelous characters, each lovingly etched with memorable qualities — a wonderful Norwegian handyman (Arky) complete with dialect; a suicidal, guilt-ridden young patrolman (Eddie J.); a sexy, maternal dispatcher (Shirley), and a wonderful dog named Mr. Dillon who will break your heart. There are a host of others, too. Ned, Curt’s son who is in danger of repeating his father’s mistakes; Sandy, who tells the majority of this story, and Tony, the aging commander who finally succumbs to Alzheimer’s and asks the patrolmen who visit him in the nursing home, “Do I know you boys?” Above all, King does a masterful job of depicting the lives of highway patrolmen with insight and compassion. He captures a world where a boring afternoon of naps and snacks at the barracks can be abruptly converted into a nightmare of slaughter and bloodshed. King states in the afterword that the idea for From a Buick 8 predates his own near-fatal brush with death when he was struck by a van several years ago. Did that experience find its way into this novel? Yes, it did. The death of Curtis Wilcox, who is struck by a drunken driver as he stands by an 18-wheeler on a Pennsylvania highway, proves to be one of the most graphic and affecting passages in the book. “As with Wilcox, the coins were stripped from my pockets and the watch from my wrist. My cap was found in the woods some 20 yards from the impact,” said King. The significant difference is, King lived to write From a Buick 8. (Gary Carden is a writer, storyteller and lecturer whose book, Mason Jars in the Flood, was recently named Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writers Association. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com.)