This was one of four necropoli I wrote for The Book of Oblivion (Wraith 20th Anniversary Edition). Sadly, all four were cut for lack of space. That may have been my final freelance work in the World of Darkness… closing the cycle, in a way, since my first work was also for Wraith. Anyway. Here ya go.
In its heyday, Route 66 was a peerless transportation artery, running from Chicago to Santa Monica. Threaded through Joplin, Tulsa, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, San Bernardino, and Los Angeles, it showed American motorists a vibrant cross-section of the Midwest and Southwest until the interstate highway system supplanted it in the 1950s and ’60s. Without federal maintenance funds, Route 66 withered, subsumed by state roads or vanishing entirely.
In the Underworld, derelict highways may resurface as byways or ghost roads. Not so for Route 66. Sometime in the early 1970s, its entire 2,448 miles manifested in the Shadowlands. Wraiths in Riverton, Kansas were the first to report that even as Maelstrom tornadoes ravaged the surrounding region, the highway was untouched. In mid-1976, an Anemographer/Ghostrider expedition out of California met a band of Legion of Paupers explorers from Illinois at the highway’s Adrian, Texas midpoint. The Empire’s Bureau of Trade soon proclaimed that Route 66 appeared to be a safe and stable route through the American Underworld.
What troubled early explorers remains a concern today: Route 66 defies all conventional wisdom on Shadowlands geography. Although plenty of blood soaked into its asphalt, it never approached the body count of deadlier highways like Interstate 95 or Camino a Los Yungas. The Artificers and the Harbingers would like to claim credit, but there’s no evidence that Route 66 is a cultivated byway or an unprecedented working of Inhabit. The popular and comforting theory is that its modern status is a result of its cultural iconicity, a rare example of a non-living construct accruing Memoriam. A less benevolent explanation is that popular culture has imbued Route 66 with a myth-driven form of quasi-sentience. No one wants to hear the fringe belief that the “highway” is really a charmingly useful and friendly-faced manifestation of some Labyrinthine elder horror.
Route 66 earned recognition as a Necropolis, albeit a very long and narrow one, by virtue of its permanent population. In most places, its protection from Maelstroms extends five to ten yards from the asphalt. This so-called Black Ribbon Citadel is home to perhaps a thousand wraiths, many of whom form small Circles to offer travelers’ services. Most such groups have colonized the ghost towns that crumbled along the route after the interstates diverted travel and commerce. Other citizens include the Night Mail (ghost truckers and bus drivers who serve connected conventional Necropoli), Wings for Wheels (a Chanteur troupe famous for its repertoire of travel-themed songs), and Detroit West (a large nomadic Circle immersed obsessively in the imagery and culture around classic muscle cars and drag racing).
The Hierarchy’s hand rests lightly upon Route 66. The Legion of Paupers first re-mapped the highway’s full length and was quick to lay claim to authority here, but its duties are largely ceremonial. The ghost road needs no maintenance; indeed, it rejects all attempts to patch its cracks and potholes. With the population so widely-distributed, there’s little call for bureaucracy. Under the command of Anacreon Robert “Pony Bob” Haslam, the Legion’s 7th Cavalry Squadron provides what law enforcement is needed here. The 7th, more commonly known as the Black Ribbon Patrol, spends most of its time assisting travelers and investigating the occasional mysterious disappearance or reappearance.