SODIUM Trilogy Part One

by Stephen Arseneault

  I called out Bull's name, and he stopped and turned. I then realized why he had not recognized me. I was fifteen years older, and it might as well have been fifty years given the shape I was in.

  I was scrawny. I walked with a slight limp, and my posture was hunched over a bit from all those years of looking down at the ground. I was certain the disheveled hair and the wild gray beard did not help.

  Bull came over slowly and asked me how I was and what I was doing there. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my prize. As I held it up, my hand was shaking. I told him it had taken me fifteen years, but I had found the evidence we could show the world. I told him we could finally tell our story, and of how everyone would know we were the heroes we knew we were. I told him about how this was going to change our lives and make us famous.

  His response was silence. I continued to ramble on about what this was going to mean for us all, and he finally stopped me and pointed to Allie and the two young boys and a girl that were now standing with her. He told me he already had more than he could ever want. He did not want his life to change, because as far as he was concerned, it was already perfect.

  The same feeling of anger that had come over me fifteen years earlier began to well up inside again. I was mad and in disbelief they wanted nothing to do with my find. I had the proof in my hand that aliens existed and had been to our world!

  After several minutes of my arguing and getting a bit irrational, Bull turned and signaled to Allie to take the kids away. He then turned back to face me and put his hand on my shoulder. He told me he had no interest in the device, or in the alien story, and did not want to subject his family, his children, to any part of it. He did not want the publicity or the turmoil that would come with telling about the aliens. I was angry, but at the same time, I could see he was genuine in his concern for both his family and their lives together.

  Bull had been my best friend as long as I could remember having a friend. I knew I could no longer involve him and Allie or their children in my strange tale. I would just as soon cut off my own leg as cause them grief or harm.

  After my moment of rage waned, a calmness returned. I told him I would not involve him, Allie, or the kids in the revealing of my find. Aside from the friendship we had shared for so many years, I owed him my life at least a half-dozen times over.

  As Allie began to herd the kids back up the stairs of the hotel toward their room, I raised my hand in a friendly wave. Allie stopped for a moment, then smiled and continued up the steps. I walked out of the hotel lobby unsure of what to do next. There was a pay phone sitting to my left, and I decided it was time to give Kyle and Susi another call. I needed to see if they were of the same mind as Bull and Allie.

  After ten minutes on the phone, I told my sister goodbye. I told her not to worry, as I would not involve them either. I was dejected. Most of my adult life had been spent searching for this bit of alien hardware, and the people I needed with me most... wanted nothing to do with it.

  I turned and walked into the hotel parking lot and to my truck. I retrieved my bat and then stood silently for several minutes just looking at the ground. I crossed the street and walked into the nearest woods. I felt at home in the woods. The trees and rocks had become my friends and family. I mumbled to myself as I walked deeper into them.

  I rambled aimlessly through the woods in deep thought for several hours. When I emerged, I was standing behind a diner near the highway. I leaned my bat against a tree and walked into the gravel parking lot of the establishment.

  The diner had a giant teepee on one end of a long covered porch with a wooden Indian by the door. Several rocking chairs and a bench offered a welcoming feel. I walked onto the porch and took a seat on the bench. In my new depression, I was unsure of what to do with what I had and what I knew. I sat with my head in my hands for most of an hour.

  I did not want to go it alone with some crazy alien story in the fast-paced world of 1973. Fame and fortune no longer seemed important. Without the support of my family and friends, I had no desire to tell the world of my heroics. For the first time in fifteen years I had no purpose, no drive, no destination to strive for or seek out.

  I then came to a decision that my obsession had done nothing but ruin my life. Why had I been so consumed with finding this device? Why was it so important? How had it done anything to enrich anyone's short life on this world?

  In that moment I wanted to be rid of the demon artifact. I wanted to rid myself of the burden it had placed upon me. I was in need of a quick solution to my long lived problem. I was in need of an irreversible end.

  As I sat there on the porch, a family approached the diner. As they came up to the front door, a young boy stopped and was making faces at the wooden Indian. At that moment I decided he should now hold the responsibility of the alien artifact, if for no other reason than because he was there.

  I got up from the bench and moved down the porch behind him. As I walked, I concocted a wild story about how others were after me and how he would need to protect it from them. I then grabbed his right forearm and jammed the device into his small hand before he had a chance to say no. He stood silently and listened to my fifteen-second rant. I then turned and walked away.

  I had no idea what the boy might do with the device, and I no longer cared. If he threw it down, I hoped it would get swept up and thrown in the trash forever. I was finished with the aliens, and for the first time in fifteen years a real sense of calm and peace came over me. I walked around the side of the building, collected my bat, and proceeded to walk back into the woods, with no desire to look back. I had found my permanent solution.

  I never found out what the boy did with the item, and for that I was thankful. A wide grin was on my face as I walked the several hours back to my truck. I had come to the conclusion that I had proven to myself all that needed to be proved. I was free from the knowledge that had become my obsession.

  I then came to the realization of what an obstinate fool I had been for my entire life. It was no wonder my wife had left me. My sense of what was important was warped, and it always had been. I had an epiphany about who I was and just what mattered.

  I no longer felt the need to prove myself to anyone for any reason. And I no longer felt I was entitled to anyone's attention. I had lived a life centered around only what I wanted, only what I perceived to be good for me. It had only served to drive away my family and friends. I was alone in the world, but for the first time in my adult life I didn't feel lonely.

  I then drove north for several hours, stopping in Big Springs, Montana before deciding to call it home. I would shave and clean myself up. I would transfer what little money I had in Sacramento to the local bank, and I would live out my final days as just another normal citizen, a friendly old man who was always helpful and caring of others, always putting them before himself.

  Gone were my thought patterns that aggravated others. Gone was my desire to be a hero or my need to somehow compensate for my lack of height. And gone was my obsession with any part of my life. I had let go. I was free. I would just be me, not looking to have influence or advantage over anyone or anything.

  I was certain the aliens would one day return, but it was no longer an item of my concern. Our handful of ordinary citizens had beaten them once. I believed there to be no reason why we could not do it again. But it was a fight in which I no longer felt the need to be involved. My war with the aliens, and my battles with obsession, were over.

  As the days went by, I would always keep one reminder of my fight for survival: my old hickory Hillerich & Bradsby S44 baseball bat. It sat, standing on end, leaning against the wall in the corner of my bedroom. A small notch was missing out of the handle where I had fought for our lives and won. If the aliens were ever to return... and if I should feel the need to join in the fight... my trusty friend would be waiting, always ready to be swung in the defense of humanity.

  ~~~~~

  SODIUM

  (Vol. 2)

&nbs
p; Apocalypse

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  The year was 1973—I was seven years old. And the fate of the world was about to be placed in my hands.

  Man was not aware that other beings—hostile beings—inhabited our little part of the universe, and we were not prepared to protect mankind from them. We had only recently set foot on the moon.

  We had easily risen to the top of the food chain here on Earth. We were clever, resilient, and bold. We were fighters, determined to shape our own destinies. But we had never taken on an enemy that was intelligent like ourselves.

  Little did I know that scenario was about to change. One could only be amazed at how such a tiny device would change the course of history.

  I was too excited about our trip out West.

  My parents had saved for several years for a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park. They had planned a two-week trip by car, leaving from Detroit the day after school let out for the summer. The baby-blue family Rambler had been packed the night before. I remember being all nervous before we left the house.

  As we set out that day, my thoughts weren’t about man’s role in the universe or about what else might be out there. My thoughts were entirely preoccupied with our trip to Indian country.

  Every hundred miles along the interstate, it seemed we passed an exit that had a trading post with a teepee out front. It was definitely Indian country, and my brother and I kept a sharp lookout for any signs of trouble.

  Our father had filled our imaginations with scenes of Indians on horseback attacking the roadway. All I could think about was fighting Indians and hunting grizzlies. It seemed most every young boy back in the early seventies had dreams of being either a cowboy, a soldier, or both. I was no exception.

  After the first day's drive, we pulled into a motor lodge outside Sioux Falls on the eastern end of South Dakota. Even with the excitement of the trip, it was a tiring ride. We unloaded what we needed for the night from the car, checked into our room, and went promptly to bed. After sixteen hours on the road... the thrill was gone.

  The following day was an early riser, placing us back on Interstate 90 to Badlands National Park at the western end of South Dakota. My dad told stories of how the Badlands were a big meteor crater. He said the meteor had fallen through the skies from Mars thousands of years ago. My brother and I spent the afternoon looking for Martians behind every rock, but try as we might, we were unable to track down a single one.

  It didn’t occur to us that Dad’s story was just that—a story. We believed him on his word.

  After a full afternoon of hunting and sightseeing, it was back to the motor lodge along I-90. That night our father ushered us into dreams with wild tales of Indians and the soldiers who fought them.

  We rose early the next day for the trek to our next destination—the Little Big Horn and Custer's Last Stand. Despite my disappointment over not finding any Martians, I had high hopes of fighting Indians.

  Dad’s stories added excitement to the long, boring car rides, but I was a little frustrated by seeing all the trading posts that advertised Indians but not seeing a single one. I guessed that maybe the cavalry kept the interstate protected, or they otherwise would not be allowing us to travel it.

  After a night, a full day, and another night at the Little Big Horn, we were ready to move on to Yellowstone. I tried to hide my disappointment that the only Indian we saw was a wrinkled old man with a feather in his cap. He was smoking a pipe and sitting outside the visitor’s center at the Little Big Horn. The old Indian certainly was not hostile, and he was certainly not interested in my scalp. I looked longingly back at him through the rear window of the car as we pulled away.

  The next adventure was much the same. After three adventurous days in Yellowstone seeing the geysers, mud pots, and buffalo, it was on to the Grand Tetons. Again my dreams of the wild west had gone unfulfilled. We arrived at the Grand Teton visitor’s center at about eleven thirty in the morning. Hunger was on all our faces.

  The ladies in the visitor’s center directed us just down the road to a diner that served buffalo burgers. The diner—the Double S, it was called—was constructed to look like an old Western building covered with weathered plank siding and a metal roof. It had a covered front porch with rocking chairs and a big wooden Indian by the entrance. The left end of the building had a giant teepee attached for drawing in tourists like ourselves. The smell of grilling buffalo was in the air, and the hungry travelers were eager to get at it.

  My parents and little brother walked in front of me up onto the diner's porch and in through the front door. I lingered for just a moment to check out the big wooden Indian. This one looked like it had more fight in it than the wrinkled old pipe smoker at the Little Big Horn.

  I stood making faces at the stoic savage as if I had nothing to fear from it. Then suddenly an old man grabbed me by the arm. He had a full, gray, frazzled beard, was dressed in rags, and had a smell about him that nearly brought tears to my eyes. He had big, bushy eyebrows and one eye that squinted while the other looked fully open. He perfectly fit the stereotype of every crazy guy I had ever seen in the movies or on TV, but strangely, I was not scared.

  He shoved something in my hand and told me to watch out for "them." He said "they" were everywhere, and that I should never give "them" the device he had forced upon me. He said to never tell anyone where I had gotten it from or "they" would kill him. He only said it once and then released my arm. I turned for just a moment to look for my parents, who had already gone inside. When I turned back, the old man was already disappearing around the corner of the building.

  I stood there looking at my hand, then back at the corner of the building, and then again at my hand. It was a strange-looking cylindrical item that had the appearance of a tiny shock-absorber. It had been broken off from something else at both ends. The device was a mystery, and the circumstance by which it was placed in my hand immediately awakened my imagination.

  Once again I was jolted by a grab... this time to my other arm. It was my little brother, Rex, ranting about buffalo burgers and lunch. I secretly slid the device into my pocket and followed Rex inside. As we waited to be seated, I looked out the windows and caught a glimpse of the old man making his way into the woods behind the diner. He walked quickly, but with a limp. I took a final glance back toward the roadway to see if he was being watched or followed, but there was no one else around.

  I don't know why I never told my dad about the incident or showed him the device. Maybe it was the thought of getting in trouble somehow for talking to a stranger; maybe it was the fact I did not want to let my pesky little brother in on my new adventure. Either way, it made for an exciting day.

  From the Tetons, we made our way over to Dinosaur National Monument. I enjoyed seeing the history, but I would not be drawn into a hunt for real dinosaurs as urged by my father. Twice burned, I had learned my lesson.

  We then had a several-day drive back to Detroit. I kept the old man's item hidden away from my little brother in my pocket. I took pleasure from the idea I could reach in and fumble with it at will with no one the wiser. I spent many hours wondering about who "they" were, what was so special about this device, and why I had been selected to receive it.

  When we arrived home, I raced into my room and into my closet. I had a small metal box with a combination lock on it. My mom had given it to me several years before. It was the one secure place I had where I could keep things I did not want my brother to get his grubby little hands on.

  For what seemed like every night for a month, I would go into my closet just before bed. I would get out the device to stare at it and daydream about what it might be. But I was seven, and with it being summertime, the intrigue of the device was soon relegated to just the occasional look.

  By the end of the summer the mystery device had lost its appeal, remaining locked in the box in my closet. Junior high and high school went by like a blur, and I soon found myself wearing a cap and gow
n and receiving a diploma. The device did not see daylight again until my college days.

  Little did I know how significant a role that tiny little item would play in my life. Somehow, fate had seen to it that one brief encounter would later play a major role in the survival of Man.

  Only luck would prepare me for the things that were to come.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Until a few months before that day, my life had been pretty ordinary. I grew up in a lower-middle-income home on the outskirts of Detroit. Mom and Dad both worked and had always provided my brother and me with food, shelter, and clothing. Much of our school district was at the same income level, so everyone got along well. It was your typical American neighborhood with one old, used car in each drive and a clothesline in use out back during the warmer months.

  I managed three and a half years of high school football before a knee injury ended my college speculations. As a result, I was destined for a factory job making auto parts down at the plant where my dad had worked for thirty-five years. That life had worked for my father, and although we didn't have a lot, we had always managed to get by.

  It's strange how, when you don’t have much, you don’t seem to need much. We only had a handful of well-to-do kids in our school, and since they tended to stay to themselves, no one really viewed themselves as have-nots. In my family, you were taught to always live within your means and to be responsible in your actions.

  My dad was a shade tree mechanic in his spare time, always fixing the neighbors’ cars and anyone else's that got sent his way. It gave him extra cash to spend on a project car—an old Mercedes diesel. When I was about ten, he had purchased it and began the restoration. He named it Suzie. I hoped against hope it would not become my first vehicle.