by Tim Meyer
“He just lost it,” Barnes told the officer writing the statement. “Started clawing at his eyes. His face. It was... it was horrible.”
“What made him do it?” asked the cop.
Barnes never looked away, his eyes never faltering. He'd prepared his lies well and did a surprisingly convincing job delivering them. If the whole CDC thing didn't work out, Amanda would encourage Barnes to pursue a career in Hollywood. “I have no idea. He... just went mad.”
The cop didn't look like he believed him, but Amanda and Phelps were there to corroborate, which gave credence to Barnes's tale.
“Can you show me the field?” the cop asked. He turned to his buddy, as if he was expecting the big-bellied man to object. “I'd like to see it.” His partner nodded without any spirit.
“Sure thing.”
Barnes led the two cops down the path. This time, the whole crew came along save for the nursing staff. Kim Charon and her two pet lawyers insisted they tag along, and despite the cops suggesting how unnecessary their presence was, they came anyway. Kim was very convincing and made her case, though she had taken a much more delicate approach with the officers than she had Amanda and her team.
When they reached the end of the path, there was no field. Just more path, ruled by overgrowth and downed timber.
“I don't understand,” Barnes said, scanning the woods with disbelief. The path before them narrowed so much they couldn't pass through without risking someone twisting an ankle or breaking a foot. Too many uprooted trees, too much uneven terrain. “It was right here.”
The cops looked at each other. “Maybe you took a wrong turn somewhere,” said the one with the belly.
Barnes looked appreciative of the cop's gesture. He'd wasted their time bringing them out here, yet, the officer didn't give him a hard time. “Yeah,” Barnes said, hugging himself, comforting himself. “Yeah, maybe. Wrong turn.”
But there were no turns. It had been a straight shot and Barnes knew that. Amanda knew that. And Phelps knew that too. Despite this knowledge, their eyes weren't deceiving them. The path ended, here, in the middle of the woods.
The field simply didn't exist.
When they got back to Spring Lakes, the cops told them they'd review what happened, investigate and keep everyone updated on Cunningham. They allowed the CDC workers to continue their own investigation into the sixty-niner situation; though, they did recommend having a police presence to preside over the process in case “something like this happens again.”
“It's just... safer,” one of the officers said. “We'll have the precinct send someone over. You'll want help controlling the media once they get hold of it. We already turned away one local reporter.”
Amanda didn't disagree. It was safer. Especially considering what the three of them had witnessed.
After the cops left, they found themselves in Kim's office. Her eyes were wide and wild, filled with absolute anger.
“Do you three want to tell me what the hell happened out there? For real?”
No one spoke up.
Amanda checked her watch. It must've broken sometime during their excursion, stopped and restarted after they'd left the woods. The clock claimed only an hour had passed since their departure, and their first trip into the woods had taken at least that. Probably more.
“How long were we gone?” she asked, noticing the hands on the clock above the door matched the one on her wrist. “The first time. When we located Mrs. Finch. How long did that whole ordeal take?”
Kim shrugged, looking to her lawyers for verification. “Ten minutes. No more. Very quick, which is what makes this whole Cunningham thing a hard pill to swallow. Why?”
Amanda gulped, louder than expected. “Just seemed longer, I guess.” She glanced over at Barnes and Phelps, and they stared back as if they were thinking the same damn thing—this is utterly impossible. We were out there for at least an hour, maybe two.
Barnes got up and stormed out of the office.
“Where does he think he's going?” Kim asked. She was pissed, and, as much as Amanda had grown to despise her, she couldn't blame her for getting upset. This whole clusterfuck had snowballed into a bigger clusterfuck, and things weren't promising to get better, or easier, anytime soon.
“Our other team should be arriving shortly,” she said, which wasn't a complete lie. They should have landed in Newark over an hour ago and been halfway down the shore by now. “Barnes probably went to call our superior, Denny Cohen, and get a better ETA. They'll have more equipment and tests we can run on the guests.”
This didn't seem to satisfy the woman. Her upper lip squirmed. “Tests. More tests.”
“Yes, ma'am. Being the initial investigation unit, we're a little bit limited with our supplies. The next team will have everything we need.”
“What's our next step then? Wait around, hoping your friends get here? We've evacuated almost everyone like you asked. Less than ten guests are waiting to be picked up by their families. I have two nurses and one guard left on staff. I'm about to send them both home as well.” She tapped her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Jesus Christ, Cunningham. That poor young man's face...” She turned her head, disgusted, as if Amanda's face were a shiny sheet of red and her eyes had mysteriously been plucked from their sockets.
“What happened was very tragic. I wish I had some sort of explanation for what happened out there, I really do.”
“I wish you did too, Mrs. Guerrero. I wish you did too. But you don't. In fact, since you've arrived, conditions have worsened. All your tests and experiments have been a complete failure. You don't know any more about this thing now than when you first got here.”
“This thing,” she said, leaning forward, “is unprecedented. Whatever is happening here is going to take more than my team and a few machines to figure out. This is... this is unheard of in the medical field. An anomaly. Scientifically, I can't explain these... things. I can't explain why there was a note tucked in the back of Manuel Renteria's throat.”
“A blank piece of paper, you mean.”
She wanted to tell her. Took everything in her power to dance around the truth. She let the comment go, chose to ignore it.
“I can't tell you what truly happened to Cunningham because I have no idea what compelled him to harm himself. No idea.”
Kim turned to stone. Her eyes fixed on Amanda, never wavered. It was like she was trying to see the truth behind her strong facade, but the truth was exactly what Amanda presented—even though she knew a little more than she had let on, the fact was, she didn't know everything. Hadn't the slightest clue as to what was going down at Spring Lakes and the surrounding woods.
The Field.
Whatever it is, The Field is the source of it.
“The things we've witnessed this morning, Mrs. Charon, they make zero sense.”
She didn't realize how manic she sounded until she saw how Kim and her lawyers were staring at her. Even Phelps, who'd been directly touched by today's events, viewed her curiously. She shot her a stop-losing-your-shit look, and Amanda cleared her expression with her right hand, took a step back, and propped herself against the wall. She was done talking, explaining herself to Kim and her legal team.
Talking, at this point, was counterproductive.
I am losing my shit, Amanda thought. I'm totally losing my shit.
She kept seeing that creature in the field, the one that looked like her dead grandfather. The way its arms moved, the bones beneath its flesh nonexistent. Two long appendages filled with jelly, flopping around as the body propelled itself forward, after her. Reaching. Its pallid face gleaming in the moonlit glow. That smile, those crooked teeth. The bulge in its pants, protruding like some dangerous weapon, available and accessible in the face of immediate peril. Like the small baton Cunningham had almost used on Mrs. Fields, probably would have too (maybe) if the world hadn't suddenly turned itself upside down, if the kid hadn't gone and torn out his own eyes.
If that was what
he'd done.
(touch it)
(go ahead)
(it won't hurt)
(touch it)
She shuddered.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Guerrero?” Kim asked, folding her hands on her desk.
“Yes. I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine.”
“I just need some fresh air.”
“Go get some. And when you're done, for the love of Christ, can you please tell me what the fuck is happening inside my facility? Is that too much to ask?”
She made no promises and left the office without speaking another word. She headed for the back door. She felt a certain darkness follow her, the same darkness she'd experienced among the dead grass and endless forest.
12
Amanda climbed out of the Uber and thanked the driver, then faced Curly's Pub, a small, dingy joint just off the highway and located about two miles from Spring Lakes. She hurried inside without delay, checking her phone incessantly, impatiently waiting for updates from her boss, Denny Cohen. As soon as she passed through the entrance, she spotted Barnes at the bar, one of three people sitting bellies to the bar top and nursing their favorite drinks. He saw her immediately and laughed a little when their eyes met. She didn't find their predicament so comical.
“Tracking the GPS in my phone?” Barnes asked as she came over. “Don't remember that being in the employee handbook.”
She grimaced. “Didn't need a tracker to find you.”
“Am I that predictable?”
She took the stool next to him. “I thought you quit. What the fuck are you doing?”
“I did quit.” He stirred the contents of his dark drink, what looked like vodka and coke. She couldn't smell the alcohol on him to be sure, but, if she had to wager, that was what she'd put her money on.
The bartender came over and asked Amanda what her poison was, to which she replied, “Water, thank you.” He poured her a water on the spot, and, when he was finished, after he had left to restock the lemons and limes, she turned to her employee.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, keeping her voice low. The nature of their conversation wasn't meant for anyone else's ears, especially a couple of barflies with a few drinks in them. Who knew what complications that might spark? No one needed to hear about what had happened out in the field, the terrors that had taken place there. That was their secret, their experience, and she intended to share it with no one.
(touch it)
In other words, today was not the day she wanted to get fitted for a straitjacket.
“We can talk about it. About what happened in the field.”
“So, you saw things out there, too?” he asked, seeming to already know the answer.
“Of course, I saw the field.”
On the surface, he smiled, perhaps a direct result of the drinks he'd consumed before she had reached him. But, behind his good humor, she could tell the fear had gripped him, a sizable amount that ate away at his confidence, gnawed his nerves down to nothing. “Well, the cops didn't see it. It... it disappeared. Hid from us. It's like... it was playing a game with us.” His head tilted to the side. “I'm sounding crazy, aren't I?” She didn't answer, even though similar thoughts had passed through her. “Tell me—how the hell does a field disappear like that?”
“I don't know, Barnes. I don't know any more about this than you do. But you know what—we'll figure it out together. You don't have to do this.” She tapped the bar top next to his drink. “You don't have to ruin your sobriety. Don't let a few hallucinations destroy everything you've worked so hard for. It's not worth it.”
Barnes looked down at the drink like a long-lost lover he'd suddenly rekindled the flame with. “This?” An incredulous laugh escaped his mouth. “This, my dear, is definitely a worthy candidate for relapsing. Oh yes, I'd say lucid hallucinations that make you question the very nature of your own sanity are right up there with the best triggers.”
“What...” She stopped herself, as if posing certain questions would open doors that could never be shut again. “What did you see out there? Exactly?”
He stared directly into her eyes but didn't speak. Just when she thought he wouldn't, that he'd keep the secrets of the field all to himself, he reached inside his jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. She recognized the biohazard symbols at once. He slapped the bag down on the table and slid it in front of her.
“What's written on this?” he asked. When she didn't answer, he followed up with, “Anything? Any words at all?”
She swallowed. Peering down at the small ribbon of paper, the same words were printed there that had been a couple hours ago. “It says...” She turned her head, the thought of speaking the words aloud causing her gag reflex to trigger. Just seeing them filled her with deep disgust, a sickening feeling that felt like poison lining the bottom of her stomach. She wanted that feeling out of her, and she debated running to the bathroom, sticking her finger down her throat, and vomiting until every single drop came out. “It says... touch it.”
Barnes seemed generally surprised by this, as if maybe he were expecting her to say nothing had been scribbled there. As if he had expected something else completely. “Touch it?” He shrugged, the words meaning nothing to him. And they wouldn't. “I'm guessing that holds some significance to you. Something that may have happened to you at some point in your life. Something bad.”
She nodded, was unable to hide the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“Guess it's something harrowing? Something deeply personal? Traumatic, even?”
“Yes. All of those things.”
“Hm. Well, Amanda Guerrero, mine doesn't say touch it.”
“Yours?” She didn't understand. “Barnes, did you find another piece of paper?” She was under the impression there was only one, and, since she hadn't been apart from Barnes and Phelps for longer than five minutes that afternoon, she found it highly unlikely someone had found another clue.
He shook his head. “Same paper. Only, when I look at it, I don't see touch it. I see something completely different.”
“What then?”
He cracked a smile; although, Amanda knew it was a front. A facade. A strong attempt at holding everything together. “A few years back, I lost someone very special to me.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unable to find a position that she could stay in for very long. She couldn't blame the stool for the gift of stiffness it gave her back; her inability to secure comfort was a direct result of their conversation.
“It was before I started working at the CDC,” he continued, playing with his napkin, tearing it into tiny little balls. Something Amanda used to do when she was younger to pass the time at restaurants, something that drove her parents absolutely nuts. “It was a great relationship. We connected on every level. We were planning to get hitched one day. Had it all figured out. How we'd do it. How we were going to tell our folks.” He stopped, paused briefly, smiling at the memories. “Then, one day we got into a bad argument. A real nasty one. I suppose all couples have them. It's part of life, right? Anyway, there was shouting. Screaming. We both said things we didn't mean. Name-calling. Insults you say just because you want the other person to hurt. It was terrible and I'm deeply ashamed.” He took a sip from his drink, allowing the taste to linger before continuing. “In the year plus we'd been together, this was our first fight. Our first real fight. I was sober at the time, had been for two years, so alcohol wasn't a factor and was definitely not the cause of it. Honestly, I don't even remember the initial cause of it. I feel like it was something mundane that just got blown out of proportion and then someone said something nasty, and it snowballed out of control from there. Is it weird that I can't remember what started it?”
Amanda chose to stay silent. She lowered her eyes to the untouched drink before her.
“Anyway. We fought. He left. Brian. Brian left and he...” His smile faded, the memories finally getting the best of him, tearing d
own that good-natured front he'd donned so well. Blinking away tears, he covered his mouth with his hands, stalling, delaying the rest of the story.
Amanda put a comforting hand on his back.
“Brian left, and he... he was in recovery too—it's how we met actually, in recovery, at a meeting—and he decided he was going to use that fight to trash his sobriety. I guess it was a way to get back at me. So, he went to the bar and got shit-faced. At least, that's what the toxicology report stated.”
“He died?”
Barnes nodded.
“Car accident? Overdose?”
“Nope.” Barnes shook his head, the memories continuing to drive tears down his face. “No, I feel like that would have been preferable over what actually happened, though.”
Amanda felt her throat seize.
“He didn't drive that night. Didn't overdo it with the drinks, though, he did put back quite a few in a short span. He was shit-faced, sure, but he didn't drink enough to kill himself. No, Brian's downfall was that he decided to walk home from the bar instead of calling a cab, and found himself in a neighborhood he shouldn't have been in in the first place—I have no idea what he was thinking, but he was drunk, and I guess that contributed to his thinking, or lack thereof. Anyway, a couple eyewitnesses saw him talking to some guys at the bar—flirting with them—which seemed to piss off a certain section of the establishment's clientele, a few ruffians who weren't very accepting of Brian's behavior. And I don't know why or who because the police were unable to apprehend the bastards.”