by Stanley Gray
Alan laughed when a thought struck him: no wonder he’d gotten drunk the night before.
Drumming his fingers on the leather steering wheel cover, Alan pondered just what, exactly, he was doing. It seemed odd. Ironic. Piquant in an eerily pleasant way. A part of him had craved danger for some time. The rigid world that he existed in seemed oppressively sterile at times. Alan often wondered if he were the lifeform in the petri dish. But…harboring this…creature. That might be a bit more adventure than a Dartmouth grad playing cops and robbers could handle.
It began to rain. A slight drizzle that pecked at the windshield intermittently. Just enough precipitation to remind you that you were in Oregon. The air became cooler suddenly. Reaching down, Alan cranked the window shut. He grunted. Leave it to the weather to break his reverie.
Through the gray fog blanketing the small meandering highway currently jam-packed with cars, there emerged a set of brilliant flashing lights. Alan watched with an odd, surreal sense of detachment as the Klamath Falls Police Department squad car approached. He unbuckled himself. Reaching behind himself into the cluttered backseat, he retrieved a single notebook and a thin blank manila folder. Plucking his black cube-ish camera up by its long strap, he had time to sling it over his shoulder before the law was upon him. The sirens were so much louder up close. They pierced the shroud of rain and fog and woke him from the mental lassitude they normally engendered.
“You Investigator Alan Grunke?” the local cop asked, tapping on the window with one gloved hand. His voice sounded distorted through the glass. He wore a funny cap with fuzzy flaps over the ears. His red nose informed the careful observer that he possessed a very strong affinity for a certain beverage. Somehow, Alan expected the man to smell like stale cigarettes, false machismo, and overchewed spearmint gum.
Alan gave one last look around the interior of his old vehicle, and then nodded. He tried to force a smile onto his face. Nodding as he cracked the window, he tried to smile. His throat seemed dry. He coughed into his fist, then cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m Alan Grunke.” He said.
The officer chuckled. He waved one hand dismissively. “Then get the heck out o’ the car, Einstein. We need to get movin’.” The officer’s gold name badge read: P. Davis. His navy blue uniform shirt contained two yellow chevron patches on the side.
Alan silently acknowledged the officer, and navigated his old vehicle off to the shoulder.
His head down, Alan followed behind the law enforcement official, heart galloping in his chest. What was he supposed to do? What would he find? Wild speculation ran rampant through his frenzied brain as he bent down and maneuvered into the passenger-side seat. He looked over and opened his lips to ask if he could move the seat back, but then decided against it. When the cop removed his hat, he revealed a bald head that seemed to enhance his intimidating aura. Alan didn’t want to disturb the man.
They headed down the highway, passing the seemingly endless procession of idling vehicles, mostly rusted trucks and S.U.V.s. A bright sign on the side of the road screamed that Ray’s Fuel Mart had the cheapest gas prices in on 97, GUARANTEED. Someone ran their hand out of their car window as the official duo passed, raising their bony middle finger and shouting into the wind. Alan heard officer P. Davis grunt. But they continued on.
“Um, thanks for picking me up.” Alan said.
Much as he didn’t want to talk, the silence in the small, humid space between them was exerting itself heavily, and Alan couldn’t stand it. Even though the police radio he wore crackled and came to life briefly intermittently, the ugly noise was not enough to slake his thirst for a distraction.
Davis chuckled. He kept his eyes on the road, and remained quiet. He did, however, reach down with one hefty arm and flick the dial on the radio. The sound that emerged from the speakers was a blast of static, and both of them immediately covered their ears. The Klamath Falls cop almost swerved off into a drainage ditch. Alan quickly darted one hand out and shut the device off.
They both breathed heavily as they tried to recover from this sudden assault on their tympanum.
“What is goin’ on ‘round here?” Davis muttered. His hands clutched the steering wheel so tight, they had blanched and turned an unhealthy shade of pale.
Alan adjusted himself in his seat. He glanced over at his interlocutor. “Did you hear anything about…a supposed crash?” he asked.
The man worked his jaw. He began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. A low, humming sound emanated from him, despite the fact that his mouth formed a tight barrier against any fugitive words. After a long moment of tense silence, the man spoke. “You know, with Kingsley right here, we sometimes get weird complaints. We’ve had some strange things happen. Especially recently. But I’ve never known any of the pilots or anything to just up and crash.” Davis said.
They took a sharp turn, and Alan was tossed in his seat. He grabbed his seatbelt with one hand and lost track of the conversation.
Pulling up in front of the nondescript one-story building, Corporal P. Davis dropped Alan off without another word. When Alan looked, he saw that the officer hadn’t even turned to wave good bye.
Sighing, Alan looked up at the gray sky and wondered what he’d gotten himself into. A master’s and a doctorate. An Ivy League kid. But here he was in a crappy government job stuck in the middle of nowhere, investigating the fucking alien that was currently doing God knows what in his own rented home. Then he did what any good bureaucrat does in difficult circumstances: he went into his office so he could take his stress out on the person under him.
Dale was an anomaly. A large man who could easily appear fat, he wore his greasy brown hair in a mullet. He frequently wore 70’s-style polo shirts in odd colors, and almost always there were telltale stains related to his junk food addiction evident. His calves were bigger than most people’s arms, and they were covered in tattoos.
He sat at his desk, back to the door, talking on the phone. Here, too, boxes rested in every available space, dominating the room.
Alan liked Dale. They’d worked together for some time, probably at least two decades. They’d graduated academy and were trained together, and formed an unlikely bond almost from their introductions. Alan the New England cerebral type, Dale the… Dale defied typecasting. A former Army Green Beret, he now was a NASA space cop with no real power or authority. The pay was nice. But that was about it.
Of course, Dale also knew thirteen languages and a stored a few silos of useless trivia answers in that Neanderthal skull of his. Which is probably why they got along so well.
Alan jumped. Dale slammed the phone down onto the cheap metal desk. He stood swiftly, and turned. Almost immediately, the man’s temperament went from furious to happy. Dale smiled and rushed towards Alan, enveloping the lanky man despite his protests. Dale lifted Alan into the air and swung him around.
“Boy, am I glad to see you, sir.” Dale said.
Alan laughed. It felt good to be needed. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“We need to head back out towards Shady Pine. Something crashed there by the Upper Klamath Lake, and…well, we might have a chance of recovering something.” Dale said.
“Okay… can you give me a little more detail?” Alan asked. He lived near Shady Pine. “Shady Pine?” he asked.
Dale raised one bushy eyebrow and retreated back to his desk, nabbing his leather jacket off the back of his metal chair. Then he was headed towards the exit, not bothering to pause and see if Alan would follow him along.
Alan looked at the chair for a few moments. He wondered how a man the size of Dale could stand to sit in something so obviously uncomfortable, often for interminable periods. Shrugging, he followed the big guy out of the office, stopping only to make sure the door was locked before hurrying into the parking lot.
“Maybe I can pick my car up on the way.” Alan said as he got in the truck. Dale liked to drive flashy new trucks, the bigger the better. He usually leased, but they’d gotten a nice
bonus for relocating, and so the gruff ex-special ops man had purchased this one. A brand new limited-edition Dodge. Fire engine red paint sealed the deal.
Dale chuckled. He put the vehicle into gear and began driving. “Maybe.” He finally answered. When Dale noted that Alan wasn’t talking, he looked over and saw his boss staring dumbly at the radio. “What’s up, Alan? You alright?” Dale asked.
Alan looked at Dale, his eyes milky and distant. “Did you have any trouble tuning the radio? Alan asked.
Dale shrugged. He reached out and rotated the dial. A deafening screech filled the air, and Dale quickly shut the radio off. They both sat for a moment, trying to get past the ringing in their ears. Finally, Dale broke the ice. “How did you know about that?” he asked.
“When the local guy, Davis, when he brought me in from the highway, he tried to help me out and turn on some music or something. I think he could tell I was agitated by the quiet. Anyway, that happened.” Alan said, pointing in the general direction of the radio.
“Weird.” Dale said.
“So, tell me what happened. I need to know everything. After all, even though you hate to act like it, I am the boss.” Alan said.
Again, Dale chuckled. He wiped at his face and cast one last suspicious glance at the dashboard, where the radio was. “Basically, there was a loud something or other over by the lake. Some people called, and then more people called. Anyway, the locals got overwhelmed, and someone knew we were in town, and gave us a buzz to try to get some of the callers off their back. Of course, there are A LOT of people claiming they saw some sort of strange craft hovering before the crash. Some people even captured some video…”
Alan rubbed one temple as he leaned against the window. They drove past his rabbit, and he grunted but made no attempt to mention it. “It sounds like there is an and.” Alan said.
“Oh, a big and. So, the news in Medford caught wind of this, and our friend from Washington, Mr. Harris also heard the breaking news. Medford is the hub for all the tv stations and such around these parts, if you didn’t know that.” Dale said.
“I did know that, Dale. Thanks. So…what with the media? Did they call the office?” Alan asked.
“Only a couple dozen times.” Dale said. Then he turned and smiled. “In the first ten minutes.” he finished. “Yeah, they called. And Congressman Harris is trying to get the best and the brightest from any federal agency that will listen on the scene as soon as he can summon them.”
“Why would the radio signals be down, but not the cell towers’?” Alan wondered aloud.
“That, my friend, is a great question. Unfortunately, we’re here.” Dale said.
Chapter 4
Alan gazed out the window at the crowd of people. Abandoned cars littered the narrow, meandering highway. The lake dominated the horizon behind. Bathed in the surreal, garish glow of jaundiced lights, the people seemed like a mob. They weren’t shouting or even angry, but there was an underlying intensity, a certain buzz one could feel in their bones as they approached the scene.
As he got closer, he noticed a large, black circle in the middle of the marshy area. Nothing remained in the circle, but the obsidian patch surely hinted at whatever had been there. An ugly smell, vaguely sulfurous, filled the air. The breeze that castigated them as it did its rounds was intense, and Alan wished he’d remembered to bring his coat. He looked over at his partner’s leather jacket with envy.
No police tape or anything cordoned off the area. It did not appear to be a crime scene, and few cops were there. The ones that did show a presence in the area seemed more intent on helping with traffic and making sure people didn’t trample each other to death in an effort to gawk at the big black crater.
“Well, nothing says we can’t get closer.” Alan said. He took a step, then paused. “Try to find some eyewitnesses. Gather as much testimony and evidence as you can. I’ll meet back with you in about an hour.” Alan said. Seeing Dale nod, Alan resumed his march towards the curious crater that had mysteriously appeared here in quiet southern Oregon.
“It’s supposed to be the land of Bigfoot.” Alan said under his breath.
His feet made a thick sqqqquish sound as he moved into the marshy madness. Somehow, whatever it was that had created this mess had burned wetlands. How does that happen? Even Alan felt it necessary to pause and ponder this.
The fact that he didn’t have any of his normal tools made his job considerably more difficult. He walked around the large, oblong indentation, tracing his steps carefully. He calculated that, roughly, the oval-shaped area was 8000 square feet. Hesitating, he noticed that a number of people were watching him intently. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the circle.
He almost fell over. Immediately, he felt dizzy. His hands trembled. It felt as if his entire body succumbed to dangerous paroxysms. He reached out to grab something to steady himself, but found only empty air. Stumbling backwards, he fell onto the ground.
Within seconds, he heard footsteps, and Dale was there, face so close Alan could taste the man’s bad breath. Alan feebly waved the man away. “8…8…8000…feet.” he muttered.
Clucking his tongue, Alan reluctantly took the outstretched hand of his comrade, noting how large and hairy they were as he was heaved up to a standing position. Alan brushed the front side of his khaki pants idly as he tried to focus. He felt disturbed. Disoriented. As a man who’d gone through life priding himself on his mental acuity and ability to control himself, it was hard to grapple with the humbling reality that he might not be as smart or strong as he projected. Returning his gaze back to the crash site, he forced himself to look. To take in all of the details in excruciating detail.
As a child, Alan had frustrated his austere career academic parents often with is unusually keen knack for recall. He could look at a room or a scene, and remember every detail, sometimes even years later. They would try to play games with him, where he would try to find a missing appliance or omitted detail. But, he would always win. Alan grew up in a competitive home. His dear old mom and dad were not the type to go easy on a child. Not even their own flesh and blood.
This strange and, perhaps ironically, professionally useful gift only had one problem: fear. Alan possessed an even greater ability to disassociate and block out images or details that caused him anxiety. When he proved unbeatable at his parents’ games under normal circumstances, they began experimenting. It was objective. They recorded their findings in a dirty leather-bound ecru notebook, down in the jaundiced light offered by a single bulb in the basement.
Alan’s heart raced. His body felt hot. Beads of thick sweat, laced with the scent of fear, moved down his palms and ribs. He trembled. Alan jumped when he felt a hand come to rest on one shoulder. Swiveling, he saw Dale hop back and widen his eyes.
Blushing, Alan apologized.
“What’s wrong with you, dude?” Dale asked.
The trees, some of which still displayed the red and yellow leaves of fall, shivered as a cool breeze crept past, whispering as it did so. Alan looked blankly at the world around him. People milled around, and a helicopter droned in the distance. A stream somewhere close by babbled.
“I got really drunk last night.” Alan said. At least that was true. He felt dirty. He understood that his life was in the process of a radical change. One he could never recover from. The lies and treachery loomed there in the crystal ball. His heart felt heavy. He already possessed too many dark secrets.
Dale guffawed. Though tentative, he reached out and slapped Alan on the shoulder. The big man’s eyes shined. “You? Drunk? Why didn’t you invite me? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk, little Alan Grunke.” he said. “That’s so out of character, man. What’s up?” Dale changed his expression. He became concerned. Guarded. “Why now?” he asked.
Alan sighed. He moved one foot around in the swampy grass. He made a face and inspected the bottom of his brown shoe. He made a mental note to buy a few pairs of throw away shoes, and more foot coverings. “I forg
ot the booties.” Alan said. Normally, given the importance of preserving evidence, they would be wearing yellow plastic deals over their feet.
“Gloves, too.” Dale pointed out.
Alan fought hard not to fall down. He wanted to collapse into a fetal position and scream.
“Hey, man. You need to take a leave? I mean, we do have a lot going on. But, I can probably handle it, at least for a few days.” Dale said, his voice lowered.
Alan took a breath. “No. Not yet, anyway. If I keep forgetting protocol, maybe.” He said.
“So, hey…what’s the occasion? Why you a lush all of a sudden?” Dale asked, smirking.
Alan waved a hand dismissively. “We’re in fucking Klamath Falls, with a congressman on our asses and a new crash site that no one can explain.” he said.
Dale nodded, but he didn’t buy it. His eyes told the tale of his skepticism. But he let it go. He turned back to the black patch of burned earth. “How do you burn water?” he asked.
“I think they burn the marshes on purpose in Maryland. Prescribed burns. Helps preserve the ecosystems, or so the theory goes.” Alan said.
“How do you know this shit?” Dale asked. Then he chuckled. “And you still didn’t answer my question.”
Alan remained silent. He was steeling himself to confront the task at hand. He had to look. He had to remember what he saw.
Flashbacks of that basement, of him being helpless as he was poked and prodded…of watching his pet puppy, a birthday gift, being slowly dismembered and then eaten. He clenched his jaw. A solitary tear escaped one eye. Slowly, focusing on his breathing, Alan regained some level of control. He had to look.
Turning, Alan gazed at the black marsh. The lake was there, maybe 1000 feet beyond, sunlight dashing off its surface. Even this late in the year, it would be normal to see people on the water. But, today, the placid surface remained unmolested.
“We didn’t bring a camera, either, did we?” he asked. He directed his words over his shoulder, to the large man standing behind him.