ERO

by F. P. Dorchak

  2

  The drive in to grave shift had been nothing short of nerve-racking. There was no one on the road except for himself—and one lone driver who seemed to keep his distance probably about a mile or so behind. Even when he slowed down, the driver seemed to stay back at about the same distance. Or so he figured, since it was hard to judge distances in the dark. But there was a vehicle that had also seemed to follow him onto Enoch Road, then on to the site itself. After parking, Cherko stayed in his car for a minute or two, to see who it was who’d followed... but saw no one enter the Entry Control Point before him. A couple cars now pulled in, and his well-devised surveillance plan went out the window.

  But not only was there the hang-back driver, but it seemed as if things were out of place in his car. His water bottle, which he always kept up front, was under the back seat. A Missing Persons tape of his that he’d been listening to in the cassette player was stuffed down between the seats. He hadn’t done that. You’d think if these Men in Black were government, they’d be professional enough to not move things...

  Unless they did it to mess with him.

  Send a message.

  And even as he entered through site security, the SPs seemed to eye him a little closer. He could see a silhouette behind that tinted window inside the Entry Control Point. Just standing there.

  Then, once inside on the ops floor for shift change, Major Turnbull was there, also eyeballing him.

  When shift change ended, Cherko went looking for Turnbull, but he was nowhere to be found, his office vacated and locked.

  Cherko sat down at the console and logged on.

  Prepare for information string.

  Without batting an eye, Cherko tapped the right trackball switch and F10.

  His cover job’s screens all came up and he checked them all out as he received his communications.

  But something wasn’t right with his communications, either. They felt... different.

  You feel different, Cherko sent at the elevated communication level.

  I am a different communicator.

  Why?

  Are there several of you at your position?

  Information was passed, and Cherko noticed this one, though cold and scientific like the other, seemed to also have another element just out of reach. Or was, perhaps, trying to be... hidden?

  Unavailable?

  Cherko also noticed his data were back to numerical strings, no more text.

  Why are these different? Where are the words?

  This is the information string to be sent.

  You know what I mean, and don’t tell me I’m not authorized an answer.

  Silence.

  More data was passed.

  Why will no one tell me what this program is about... how I fit into everything?

  Because it has been deemed you are not required to know. Your participation in the program is not contingent upon your knowledge of the data nor the outcome of your actions.

  That’s the first direct answer I’ve ever received from you guys. What do you know about the—

  Communications are terminated.

  horse—

  That was the end of that. But he had received a direct answer to a question, and that was a start. He’d also had a new communicator... which was way too coincidental. Things were just getting a little too—

  “Lieutenant,” came the voice from behind.

  Cherko spun around in his chair.

  Turnbull.

  “In my office when you’re done.”

  * * *

  Cherko entered Turnbull’s office.

  “Close the door and sit.”

  Cherko did.

  Turnbull folded his hands before him.

  “You’ve been poking your nose into areas you shouldn’t be poking your nose.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t play with me—or this program. This is serious. Gravely serious. It’s not television.”

  “I had no idea, it wasn’t my—”

  “I don’t care,” he said, heavily enunciating each word. “When you came onboard you signed paperwork. Part of that paperwork declared you were to keep your nose clean. You have to avoid certain topics, people, places—events—”

  “But there are people being—”

  “That is not your concern,” Turnbull snapped.

  “What?”

  “Your concern is your job. Period. It’s a dirty world out there, and certain things have to be done by a chosen few. That is your only concern. You are only concerned with your part in the big puzzle.”

  Cherko stared at Turnbull.

  “Lieutenant, you may not get it yet, but your life could be at stake here. You saw how serious these people are. And there is no leaving the program.”

  Turnbull got to his feet, then leaned across his desk. For the first time, Cherko noticed how powerful (and hairy) his forearms were, as they disappeared up and under the rolled-up cuffs of his crew blues.

  “You really don’t know the extent to which these people can go. There are no boundaries with these organizations. You signed paperwork, but believe me, they won’t stop there. Believe me when I tell you, you better keep your nose clean, or you might not live to regret it.”

  Cherko continued to stare at Turnbull.

  “Now, go... take a walk and think things out. Get your head on straight, Lieutenant. We’ll cover for you until you return. Go.”

  * * *

  Outside, Cherko walked the perimeter of the rough-textured building, glancing up to the stars. It was a warm, pleasant, June night. He seemed to be asking himself this question a lot, lately, but: what the hell had he gotten himself into—never leave?

  Cherko walked around to the rear of the building. He left the yellow glow of the construction and street lights for the umbra and anonymity of darkness.

  He felt as if he’d joined the mafia, for chrissakes. The ultimate bait and switch. He’d wanted some cool job, thought he’d found one, but quickly discovered that once you entered... you could never leave.

  Hotel ERO.

  What did that say about career progression, let alone life?

  How did someone stay with a program forever?

  And he never remembered signing up for that.

  Not to mention, would he be doing this for the rest of his life? What kind of life was that to look forward to?

  Cherko leaned against the building and again looked to the night sky. A shooting star arced across the heavens. Those used to be looked upon as a good sign, but it looked like he had nothing good to look forward to any more. He felt a twinge of nostalgia for those lost days of childhood. Those naïve dreams. He was all for growing up, adulthood, but never had he—

  Prepare for information string.

  What?

  Prepare.

  But, I’m not at my—

  What the hell was he supposed to do?

  He scrunched his forehead. Something was wholly different about this communication on every level. He felt an odd mental expansion.

  77900/Subject77900/9846128/1682/Recall/0388025N1045246E///

  Communication terminated.

  Cherko was able to hold the data string in his head!

  This was new.

  It was like he could visually see each digit before him, like the pages of a book—and wholly retain it. Before, while at his console, it was like he was a voice-activated relay, the numbers entered his head, they were instantly translated through his fingers and entered into the workstation, and he wasn’t able to retain them in his memory for any length of time.

  This time... he could.

  And there was a deeper dimension to this communication he couldn’t put into words, beyond what he’d felt at his first “expansion.”

  And the entity sending him the data... he/she/it wasn’t even the same one who’d recently changed out his previous contact. This one connected to him in a very deep way he found disconcerting. It was like he felt he/she/it in his bones.

  Cherko
leaned back against the building and again looked to the stars.

  77900/Subject77900/9846128/1682/Recall/0388025N1045246E///

  He remembered the string, digit for digit, and it was like each digit had a multi-dimensional depth to it. Continuing to stare skyward, he ran the string over and over in his mind. A cold sweat gripped him.

  His identifier!

  His identifier and the Subject preamble were the same!

  He pushed away from the building.

  Recall.

  Subject 77900.

  Him?

  Since when was he...

  Cherko heard a noise and looked to his right.

  A light in the sky... coming his way.

  Hurrying away from the building, he uneasily made his way through the darkness, and tripped, rapping his elbow against something hard. Cursing, he stumbled about the ground like the typical movie klutz always made to trip during pivotal chase scenes.

  The light continued straight for him.

  Cherko scrambled for darkness and to put building between him and that light, but everything moved in a frustratingly super slo-mo.

  The light was almost atop him when he finally got to his feet. Fear tangled his legs as he tried to run, his feet blocked in invisible concrete shoes. He cornered a dark bend rapping his knuckles on the rough pebble-like exterior, and again nearly tripped as he trudged through piles of what felt like dirt. He stifled his near-tripping by plunging his hands into the pile of cool earth. As he scrambled back into the darkness, he saw and heard the light fly past.

  A chopper.

  What the hell was a chopper doing out here?

  And... jets?

  Jet aircraft shot overhead—and not very far above at that.

  Cherko collapsed against the building, panting, felt a slightly twisted left ankle.

  Good Lord.

  He paused long enough to catch his breath. He brushed off his crew blue pants then carefully picked his way through the darkness alongside the building to a side door. He stood before it. Looked to the light above the door.

  To the soft, calming glow of the yellow light.

  So beautiful.

  Haunting.

  Filled his being.

  Cherko smiled.

  Smiled into the light... the calming, haunting light....

  Chapter Thirteen

  1

  Colorado Springs, CO

  4 November, 2010

  0330 Hours Mountain Time

  Jimmy’s eyes popped open.

  Somebody was in the room with them.

  Sweeping off the blankets, he leapt out of bed, swiped on the bed-side lamp, and almost knocked it off the nightstand in the process. He fumbled after the baseball bat leaning against the wall, then held it out before him.

  Scanned the room.

  Looked to his bed.

  Their bed.

  There, laying on her stomach under blankets and bed sheets, her head buried by two fluffy pillows, was Erica.

  Jimmy stood near-naked and confused.

  Was he more confused at seeing his wife in bed with him or at the intruder in their bedroom?

  He continued to hold out the bat before him... shaking and breathing heavily.

  Nothing.

  There was nothing standing before him in their bedroom.

  Licking his lips, he inched forward, cautiously, and checked out the bedroom’s small bathroom, faint moon light streaming in from between closed curtains. He turned toward and approached the bedroom door.

  Why hadn’t Erica awoken? How could she sleep through all this? Was he becoming that commonplace that she no longer was awakened by his nocturnal activity?

  Baseball bat up before him like rifle-at-ready, he crept out into the hallway.

  He flicked on light switches as he searched their tri-level.

  Nothing.

  He went through every room, every closet. The crawlspace.

  Nothing, nothing, and nothing. Not even a field mouse.

  He returned to their bedroom, bedroom nightstand light still on, and bat lowered. Back beside the bed he leaned the bat back up against its station at the wall. Slowly he turned toward the bed. Stared at Erica’s still-sleeping body.

  Or what he thought was Erica.

  Re-grabbing the bat without turning around, he used it to nudge the bundle of blankets and pillows.

  She wasn’t there.

  Again... gone.

  Another business trip to Cheyenne? Bozeman?

  He lost track. Just another one of those hypnagogic incidents.

  He replaced his bat bedside, but this time came to the closed window drapes and pushed them aside. Outside, under the motion-detecting lights, grazed

  “Deer.”

  He left the window and returned to bed. Turned off the light.

  “Nothing but fucking deer.”

  2

  Colorado Springs, CO

  4 November 2010

  1455 Hours Mountain Time

  Cherko entered his office after having been in the software development lab for several hours, and thumped his tech order working copy onto his desk. He sat down, tired, and tapped the down-arrow key on his keyboard. Check some e-mail, do his timecard, then head out to see the shrink. Herr Doktor Alda.

  Ve have vays....

  He was actually kinda looking forward to the visit. Anything having to do with the mind fascinated him. It should be interesting to see what someone else thought of his... “condition.”

  State of mind.

  Whatever.

  But nothing was happening. With his computer.

  He again tapped the down-arrow key.

  Still nothing. His screen remained dark.

  What the hell?

  Moved the mouse. Again nothing.

  “Okay... what’s going on here....”

  Continuing to tap his keyboard, he peeked under his desk to the machine itself, a black IBM ThinkCentre tower.

  No lights.

  Not even that little green one that told you the computer was powered on.

  Cherko ducked under his desk and hit the ThinkCentre’s start button, then sat back up.

  Blackness. Still no screen activity. In fact he didn’t even hear that boot-up click-hum-spin-whir.

  “What the hell?”

  His computer had been working when he’d left for the lab. Things had been working just fine, then. What’d changed? A virus? Had some updated push from the IT Computer Geeks caused an unintended crash?

  Getting down on all fours he went to the back of the computer. Checked and rechecked all connections. Traced all power cords to the surge protector outlet.

  And found it.

  One cord—the main power cord—was actually about a quarter inch from being pushed all the way into the strip.

  Now wasn’t that interesting.

  Cherko reseated it and instantly heard the subdued whine and whir of the IBM ThinkCentre coming back to life. Backing out from under his desk (and whacking his head on the underside of the keyboard tray), he sat back on his haunches (rubbing his wound).

  Now, what would have caused the power cord to inch out of the outlet like that? Might he have kicked it?

  Cherko sat in his chair. The screen was already working its way through its NT boot-up sequence. In moments it was ready for his sign-on and password, which he entered. He glanced to the clock. Nearly three; quittin time. And since he had a three-thirty appointment with Alda, he had to leave pretty much right on time today.

  He guessed he could have kicked the cord loose just before leaving his desk... the power strip that was all the way back against the wall. The power strip that was out of kicking range.

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  No matter, it was up and running, and he had to enter his e-timecard info and punch.

  3

  It was snowing again, big, honkin flakes, as Cherko made his way up the hill on Austin Bluffs Boulevard, by the university. It seemed it was always snowing the past couple we
eks. That was good for the High Country and skiing, but as much as he loved it, it was taking up a lot of his time with all the shoveling and snowblowing. But it did make driving fun. He loved driving in the stuff. Bad weather always gave you something to do other than just sitting there behind the wheel mindlessly droning on from Point A to Point B. You actually had to do something—show some actual skill on the road—and he liked that.

  Cherko took a left off Austin Bluffs Boulevard and onto Austin Bluffs Parkway. Entering the parking lot, he veered off toward the right, found Alda’s building, and parked.

  * * *

  Jimmy entered the small, empty, and actually quite pleasant office of Dr. Walter Alda. He momentarily ducked back out into the hallway, but, still—no one. The building felt empty. Re-entering the office, he immediately went to the walls, checking out Dr. Walter Eugene Alda’s plaques and certificates. Graduated from a couple schools he hadn’t heard of—except for CU, Boulder. Was also practiced in hypnotherapy. Hm, that’d be interesting to try. Cherko then left the Love-Me wall for the large windows and stared out at Pikes Peak.

  The snow was beautiful.

  Calming.

  After a few moments, he turned back around and found two huge, comfortable Victorian chairs angled toward each other, and took a seat in one.

  So, here he sat, awaiting The Great Learned One who was going to solve all his problems and bring him back into the light of day.

  Dr. Alda.

  The office was small and not at all like what was usually portrayed on TV or read about in books. His had no grand oak or cherry desk, behind which were all manner of psychiatric encyclopedia and compendia, nor upon which were reams of published papers. No, Alda’s desk was small and sparse, though he did have filing cabinets and books everywhere. He also had some rather outdated bean-bag chairs, and those bubbly waterfall things that were supposed to calm you. The office didn’t feel stuffy nor intimidating. This could be fun.

  Three hardback books momentarily got his attention: Communion, Transformation, and Breakthrough.

  Dr. Alda entered the room.

  “Mr. Cherko, I presume?” he said, rubbing his hands together.