Event: A Novel

by David L. Golemon

  He realized he wasn’t buried, but had fallen through into some kind of shaft or tunnel, maybe a cave of some sort. He reached for the heavy-duty flashlight that was clipped under the dashboard and brought it up and clicked it on. He aimed both the light and revolver outside the front window. The dust still eddied and swirled as the light cut a swath through the semidarkness.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked himself, his voice sounding distant and muffled in the stuffiness of the car. He jumped and voiced a yelp when rocks and dirt thumped down on the roof of the car from above.

  He knew he couldn’t have fallen that far, or there would be more damage to him and the cruiser, so maybe he could stand on the roof and pull himself up to the surface. He glanced up through the window at the fading sunlight shining in through the thirty-five-foot sinkhole he had fallen into.

  “Doesn’t look that far,” he mumbled.

  He shone the light against the wall nearest him. From what he could tell, it looked smooth, almost as if some giant bit had drilled it out, or as if it were made of black concrete that had been trowel-smoothed to a shiny finish. He saw the old roots of long-dead trees and bushes buried into the semigleaming surface, reaching through like ancient skeletal arms and hands. Milner was just getting ready to crack his door when a shadow fell between the light and the wall.

  His eyes tried to adjust to the sudden movement and darkness beyond and see what had caused the distinct change that had come into the strange tunnel. Then he screamed as something crashed into the dirt-covered windshield, sending a spiderweb of cracks through the safety glass. He screamed again, the yell bouncing off the glass and reverberating through the car.

  Dills’s body lay torn and bloody and looked as if something had taken out a huge bite between his head and left breast, as the light fell on the man’s glazed, dirt-filled eyes.

  Milner screamed again while he retrieved his gun and forced the door open and started to scramble from the car.

  The beast rose from the cool earth under the patrol car and rolled the cruiser over as the state trooper jumped clear. He heard the metal crunching as it was tossed over and over as something attacked it. The overhead lights went out and the tunnel was thrown into utter darkness save for the dust-diffused sunlight coming through the tunnel roof. Now, in the swaying beam of his flashlight, Milner saw massive, swinging arms crashing into the underside of the cruiser again and again. The attacker shifted its angle; it walked slowly around the upturned cruiser, alternately attacking and then falling back and then circling again. Milner started backing away, using his heels to dig into the earth as he crab-walked backward, using his elbows and heels, his breath coming in short, terrified gasps.

  The animal turned at the sound. The man saw the evil-looking eyes fall on him. It was a smooth, fluid motion, the air parting with a loud swish as it swung its elongated arms and, to the trooper’s horror, its long, spiky tail.

  Milner tried to bring his left hand up and fire his weapon, but it had caught under his right leg in his effort to back away. The animal stood before the lone trooper and just stared at him. It took a step forward, then another, its hind claws sinking deeply into the dark earth, the massive tail swishing the air behind it. Then a blackened tongue rolled from its mouth and the beast roared, shaking its head, sending out the armored plates layered on its thick neck.

  On the surface of the desert above, a hawk swept low across the hardpan and lit for a moment at the mouth of the large hole the cruiser had fallen through. When the triumphant scream of the animal sounded, followed by gunfire, the screaming of Arizona State Trooper Milner began. The small bird of prey cocked its head and then quickly flew away, leaving the desert motionless once again.

  Below the surface of Fort Platt, the Destroyer fed.

  SEVENTEEN

  Chato’s Crawl, Arizona, Twenty Miles East of

  Apache Junction

  July 8,1900 Hours

  The dining room window of his mother’s bar and grill afforded Billy Dawes a view of the piece of desert entrapped in the large valley, and for the first time in his young life the view didn’t hold imaginings of adventurous things. It now seemed to be holding a dark secret that was hidden from him and those around him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the world out there was different somehow and it made him wish they lived where there was no desert, valley, or stone mountains.

  As he turned from the window, he saw two tourists, a man with plaid shorts and black socks, and another, who had to be his wife, with a sunburned face. Both were sitting at the bar eating hamburgers and drinking Cokes; they had spent the last half an hour arguing over the map they had just purchased from Phil’s Texaco. There was also Tony Amos, trying his best to stay on one of the high barstools and not succeeding well at all; the beer glass he had in front of him had been emptied twenty minutes before. Then there was Billy’s mother. She was wiping water rings off the bar with a dish towel as she looked his way and smiled.

  Julie Dawes had purchased the bar a year after the death of Billy’s father in a mining accident. Billy was proud of his mom, the way she handled the bar and grill and the constant fending off of advances by the miners and construction workers who found their way into the Broken Cactus. She was still pretty at age thirty-eight.

  She gave him a wink as he walked back behind the bar and started cutting limes and lemons for tonight’s run.

  She walked up behind him, lightly throwing the bar towel over her shoulder. “Why don’t you go riding for a while before it gets too dark, baby? I’ll do that.”

  Billy cut the lime on the cutting board into four wedges and sighed.

  “Gus is in the mountains,” he answered, hoping she didn’t see the worry on his face as he didn’t want to answer any questions about how he was feeling about the desert.

  Julie raised her left eyebrow. “That’s never stopped you before. I thought you liked it out there.”

  Billy set the knife down and looked through the large plate-glass window again. He wiped the acidic juice from the fruit on the apron he had tied around his waist, then brushed back some of his brown hair as it fell across his forehead.

  “I don’t want to go out there today.” He hesitated. “I… I think I’ll wait until Gus gets back.”

  Julie didn’t really like Billy’s only having one friend. And that friend being Gus Tilly, who was old enough to be his great-grandfather, made it worse. Oh, she liked the old man well enough, but she thought it couldn’t be too healthy for Billy to be around Gus only. For that very reason she was thinking of selling the Broken Cactus and moving back to the Phoenix area. The boy needed kids his own age.

  “What’s wrong with you, kiddo?” she asked.

  Billy turned and faced his mother, then glanced at the two tourists who had driven up in one of those battleship-sized Winnebagos. They were busy looking at a map, arguing about whether they wanted to drive to the San Carlos Reservation or move on to New Mexico and Carlsbad Caverns, and weren’t listening, but he lowered his voice anyway.

  “Something… I don’t know, Mom.” He looked at his tennis shoes. “It’s weird out there since yesterday and I don’t know why.”

  Julie looked out the window a moment, then patted his head. “Why don’t you go upstairs and watch TV for a while and I’ll bring you a couple of cheeseburgers, okay?”

  Billy acted out the best smile he could muster and nodded his head. “Yeah, that’ll be great.”

  Julie Dawes watched her son as he sadly climbed the stairs. Then she turned to the window and the street beyond. She didn’t know what her son was talking about, but for some unknown reason, she wished more people would arrive a little earlier tonight just for the added company. Then Tony, the town’s lonely drunk, tapped his glass.

  “I’ll take one more beer, then tha’s all,” the drunk slurred, raising his head.

  Julie turned and shook her head. “I think you’ll not. You go and lay down in your truck until later, and then we’ll see about another.” />
  He raised his head and squinted at Julie. “I have a truck?” he asked, swaying.

  Julie watched him stumble off the stool and out the door. Then she looked out the window at the desert beyond and pondered what Billy had said about something being wrong in the valley.

  EIGHTEEN

  Superstition Mountains, Arizona

  July 8, 1930 Hours

  Gus sat at the rickety kitchen table in his one-room shack and sipped the now cold coffee from an old, chipped mug. The chair creaked as he leaned forward to eye his guest, who was almost totally covered by the old green army blanket he had laid over its battered body. There was no movement other than the occasional shiver or spasm. As he watched, the feeling of helplessness had once again seeped into his mind.

  Gus now understood that, for reasons he would never quite understand, he had been feeling this little guy’s thoughts. Those snippets of thought had guided the old man in how and where he’d bandaged the strange visitor, placing an old Ace bandage around its middle, taking the pressure off of what he hoped was just a couple of broken or cracked ribs. As soon as he had rubbed the area down with alcohol and put the stretch bandage on, the small creature seemed to breathe better.

  The head wound was a little easier. He sprayed Bactine into it, then applied some iodine, making the little thing in the bed wince in pain. He used gauze out of his bathroom medicine cabinet to wrap the bulbous head.

  Tilly shook his head as he set the coffee mug on the old kitchen table, which had clearly seen better days, then stood up. He stretched and yawned. As he did, he saw the blanket, and above that were the large eyes looking at him.

  “You awake there, little guy?” he asked, taking a tentative step toward the bed.

  Gus had carried him the whole seven miles back to his small house, calling out for his mule, Buck, most of the way. He was bone tired.

  The old man took another hesitant step toward the old army-surplus metal cot. He placed his gnarled hand to his unshaven cheek and scratched.

  “Ya feelin’ any better?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, looking for the smallest of movements.

  Slowly, the top of the blanket slid down. The fingers that gripped the rough material of the green blanket were long and thin. The hands were still dirty because Gus had let the small creature sleep instead of waking it with water and a washcloth. He saw the huge almond-shaped eyes blink and winced as he saw the lids disappear into the side of the thing’s head. That would take some getting used to, he thought. Then his visitor slowly raised his head.

  “Well, ’bout time you woke, I was getting worried ’bout you,” Gus said with the biggest smile he could muster under the circumstances.

  He took a step back when he heard a mewling noise escape the creature.

  “Come on now, son,” Gus said as he held up his hands. “I brought you back from the mountain, fixed ya up. Trust is the thing you gotta learn first, boy.” He turned his head and looked over at his old electric hot plate where a pot sat with warmed-up chicken soup. “Got some hot Campbell’s soup ya can eat.” He had laced the soup with three Tylenol in the hope the small green stranger would eat.

  He walked over to the small hot plate and picked up the steaming pot. He tested it with his index finger for warmth. Satisfied, he wiped the soup off on his dirty jeans and poured a small mug full of the steaming liquid. He took a spoon from one of the kitchen drawers and walked back into what he always joked to Billy was the living room/bedroom/dining room/drawing room/library. He took the old chair he had been sitting in and carried both items to the bunk. The thing still lay under the blanket, not moving an inch. Its eyes were still watching Gus, and another whimpering sound issued from its small mouth.

  “Come on now, you gotta eat somethin’, or I’m gonna have to take you to the doc up in town—if the old bastard’s sober, that is.” Gus placed the chair next to the bed and waited.

  Slowly the hand gently pulled down the blanket. The black eyes stared at Gus, then as the black pools traveled down to what he held in his hand, the eyes blinked. Then a small line furrowed the soft green forehead.

  What a forehead, Gus thought. He didn’t move, just looked at the creature as he tried to smile.

  The small hand let go of the blanket and went to its head. It rubbed the spot and looked at Gus. It felt the gauze the old man had wrapped around its injury and fingered it, winced, and then looked at Gus as if its injuries were his fault. The eyes narrowed even farther.

  Gus still didn’t move, he just concentrated on keeping the silly grin on his face.

  The small being then brought its hand back up to the wound on its head and grunted. Lowering its hand, it looked at Gus for a moment. The head tilted to the right and then its eyes roamed around the small cabin. They lingered a moment on an old Charles Russell print of a cattle drive. The copy of the famous painting showed horsemen and cattle in a long procession on the prairie. The big eyes lingered there a moment, then they returned to Gus. It blinked and then returned to the picture. Below that Gus had an old porcelain chicken he had found in the desert some time ago. He thought it used to be a child’s bank, but was never sure.

  Then its gaze went to a stack of books that were lined up neatly on a shelf, and then they fell on another picture. It was one of those corny things with all the different breeds of dogs playing poker and smoking cigars around a green-felt-covered card table. The small alien’s eyes widened, then its little mouth formed an O as it looked at the strange picture.

  Gus followed its gaze, then he turned and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Little Billy Dawes gave me that for Christmas. I got a kick out of it the first thousand times I looked at it,” he said, his mouth etching a sad smile.

  The creature’s eyes left the picture. Then went back to it, then found another. This one was an old black-and-white photo of Gus in his army uniform. It had been taken in San Pedro, California, just before he had boarded a transport ship for Korea. He was young and every bit of his youth showed. He was cocky and ready to take on the world back then. Gus looked at the picture and saw what had been a young and foolish kid who didn’t know the first thing about the world or life in general. He had been taught since then that most of the time the whole damn planet made no sense at all.

  The alien looked closely at the picture, then at Gus. It slowly raised a hand and pointed at the picture and then toward Gus.

  “Yeah, I know, and you don’t have to go pointin’ it out. I was a pup then.” He lowered his eyes. “Things make you feel older than you ought to feel.”

  The little being tilted its head. The small nostrils flared, then relaxed, then flared again. The large eyes settled on the mug of soup Tilly held in his hand.

  “Hungry?”

  Gus lifted the spoon and dipped it into the mug. He brought it out and blew lightly on it. The creature watched him, forming another O with its mouth. It leaned forward, sniffing again.

  “Chicken soup.” He pointed to the chipped porcelain chicken on the chest of drawers. “Like that there chicken.”

  “Shitinnsooop.”

  The voice caught Gus off guard. It was as if the words were being said through wet cotton. It had startled him so much he found he had spilled some of the soup onto his hand because of the shakes, but he still managed a forced smile.

  “No, not shitin’ soup, chicken soup,” he said again, pronouncing the word as clearly as he could.

  The eyes blinked. Then they went from Gus to the mug, then back to Gus. “Chiiiiicken soooop.”

  “That’s it, boy, chicken soup.” He smiled, then laughed out loud, not really feeling the joviality of the situation.

  The creature looked at him and tilted its head again. It grunted in its throat until it saw the laughter wasn’t a hostile gesture on Gus’s part.

  Gus slowly lifted the spoon toward the small being’s mouth. It sat there, a look of near panic filling its large eyes, then reached out slowly and lightly touched the tip of the spoon with its strange,
elongated finger, tilting the utensil until the soup spilled onto the bed. The eyes widened as the yellowish soup struck the army blanket and soaked in.

  Gus smiled and dipped the spoon into the soup again, then quickly had the spoon back up and into its small mouth. The big black eyes widened for a moment, then relaxed and swallowed. Gus tried to pull the spoon away, but the alien had a clamp on it and he had to tug.

  “The spoon doesn’t go with the soup,” he said as the spoon was finally freed. “Now, how was that?”

  It looked from the spoon to Gus.

  “You have a name?” he said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees.

  Again it began the tilting of the head. Then it started duckwalking toward the old man, until it was only two feet away. It stopped and looked at the mug, then lightly rubbed the bandage around its rib cage, and then looked Gus over again. Then, tentatively, it reached out and curled its long fingers through the handle of the porcelain mug and duck-walked backward until its green back was against the far wall.

  Gus slapped his chest with his fist. “Gus,” he said. “The mighty,” he joked. The being was startled and stopped the soup halfway to its mouth and looked.

  “Gus,” the old man repeated, slapping his chest again.

  The creature didn’t respond as it slowly brought the soup to its mouth. The eyes closed, then suddenly opened, and it took a larger swallow, then another, gulping the soup quickly until it had the mug tilted bottom side up.