This had come to light just days after their first conversation at the barbershop, when on that very next Friday night, George’s phone rang. It was Blake Barrett . . . and he was smashed! Come gim’e a ride home, Goerg’ie buddy, said the voice, slurred and unclear.
George knew instantly who it was, and although his provident senses told him to hang up, his altruism won out. He got dressed, grabbed his keys, and headed out to Taffy’s—a hotspot for drinking, prattle and general bad entertainment. But when he arrived, there was no Blake waiting out front, as agreed. George sat in his car for nearly thirty minutes—well beyond the limit for even the most fervent of good-Samaritans. And the longer he sat, the angrier he got. Finally, instead of just leaving, George stomped into Taffy’s, found Blake passed-out in one of the bathroom stalls, and dragged the old guy out. Needless to say, it had been a bad night for both of them. Blake got his ride home, yes . . . along with a tongue lashing he’d likely never forget.
George had pretty much decided right there and then, that he was done with that friendship—the end of a short rapport with Blake Barrett . . . and good riddance, too. Or so he had assumed. But not a week later, the man showed up again at the barbershop smelling like a bucket of fermented fruit. He immediately began to spray out an entire discourse of apologies—mixed with copious sprays of saliva. George was furious—as well as the barbershop’s owner, Ron Murphy, who ordered Blake out of his establishment. It was embarrassing; it was demeaning. But when old Blake had finally silenced himself and crumbled into one of the chairs, sobbing like a child, George softened and sat down next to him. That’s when things started getting really strange . . . if things could get more strange at that point.
Blake began to ramble on about an event; one which had stressed him out so completely that he had started up his drinking again. And hated himself for it . . . were his words. He went on to spill a tale about his grandson, James Barrett, detailing an extraordinary account involving the boy on a recent scouting activity.
George had actually sat up and paid attention . . . it was a first. It seemed this incident struck a familiar note. His own son, Brant, had actually mentioned something about his research, and an encounter in the desert involving scouts just a few days prior, while chatting with George on the phone. George recalled the conversation so vividly because at the time, he hadn’t grasped the notion for his son’s enthusiastic tone. Brant had tried to explain . . . something about strange electrical storms over the desert . . . but that’s about when George had tuned out. Not because he didn’t care about his son’s work, he just didn’t understand all the scientific lingo attached to it. But he did remember how disappointed Brant had sounded at not being able to speak with either of the two boys.
George hadn’t given it another thought. Until that moment.
So there he was, sitting in the barbershop listening to old boozed-up Blake spin his tale . . . and he had to wonder, was this the same incident that his son had gushed on about over the phone just days prior? If so, good-old pop had information which his son was going to love!
Even before the front glass door of the barbershop had shut on old Blake’s shambling stride, George had grabbed for his phone and dialed Brant: You are not going to believe this . . . !
And Brant very nearly didn’t. This is great stuff, pop! I need to speak with this friend of yours ASAP. It’s very important. Can you fix me up?
But it wasn’t quite that simple, as George was quick to explain: First of all, son, don’t refer to Blake as my friend. He’s more of an . . . associate. And we’ve sort of parted ways. He’s a complete drunk, son. And a bit of a loony.
I don’t care about that, dad. I’ve got to talk with him. Can’t you just hookup with him one more time, just for my sake?
Hmm, nope. Don’t think so, son. Sorry.
Dad! Then why did you—
Will you just listen. I have an idea. If you really want to get the facts from Blake Barrett, you’ll need to talk to him while he’s intoxicated. Which shouldn’t be hard. He’s nearly always as drunk as a—
Okay, dad. I get it. Go on.
Yes. Well, it’s the only way he’ll talk about the . . . incident. Otherwise, you’ll not get a word.
Okay. And?
Here’s what you’re going to do, son. And this was where George’s scheme came into play. It’s Friday afternoon, and you can bet that Mr. Barrett will be sitting at Taffy’s bar, as we speak. I’m sure of it, George continued, slipping in a cuss word at the man’s deplorable habit. I’d bet my next social security check that by the time I sit down to watch the ten o’clock news, old Blake will be blitzed. And you’ll be there at Taffy’s to see that I’m right.
Huh? Wait a minute, dad. You want me to hang at Taffy’s bar tonight?
Exactly. He’ll need a ride home. Sure as shoot’in. Now make sure he gets one, son. Call me later and let me know how things went. I’ve got to go, gotta hit the toilet. Goodbye.
And that’s pretty much how the conversation had gone down. And not two hours later, Brant found himself at Taffy’s Bar.
As it turned out, George was right on the money about old Blake Barrett. Brant found the man sitting right about where his dad said he would be: in the back right corner at a quiet table all by himself. Which was the perfect location for Brant to have his little chat. He had slyly pulled out a seat and sat down at the table. And with a mind if I join you? the data sortie began . . . and what a night of bull-crap!
As Brant drove along, reminiscing about the incident, he had to concede that he had let himself get too involved in the circumstances surrounding the scouts, the strange storm . . . the whole ordeal. As it turned out, he had wasted an entire Friday night sitting in a stupid bar listening to nonsense. Yet, he had to concede, at times the story had taken on an intriguing, albeit amusing, twist; obviously fabricated by one or both of the boys to get attention. And it had worked. They certainly got their spotlight, Brant thought.
Brant turned up the air conditioning in his jeep and wished he had brought along his MP3 player instead of CD’s; he had no idea the road would be so bumpy.
He drove for nearly thirty more minutes, bouncing and bumping along. Without his music playing in the background, the drum of the motor sang its hypnotic song until Brant found himself drifting off like a piece of wood on a quiet lake, toward blank contemplation. Soon, boredom drove Brant’s thoughts back to the strange ordeal at Taffy’s bar with old Blake Barrett. He smiled to himself as he once again, recalled the exchange.
Once old Blake’s jaws started flapping, the alcohol had opened him full up; no inhibitions, no hesitations. He had gone on to relate his grandson’s purported experience.
After the two young scouts had crawled from their secluded trench, they found themselves right in the center of a blinding electrical fury. The sky was nearly black and they had completely lost their reference and sense of direction.
Brant had accepted the story to this point. Blake had slurred through the details with remarkable memory, almost as if he had been there himself.
The boy talks to me, the man confided between sips of his drink. He tells me everything.
Evidently, the two frightened youths knew they were in danger when the hair on their bodies tingled and the smell of ionization grew thick in the air. Their belt buckles, pocket knives—anything made of metal—began to spark and pop. It was in this terrifying state of mind, with no cell phones, shelter or anything to protect themselves, that they simply laid prostrate on the ground and prayed.
Brant remembered how Blake had animated his grandson’s tale, hooting and gesturing with hands in the air and periodically jumping up and down in his seat—it had been embarrassing, as other eyes kept glancing annoyingly at their table. But when the old man delved deeper into the odd account, he became more reticent and almost reluctant to continue, pausing frequently and acting peculiar.
Brant recalled how Blake had picked up his empty glass and simply sipped at air. And then there had been t
hat unusual regard, that near pleading gaze he had leveled at Brant from across the table—it had sent chills down Brant’s spine. The old drunk had sat motionless for some time in an unresponsive stupor. When Brant finally got him talking again, it had been a waste of time. The story had nosedived, and gone south from that point . . . really south.
Blake claimed that his grandson, James, had told him that while he and Taylor (the other boy) laid motionless on the sand, a figure approached them. They were too frightened to move, but had heard a voice. When the voice came again it was loud and forceful. A firm hand had grabbed hold of their arms and yelled, come with me!
When they finally looked up, they saw a boy: a teenager, not much older than either of them. The boy stood in the forefront of a terrible black and dismal horizon, yet he appeared calm and unafraid. The odd youth was dressed in a jacket, jeans and gloves. He wore dark glasses, with the rest of his face concealed by a hood pulled noticeably over his head. The kid had helped the two frightened boys to their feet, and then, surprisingly, shoved a pair of dark goggles at them. James had remarked to his grandfather that when he took the goggles from the kid, he noticed the boy’s outstretched arm. Just above his gloves was a section of visible skin. It was coated in some kind of white balm.
Quickly! Put these on and do not take them off! the boy demanded. If you do, the intense frequency of light created by the static bursts in the air will blind you. Do you understand me!
The two boys obeyed without question and put on the goggles. The black lenses were a type of light intense filter. They reminded James of the welding shield his older brother had brought home from shop class, except that these goggles fit differently, tight around his eyes, sealing out all light penetration. Almost instantly, James realized that by wearing the strange goggles, he and Taylor had also been made effectively blind; an unpleasant sensation which had compounded his already chilling situation.
I will get you out of here! the boy shouted above the exploding lightning and crashing bellows of the storm. But you must do exactly as I say!
As James had related the account to his grandfather, the young stranger then took hold of their arms and led them a short distance to some kind of waiting vehicle. As soon as they were helped inside, and were comfortably seated, the swoosh of a closing door had severed the tumultuous noise from the outside, rendering them in absolute silence.
You must keep the goggles on, the boy insisted, his voice fallen to a much gentler pitch. Even inside the transport. It is for your own protection. I will tell you when it is safe to remove them.
Old Blake paused at this point to gather his thoughts and reflect on what James had told him. He seemed to rally his memory from someplace far away, light-years from Taffy’s Bar. Then, he suddenly groaned to himself, uncharacteristically. James never could follow instructions, he said, even to save his life. That boy told me that he lifted those goggles. Can you believe it? He took the risk just for curiosity. Then Blake leaned back in his seat, took a long breath and muttered, I wish to heavens he’d never lifted those goggles.
Why? Brant urged.
Because he saw!
Hours later when the two boys were picked up, they had claimed to have met some strange kid who had saved them. But after several days, James had gone to his grandfather and confessed that there was a great deal more to the tale than he had admitted to. He had just been too frightened at the time to speak of it to anyone.
No one would have believed him, anyway! the old man admitted to Brant, uneasily.
Believed what? Brant prodded.
James had confided to his grandfather that he believed the craft had come from another world. It had to, grandpa! he had stated. It moved along the desert floor without a sound or a bump, as if it had floated on air! he had exclaimed.
And what did James see when he lifted his goggles? Brant urged, wanting to smack Blake aside the head for his rambling. Stay on track for heaven sakes. You’re losing me here! he grumbled at the old man.
But Blake’s head suddenly bent and dropped down . . . hard, on the table.
Great! Brant thought. We’re done. The man’s passed out. But when Brant pushed his chair back to leave, the head suddenly popped up, and Blake glared at Brant from behind bloodshot eyes.
I’ll tell you the rest then, the old man stuttered. And he had.
When James removed his goggles, the only effect was that it enabled the boy to see what was around him. There was no blinding light as the young pilot had claimed. James was able to view the inside of the transport with normal, comfortable lighting. In fact, he was able see right through the exterior skin of the craft as if it was transparent on all sides. From within the strange vehicle, James had viewed the raging storm from all angles. It had taken his breath away. James had described much of the inside with vivid detail. His grandfather seemingly believing the boy’s every word.
The ceiling was oval shaped, with a series of strange patterns, symbols and designs which glowed overhead in a bluish light. The front compartment looked like the controls of a spaceship, Grandpa! the boy had said.
The mysterious young driver of the craft was evidently very fond of conversation. James told his grandfather that once inside the transport, the boy-pilot rambled up a storm. He chatted vigorously as if he hadn’t spoken to another human his entire life. James told his grandpa that the kid never shut up, and that he went on about spherical, three-dimensional gaming, and something about positive lag output in space-time reference. James was only able to remember part of the strange gibberish because it was about video games, and he wanted to make some sense of it.
But then something happened. Something that wrenched the breath from James’ lungs, and triggered a desperate, clumsy attempt at placing the goggles back over his eyes.
He saw a mechanical man! A robot . . . thing, old Blake finally stammered out. It was sitting in the seat next to the kid pilot, and it turned its head and looked right at James!
A robot . . . thing? Brant repeated, just to make sure he was hearing things right.
Yes! And then it,”—Blake hesitated, eyes tired and uncertain—“It what? What did it do!
It winked. Then turned itself back around as casually as a howdy-do nod.
It winked? Brant repeated, then shook his head in disgust.
Brant felt another bump in the road, and his sun glasses fell down from the sun-shield. He put them back, thinking of the goggles from Blake’s crazy story. He grinned to himself, wondering how he must have looked in that moment sitting across the table from Blake. His expression must have said it all: Are you out of your drunken mind? That’s what he had wanted to say. But as he recalled it, he had just made a subtle response: I see. And that had been the last word he had spoken to old Blake Barrett. He had given the old man a ride home as promised, then washed his hands of the entire, weird ordeal.
The rest of the story everybody had already heard. The boys were safely picked up, and nothing much had been said about their rather unusual statements. It was likely the two realized that being left behind might draw some attention, and they had decided to make use of the hapless event by coming up with the best bull-crap story they could. And what a whopper it had been.
Yet, as Brant drove along feeling very small in the vast desert, he couldn’t help but wonder: who had sent the mysterious radio message to the police?
Chapter 22:
Ruthanne walked softly down the hallway, her hand skimming across the smooth wood banister in a gentle guide. She knew by the scent in the air that it must be a warm spring day outside, as the aggregate mixture of cedar, sage, and cactus flowers drifted in through the estate venting system. She loved this time of year in the desert, and couldn’t help—as she passed by each high-framed window with their impenetrable steel slits—feeling a slight pang of nostalgia for the real sunlight now bearing down upon Sandcastle’s grounds and external structures.
Avalon’s sub-sun systems were truly a marvelous gift of technology—thanks to Jacob�
�s genius and his EMR brainchild—but the reactor’s artificial radiation, although providing the light energy needed for all the flora and life in Avalon, just did not warm her skin and brighten her heart quite like the real thing once had. But she had surrendered to that reality long ago. Her consolation came now in knowing that at the close of each day when the sun dipped down below the west horizon, Sandcastle’s automated systems would open the slits and let in the amber afterglow of evening and the moonlight to follow. Then she could stroll at her leisure out into the allowed domain. But this evening, a twilight stroll was the last thing on Ruthanne’s mind.
She stopped, finding herself right where she didn’t want to be: outside of Gracie’s bedroom door. She hesitated one more time, allowing a mental reevaluation of her purpose for being there. No, she said to herself. I will not talk myself out of this. Something was amiss, and she needed to find out what it was. She swallowed, took a deep breath, then tapped lightly on the heavy wood structure.
She waited for a response, then listened.
Nothing.
Yet from behind the door, her keen hearing detected the rhythm of Gracie’s favorite, great old chair, gently rocking. Normally, the movement of such a large seat—colonial, eighteen-century, handmade cherry wood—would indicate a firm sway by its occupant. But for Gracie—now somewhat timid and confined to a wheelchair—this was not the case.
Two-of-Ten, Gracie’s personal droid, (whom she adamantly referred to as Hank) often stood at her side, gently rocking the opulent rest—sometimes even after she had fallen asleep. But Gracie was not one for settling down this early in the evening, especially before dinner. In fact, the busy-bodied woman never slowed long enough to stay in one spot for more than a few minutes at a time. Her electric wheelchair had logged more miles than the family limo. Yes. The foremost reason for bringing Ruthanne anxiously to the old woman’s door was the silence. Even more bothersome than some unnatural noise, was the uncharacteristic stillness which now permeated from behind that arched doorway.
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