314 Book 3 (Widowsfield Trilogy)

by A. R. Wise

  “Well, let’s not spend any more time dithering about up here,” said Groves. “Let’s go have a look.”

  Vess and Lyle followed behind Groves as he walked down a circular staircase to the solid floor beneath. Lyle could feel the gentle sway of the ship, although it wasn’t as severe as he’d feared. He wasn’t much of a seaman, having thrown up as a child while fishing and never giving it another chance. This ship, however, seemed too large to be affected much by the water around it. The USS Eldridge was like an island unto itself.

  Vess approached the CORD as if drawing near a fragile masterpiece. Lyle got a better chance to study the monstrosity. The pillars on the side rose higher than the unit in the center, and four rings were independently mounted by a rod that stuck out of apertures on the pillar they haloed. The rods were each different sizes, with the largest on the bottom and the smallest on top, and a foot-sized gap separated each. The pillars were both adorned with massive globes on top that cast shadows down over the center box. Thick wires littered the floor, crawling out from the pillars and connecting to the square hub, which was fitted with various levers, switches, and gauges that Lyle was certain he’d never understand even given a course on their function.

  “It’s perfect,” said Groves with certainty. He stood stoic, his arms clasped behind his back as he watched Vess inspect the machine. “Down to every last detail.”

  “They’re silver?” asked Vess as he approached the rings of one of the two pillars. “You didn’t lace this with copper to save money?”

  “No expense spared,” said Groves. “You’re looking at a machine that’s worth more than the GDP of some small countries.” He chuckled, but neither Lyle nor Vess reciprocated.

  “Damn,” said Lyle, trying to add to the conversation. “That’s quite a machine you fellows built. But, forgive me for asking, why the hell’d you build it? What’s it do?”

  “That, my good man,” said Groves as he walked to stand beside Lyle. He put his huge arm on Lyle’s shoulders, making him feel like a child at his father’s side. “Is a mighty good question. Care to answer it, Vess? Because we haven’t been able to get it to do a damn thing.”

  “You turned it on?” asked Vess, perturbed.

  “We had to make sure it worked.”

  “And?”

  “It turns on,” said Groves. “I can tell you that much. But other than being a light-show straight out of a Lon Chaney film, it didn’t impress.”

  “There’s more to it than flicking a switch,” said Vess with dismissive venom in his words.

  “I’d feel more comfortable if you let me bring Dr. Felcher in for…” Groves was interrupted by Vess.

  “No, no, no. We’ve been over this before. We have to limit the number of people present in the room. For crying out loud, Groves, I’m surprised you were even able to turn it on considering how little attention you paid to Tesla’s work. You have to follow everything down to the very last detail.”

  “We did,” said Groves, a sternness returning to his mannerism as he stood straighter and spoke a little harsher. It was clear that he didn’t enjoy being questioned by the likes of Vess. “I just don’t feel comfortable leaving this up to the two of you, with no one else observing.”

  “You’ll get over it,” said Vess as he went on inspecting the CORD, ignoring Groves’ apparent displeasure.

  Leslie Groves muttered something under his breath, and then frowned as he glanced over at Lyle. “I don’t know how men like us put up with guys like him.”

  Lyle snickered and nodded in agreement, more out of nervousness than concurrence.

  “I’d give anything to be with a squad in the Balkans than here arguing with his type,” said Groves for only Lyle’s benefit. Then he raised his voice so that Vess could hear, “I’ll leave you to it then. We set sail in about thirty minutes. Will that be enough time?”

  Vess was knelt down beside the CORD, inspecting one of the multitudes of wires that wound their way across the floor. He rose his hand and waved without looking back. “That should be fine.”

  “We’ll keep in contact with the radio over there,” said Groves as he pointed to a table set off to the side with a single chair beside it and a large radio and microphone on top.

  “Fine,” said Vess, still not giving Groves his full attention. “We’ll be ready. Right, Lyle?”

  Lyle chuckled and shrugged, “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Vess finally looked back at Groves and said with assurance, “We’ll be ready. It’ll only take ten or fifteen minutes for the CORD to charge.”

  “Make sure to wait for us to raise the anchor before turning it on,” said Groves.

  Vess grinned back at him, smug as he said, “So you did read Tesla’s notes.”

  Branson

  Shortly before 4:00 AM

  March 13th, 2012

  Charles Dunbar was at a bar that he didn’t recognize, but it felt oddly familiar. He’d been to hundreds of bars over the years, and the patrons here could’ve been transplanted from any number of them. The bar had a southwestern theme, with too much wood and too many dead animals staring down from plaques hanging on the walls. The barstool was plush and comfortable, and he swiveled on it as he waited for the bartender.

  “What’s yer poison?” asked the husky man behind the counter as he washed a beer mug with a dirty rag. He had dark black hair that was cut short and a twirled mustache that made him look like a caricature from a different age. The man could’ve posed for the poster of a western and nothing about his countenance would’ve given him away.

  “Whiskey sour,” said Charles, ordering his tried-and-true favorite.

  “You got it,” said the bartender as he started to make the drink.

  Charles reached for his pocket to retrieve his cellphone, but found it missing. “Son of a bitch,” he said, although his voice was drowned out by the southern rock that dominated the bar. He’d meant to bring his phone so that he could call home, but must’ve forgotten it at the hotel.

  A gunshot startled him.

  Charles spun in his seat to see what had happened, but the crowded bar seemed ignorant of the noise. When he turned back around, the bartender was dropping down a coaster in front of him before setting his drink on it.

  “Did you hear that?” asked Charles of the bartender. “It sounded like a gunshot.”

  “Oh, that’s just the weasels. Don’t worry about it.”

  “The weasels?” asked Charles, confounded and amused.

  “Yep, we’ve got them in here all the time. Best way to deal with them is one in the head.” The bartender made a gun with his right hand and then set his fingers to the side of his own head. “You’ve got to get them right here. Right behind the ear. Pow.” He mimed a gunshot and smiled wide.

  “Weasels?” asked Charles as if he were hearing a joke that he didn’t want to admit to not understanding. “Like the rodent?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  Charles wasn’t content letting the conversation end. He was fearful, as if the bartender had somehow threatened him. “You mean the rodents, right? Like those little weasels that kill chickens?”

  The bartender ignored Charles, and started talking with another patron. Charles got up from his seat and moved down the bar, desperate to get an answer. “You’re not talking about people, right? You mean animals. You’re shooting animals, right?”

  “Settle down, Mr. Dunbar,” said a fat woman sitting at the bar. She was in a biker outfit, with a leather vest and gloves, and her grey hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Flies buzzed around her as she swiveled on her seat to face Charles. She lifted a cell phone off the bar and offered it to him. “Your wife’s been calling.”

  Charles took his phone, and didn’t question why the stranger had it. He saw that he’d missed a number of calls, and then noticed that his wife had texted him. His hands were shaking as he read the text.

  “Charlie, Amber called. She told me everything. You weasel.”

  He looked u
p and saw that the bartender had his hand shaped like a gun again, but this time he was pointing at Charles. The bartender had one eye closed, as if he were aiming down a gun’s sight, and he was grinning wide.

  Charles started to shake his head as he backed away. “It was a mistake. She found out years ago. We moved on. We got past it.”

  “I see you, Charles Dunbar,” said the bartender as he continued to look at him as if staring down the barrel of a gun.

  “That was years ago!” Charles backed away in the direction of an exit.

  He bumped into someone as he was moving to the exit, and the person grabbed his shoulder before spitting in his ear. Charles recoiled, and then pushed himself away as he wiped the spit from his ear canal. The man that had done it was short, but thick, with a grey and white beard and sunglasses.

  “Weasel!” said the man before spitting again.

  Then the rest of the patrons began to chide Charles as well, screaming, “Weasel,” and spitting at him.

  “Sixteen years!” screamed the woman at the bar that had given him back his phone. “We were married for sixteen years and he was willing to throw it all away for some cunt with big tits.” The obese woman grasped her breasts and shook them.

  “You’re not my wife,” said Charles, but his defense was overwhelmed by the jeers of the crowd.

  They pushed and tugged, kicked and punched, and Charles found himself in a desperate attempt to flee. He covered his face, and stared at the floor as he tried to push his way out. As he started to fear that he’d be pushed to the ground and trampled, he saw that he’d miraculously made his way to the entrance of the bar. He pulled the door open and rushed outside, expecting to be chased.

  The door slammed shut behind him hard enough to rattle the walls, and none of the patrons followed him out. He was panting, alone in the gravel parking lot of the seedy bar. It was the middle of the night, but there were no stars in the sky. Only the moon sat above in the bleak night, a Cheshire cat smile on a black canvas.

  He inspected his injuries, but was pleased to discover that he was mostly unharmed. He cursed as he wiped the spit from his cheeks.

  “Charles,” said a familiar voice.

  He looked up and saw Amber, the girl from corporate that he’d cheated on his wife with after getting drunk at a conference a few years back. “Amber, what are you doing here?” asked Charles.

  “I just wanted to see you,” said Amber as she stayed far away. She was in her mid-twenties, cute but slightly over-weight, with long blonde hair and brown eyes. When she smiled, he was reminded of his wife when she was her age.

  “I’m sorry, Amber, but I really can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “I see you now, Charles Dunbar.”

  Charles stared at her as if she’d threatened him. “Why do people keep saying that?”

  Amber smiled, but her teeth were chattering as if she were cold. Then she put her finger to her lips, and he noticed that her eyes were glassy, as if covered in gel. She pushed her hand to her jaw in an attempt to stop her chattering teeth, but it didn’t help.

  “Amber, are you okay?”

  She pressed both hands against her jaw, and when she spoke it was as if she were in pain. Her words came slow, and between clenched teeth. “Will…” Her body quivered. “You…” Blood dripped from her lips as if she were crushing her own head. “Help?”

  Charles staggered back. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Amber twisted her head, causing a sharp crack as if she were trying to break her own neck. She didn’t succeed, and then twisted her head in the opposite direction, harder this time, causing a similar crack of bone. Blood fell in thick strands down her arms as her teeth rattled. She released her head, but continued to violently shake it back and forth. Streams of blood cascaded away from her mouth, striking the gravel near Charles’s feet.

  Then suddenly, as if the world had been frozen, she stopped and stared directly at him.

  “I like it when the daddies scream.”

  Charles tried to run, but the gravel slipped out beneath him as if he were trying to climb a hill. He fell to his knees and clawed at the ground, trying to find a handhold to pull himself forward. The entire world seemed to be flipped on its side, and the gravel slid out from his grip, tumbling backward at the slightest provocation. He screamed, and dug his fingers in, but he couldn’t help but slide towards Amber.

  When he looked back, the girl was standing where she’d been, unaffected by the tilting world around them. Her body looked thinner now, and taller, as if she were being stretched. The skin on her face looked as if it was being pulled downward, and her eyes sagged until her cheeks ripped. The skeleton within her was growing beyond the space her skin allowed, and it was bursting forth like a seedling from soil. The chattering monster pulled the remnants of her flesh and hair from his head and threw it to the side.

  Charles screamed, and The Skeleton Man laughed.

  “Yes, daddy, let’s see how loud you can scream tonight.”

  The creature advanced, stepping forth from the husk it had inhabited. He was tall, thin, and wearing a suit that hung limply on his frame. His bones were held together by white and black sinew, and the white bone peaked through Amber’s bright red blood that covered his entire body.

  Charles screamed for help, but no one came. No matter how hard he struggled to move away from the creature that stalked him, he was sliding back.

  The Skeleton Man knelt beside Charles, and thrust his hand into the man’s back. Charles felt the skeleton’s fingers pierce his body like knives, and he gasped in agony as the creature wiggled within him.

  The Skeleton Man saddled his victim, and as Charles tried to reach back to fight him off, the creature swiped at his hands, cutting him as if his fingers were blades.

  “Please, let me go. Please.”

  “No,” said The Skeleton Man through chattering teeth.

  “This is a nightmare,” said Charles as he clenched his eyes shut, hoping it would all end.

  “What difference does it make,” asked The Skeleton Man, “if the dreamer never wakes?” He twisted his fingers inside of Charles’s back, causing the man to convulse in agony.

  “Keep screaming,” said The Skeleton Man. “Call The Watchers. Let them watch us play.”

  CHAPTER 8 – The Ship

  Widowsfield

  In The Watcher’s new nightmare

  Desmond cowered from the light. While the other residents of Widowsfield happily accepted their demise, and allowed themselves to dissolve in the warmth of a heavenly light, Desmond stuck to the shadows. He knew there were still children here, caught like flies in the web of Widowsfield. He’d heard his son, and the cries of other boys, all of them scared and pleading for help. He wouldn’t leave Raymond behind.

  Was this rapture? Had Widowsfield been a purgatory for the sinful to waste away in? Had God finally forgiven them, but forgot about the children? Desmond wasn’t sure what had happened, or why the gates of Heaven had opened. He was vaguely aware that he’d been participating in a sort of mock-existence, and that a long time had passed since March 14th, 1996. He also knew, although it was maddening to admit, that he was dead. He had no expectation of old age, or to watch his boy grow up, or to reconcile with his daughter, at least not on Earth. However, he refused to pass on without first finding his beloved Raymond.

  The streets of Widowsfield were glimmering from the rays that escaped the clouds above, but the shadows that Desmond clung to were growing colder every minute. He was moving down Main Street, yelling out for his lost child, but only the vague cries of frightened children drew him forward. It was like the distant howl of coyotes, but he heard the boys weeping in the web of Widowsfield, stuck and unable to climb into the light.

  Desmond dared to glance into the sky, and saw the shadows of men and women dancing in the clouds, as if angels were welcoming the souls home. He felt a longing to be with them; to give in and walk out into the street to feel the warmth of heaven’s
glow. He’d been pressed to the brick wall of a building, hiding in the shadows afforded by an awning above, but now he found himself coming closer to the golden hued pavement that was awash in the heavenly light.

  Then he heard the cries of a child, and he clenched his eyes shut to avoid the spell the angels cast upon him.

  “No,” said Desmond as he slunk back into the shade. “I’m not leaving without him.”

  He clung to the wall, and stared down, refusing to allow himself the comfort the light offered. As he stood there, shivering in the cold absence of grace, the light began to dissipate. There was a fog rising, blocking out the glow above. The streets darkened as the fog grew, closing Widowsfield in like the glass of a snow globe.

  As the final sliver of light was swallowed up, Desmond heard the voice of a child.

  “Hello?”

  He searched for the source, and saw an unfamiliar boy, no older than ten, wandering Main Street. Desmond ran to him, startling the child who was already on the verge of tears.

  “I’m here,” said Desmond as he approached the frightened, cowering boy. He got on his knees and was careful to be gentle with the child. “What’s your name?”

  “Jeremy,” said the boy. “I lost him.”

  “Lost who?” asked Desmond.

  The boy looked at Desmond, frightened and untrusting. “The Skeleton Man.”

  Desmond felt a pang of fear and recognition when the boy uttered the name.

  Jeremy backed away from Desmond and shook his head. Desmond stood, and took a step towards the boy, his hands out as if pleading for Jeremy’s trust.

  “I can’t reach the fog,” said Jeremy, his trembling voice revealing his terror. “He used to hide us in the fog, but now it’s way up there.” He pointed to the sky. “No one’s here to save us.”