Dark Channel

by Ray Garton

  The other was Bill Coogan who ran a small gas station and convenience store in the middle of Grover, Coogan’s Fuel Stop. He was congenial and willing to chat, but even he was a bit reluctant.

  “Son, I don’t understand the Universal Enlightened Alliance—” He spoke the three words as if he were repeating a rumor he didn’t believe. “—and I don’t really like ’em much. But my daughter’s a member and she claims they’ve done okay by her, so I guess what I think don’t matter a whole lot. But I’ll tell you this: if I had my druthers, they’d have their headquarters someplace other than here.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Coogan?”

  “Not really sure. Not really sure.” He frowned slightly, pursed his lips and leaned forward on the counter, his weight on his elbows. “What, uh … what’s your interest in the Alliance?”

  “I’m writing an article about them. For Trends magazine?”

  Coogan chuckled. “You say that like we don’t read up here in the mountains.” He turned to the small magazine rack behind him and said, “Proud to say I carry your magazine right here. Read it myself. Fine piece of work you folks do. Where you from?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Mmm. Well, being a reader of your magazine myself, can’t say I wouldn’t mind seeing my name in it, but I’ll tell you what. I don’t really think the Universal Enlightened Alliance—” That subtle distaste in his voice again, “—deserves your attention, you ask me. Course, that’s just my opinion, but I’ll bet you a tank a gas most people in this town’ll feel the same way.”

  Harvey silently agreed.

  “So why don’t you go on home and write about something else. Something that deserves looking into.”

  He’d looked at Harvey then with a smile on his lips, but a firmness in his eyes, a firmness that, Harvey thought, seemed to silently add, For your own good. He realized that might be nothing more than a projection of his hopes for a hot story, but still…

  Water dripped from Harvey’s soaked hair and plopped onto the paper before him. He swept his hair back with a flick of his hand then turned off the recorder. He stood and began pacing at the foot of the bed, massaging his stiff neck. Noticing how lumpy the mattress looked, Harvey felt a sudden urge to get back in the car, drive the remaining four hours to the San Francisco airport, and fly home that night, home to his big bed in Los Angeles and his new wife Josie.

  As much as he’d hated to leave Josie only four months after their wedding, Harvey was in no position at Trends to turn down this assignment. Now that he realized he was onto something much bigger than he or anyone else at the magazine had thought, he was thrilled he’d come. His position would soon change. This was going to lead to things far better than working on fluffy pieces about celebrity out-of-the-body experiences and the latest eccentricity of this week’s hottest rock star.

  Harvey checked his watch. It was a few minutes after one in the morning. His editor, Tom Gleason, would not appreciate a phone call at such a late hour, but he called anyway.

  “Yeah?” a woman croaked through the swirling hiss of long distance.

  “Deb? Sorry to wake you. This is Harvey.”

  “Harvey, what’s—is anything—”

  “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine. I’m still up north. I need to talk to Tom.”

  There was a shuffling, some thick sleepy mumbles, then Tom Gleason said, “Harvey? Everything okay?”

  “Better than okay, Tom. Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Peach Tree Motel. Anderson.”

  “Anderson? But that’s—why aren’t you back yet?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I need a couple more days. At least.”

  “Mmm. No can do, Harvey. You know that. The story is due on-“

  “Run something else.”

  “What do you mean, run some—”

  “What about the TV evangelist story you’ve been sitting on? The guy in Anaheim?”

  “Old news. That’s why I’m sitting on it. I need that story, Harvey.”

  “It’s not the same story anymore.”

  “Not the—what?” Tom was fully awake now, speaking clearly.

  “I mean, it’s not the same story. I’ve learned some new stuff, big stuff. I think. There’s more here than any of us thought, Tom, I’m sure of it. I need just a little more time.”

  A thoughtful silence, then: “You’re sure, Harvey? I mean, this isn’t just wishful thinking or—”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well … I’m not sure of that yet. But I know it’s something.”

  “Well, that won’t do us any good. I mean, we can’t just run some—”

  “Then maybe, I could interest Newsweek,” Harvey barked. “Or the Times. I’m not fucking around here, Tom. I’ve got my ass on the line. I may—” He chuckled suddenly, more with tension than humor, “—hell, I may have pissed some people off already. And if I’m not mistaken, and I don’t think I am, they’re not nice people.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Damned right, I’m serious!”

  “We’re not a news magazine, you know.”

  “But you’re getting this first.”

  Harvey could hear the click-click-click of Tom tapping his front teeth with a thumbnail, something he always did when he was thinking fast.

  Tom finally said, “Wait a sec while I change phones.”

  Harvey heard a hushed, “Hang it up for me, honey,” then silence as he waited.

  Wind pressed hungrily against the curtained windows and raindrops slapped the pavement outside.

  “Harvey?” Tom said as his wife hung up the other extension. “Okay, what are we getting first? Talk to me.”

  “The Universal Enlightened Alliance.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you’re there for. So tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Well, we all thought it was just another one of those New Age money-grabbing scams preying on spiritually starved yuppies, right? Well, it’s more than that.”

  “So what is it?”

  “I … well, like I said, I’m not sure.” Before Tom could speak again, Harvey added, “But I know something’s going on up there, Tom. Look, I Fed-Exed some stuff to you today, it should be in your office in the morning. Go over it and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  “What’d you send me?”

  “A couple of interviews, lots of notes, some ideas I’ve had.”

  “Ideas?”

  “Like I said, I’m not sure what’s going on yet, but I’ve been speculating. People up there in Grover are afraid of something, Tom. I talked to one family that’s planning to move. Just up and move because of the Alliance. Some already have.”

  “C’mon, Harvey, there’s always something weird going on up there. Little people living in Mount Shasta, flying saucers, Big-foot.”

  “No, this isn’t like that. They talk about those things, they’re good for the tourist trade. This is different. They don’t want to talk about this. They’re afraid.”

  “So if they won’t talk, why do you need more time? What’re you going to do? Why don’t you just come back and work with what you’ve got?”

  “Uh-uh. Not yet. There’s this woman. Name’s Elizabeth Dayton. She lives in Wheatland. At least, she used to. She’s kind of disappeared. I think she pissed them off. I’m trying to track her down, get her to talk to me.”

  “What makes her so special?”

  “I found an old newspaper article that mentions her. I sent you a copy. I think she knows something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I think she’s got some dirt on—”

  Three rapid clicks severed the connection and left Harvey with dead silence. He lowered the receiver and started to swear, when thunder exploded ov
erhead and the room’s lights flickered, then died.

  “Son of a bitch,” he groaned, replacing the receiver. He sat on the lumpy bed a moment, hoping the lights would come back on. In the meantime, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the new darkness.

  Even the streetlights outside were gone. Harvey went to the window, tugged the curtain aside and looked across the street at the darkened Safeway; through the store’s glass front, auxiliary lights shimmered like ghosts, made misty by the rain. He dropped the curtain as harsh sheet lightning cut through the darkness for an instant.

  There was nothing to do but wait, maybe sleep, but he felt like doing neither. He felt like rum. Inside the suitcase he’d left in the car was a bottle he’d bought earlier that day; he needed some of it inside him, could almost taste it on his lips. There was also a small battery-powered reading light in that suitcase.

  Harvey decided he’d sip his rum, read over his notes, and prepare himself for tomorrow. If he managed to find Elizabeth Dayton, he wanted to be ready to catch her off guard with some pointed questions, because he didn’t expect her to be too anxious to talk.

  Reluctant to face the weather, Harvey slipped into his wet overcoat and left his motel room. He took in a deep breath of cold damp air and let it out slowly as his shoes clapped on the wet blacktop.

  The darkness was smothering. A trickle of light came from the motel office; beyond it, from Interstate 5, the lights of the passing cars cast an upward glow that came and went rapidly.

  A police car drove slowly by the motel and pulled into the Safeway parking lot; a produce truck was parked at the side of the store, its lights glowing like bright orange pinpoints.

  Harvey fumbled with his keys as he neared the Pontiac, stiffening against the cold breeze. When the trunk popped open, a small light came on inside and Harvey reached for his suitcase with one hand, his garment bag with the other, then—

  —he heard a sound.

  It was a door slamming. Sliding first, then slamming shut.

  He let the garment bag drop back into the trunk and stood, setting the suitcase down beside him. He hadn’t heard a car drive up. Just the door. And it sounded close.

  But when he looked around, he saw nothing new in the parking lot. Of course, it was dark. …

  Rainwater dribbled down his neck and chilled him.

  Harvey turned to the car again, removed the garment bag and slammed the trunk, hitched the bag over his shoulder and carried the suitcase to the front of the car, where he put it down again. As he was unlocking the passenger door—

  —something splashed.

  As if something had been dropped in a puddle … or someone had stepped in a puddle. Harvey opened the door, activating the dome light, and looked around again.

  Yes, it certainly was dark. But it wasn’t so dark that he wouldn’t see someone standing near by or coming toward him.

  The faint light from inside the Safeway didn’t get far. Harvey could see it, but it bled over the sidewalk in front of the store and no farther.

  The dome light in the car was no help.

  And the rain was coming down harder, thickening the night.

  But I’d see someone, he thought. Yeah, sure, I’d see if someone was coming.

  Harvey tossed the garment bag over the front seat and leaned into the car, opening the glove compartment. As he reached for the manila folder inside, it slipped out and fell to the floor, spilling its papers.

  “Shit.”

  Three of the papers fluttered by his legs and out the door, into the rain.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Harvey spat. He backed out of the car, turned, and squatted down to retrieve his notes and—

  —found himself looking at two very large dark shoes.

  First he saw the shoes, then caught the smell. Even in the damp gusty air, the smell was powerful.

  Then Harvey was off the ground, lifted high. The darkness tilted around him, something slammed into his throat and he heard a crunch, then was thrown on top of the car, landing on his back and rolling down the rear window and over the trunk, falling to the pavement with his face in a puddle.

  It was the cold water that kept him conscious; it was the footsteps slopping over the pavement—frighteningly heavy, stalking footsteps—that made him move.

  Harvey crawled first, his feet kicking up water, palms scraping over pavement. He made two attempts to stand, nearly falling on his face, succeeded the third time, and realized he was running away from the motel, toward the supermarket.

  The police car was there, parked beside the sidewalk, its parking lights on. Harvey couldn’t tell if it was occupied, but he tried to scream anyway, tried to scream, Police! Help! Police! but—

  —nothing came out.

  Not a rasp, not even a breath.

  It was broken.

  His throat was broken, closed, useless. And he couldn’t breathe.

  Clutching his tight chest with one hand and holding out the other arm for balance, Harvey began to make a wide turn to head back to his motel room and—

  —he collided with a wall, bounced back, and fell to the ground, sitting upright, legs splayed.

  Harvey tilted his head back slowly, looking up as the wall moved forward.

  It wasn’t a wall.

  But it wasn’t human; it couldn’t possibly be human.

  Can it? he thought. God, no, Jesus, it can’t be, no. …

  Crawling backward clumsily, his feet tangling in his coat, Harvey managed to make a slight, insect-like sound in his shattered throat before the beast bent down with massive arms outstretched, and mitt-like hands—each with only three pipe-thick fingers—closed on his lapels, lifted him high in the air, where he remained suspended for a moment, floating, until—

  —Harvey shot downward and hit the pavement with sparks behind his eyes.

  He was deaf for a few seconds, unable to hear through the thunder in his skull, unable to distinguish the lightning in the sky from that in his eye sockets, and for a brief but blissful time, his entire body was numb. Then the pain rolled over him like a boulder, crashing through his daze and returning clarity to the night and Harvey saw—

  —the monster bearing down on him, a falling building with one glaring, dribbling eye visible and two tree-trunk legs and before the thought to fight back had even crystallized in Harvey’s mind, he swung a leg up and his foot connected with the creature’s jaw.

  The beast reared back, suddenly upright, but did not make a sound, didn’t even release a startled gush of breath.

  Harvey crawled backward again, his lungs beginning to burn now despite his efforts to drag some air down his smashed throat and—

  —it was coming again, moving fast, straddling him, reaching down, and—

  —Harvey kicked again. The crotch.

  He felt the hulking body stiffen, then stagger back, and Harvey rolled and was on hands and knees, then on his feet, running in spite of the pain, molten pain everywhere, especially in his right arm because it was broken and flopped at his side, a useless tube of bone and tissue, but he ran anyway—swaggered, really—lurching from right to left as he tore at his collar, dragging hard for a breath, just one merciful breath, head craned back, mouth yawning desperately, but it wouldn’t come, and—

  —it was coming for him again, the leaden footsteps gaining momentum as they splashed through puddles and occasionally scraped the pavement, but—

  —the motel-room door was growing as he drew nearer, smeared by the hot tears in his eyes and jostling back and forth as he stumbled and swayed, but there just the same, giving him hope, even taking his mind, for a moment, off the blazing flames in his lungs that threatened to burn their way through the crushed cartilage in his throat, and he reached out his left hand, aiming it for the doorknob as—

  —the footsteps came relentlessly behind him, no other sound in the rain but his
own movement and pain, and—

  —Harvey’s toe caught on the curb, plunging him onto the sidewalk, and a single mousey squeak pushed up through his throat when his chest hit the concrete, but his outstretched hand was touching the door, was only a couple of feet below the knob, and he crawled forward, leaning on the door, straining his arm, trembling fingers rigid, and he pushed once more with his knee until his hand closed on the doorknob, and then—

  —something terrible happened.

  It happened even before Harvey turned the knob, although he turned it anyway, but to no avail, because the door was locked.

  The terrible thing was that, before he tried the door, Harvey closed his eyes for an instant and, in his mind, he saw it, his room key, exactly where he’d left it: on the table in the room, right beside his briefcase full of notes, right beside his micro-cassette recorder filled with quiet, nervous voices.

  Harvey’s left arm dropped, suddenly limp as if it, too, were broken.

  The footsteps came.

  Harvey rolled on the door, turning, as the mountainous figure bounded up on the sidewalk, splashing water in Harvey’s face.

  Well, Harvey thought with weak finality, wishing it could be a heroic thought, but unable to find any heroism in his fear, they won’t get everything. They won’t get the notes in the room. That’s what they want. But they won’t get them.

  Lightning flashed on the beast’s face and, if he had a voice, Harvey would have screamed. The smell enveloped him, clinging like honey, and a three-fingered hand pressed down over his face, closed on his skull, and lifted him like an empty cloth sack from the sidewalk. The fingers squeezed hard …

  … harder …

  … and Harvey thought, I’m going to die, sweet savior Jesus, I’m gonna die!

  But he didn’t. Not yet.

  1:18 a.m. Pacific Time

  Elizabeth Murphy was torn from her sleep by the sound of her own ragged scream. The bed jostled beneath her considerable weight as she jerked upright, her fists clutching the blankets, shoulders heaving with each desperate breath. She felt sweat trickle down her back beneath her nightgown; her hair clung to her moist forehead in wet strands. The bed sheet was damp.