Valley of the Shadow

by Pawlik, Tom

  Howard was sitting in the cab, staring straight ahead. Fingers drumming on the wheel.

  “Sorry,” Mitch mumbled as he climbed into the truck. “I had to . . . It took a little longer than I thought.”

  They pulled onto the highway and headed back to the farm in silence. Mitch struggled to push the images of these most recent hallucinations out of his mind. First this Nathan character and now his father. But more than anything else, what Mitch found troubling was how long it’d been since something like this had haunted him. Why now? Why after all this time had he started to see things again? Was something happening to him? Were the aliens trying a different tack?

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes, pondering whether he should share these events with Howard. He glanced at the old farmer. But Howard had stopped whistling and was staring, blank-faced, at the road ahead.

  Mitch could sense that he’d somehow offended the old man with his talk of a vacation. He sighed again and scratched the back of his neck. “Look . . . dude. Really, it wasn’t anything personal. It’s no big deal. I don’t need a vacation. I just got the itch…”

  Mitch stopped and frowned. He could see Howard wasn’t paying attention. Rather, the old man was now squinting at the road in front of them. A light afternoon fog had begun to settle and was starting to cramp visibility. Mitch peered into the mist and could see a vehicle up ahead, pulled off to the side of the road.

  A lone figure stood next to it, waving to them.

  12

  JIM MALONE FOUND HIMSELF sitting in the office of the corrections facility’s assistant director, waiting for the man to arrive. At least he assumed it was a man. The name on the door read D. Curtis in black letters on the opaque glass. Steel file cabinets loaded with books and periodicals lined the walls on either side of the small room. Piles of manila folders were stacked precariously at the edges of the bulky metal desk. And amid the desktop clutter were a pair of wire baskets, also crammed with paperwork, and an old-style black rotary telephone.

  Jim felt as if he’d been catapulted back in time to the seventies.

  Then the door opened and the assistant director entered: an enormous black man, built more like a pro football player than an administrator. He stood well over six feet with beefy shoulders and chest and an ample stomach. His white pin-striped shirt was tight around his girth and only partially tucked into his belt. His head was shaved and he sported a thick salt-and-pepper goatee. He was perusing a folder through rectangular, black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose. Jim guessed it was Devon’s file.

  He sidled past Jim, squeezed around behind his desk, and sat down, looking almost comical, as if sitting in a child-size school desk. At first he ignored Jim, his eyes fixed on the folder in front of him. Then he sighed and looked up at Jim over his glasses.

  “Mr. Malone, I’m Darnell Curtis.” His voice was about as deep as Jim would’ve expected from a man that size. He reached a large, meaty hand across the desk. “Thanks for sticking around to talk to me.”

  “No problem.” Jim shook his hand. “I told them everything I know. Devon was acting strange from the moment he entered. Like he was in a daze. I thought he might’ve been drugged or something.”

  “Devon was not medicated,” Darnell said, glancing at the folder. He rubbed the top of his clean-shaven head. “You mind explaining exactly how you know this young man?”

  “Well . . .” Jim hesitated a moment. “I don’t really know him. I was the one who called 911 when he was shot a couple months back.”

  “But you didn’t see who shot him?”

  “I spoke to the police several times. I told them everything I knew. I just saw a black sedan drive away. I didn’t see the plates or anything.”

  “So why the visit today?”

  “Well . . . ,” Jim began with some hesitation. He could see how this might look a bit suspicious. “I got permission from his probation officer. I know Devon’s had it kind of rough lately, and I was just trying to help. I don’t want anything from him. I just thought he could use some company. Y’know, a friend.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Darnell said, his eyes still on the folder. “We always appreciate it when the community—churches and that—get involved to help these kids. That’s a good thing.”

  Jim shrugged. “Like I said, I wasn’t expecting anything from him. I just wanted to touch base. I wanted to tell him I was sorry about his friend.”

  Darnell looked up. “His friend?”

  “Yeah. See, that night he was shot, there were two kids in the car. I pulled Devon out and did CPR until the cops came, but I couldn’t save his friend. I could only help one of them. And by the time the paramedics arrived, his friend was already gone. They couldn’t save him.”

  “I understand.”

  Jim went on. “And it’s been bothering me. I mean, I made a choice that night—I didn’t think about it at the time, but I realized later that I had chosen which one of those boys lived and which one died.” He looked down. “It’s been a little hard dealing with that. I just wanted to let him know I was sorry . . . about his friend.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Darnell leaned back and nodded to himself. He was quiet for several more seconds, rubbing his jaw. “So did you see Devon ingest anything while he was with you this morning?”

  “No. I told the guard, I didn’t see him put anything in his mouth.”

  Darnell sat up, closed the folder, and tapped his fingers on it. “What about all the water on the window?”

  “The window?” Jim recalled the frost that had appeared on the glass out of nowhere and the sharp chill he had felt just before Devon’s seizure. It was creepy and he had no explanation for it. At least nothing that made much sense. “I… I don’t really know. It was like condensation, I think.”

  Darnell’s frown deepened. “Condensation?”

  “Well, I didn’t mention it earlier, but for a few seconds it got real cold in there. Like the AC suddenly kicked in super high or something.”

  “The air-conditioning?”

  “Just for a few seconds. The glass looked like it frosted up.”

  Darnell rubbed his scalp again, then slid his hand down to his jaw. “Frosted up, huh? No, you didn’t mention that.”

  Jim looked down. “Well, it just seemed so weird, I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”

  “Hmm,” Darnell grunted and stared at Jim for several seconds longer. “So did Devon mention anything about the lawyer he met with earlier?”

  “Lawyer? No. Like I said, he didn’t really say anything.” Then his eyebrows went up. “Wait . . . you mean Conner Hayden?” Had they both come to see the same kid?

  “So you do know him.”

  Jim gave a nervous laugh. “No . . . not really. It’s just that we—my wife and I—had met with him a couple months ago to discuss some legal issues. Then I happened to run into him on my way in this morning. Just by total coincidence, really. He said he had come to talk to one of the kids. I didn’t even think to ask who. I just assumed . . .”

  Darnell leaned forward. “Did he say anything? give you any details? Because apparently Devon took one look at him and just freaked out. He didn’t even want to meet the guy.”

  Jim shook his head. “I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know how they know each other.”

  Suddenly the old telephone rang and Darnell picked it up. “Darnell.” He listened for a moment. “When?” His lips tightened and he spun his chair to face the wall. “Did anyone get hurt? . . . Okay, I’ll be right down.”

  He hung up the phone and stood. “Mr. Malone, would you be available if we need to contact you with further questions?”

  “Sure,” Jim said, sliding his chair over to give the big man room to get around him. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Darnell paused in the doorway. “It seems our friend Mr. Marshall isn’t quite as sick as we thought. And maybe a little smarter too.”

  “What happened?”

  “That was the nurse from our infirmary.
She had called an ambulance to transfer Devon to the hospital. And when they arrived at the hospital, he miraculously revived and managed to escape.”

  13

  HOWARD ROLLED TO A STOP on the highway in front of the solitary figure.

  He was young, Mitch guessed. Probably in his early twenties, with short dark hair, thick eyebrows, not terribly tall but with an athletic build. His face seemed to light up as he studied Mitch and Howard. He was talking up a storm even before they had gotten out of the truck.

  “Man, am I glad to see you guys!” He came around to Mitch and stuck out a hand. “I’ve been on the run for two days now. D’you know what’s going on? It’s like an invasion or something, right?”

  He shook Mitch’s hand firmly. And repeatedly. Like a jackhammer.

  Mitch shrugged, casting a glance at Howard. “Well, something like that . . .”

  “Name’s Jason Devina. St. Louis.”

  “Uhh, yeah . . .” Mitch pulled his hand free. “I’m Mitch.”

  Howard waved. “Bristol. Howard Bristol.”

  Jason stood back, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you guys. I thought I was like the last man on earth, y’know?”

  “Well, I can assure you that ain’t the case,” Howard said.

  “So, you guys heard anything? any news? What’s going on?”

  Mitch scratched his head. “Actually . . . we don’t know a whole lot more than you do at this point. You say you’re from St. Louis?”

  Jason nodded, smiling. Still breathing heavy from relief. “Yeah, boy. I was driving home from work a couple nights ago. Well, I had stopped off at a bar first. But I’m driving down this empty highway when I see this cloud up ahead. Coming right toward me! Some kind of lights inside it. Like a UFO, y’know?”

  “Sounds familiar,” Howard said, looking sideways at Mitch.

  Then Jason grew serious. He lowered his voice. “Have you guys seen any . . . you know, any . . .”

  “Aliens?” Mitch was nodding. “Yeah. We’ve seen them.”

  Jason thrust his palms onto his forehead. “Oh man, I thought I was going nuts or something. Creepy-looking things. I mean . . . real creepy!”

  Howard gestured toward Jason’s car. A black Porsche. “You run outta gas?”

  “Yeah . . . and there’s no power around here. I couldn’t find any gas for miles.”

  “Well . . .” Howard stuck a thumb over his shoulder. “I got a place up the road a ways. It ain’t much, but we got food and shelter. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

  Jason was already pulling a duffel bag out of the Porsche. “Thanks, man!”

  The three of them climbed into the milk truck, with Jason squeezed in the middle. He prattled on, recounting the details of the previous two days.

  Mitch didn’t say much. He had learned over the years not to provide too much information to strangers all at once. The whole time-paradox thing was often too much for people to handle. How Mitch and Howard had been living here for years while to the newcomers, it was almost always a brand-new experience.

  According to Jason’s recollection of events, the date he’d encountered the mysterious storm was only a couple of months after Mitch had . . . nearly five years ago. But that general timeline was consistent for everyone they’d met so far. No one seemed aware that so much time had actually passed.

  All Mitch could figure was that the aliens had abducted vast numbers of people within a few months of each other but were holding them in some sort of suspended animation and then releasing them at different times—maybe just to see how they would react or interact with other people who’d been released earlier.

  Nothing else seemed to make sense. The whole thing was way beyond weird, with no logical explanation. But he had come to accept it by now. Logic had long since abandoned him. This was just the way things were.

  Jason talked the whole way back to the farm. In many ways, his story was very similar to Mitch’s. Jason had a serious girlfriend whom he’d hoped to marry. Now she was gone like everyone else. He was being watched and followed by the gray creatures wherever he went. He had come up with the plan to head east, just as Mitch had done five years ago. He’d driven through the night and run out of gas on this stretch of highway.

  Jason seemed to bounce when he talked, bobbing his head and gesturing with his hands. He was short and jittery. A tightly packed bundle of electrified caffeine. Like the hyperactive little mutt that followed the big bulldog around in those old cartoons.

  But Mitch liked him anyway. He was a refreshing change to the parade of senior citizens they’d been having over the years.

  They arrived at the farm and Jason jumped out of the truck.

  “Whoa.” He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the compound. Mitch could see he was beginning to put two and two together. After a moment, he turned around. “How’d you guys get this all together so quick?”

  Mitch and Howard exchanged glances. Howard put his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Son . . . I know it feels like this all started for you just a couple days ago. But truth is, we’ve been here for… well, for quite some time.”

  Jason shook his head. “Whaddya mean? How long?”

  Mitch shrugged. “I’ve been here for almost five years. Although it’s hard to keep track of exactly how long. And Howard was here long before me.”

  “Five years?” Jason turned and gazed at the compound again. Then he looked back at Mitch and Howard. “How… ? I—I don’t get it.”

  “Dude,” Mitch said, “you’ll go crazy trying to figure it out. We don’t have all the answers. What we do know is that these creatures have been here for a long time and they can manipulate our senses. Make us see and hear and touch things that aren’t there.”

  Jason stared at them, openmouthed. For the first time since they’d met him, he was speechless.

  “Listen . . .” Mitch put a finger to his temple. “They know how to get inside your head. Read your thoughts and memories. For all you know, your whole life might have been an illusion. Or maybe this all is. I don’t know anymore.”

  Howard patted Jason’s shoulder. “I know it’s a lot to handle all at once. To suddenly realize your whole world might not be what you thought it was.”

  “No!” Jason pulled away. “Maybe you guys are the illusion. How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You don’t.” Mitch headed toward the house. “So you need to decide if you’re going to stay here with us or move on alone.” He pointed over his shoulder. “But whatever you do, I’d stay away from those woods if I were you.”

  14

  CONNER SAT IN HIS MERCEDES, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and staring at the enormous stone house nestled among the trees. Walter Kent’s brooding mansion was set back a hundred feet off the street, half-hidden behind a pair of large oaks in the massive front yard. A six- or seven-foot hedge encompassed the entire yard.

  Conner’s mind was still bristling from his conversation with Henry Brandt. He’d never known the man to be that closed-minded before. Or that quick to pass judgment. Henry didn’t care about the proof Conner could have provided for his experience. Instead, he’d simply predetermined that Conner was mentally unstable, perhaps due to the lack of oxygen during his heart attack. “Get your head right,” indeed!

  Conner had collected his things and made a quick exit, not even giving an explanation to Nancy, who had just gotten him a fresh mug of coffee. Let her talk to Henry if she wanted to know details.

  Conner sighed and rolled his neck. He knew he couldn’t afford to get too worked up about this. If they wanted to peg him as a fanatic—what was the term Henry had used? Zealot—then so be it. He’d take the two weeks. And maybe find another job.

  But he didn’t want to go home just yet. Marta was still at work, and the last thing he wanted to do was dodder around the house like an old retiree.

  So he found himself loitering in Walter Kent’s ne
ighborhood. Again. He’d done so on several occasions during the past two months. He had tried to make phone contact initially but was quickly turned away by Kent’s assistant. Apparently the former congressman was fighting his own battle with cancer and couldn’t be bothered with lawyers.

  Mitch had neglected to share that bit of information with him—that his father had cancer. It explained a lot, though. It was probably what had prompted Kent to call Mitch that night. To make amends, patch things up.

  Conner shook his head. What must have been going through Mitch’s mind? Hating your father for so long, only to have him call to tell you he has cancer?

  It also explained why Mitch was as surly as he was. Probably the guy was normally happy and fun-loving. But he’d been dealing with all these other issues.

  All the more reason to make contact with Kent. This had to be the reason God had brought Conner back. To help bridge the gap between Mitch and his father. To convince Walter Kent not to give up hope. And to save Mitch’s life.

  Conner took a breath and pulled up the winding driveway. It wove between a few trees and circled a fountain at the front entrance. Conner got out and stared up at the imposing stone archway. He went to the front doors and rang the bell. He could hear a chime ringing inside.

  After several seconds, an attractive woman opened the door. She looked to be in her thirties and was very businesslike in a black, knee-length skirt and white blouse, hair up in a bun, and black-framed glasses.

  Conner was caught momentarily off guard. If this was the assistant he’d spoken with—argued with—over the phone these past weeks, she was younger than he’d expected. “Uh… yes, I was wondering if I could see Mr. Kent. Just very briefly. It’s extremely important.”

  The woman wrinkled her nose, as if smelling an unpleasant odor. “Umm . . . A, no one can see the congressman without an appointment, and B, we’re not making any appointments at this time.”

  Conner smiled, trying to seem personal and professional at the same time. “I completely understand, and I would have gone through the normal procedures to see Congressman Kent, but this is a personal matter concerning his son, Mitch.”