4. For bulk products…
~ * * * ~
Martin struggled to steer the truck toward Billings and not a ditch, the wrong way down the interstate, or back to Brixton—all equal and viable options.
Brixton. It was no destination. Not even now. At best it was a place to eat and use the restroom on the way to somewhere else. At worst, it was a place to start. Like Cheryl had, Martin thought, not for the first time that day. He couldn’t ever get to the next thought.
Whether Cheryl was being probed by an alien or an Idahoan, there was no getting around that somehow this was all his fault. If he’d left well enough alone, she’d probably be helping Lester close up the co-op and heading home with some broasted chicken for Stewart right about now.
Martin hated the seed of uncertainty that had been planted, fertilized, watered, fertilized, and watered again. It had grown into a noxious weed worthy of its own desk at the state agriculture office. How long would it take me to get to Boise? he wondered. He wouldn’t even have to talk to her. It’d be enough to see her working or shopping, or hanging on the arm of some—very nice, I’m sure—online predator. That, somehow, was worse than aliens.
Martin’s phone rang. He thought about ignoring it but decided he couldn’t cope with one of Rick’s Homeric epic voicemails. Or worse, Rick would ping the locator in the truck. Martin had found out about that the hard way. He had ignored a call one day, only to have Rick call the manager at the next store.
“Were you asleep?” Rick asked when Martin answered.
“I’m driving,” said Martin.
“According to FASsys, you visited four accounts today. I thought we were trying to make it at least five,” said Rick.
“I got to everyone I could,” said Martin.
Rick harrumphed, and clicked on a keyboard. “I’m coming out to see you, Marty,” he said.
“When?” Not now. Please not now.
“Soon. I’m about to send you an email. There’s a memo from corporate attached. Going out to all the account reps. A new program they’re rolling out.”
“Why doesn’t this sound good?” Martin asked.
“No, this will streamline your workflow,” said Rick. Martin rolled his eyes. “The goal is to transition much of the product ordering and inventory maintenance to the stores themselves. Accounts will be able to log into FASsys through a web app. It’ll even link up with their existing point-of-sale system. Real slick.”
“A lot of my accounts don’t even have a computer, let alone Internet access,” said Martin.
“Then we’ll provide them with a FASsys PDA setup,” said Rick. “They’ll only need a phone line. I assume they have telephones.”
“This sounds like corporate’s trying to phase out the account reps,” said Martin.
“We’ll never do without account reps. Don’t even worry about that. But the service cycle can be stretched out. We may even be able to consolidate some territories. You might have a bigger region but actually spend less time out on the road. How’s that sound?”
There’s no way the math added up on that. “This kind of thing won’t be easy for a lot of my accounts,” said Martin. “These are little places, understaffed and fighting for their lives. They appreciate someone coming in every month to maintain things.”
“We’re confident that the price incentives will be persuasive,” said Rick. “Okay, I’ve sent out the email. I’ll let you know when I’m coming. We’ll spend a few days pitching to a dozen or so accounts, and then you’ll be off and running.”
Thanks for the shovel, Rick. I’ll just dig my grave right over here, shall I? Specifications for graves could be found on Page 392 of the FastNCo. employee handbook. And…call waiting.
“Are you there?” asked Rick.
“I’m here,” said Martin.
“I’ll need you to reply back and acknowledge that you received the memo,” said Rick. Call waiting.
“Got it,” said Martin.
“Everything else going okay?”
“Going fine,” said Martin. Except for…well…you know…
Finally rid of Rick, Martin answered the other call.
“Thought I was going to have to leave a message,” said Jeffrey.
“Talking to my boss. What’s up?”
“You still in the job market?” asked Jeffrey.
“Does a bear crap in the woods?”
“Good. Now, it’s not a sure thing yet, but I might be getting a transfer. The Denver region might be opening up, and I’m on the short list. That, of course, would leave a handy little void up here.”
“Wow,” said Martin.
“I mentioned you to my regional manager. They’d love to have someone who knows the territory,” said Jeffrey. “You interested?”
“Yeah. I mean, I can’t make any commitments, but I’d be happy to talk to someone,” said Martin.
“Cool. I’ll let him know,” said Jeffrey. “How you getting on with that girl from Brixton? You her shining knight yet?”
Martin opened his mouth to tell Jeffrey about Cheryl but stopped. He would find out soon enough. Eileen and Lorie’s gossip-senses would start tingling next time Jeffrey got within ten miles of Herbert’s Corner. “You aren’t telling people about her and me, are you?”
“Who would I tell, Screw Man? Nah,” said Jeffrey.
“Thanks. It’s just kind of personal, you know,” said Martin.
“Candy Man’s got your back,” said Jeffrey. “Where you going to be this week? Anywhere where we could grab a bite?”
~ * * * ~
“You’re in for a real treat tonight, Wakers. We’ve been working on this for a long time, ironing out the legal issues, and it’s finally time. A BI exclusive. Tonight, in the always-on-the-move BI Bunker, we have Chris Tethers, the man who cracked Area 51. Chris is a self-professed nobody, but he’s a hero to many, and a great friend to this program. Welcome to Beyond Insomnia, Chris.”
“Thanks a lot, Lee. I’m happy to be on.”
“I’m sure you are. You just completed your prison sentence.”
“I’m very glad to be out.”
“Before we get into your story, I need to inform everyone in the Waker Nation that Chris’s actions were dangerous and, as much as we may not like it, illegal. You should not attempt to emulate anything you hear tonight. Sorry, Chris, my lawyers tell me I’ve got to say that.”
“Kiddies, don’t try this at home. I’m with you. I did this so you don’t have to.”
“But you paid a price.”
“I did. A $25,000 fine, twelve months in federal prison. And I lost my job, my apartment, and worst of all, my girlfriend. Hi, Sandra, if you’re listening. I’m sorry. No hard feelings, though.”
“Let’s get into it. What drove you to do this?”
“Well, Lee, I’m the type of person who can’t let things go. I was always the kid with my hand in the cookie jar. I spent the night in my hometown library more than once because I just knew they kept secret books in the back. So you put a place like Area 51 out there, and I’ve just got to know. I studied everything about the place, paying close attention to the security, and to the mistakes others have made trying to get in.”
“And that’s how you decided to hike?”
“I didn’t have much choice. It’s restricted airspace, and they have all the approach roads lined with vibration sensors and under audiovisual surveillance. The trick was figuring out how to accomplish it.”
“Now, we can’t go into the technical details, like the exact gear you prepared or the route you took. But we can discuss some generalities. You had to prepare for several days and nights in a very harsh environment.”
“It took over a year to prepare. I got desert survival training, learned stealth and evasion techniques from a former Army sniper, and I trained my body for the strenuous walking, crawling, and deprivation. I disciplined myself to stay still for hours under very uncomfortable conditions.”
“What did you hope to achieve?”<
br />
“I am not a spy. I am a U.S. citizen and a patriot. But what disturbs me are the lies, the secrecy, the denials. The government spends over fifty billion a year out there, paid mostly to Lockheed, Raytheon, Bechtel, and other major defense contractors, with little accountability. That ethic might have been appropriate during the Cold War, but it doesn’t fly in this Internet age. I planned to get in, transmit as much video and audio as possible, and get out.”
“You transmitted the data live?”
“I had adapted a satellite phone to upload everything straight to a secure server. I didn’t want to be caught with any recordings on my person.”
“What was your intention for all this data?”
“I could have streamed it all straight to the Internet, but I would have been caught a lot faster. So I collected it. I wanted to use that information to campaign for a new openness from the U.S. government and the defense industry. They need to acknowledge that we are not simpletons to be protected, but that we have a right to know. I’m not talking about needing to know the alloy formulas for new aircraft frames, but I want to know that the tax dollars spent in my name aren’t being wasted—or worse, used to develop unethical weapons systems, like the next Manhattan Project. Or even worse than that, used to protect me from myself.”
“You’re talking about positive knowledge of extraterrestrials and the use of alien technology.”
“In so many words.”
“I’ll ask the question that everyone wants to know: Did you see evidence of aliens or alien technology?”
“If I did, Lee, it was already folded into the designs of the aircraft I saw. But, no, I didn’t see anything conclusively alien. However, I never entered any of the buildings or underground facilities. I stayed on the surface and never got closer than about half a mile from any infrastructure, runways, or radar stations. But I still witnessed some pretty amazing stuff.”
“We’re all anxious to hear about it. After this break, we’ll find out more about Chris’s amazing few days and nights inside Area 51, and the harrowing story of his eventual capture. You won’t want to miss a second of this. Stay up with us. Beyond Insomnia.”
~ * * * ~
Martin pulled the truck onto the side of the dirt road under a pink sunrise. Across the cattle guard, and down the lane, the tail of the Skylark peeked out from the trailer’s driveway. Martin gave himself one last chance to bug out, then shut off the engine. A neighbor’s mutt scampered out to the cattle guard to greet him, and after a couple of barks and a pat on the head, it accompanied Martin to the porch.
The door hung open behind a screen door. Inside, in the shadows, a man lay feet up in the recliner.
“I wondered when you’d show up,” said a voice unused to talking. Stewart cleared his throat, and then said, “Heard you were in town night before last.”
“May I come in?” asked Martin.
Martin expected Stewart to be squatting in miserable piles of dirty dishes and festering laundry, but things had been pretty squared away. Whether due to the kindness of neighbors or Stewart’s own competence, Martin was relieved not to have to feel that extra layer of sorry for the man.
“Can’t decide if you’re too smart or too stupid for your own good,” said Stewart.
“Probably too stupid,” said Martin, taking a seat on the couch. “I can’t sleep. I don’t know if I’m responsible or even if there’s anything wrong, but I feel like I need to put things right.”
“That’s the stupid talking,” said Stewart. “Especially if you found yourself out at Doris Solberg’s place.”
“You came to me first. Don’t forget.”
“I was distraught, not in my right mind,” said Stewart.
“I don’t believe that,” said Martin. “I think you have a pretty good idea of what Doris told me. And after what you asked the other night…”
Stewart laughed, a cynical, mocking laugh that quickly turned to coughing. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he sputtered as he recovered.
“You don’t think Cheryl went to Boise, do you?” said Martin.
“Get out of here.”
“Please,” said Martin.
“Leave now,” said Stewart.
“Dammit, you need my help,” said Martin.
Stewart snapped the recliner’s footrest down with alarming force. He rose to every inch he could muster of his once-formidable height. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” he asked.
“I only want to help Cheryl,” said Martin.
Stewart’s eyes flicked to the front door, then settled hard on Martin.
Chapter 9
Martin jerked and snuffled awake at the sound of brakes. The semi had come from the south on 360, and its blinker signaled a turn west onto 15. Green truck, white trailer. Tri-Mountain Freight, not that that meant anything to Martin. It turned out under a blast of black exhaust. Martin guessed the truck would continue into Brixton, but it veered into the far entrance of Herbert’s Corner, the one past the diesel pumps.
Martin scooted up in the bucket seat of his Subaru and watched the truck disappear around the building into the truck lot. He wiped the sleep out of the corners of his eyes and started his car. He parked in one of the spots on the side of the building with a view of the lot, got out, opened the hatchback, and pretended to rummage.
The driver of the green semi was a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped man with enough facial hair for two broad-shouldered men. He hoisted up the waist of his pants as he neared the diner door.
Since Martin had arrived in Brixton on Saturday night, every driver had gone straight to the restroom, first thing, without exception. About half had used a stall, and the others had ignored Martin as he used a urinal alongside them. Martin cringed at the noises this new driver made behind the partitions, but they sounded more or less human.
Lorie rolled her eyes as Martin took a seat at the counter. “Another one? Why don’t I give you my dress and you can go take his order?” she said.
“I don’t have the legs for it,” said Martin. “Here he comes.”
The driver strolled in, hitched up his pants again, and took a seat at a free table.
“Have you seen him before?” asked Martin.
“Be right there, hon,” Lorie called, then to Martin said, “A couple times. I think.”
“What do you think? Is he?”
“I don’t know. But I’m beginning to have my doubts about you,” said Lorie. She poured him a cup of coffee and left to take the driver’s order.
“What did he order?” Martin asked as she hooked the slip on the rail at the kitchen window.
“None of your business,” said Lorie.
“Did you ask him if he likes rhubarb pie?”
“For the last time, I am not askin’ anyone that. What would you suggest I do if they try to order some?” She waved over to the display case of muffins, cobblers, cream pies, meringues, and a few melancholy fruit pies. As she had pointed out before, it contained decidedly no rhubarb anything.
Martin nursed a coffee and a side of hash browns as the trucker ate. He tried not to get caught staring as the driver paid at the till and then strolled out into the sun. Martin tossed a five on the counter and waved to a disapproving Lorie.
The truck rolled out of Herbert’s Corner toward Brixton, filling the blue sky with its own personal thunderclouds of exhaust. Martin counted to sixty and followed. He stayed back at least a quarter mile, following his self-imposed rules. Heading west on 15, he’d go only as far as the county line, Hansers Road, about twenty miles. East, he’d go to the wind farm. North on 360, he’d drive as far as the Placer’s Homestead historical marker. He hadn’t followed anyone south yet, but he guessed he’d go as far as the turn to the Kiln Lake National Wildlife Refuge. Roughly the boundaries of Big Thunder Valley.
The truck stubbornly headed west. Five miles, and then ten. At Hansers Road, Martin put on his blinker and let this one go.
A few minutes later, he was back
by the Herbert’s Corner propane tank, where he could watch the junction inconspicuously. He shook his Diet Mountain Dew cup; even the ice had deserted him a long time ago.
On his way into the store, he counted the trucks. The orange one was still there, and the blue one, and the black-and-red one. But he had missed the yellow one leaving.
“Martin, what do you think you’re doing?” Eileen called, and flicked ash off her cigarette onto the ground by the back door.
“When did you get in?” asked Martin.
“Lorie says you’ve been here all night chasing drivers.”
“It’s my day off.”
“Hell of a way to spend it,” said Eileen.
“I went back to talk to Stewart a couple days ago,” said Martin.
“I heard,” said Eileen.
“If he thinks Cheryl’s in trouble, he’s not doing much about it.”
“Maybe there’s nothing he can do,” said Eileen.
“I can’t believe that,” said Martin. “I’m going to find one of these…” He lowered his voice. “…these aliens, and I’m going to do whatever I have to do to get her back from them.”
“Even if you find one, what makes you think he’ll know what you’re talking about, let alone have anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know, I thought…”
“I know I took you out to Doris’s. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But what she didn’t tell you—if you want to believe it—is that no one could tell them apart from humans, except Herbert Stamper. They say Herbert would point at one guy or another and say, ‘Yep, he’s one,’ or ‘Nope.’ Same with the trucks.”
“How could he tell?” asked Martin.
“Doris’d tell you it’s because he was one of them.”
“Didn’t you say she…and he…were…you know?” He twirled a finger.
“They were,” said Eileen.
“Do you believe it?” asked Martin.
Eileen considered her nearly finished cigarette, dropped it in a five-gallon bucket of sand, and blew out one last breath of smoke. “I didn’t know Herbert that well, but I admit, after a while I got a feelin’ that things were a little weirder ’round here than they had a right to be. Don’t know how else to explain it.”
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