Rhubarb

by M. H. Van Keuren

  “They’re capitalists who eat snack food. How different can they be?” asked Martin.

  “I’m sorry,” said Stewart.

  “So your plan is to sit here and hope they can’t figure out the secret recipe? Doris Solberg is an old bat, and I’d never baked a pie in my life until last night, and we figured it out in a few hours.”

  “What exactly would you suggest we do?” asked Stewart. “If you even hint to them that you have the recipe, you’ll be in as much trouble as Cheryl. So go ahead and call them if you want. You’ll only have to live with the guilt for a few hours.” A rustle of foil and wet plastic came from the trash can—the ruined pies mocking him for all his efforts.

  “I barely know her,” said Martin.

  “What?”

  “Cheryl. I don’t even know her,” said Martin. “That one dinner, a few mornings at the breakfast bar, a few words at the co-op. That’s all I have.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Stewart.

  “I’ve been in love with her since almost the first time I saw her, but I don’t really know her,” said Martin. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Stewart said, “I’ve never approved of any man for Cheryl—not that she needed my approval. But I think I approve of you.”

  “Thanks,” said Martin. “But I can’t believe you’re just going to give up on her.”

  “This isn’t giving up. I know she’ll come back. She may not be the same person who left, but she’ll be returned sooner or later. We’re going to have to be patient.”

  “They’ll return a single person, but they’ll murder an entire species?”

  “Company procedure, I’m afraid,” Stewart replied.

  “Is this why that wormhole, or whatever it is, down on Highway 360 exists? So you can come kill us all to put your snack company in the black?”

  “No. The portal’s nothing more than an off-ramp. Your solar system is simply another node in the network. My people have been stopping here for centuries.” As Stewart spoke, Martin followed his gaze to the staple gun in his hand.

  “I’m going to keep this,” said Martin. “I’m tired of waking up with it pointed at my head.”

  “But…” said Stewart.

  “No. You want another one, go on down to the co-op. Lester keeps two or three in stock,” said Martin.

  “Fine,” said Stewart. “But be careful with it. Remember what we’ve talked about here. And don’t do anything stupid.”

  Chapter 15

  “Lake Havasu City, Arizona. You’re Beyond Insomnia with Lee Danvers and guest Marilyn Pringle-Carlson.”

  “I’ll get right to the question. Marilyn, is this the end of the world?”

  “I’m sure you get asked that a lot.”

  “I do, Lee. At almost every talk I give, it’s the first question. People feel helpless, dragged along by forces they cannot control. Fear is a natural state. But is it the end of the world? My favorite way to answer that question is to say that it will be the end of the world as we know it. But will it be the cataclysmic apocalypse we see in the movies? No. Caller? Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “This is Sheila.”

  “Why do you think you’re afraid?”

  “I been hearing so much about it, and I don’t know what to believe. I want to protect my family, but it’s so hard with so little information. You’d think the government would put out announcements about how to get ready, but when I see that they aren’t, it scares me that maybe there’s nothing I can do.”

  “I in no way want to belittle your fears, Sheila, but I hear worries like yours all the time about the coming alignment. I’m saddened that all the hype tends to breed instead of quell fear. Most people—sorry to say that many of them have been guests on your show, Lee—don’t view these calendars through the correct lens. And until you understand the original authors, you can’t understand the intent.”

  “Who were the authors?”

  “Before I answer that, I want to look through the lens of who we are now. Our society has been steeped in a culture of Western religions. And those religions—Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and all their offshoots—prophesy an end brought about by their gods as a fulfillment. Those ends are nasty affairs, in which many suffer. Say the phrase ‘the end of the world’ to most Americans, and they will imagine colossal wars, devastating earthquakes, piles of plague dead, zombies, the sky ripped open. Need I go on? And it’s all a bit ironic, because the Western calendar is completely open ended. What are our Westernized minds to make of a calendar with an apparent end?

  “But the authors of this calendar did not hold such a bleak outlook on life, nature, or the course of history. They viewed cycles as the natural order of the universe. Lunar cycles, seasonal cycles, solar cycles, cycles of life, death, and rebirth for plants, animals, and people. But—and this is getting to an answer for Sheila—they also observed critical galactic cycles that we are only beginning to relearn as a civilization.”

  “Why are these galactic cycles important?”

  “These calendars demonstrate a sophisticated understanding of the cosmos not possible through direct, unaided observation of the stars. Pre-Olmec cultures first recorded the calendar as an attempt to interpret the universal cycles described to them by visitors. The pre-Olmec people believed these visitor beings were gods, but you and I might have a different name for them.”

  “In other words, we should read the calendars through the combined perspectives of these visitors—technologically advanced aliens, if you will—and the pre-Olmec culture?”

  “Exactly, Lee. And neither held an apocalyptic view of the world. They celebrated the ends of ages, welcomed them, even though each new age brought change and fresh challenges. Sheila, I hope that this can put your mind at ease. I know through my past-life regression that I personally have lived through a similar time in history. When I was Teoronuc, I was a celebrant in the temple. The people were not fearful, but came out to worship and greet the new age. If you want to prepare yourself, prepare yourself for something beautiful, something wonderful.”

  “That’s so great to hear. My husband will be happy. I’ve been worrying him to death about this. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Sheila in Lake Havasu City. I’d like to know more about these galactic cycles, but first, let’s go out to the Waker Nation for another call. Billings, Montana, you’re Beyond Insomnia.”

  “Am I on?”

  “Yes. Go ahead, caller.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad I got through. This is Martin.”

  “Hi, Martin, do you have a question for Marilyn Pringle-Carlson?”

  “I don’t know. It may be a little off topic, but it is about the end of the world.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “You had another guest on a month or so ago who talked about UFO sightings and alien visitation in Brixton, Montana. Do you remember that, Lee?”

  “I do.”

  “I have to tell you that it’s all true. And it’s still going on. I’ve talked to these aliens. I’ve even got video of them arriving. I can show you right where their vehicles appear and disappear.”

  “What’s your question, Martin?”

  “I have to warn everyone that some of these aliens are planning on killing everybody and taking over our planet. I didn’t know who else to tell. If we do something, we might be able to stop them. Please don’t hang up on me. I know how this sounds, but I’m not making this up. Like your guest said, they’ve been coming to Brixton for years. They eat at the Herbert’s Corn…”

  “Thank you, Billings, Montana. After this break, we’ll be back with more from researcher and former ancient Mesoamerican priest Marilyn Pringle-Carlson.”

  “Don’t hang up,” said a voice that was not Lee Danvers.

  “Hello?” asked Martin.

  “Stay on the line, Billings,” said the voice, a young man’s. Was this X-Ray, the engineer? “Lee’s going into commercial, but he wants to tal
k to you.”

  A few seconds later, the line clicked over. “Martin?” asked Lee Danvers.

  “Hi?” said Martin.

  “Sorry to have to cut you off. It’s not that I don’t want to hear your story, but I’ve got to keep the show on topic. Hope you understand. Now, you said you have video of their ships coming and going.”

  “Well, coming,” said Martin.

  “And you took this video near Brixton, Montana?”

  “About seven miles south,” said Martin.

  “Are you a professional photographer, videographer, computer graphics specialist, or anything like that?”

  “I’m a salesman,” said Martin.

  “Good. Have you shown this video to anyone? Put it on YouTube? Anything?” asked Lee.

  “No,” said Martin.

  “Excellent, don’t. Do you have a pen? I’m going to give you a number. I want you to call it tomorrow. Not tonight. Tomorrow after 9:00 a.m. Eastern time. You’re going to ask for Alicia. She’s one of my producers. If your video’s good, we’ll issue you a contract for exclusive rights. It’ll get put up on wakernation.com, where everyone can see it, and you might get up to five hundred dollars. How does that sound?”

  “I don’t care about the video,” said Martin. “I’m trying to tell everyone about the…”

  “The invasion. Sure.”

  “It’s not an invasion. They’re going to extermin…”

  “I appreciate you listening, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to be anything but rude. I get about a dozen alien invasion calls a week. Ring the number in the morning and tell your story to Alicia. If it’s worth a segment, we’ll get back to you. I’ve got to get back on the air. Got your pen ready?”

  ~ * * * ~

  The complimentary breakfast at the Lone Pine Inn in Sidney had a different waffle setup than the Brixton Inn. The batter had been pre-poured into little cups and set in a special plastic tray. But no insightful red-and-yellow placard told Martin what to do next. So they don’t trust me to dispense my own batter, but they expect me to instinctively know how to operate a griddle? Martin wondered.

  As Martin poured his chosen cup of batter into the black grooves, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He dropped the cup and had to fish it out of the pooling batter.

  “Our man in Sidney,” said Jeffrey. “If I’d known you were here last night, I would have given you a call. We could’ve gone out for a drink or something.”

  “I got in late, had to park the truck around the back,” said Martin.

  “I’ll bet you did,” said Jeffrey.

  Two minutes and thirty seconds later, Martin joined Jeffrey at a table. “I never heard from anyone from your company,” he said. With everything else going on, Martin had nearly forgotten that Jeffrey had all but offered him his job. “Did your thing in Denver not pan out?”

  “You know how these things go; always takes longer than you think,” said Jeffrey. Another man wandered into the breakfast room with a USA Today tucked under his arm. Jeffrey waved.

  “Morning, Mark,” said Jeffrey. Mark was a greeting card guy. Not Hallmark or American Greetings, but folksy sorts of cards. Wacky cowboys, shriveled grannies, and farm animals with their tongues up their noses wishing for you to get well or to have a happy birthday. If you threw a Santa hat, a Bible verse, or few pink hearts on them, the drawings worked for any holiday. A spinning rack of them lived in most Montana stores, never too far from Jeffrey’s candy.

  Mark gathered his complement of breakfast and joined them.

  “Mark, you know Martin. FastNCo.?” said Jeffrey.

  “Sure.”

  “Good to see you again,” said Martin.

  Mark chewed a bite of donut and swished it down with orange juice, all the while pointing at Martin. “That,” he said and finished swallowing, “wasn’t you I heard on BI last night?”

  “What?” asked Martin.

  “No? It’s funny you’re here, because I thought of you when I heard it. Caller was named Martin. From Billings,” said Mark.

  “What did he call about?” asked Jeffrey.

  “The show was about all the Mayan end-of-the-world junk, but this guy, Martin…”

  “Not me,” said Martin.

  “…goes completely off topic. Starts babbling about how aliens are coming to Brixton—yeah, Brixton, Montana—and how they’re going to kill everyone on Earth. Oh, and he has video proof of all of it. Danvers pretty much shut him down.”

  “You see why I don’t listen to that show,” said Jeffrey. “Bunch of nutcases. Listen to it long enough, and you start to believe it all, too.”

  “Too bad Danvers hung up on him. I like it when he lets the kooks on,” said Mark.

  ~ * * * ~

  Martin had tucked his overnight bag behind the driver’s seat of his truck when he heard his name. Jeffrey had left the back door of the motel with his own bag.

  “You okay?” Jeffrey asked, shading his eyes from the morning sun with his iPad.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Not to be rude, but I think maybe Mark had you pegged. Are you calling into Beyond Insomnia now?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Martin.

  Jeffrey waggled his iPad. “Listened to the podcast of last night’s show—the bit Mark told us about, anyway. And it really does sound like you. And it’s about Brixton. I know you’ve been spending some time over there lately.”

  “What’ve you heard?”

  “I know that girl who baked you a pie left town. And I heard you got arrested for scaring the crap out of a trucker,” said Jeffrey. “What’s going on, Martin? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m fine,” said Martin. “Wait. How do you know about the pie?”

  “What are you talking about? You told me,” said Jeffrey.

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” said Martin.

  “You told me as we passed each other on Highway 12. Remember? I called you. You told me my driving sucked,” said Jeffrey. “It wasn’t that long ago. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Martin dove into the cab of his truck, brushed a couple of paper bags from yesterday’s meals onto the floor of the passenger seat, found what he needed, and slid back out onto his feet.

  “Hey, whoa, FastNCo. issue a permit for that thing?” Jeffrey laughed.

  Martin kept the staple gun pointed at the ground. “Who else did you tell?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “About me and Cheryl? About the pie?”

  “Are you off your medication?”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “No one. What’s the big deal?”

  Martin raised the staple gun. “Where is she, Jeffrey? Or whoever you are?”

  “Holy crap, that was you on the show,” said Jeffrey.

  “She doesn’t know anything,” said Martin.

  “And you are nuts.”

  “Don’t move,” said Martin.

  “You’re delusional,” said Jeffrey, not stopping. “That’s a staple gun. I can see the FastNCo. logo on the side.”

  “Then why are you backing away?” asked Martin.

  “I’m leaving now. Stay away from me.”

  Martin aimed just to Jeffrey’s right and squeezed the trigger handle. The staple gun clicked and popped like a staple gun should and, as if coincidentally, the trash can by the back door of the motel exploded.

  Jeffrey stumbled away from the shower of shrapnel. Martin felt a brief, hot concussion, and debris peppered the back of the truck. The staple gun still felt perfectly normal.

  Jeffrey straightened, unhurt but changed. No more indignation and false fear. His eyes were no longer casual, lying things, but sinister, focused.

  The desk clerk burst out the back door and swore at the wreckage.

  Jeffrey bolted.

  “Hey,” the desk clerk called.

  Martin tossed the staple gun into the truck and chased Jeffrey around the side of the building in time to see him dodge between two cars. A few seconds l
ater, the Lincoln Town Car lurched out. Its tires squealed as it braked, then again as it raced forward. As it bounced out onto the street, a pickup truck slammed on its brakes and skidded sideways.

  Martin stayed in town long enough to give both the fire chief and the sheriff Jeffrey’s full description. He told everyone how he had witnessed Jeffrey drop an object into the trash can a few moments before it exploded. Homeland Security FBI types liked to hunt mad bombers, didn’t they?

  Chapter 16

  The truck’s headlights swept across an all-too-familiar Buick Skylark parked on the street outside Martin’s apartment building. His apartment was dark and locked, but that didn’t keep Martin from saying, “Make yourself at home, why don’t you, Stewart?” before flipping on a light.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Stewart asked from the recliner. A wind-up radio, Lee Danvers recommended, played BI at a whisper on his lap.

  “Trying not to lose my job,” said Martin.

  “What was the last thing I said to you?”

  “Just say what you have to say,” said Martin. “It’s late, and I’ve been on the road for three days.”

  “I told you not to do anything stupid,” said Stewart. “What possessed you to call the show?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not content to sit on my ass while your friends kidnap my girlfriend and exterminate my species.”

  “She wasn’t your girlfriend,” said Stewart.

  “Oh, fine, let’s argue semantics right now,” said Martin. He tossed his bag in his bedroom and called, “Have you been sleeping here?”

  “I couldn’t stay home, and you didn’t come back,” said Stewart.

  “Get out,” said Martin.

  “They monitor the show, Martin. And it’s not going to take them long to figure out how you learned about the production plan. They left me alone as long as I kept my mouth shut. But now…”

  “So you came here?” asked Martin. “It probably won’t take them long to figure out where you went. In fact, I ran into one of them a couple of days ago.”

  Stewart furrowed his brow. “Who?”