Rhubarb

by M. H. Van Keuren

  “Do you think these trucks are actually alien?”

  “I can’t answer that question. I’m only a journalist and videographer. For all I know, the phenomenon might be teleportation technology that the government has kept secret. Maybe it’s how they haul nuclear missile parts around that area. The truck that emerged, and the car, were clearly recognizable as human objects, not alien.”

  “Thank you, Clark from Pasco. Thomas, were you aware of the history of sightings and visitations around Brixton before this?”

  “I hadn’t heard of Brixton, but your producer filled me in on the area’s history.”

  Taillights appeared in the distance, but it turned out to be a pickup truck. Martin passed it as if it were going backward—hopefully too fast for the driver to read the number on the “How’s My Driving?” bumper sticker.

  What would he even do if he caught Jeffrey? Run him off the road? Get in another ridiculous slap fight? Martin had the alien parts. With a few minutes of work, he could follow Jeffrey right through the portal. Jeffrey would never expect it. But then the rest of the plan would be right out the window. Besides, Jeffrey might not even be going through the portal. Could he send a signal up to the facility to start this next phase on Cheryl? Surely he had some device to do that? Probably his stupid iPad. The damned things did everything else.

  Stewart.

  Martin wrestled his phone out of his pants pocket, swerving. He kept the car half across the yellow line as he dialed so he wouldn’t veer into a ditch.

  “Hey, Martin. Where you been? What’s this black car Lee keeps talking about?” Stewart asked.

  “Listen to me. Jeffrey’s heading your way east on 15 from Lewistown right now. I’m a few minutes behind him. We need to stop him. He’s going back up there to move Cheryl into the next interrogation phase thing.”

  “How do I stop him?” asked Stewart.

  “You’ve got a car and your FastNCo. Model 25-C staple gun. You figure it out,” said Martin. “He’s driving a black Town Car.”

  “How’d you meet up with him?” asked Stewart.

  “He found me. Tried to make a deal. I didn’t tell him anything, but he suspects I have the secret.”

  “That’s not good,” said Stewart.

  “Not for me,” said Martin.

  “But maybe we can use that somehow.”

  “How?” asked Martin. “He’s holding all the cards. What can I threaten him with? Put the staple gun to my own temple and tell him to bring back Cheryl or it’s back to the drawing board?”

  “When do you think he’ll get here?” asked Stewart.

  “Any time. I left Lewistown about an hour ago and haven’t caught him. He put me to sleep somehow, but I don’t think I was out more than a few minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll do what I can,” said Stewart.

  “Baton Rouge, Louisiana. You’re Beyond Insomnia. Hello, you’re on the air.”

  “Oh, am I on?”

  “You are. What’s your name and question for Thomas Worthington?”

  “I’m MaryAnn. I’m wondering how close Thomas got. It looks like the cameras are a hundred yards away or so. Did he get closer personally?”

  “I drove through the spot more than a dozen times during the day and night and can report nothing unusual. I walked through the area during the day. I even climbed on the walls, but they were pretty crumbly, and I didn’t want to fall into traffic. There are real plants growing out of cracks in the rock. If there’s some kind of object or mechanism there, it’s buried or well camouflaged. I walked around the site, too, but found no signs of excavation, construction, no odd manholes or structures, nothing to indicate that anyone had ever built anything but a road there.”

  “Can I ask another question?”

  “Sure, go ahead, MaryAnn.”

  “Is Thomas single? He sounds real nice, and he’s so handsome, too. I can’t imagine a woman letting him run off to Montana all alone.”

  “Fair enough. So, Thomas, what’s the verdict? Are you on the market?”

  “Not to disappoint, but I have a longtime girlfriend. Stacey. Hi, Babe. She’s wonderful, and very supportive of my career, which she knows can take me to strange places at strange times.”

  “Sounds like he’s taken, MaryAnn.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad, Lee. And I know you’re never going to leave Mrs. Danvers.”

  “I’m in it for good with the amazing Mrs. D, but I’ll take this moment to remind you that premium wakernation.com members get full access to the Insomniacs Forum, including the Not Sleeping Single pages. I get email every day from people who’ve made connections with fellow Wakers there. Good luck, MaryAnn. Let’s go to Queens, New York…”

  ~ * * * ~

  Martin slowed to pass through Brixton. Twenty-five miles per hour felt like standing still. The town slept unaware. Even the deputies had abandoned their vigil by the market. Martin sped up.

  There were no cars filling up at the Herbert’s Corner gas pumps and only a couple of trucks in the back lot. Stewart’s Skylark wasn’t parked by the propane tank. Martin flicked on his blinker, started to turn south at the junction, but then stomped on the brakes.

  Across Highway 360, taillights filtered through the grass on the side of the road. A plume of exhaust rose like a smoke signal.

  Martin’s feet crunched on shattered red plastic as he ran across the road.

  “Stewart?” he called.

  The Skylark idled at an unnerving angle in the shallow ditch. The passenger’s-side tail end had been mangled. Stewart was hunched over the steering wheel. Martin called again, wading through the grass.

  “He hit me,” Stewart said, after Martin opened the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” said Stewart. “Trying to catch my breath.” Martin helped Stewart out, taking his oxygen tank for him. “Got off a shot at the car, but I don’t think it did any damage. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. How long ago?” Martin held Stewart’s arm as he took the embankment one step at a time.

  “A few minutes.”

  “You want to go to the hospital or anything?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Stewart.

  ~ * * * ~

  As they approached the base of the hill, Martin hit his brakes. Cars, pickups, SUVs, and RVs lined the road. And people, laden with cameras and phones and flashlights. Was that a shotgun? Some conferred in excited little knots. A teenager ran past them down the hill.

  Martin rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he called to a group.

  “Another one just came through,” said a man. “The car. The black car. One of the men in black. We all just woke up.”

  “The one on the radio,” said another man. “Haven’t you been listenin’ to Beyond Insomnia? There’s honest-to-god aliens comin’ and goin’. Right up there. And we just seen one.”

  The first man waved to another, who brought over a camera, flipped out the screen, and let Martin and Stewart watch. The one-eyed Town Car roared toward the camera. Jeffrey’s motion-blurred face appeared momentarily through a ragged hole in the shattered windshield. Martin glanced at Stewart. The staple gun had inflicted some damage after all. Jeffrey didn’t slow down for anyone, or anything. The few people visible had slumped over, or had crumbled to the ground.

  “I don’t think he’s coming back,” said Stewart.

  Chapter 21

  Martin awoke to a buzzing, metal and plastic on wood, in a sideways world. Some small part of him knew exactly what, even if the rest didn’t understand why or where. He sat up, wiped drool off his cheek, and answered his phone.

  “Martin Wells?” asked a chipper voice. Martin grunted his assent. “I’m sorry. Have I called at a bad time?”

  “No. Who is this?”

  “Alicia McLanahan, producer for Lee Danvers and Beyond Insomnia. We spoke a couple of weeks ago about your video.”

  “Yeah. Hi. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Sh
e laughed politely. “Did you hear last night’s show?”

  “Some of it,” said Martin.

  “Then you probably won’t be surprised to hear that Lee is coming out to Montana to do several nights of special shows.”

  “Okay?” said Martin.

  “And of course he’d like to meet you and have you on the show,” said Alicia. “Would it be possible for you to come to Brixton either tomorrow night or the next evening?”

  “I think I’m in Brixton now,” said Martin. His surroundings had resolved themselves into the living room of Stewart’s trailer. Cheryl’s home. The sunlight that found its way around the curtains regretted it. This was Stewart’s couch, Cheryl’s couch. The crocheted blanket he’d thrown aside might have been handmade by Cheryl, or Linda, or maybe Margie, the grandmother. Or it could have been made in Taiwan and bought at Kmart.

  “Oh, that’s great, then,” said Alicia. Is it? Martin wondered as he swiped at a pool of drool he’d left on the upholstery.

  “We have a field producer, Brian, landing in Billings this morning, and we’re making arrangements to broadcast from Herbert’s Corner. Do you know where that is?”

  “Have you ever been to Brixton, Montana?” Martin asked.

  Alicia hesitated. “I’ll take that as a yes. Can I confirm to Brian that you’ll be available either tomorrow or the next day?”

  “Sure,” said Martin.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wells.” She typed for a moment, and then said, “One more thing. Lee is very much looking forward to meeting you but would like to talk exclusively about the video and how you obtained it. On your original call you made reference to an alien invasion. We would like to downplay any discussion that may cause unwarranted fear or panic.”

  “Unwarranted?”

  “Unnecessary…”

  “I know what it means, I just—you know what? Fine. The video,” said Martin.

  “Brian will explain more when he arrives,” said Alicia. “Including the appearance contract and stipend. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it should compensate you for your time.”

  “Fine,” said Martin, not sure what he had agreed to. Behind the curtains, he found the Screwmobile parked where Stewart’s Skylark should have been, or Cheryl’s Pontiac. It all flooded back. Punching Jeffrey, chasing him down 15, Stewart’s wreck, the assembly of Wakers on the bluff.

  Martin checked the time. He had two accounts expecting him in Lewistown. And maybe the police, too. Then he needed to go back to Billings for another load. He couldn’t remember his schedule past that. Except that he now had to come back to Brixton to be interviewed on the radio by Lee Danvers. Was that a good idea? And with all those people camped out there now, how were they going to steal a truck? The stupid CEO could be in the solar system any minute.

  Martin heard his name as he looked into Stewart’s bedroom. The “Mar” sounded like the whisper of tearing paper. The “tin” more punctuation than syllable. Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.

  The dingy gray light revealed the old man on the bed exactly where Martin remembered leaving him. Martin rearranged the blanket over Stewart’s socked feet and checked his oxygen. “How you doing?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better,” said Stewart. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “That I didn’t get us a…” Stewart coughed and sputtered. He moved strangely, as if part of him didn’t work any longer. Martin found a Kleenex and tried to put it into Stewart’s hand. His rough skin felt cold and looked unnaturally purple, as if bruised. Martin wiped the flecks of spit from Stewart’s lips when the coughing subsided. Stewart let out a gruff but miserable moan. “…get us a truck when I had the chance. Jeffrey’ll be warning everybody. There won’t be another.”

  “Don’t worry about it now,” said Martin. “Let me change your oxygen.”

  “That wreck did a little more damage than I thought,” said Stewart. “Can’t really move too well.”

  “Can you take off the skin thing you’re wearing?” Martin asked.

  Stewart shook his head and closed his eyes. “Won’t last long like that.”

  “What do I do?” asked Martin.

  “I know you probably have appointments.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Martin. “I mean what do we do? Are we finished?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it all night, but…” He coughed a few more times and then continued. “I don’t know. But no sense you losing your job ’cause of me. Go on.”

  “I can’t leave you like this,” said Martin.

  “The hell you can’t. I’ll call you if I think of something. Go next door,” Stewart wheezed. “Laura and Milton’ll look in on me.”

  “Are you sure? They’ll probably want to call a doctor,” said Martin.

  “It’ll be…okay,” said Stewart.

  Martin hesitated in the driveway, then climbed the steps and knocked on Laura and Milton’s door.

  ~ * * * ~

  “Martin. You look terrible,” said Eileen.

  “A number five, to go, as fast as possible,” Martin replied, taking the only free stool in a diner full of unfamiliar faces. People up from Billings or over from Great Falls or wherever. Bleary people, in yesterday’s clothes, not exactly the tinfoil-hat crowd, but the practical fringe smart enough to come down off the hill and find a place for breakfast, probably—hopefully—on their way home.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Stewart’s not doing so well,” he said.

  She pursed her lips. “Deputies talked about findin’ his car in the ditch. He injured?”

  “Didn’t seem so last night,” said Martin. “I got him home. Laura and Milton are looking after him now.”

  “You know who hit him?” asked Eileen.

  Martin nodded. “No deputy’ll catch him,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I know you and Stewart were cookin’ up something,” said Eileen. “Stewart Campion refused to set foot in Herbert’s Corner for twenty-five years until a few days ago. Why don’t you go ahead with whatever you all were plannin’?”

  Martin shook his head.

  “You were going to go after Cheryl,” said Eileen. Martin nodded. “It’s a long way to Boise.” She glanced at the other breakfasters. “But the last thing you want to be is stuck here in Brixton with nothing but regrets. Take it from me.”

  “What do you regret?” Martin asked.

  “Oh, that’s too long a story,” said Eileen, backing away to fetch an order off the kitchen window. “Besides, I got a houseful here.”

  “You a regular?” asked the man on the next stool. His muttonchops segued expertly into a Def Leppard T-shirt. His friend leaned over like a second head on the man’s shoulders.

  “What?”

  “You know the waitresses.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “Have you seen any aliens here?”

  Martin had, in fact. He’d seen Jeffrey over in that booth, he’d seen Stewart at that table, and he’d talked to at least one truck driver who had sat right here. Heck, the whole darned place had been named after an alien. But at least they belonged here, he thought.

  “Nope,” said Martin. “There’s no aliens. The guy who built this place made it all up.”

  “Then what do you think’s happening down the road?” asked the friend.

  “On behalf of the Chamber of Commerce, thanks for spending money in Brixton,” Martin replied and gave them a wink. Hopefully they’d think he was an alien.

  ~ * * * ~

  Martin plodded up the vaguely familiar stairs to a distantly recognizable door, and was surprised when a key in his possession let him inside. These objects in this few hundred square feet of carpet and painted drywall couldn’t be his, couldn’t be relevant. But Martin got his laptop on, uploaded the orders from the last couple of days, hopped in the shower, and tried to let home soak in anyway. The sense of place returned ten minutes later, hot water gone, when he couldn’t find a pair of clean
underwear.

  After jamming several quarters into the commercial Maytag in the complex’s laundry room, Martin checked in with Stewart. Milton answered. Stewart had slept and he’d eaten a little, and had gotten into the bathroom a couple of times. A deputy had come by to ask questions about the wreck. Laura had recruited a couple of other neighbors to keep an eye on him. Martin promised to get back and help as soon as he could. Almost as soon as he’d hung up, his phone rang.

  “Hey, Marty. Did you get my email?”

  “Rick? Email? No,” said Martin.

  “No? I sent it yesterday.”

  “The motel…” Martin paused to give his brain a moment. “Their Wi-Fi wasn’t working.”

  “Explains it. I didn’t see any orders from you yesterday,” said Rick.

  “Uploaded them a few minutes ago,” said Martin. “What’s the email about?”

  “I’m flying in tomorrow morning. You’ll pick me up bright and early at the airport. I’m going to work with you for a few days, train you on pitching the on-site account ordering application. Corporate’s got a name for it now: FastLink.”

  “Snazzy,” said Martin. He was being usurped by a microwaveable sausage. “Tomorrow?”

  “My flight lands at 6:30 a.m. I’ve already set up the appointments. We’ll spend the first day in the Billings area; then we’ll head out of town for a couple days. The itinerary’s in the email.”

  “I just spent the last three hours loading up the truck for accounts out east,” said Martin. “Do I need to restock for these different accounts?”

  “No, don’t bother. We won’t be restocking or writing orders. Shake ’N Bake sales calls,” said Rick.

  “Understood,” said Martin. Shake ’N Bake sales calls? Was that even a thing?

  “Great. I’ll see you in the morning. Bright eyed and bushy tailed,” said Rick.

  “What time will we be done tomorrow?” asked Martin.

  “Why? You got a hot date?” asked Rick.