Stranded

by William Vitka

  A thunderclap stomps through the usual sounds of wind and snow.

  The blue zigzag of a lightning bolt follows.

  Doc listens again. He hears nothing from the dogs.

  Every man in the room cowers back to their place. They go for their drinks. Their eyes whip around till they find a reassuring pair.

  Just one of these insane storms, after all.

  Right.

  Nothing to be afraid of.

  Right.

  Never heard one like this though.

  Nope.

  Then.

  The air shakes. There’s a sudden, low thrumming sound. The men can feel their guts vibrate.

  The dogs.

  The dogs start to howl. To scream.

  The darkness outside is burned away. The lightning casts strange shadows. It’s a stuttering electric shine.

  A sound overhead. A deep bass note. Something that undulates and pulses the air all over the camp.

  The dogs howl on.

  Doc’s on his feet. He runs toward the main door.

  Swift’s at his side. He holds Doc back. “Wait till it passes.”

  Ackerman holds Doc’s right arm. “He’s right. Dangerous out there, man. Just wait a minute. Heart of the storm passing over us.”

  Mosshart says, “Ain’t no storm I ever heard makes a sound like that.”

  Doc doesn’t give a shit. “Sam, you keep holding my arms like this, I’ll break yours. I need to get outside. I need to get to the dogs. They’re terrified. Liable to turn on each other in a panic and then—”

  The sky cracks open. The power goes. The camp is thrust into blackness. But outside, there’s that glow. That blue throb. A sound none of them has ever imagined. A sound none of them can identify.

  Doc uses the moment to throw both men off him. He charges outside. He looks up.

  He’s stopped by the sight. The panic of the dogs seems far off.

  Swift and Ackerman join him.

  They stop too.

  Mosshart, Fiske, Gordineer and Kong follow.

  None of the men feel the wind. They don’t feel the cold. Don’t feel the wrath of the storm.

  They’re all staring at the shape.

  A disk with an electric blue aura. A bright yellow orb stares from the center. It looks like some horrible eye. It careens. Starts to fall. It spins and makes noises that the dogs cannot stand.

  The shape hobbles. Tries to right itself. Then shoots off. Tumbling wildly.

  None of the men believe in voodoo bullshit like flying saucers visiting Earth. Like aliens watching us or planning to invade. Anal probe nonsense and grey-skinned cabbage-heads. No. None of em believe the horseshit that coats the pages of supermarket tabloids and conspiracy theorists on the internet.

  On the other hand...

  Doesn’t take a pilot to realize it’s some kind of ship. Doesn’t take a scientist to realize that this some kind of ship is in terrible trouble.

  The men watch the disk careen over the trees.

  The men hear the explosion.

  The ground spasms under their feet.

  * * *

  Doc bursts into the garage. His flashlight beam plays over terrified, furry faces. The Coleman lantern he carries in his other hand casts a blue glow.

  The dogs tear at the kennel. Metal chain fence, weakened by the frigid temperatures, bends and breaks between their jaws.

  They want out.

  Doc shouts, “Fuck.” He runs to his dogs. Tries to calm them. Not even Rubin will sit still till the human is inside Dogtown next to em.

  Doc’s dealing with a shitload of puppies instead of trained canines. They piss everywhere and yip. A nervous reaction to the... To whatever flew above them.

  He puts the electric lantern down. Sits on the floor. He feels fresh husky urine soak into his jeans. He ushers the dogs forward. They throw themselves against him. Cower under his arms and against his bulk.

  Swift and Gordy stand outside the kennel. Their own flashlight beams chase shadows in the corners of the big structure.

  Gordy wipes his brow. “Doc, your dogs all right? I never seen em like that.”

  “That is one dumbass question,” Swift says. Then, to Doc: “The—” he twirls his hand above his head, indicating the whateveritwas.

  “Yeah,” Doc says. “The noises. The pulsing of the air. Just made the dogs—” He shrugs. Starts looking into the dogs’ eyes. Looks into their mouths and their ears. He searches for signs of physical trauma. He finds nothing. “They seem fine otherwise.”

  Doc is mother and father to the huskies. They’re acting like terrified babies.

  Swift crosses his arms. “We gotta find that thing. Sounds like it hit up the mountain.”

  Gordy’s face goes slack. “What are we supposed to do in this storm?”

  “In the morning. After it passes.”

  “And then?”

  “Look for survivors. Wreckage. This is our site. We need to report it.”

  Gordy scratches his head. “I’ll check the comms but...Man, there’s no way the radio’s working right now with the storm.” He glances at Doc, then at Swift. “You really wanna go looking for survivors from that?”

  The generator comes back to life. The lights flash into brilliance.

  Swift says, “What do you mean?”

  “You fuckers saw the same thing I did. I ain’t lookin for no ‘survivor’ came outta that ship. No way.”

  “Jesus, you thinking it’s aliens or something?” Swift snorts. “Get a grip. I know your brain’s all funny since you’ve been behaving like a jackass and not paying attention to the yarder. Wondering about your girl. Or whatever. Don’t make me think you’re any more dumb. A ship, sure. Aliens, no. Just some experiment that didn’t work out. Probably an unarmed drone. Hell, we’ve taken out plenty of dirtbags in the Middle East using those.”

  “You saw it. We all saw it.” He pauses. Looks to Doc and the dogs. “Either one of you think those noises came out of a ship created by us?”

  Doc frowns. He pets the dogs and keeps his thoughts to himself.

  The huskies pant. Their eyes spin and look for threats.

  7.

  Morning comes.

  Dull grey light seen in a haze through swirling snow.

  None of the men have slept.

  They drank, sure. But they didn’t really sleep. More like randomly collapsing.

  Gordineer spent his night with the radio. Trying and failing to reach someone through the storm between nodding off.

  Swift and Ackerman discussed whether or not the ship could have been Russian—sneaky bastards weren’t too far away up here. Couldn’t see em from your fuckin porch or anything, but they weren’t too far at all.

  Mosshart used his time to study the generator. He tried to figure out what the hell had happened. It looked like the solenoid had been damaged.

  Fiske and Kong sat near the windows and watched the storm.

  Doc didn’t even bother going back inside. He stayed in Dogtown.

  Groggy, half-awake, and stinking of dog, he stumbles into the main building. “Now that the sun’s up, I think I can sleep,” he says to no one in particular. Nobody laughs. And Doc’s not even sure it was a joke.

  He sidles up to the kitchen bar. Pours himself a few fingers of whiskey. Grabs a beer out of the fridge. He sees that their supply is running low after last night’s bender. Predicts a trip to town in his immediate future. Gotta tell someone about that whateveritwas, too.

  But not before he and his dogs get some rest.

  As if sensing this, Swift sits with a plop next to Doc. “Me and Ackerman and Fiske are gonna head up the mountain. See what we can find.”

  Doc lights a cigarette. Drinks from his tumbler. “All right.” He already knows he’s gonna have to take the dogs out. He just doesn’t want to hear it like it’s an order. Sleeplessness and alcohol and fear have frayed his nerves. He’s as likely to punch someone as he is to launch into a weepy story about his dad dying.


  Swift says, “Gordy, Mosshart and Kong are gonna stay here. Try to clean up what they can, with Gordy checking the radio every thirty minutes. Gotta try to reach someone in Fairbanks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And—” Swift looks at Doc. Furrows his brow.

  Here it fuckin comes, Doc thinks.

  “Shit. I know you were up all night tending to the dogs. How are they?”

  Damn. Swift’s not a shithead, Doc thinks, a little disappointed that he won’t get to expend the nervous energy in his fists. “They’re shaken up real bad. Kinda like we all are. They’ve only just fallen asleep.”

  Swift grunts. Frowns. “All right. When you and the dogs are rested, I’d appreciate if you could make a run to Wiseman. Or Coldfoot. I don’t care which. We gotta get the word out on this.” He looks over to Ackerman and the logger’s pile of beer cans. “Plus we need more beer.”

  Doc nods. “You got it, boss.”

  * * *

  Ackerman and Fiske put on their heavy jackets. They prepare themselves for the hike. Swift says he doesn’t want to bring the truck in case the roads are too dangerous. Better to walk and avoid having the pickup slide off the side of the goddamn mountain.

  Ackerman says, “Oh. Of course Doc gets to rest and take care of the dogs. We get to hump our way up to that crash.”

  Fiske says, “Yeah, but those dogs are the only way we’re gonna be able to reach anyone with the radio fucked. And Doc’s the only one knows how to drive em.”

  “Shut up. Who asked you anyways?”

  * * *

  Gordineer pushes the radio headset against his ears. He strains to hear through the static and the squelches. There’s something there. Something he can’t make out.

  Voices. Ethereal.

  Ghosts.

  He rubs his forehead. He knows his mind is in a bad way. Can’t stop thinking about that ship. Can’t stop thinking about what might be on that ship.

  Swift says it’s a drone. Russians. Maybe us. Just a fuckup.

  Bullshit.

  It was a saucer. It was a flying saucer.

  Gordy listens for ghosts.

  * * *

  Swift walks over to the gun locker. He fingers the key on his belt. Grunts.

  The guns are only here cuz a bear might get pissed. Or some wolves might start looking at Doc’s dogs like they’re tasty—though Rubin and the others can probably take care of themselves.

  He’s never had to get one of the guns before. Never.

  Swift feels unsure about what he’s getting himself into.

  At least the Browning BAR .338 feels good in his hands.

  * * *

  Kong puts down three steaming bowls of stew—lamb and rice. He sets up six shots. Three cans of beer. Just in case the men don’t feel like throwing whiskey down their throats.

  Swift, geared up in his parka, sits in front of the feast. Says to Kong, “You trying to get my men drunk before they even head up the mountain?”

  “They’re still drunk from before. I’m just trying to remind your men there’s something to come back to. Before they go up and screw with some goddamn alien technology they don’t know anything about while wielding fuckin chainsaws.”

  “You got aliens on the brain, too, huh?”

  “I got staying alive on the brain, Tom.” Kong turns to the kitchen and checks the food. He sets some aside for Doc’s dogs.

  Ackerman seats himself. “We’ll be fine.”

  Fiske is right behind him.

  The three loggers pick up their first round of shots and down them.

  Fiske says, “We’re just gonna go up and survey. Nothin scary about that. Right?”

  “Right,” Ackerman says. “Just looking.”

  Kong hunches his shoulders. Turns back to the men. “You got another line of shots to do. Alcohol will keep you feeling warm even when you shouldn’t.”

  Swift and the rest take their medicine.

  They get up to leave.

  Swift says, “We’ll be back in six or seven hours. Ninety minutes to hike. Three to check the site. Another ninety to get back.”

  Kong says, “And if you ain’t back by then?”

  Swift smiles. “We’ll be back.”

  Kong grabs his arm. “Tom, you think about the possibility that whatever crashed up there isn’t very nice? You consider the idea that it’ll hate us? Want to get rid of us?”

  Swift shakes his arm free from Kong’s grip. “You’ve been talking to Gordy for too long.”

  Ackerman says to Kong, “Relax, man.” He taps Fiske on the shoulder. “Some fucker comes after us, I’ll give it a taste of the chainsaw.” He smirks. “Barbed metal teeth rotating a million miles an hour will give anything pause.”

  Kong grimaces. “Guess you don’t want the beer then.”

  Ackerman snatches the three cans of Budweiser up. “I’ll take em.” Pauses. “Actually, we’ll need a few more. And maybe the bottle of Jameson. Long trip and all.”

  * * *

  Mosshart sits down at one of the tables near the kitchen. In Sugar Tits’ mess hall slash rec room slash bar. He thinks about the generator.

  Damndest thing. Solenoid partially damaged.

  Not fully. Not destroyed.

  What might cause that?

  A true electromagnetic pulse, from a nuke, say, would wipe out the electronics. Unless they were shielded. But these weren’t. So no nuke. But enough of a force to fry it a little.

  Kong sets a shot in front of Mosshart. The old man nods and then sips at his whiskey.

  Thinks.

  A damaged ship. One running on nuclear power. Maybe the shielding on that thing’s engine had been screwed up. Leaked out enough of a shock to scramble the solenoid without destroying it.

  Maybe.

  But what kind of ship would run nuclear. Other than a submarine. Or an aircraft carrier.

  Fission or fusion.

  Fusion’s cleaner.

  So maybe that. Something we haven’t figured out yet. Clean till it’s damaged. A saucer shape with some kind of foil that rotates around the cockpit... Lifts and keeps you steady.

  But what if the magnetos go?

  “Hey,” Kong says. “You all right, Joe?”

  “Just thinking.”

  * * *

  Gordy stares into nothingness.

  Between the static.

  Jesus Christ.

  He can hear them.

  Screaming.

  8.

  A two mile hike.

  Then Swift, Ackerman and Fiske stand at the edge of a new-formed ridge. The precipice of a gorge that didn’t exist before. The ground they stand on has been carved up and out.

  Ackerman stares at this canyon created by a massive object plowing through it. Something hundreds or thousands of tons heavy burrowing in. And bouncing. Like a skipping stone. Then coming to a brutal halt, crashing in the side of a mountain an hour away by foot.

  Five miles of destruction. Uprooted trees. Lumber snapped like kindling. At the end of this fresh, mammoth trough, they see the wreckage. The smoke. Shining, shattered metal in the distance. It’s a titanic thing. But it looks like a snapped quarter from here.

  Fiske says, “Christ. Now I really wish we had a helicopter.”

  Ackerman says, “Holy shit.” He looks to Swift. “No way we made that.” He stomps over another chunk of snow. “No way the goddamn Ruskies made it either.” He sees the craft is half embedded in rock. “That thing has to weigh...I don’t even know.”

  Swift ignores him. Ignores the possibilities. “Come on.”

  Part Two: The Ship

  9.

  Gordineer’s sure he can hear them. He’s sure of it. Fuck you. He’s sure. These things on some other frequency. Between the frequencies.

  No. Of course it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s stressed. Worried. Hates being here. That he’s been drinking for eighteen hours. That he hasn’t slept much in the last thirty-six.

  Ghosts. Either the things that died f
rom the crash or the things that survived the crash. Can’t tell. It’s all... Funny things. He hears funny things. Noises in an alien tongue. Gibberish. But he can tell the emotion from the noises. Yes. He can. He doesn’t need to know the words.

  Kong and Mosshart eye him.

  Gordy says, “I’m tellin you. It’s the only goddamn thing on the radio right now. The only thing.” He offers the headset to the two other men. “Check it out.” He waits. Thrusts the headset at them. “You don’t believe me, then you sit here for a few hours listening to the nightmare.”

  Mosshart says, “Y’know, we need to check around camp for fallen trees. Debris. Or at least pretend to while the others are hiking toward your...” He rethinks his words to make it less insulting. “Toward the crash site.” The veteran says this thinking they can get Gordineer’s mind off the static and the paranoia.

  Gordy catches Mosshart’s hesitation. “So that’s how you guys are gonna be? You don’t believe me and you don’t even want to listen to the radio.”

  “Think about it for a second, son. We all agree a vehicle crashed. We all saw it. But, hey. Look. I’m not quite ready to start saying it’s all ‘My Favorite Martian’ shit. No offense.”

  “They’re right here.” He shakes the headphones. “Right here.”

  He gets blank faces from Kong and Mosshart.

  Even though Mosshart’s at a loss to explain the damage to the generator.

  “Fine,” Gordy says. He drops the headset. “But you didn’t see Doc’s dogs. At least they know somethin is going on.”

  * * *

  Doc sleeps. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jameson next to him. He lies against the dogs. With them. One of them.

  His cot sits unoccupied.

  He dreams.

  He sees the dark shape of the ship.

  There are things on the ship. Dark, awful things.

  Screaming. They’re all screaming now.

  Shapes moving in the dark and screaming.

  Doc bolts upright.

  Rubin wakes with him. The dog whines and licks his face. The others are up right after.

  Doc pets and pats them and slaps their sides. They stand. Crowd around him. He wipes the slobber from his face in a hungover haze. “Yeah. Hi. Yep. Nice to see you too.” He tugs on Rubin’s ear. “How long were we out for?”