***
“All I know is,” Tom explained from the driver’s seat of his Buick, “I woke up today, and I didn’t hurt anymore. My limp is gone.” He, Carver and Kattic had just finished lunch at a diner outside Sorrow’s Sky. Today was all-you-can-eat-ribs for two dollars, so they got their money’s worth.
“You are so full of shit!” Carver laughed, as Tom smiled and held back a chuckle. “Have you been faking it this entire time?” Carver asked, as he dangled his cigarette out the passenger window and glanced back at Kattic.
“Wanting extra sympathy?” Kattic asked staring at Tom’s reflection in the rear view mirror.
“Look at it, God damn it! Even the scar is gone!” Tom pulled his pant leg up above his knee, showing smooth skin.
Carver shook his head. “I don’t believe you, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t believe you about that shiner of yours. How’d you really get it?” Tom asked, smiling again at Carver.
Carver laughed once more. “Don’t try to change the subject.”
“Detective Mallik?” a female said over the radio.
“This is Detective Mallik. Go ahead,” Tom replied, pulling down his pant leg.
“We need your team at Arpac Hills Cemetery. There’s a situation,” the woman said.
“Tell me what I’m walkin’ into, Jean.”
“Reports from officers on scene describe a man rising from a grave. He’s hostile and confused. Could be a drunk. Either way they’re asking for you guys. The medics are already on scene.”
“Jesus,” he said, his finger off the call button.
“No, He was risen a few thousand years ago, Tom. I’m guessing this is someone else,” Carver said, reaching back over the headrest of his seat to hand Kattic a lit cigarette.
“OK, Jean. We’re on our way.”
Tom grabbed the emergency light from under his seat and placed it on top of the car. He plugged it in, and let the siren and rotating red light clear a path for them.
“Maybe it’s a college prank. It is that time of year,” Kattic chimed in, between puffs.
“You never know in this town.” Tom pushed hard on the accelerator.
***
As they pulled into the cemetery, they saw two police cruisers with flashing reds and an ambulance with flashing blues. The uniforms were standing next to a man, who was leaning against the hood of one of the units, being examined by a medic. Dirt covered his face, arms and clothing. His attire consisted of a torn puffy-sleeved shirt that had four large buttons holding it closed. The black suspenders over his shoulders kept his baggy brown slacks from falling down. His bare feet stood on the hot asphalt.
As the guys got out of the car and approached the officers and the mystery man, Tom got a good look at his eyes, which were searching the sky to find the clouds and the burning yellow sun.
“My name is Tom. This is Kattic and Carver. We’re with the police. Can you tell me your name?”
Daniel opened his brown eyes; there was pain in them. “What is this place? Is this heaven?” he asked sincerely.
Carver squinted at him. “You’re in Colorado. Who are you?”
“Daniel. Daniel Wallace.” His voice was hoarse.
“What’s the last thing you remember, Daniel?” Kattic asked.
“I was on the hill. Took a knife to the chest.” His hand lifted up his shirt to find a scar above his heart. The purple skin bulged out in the shape of the shaft of a large bayonet. “Did we win?”
“Do you remember waking up?” Tom pointed to the disturbed grave site where a mound of upturned dirt lay.
“I do. I was in a cave. It was black. The walls were all around me. I used my feet to kick my way out.”
“Do you know what year it is?” Carver asked.
The man looked around, scanning the graves. He watched the cars pass by on the highway. “I don’t know this time,” he whispered. “I don’t know this place.”
“Keep him talking,” Kattic quietly instructed. He walked back to the cruiser and popped open the unlocked trunk. Inside he found a spare tire, tire iron, jack, shotgun and a shovel. He grabbed the shovel and walked to the grave. The dated, cracked marker read:
Daniel Wallace
Died 1805
Son. Brother. Hero.
Kattic shoveled at the mound of dirt, clearing it from the hole that went down into the small tomb. He chipped away at the edges, careful not to damage a body that may be resting inside. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a small black flashlight and clicked it on, illuminating the inner boards of an empty casket. Kattic stood and faced his partners, as they looked to him for an answer. “Just dirt,” he yelled.
As Kattic returned to his team, he heard Carver ask, “Why are you here, Daniel?”
All three investigators knew that, a lot of the time, the answers lay with the witness/perpetrator/suspect/victim. Simple questions can sometimes reveal complex answers.
“Something is wrong,” Daniel said. He brought his right hand up to his chest wound, just as it opened up and gushed blood. “This is wrong.”
The medic pushed past the investigators and opened his kit. He applied gauze and put pressure over the wound, just as Daniel’s face and arms started to decompose. His skin sunk into his body and rotted right before their eyes. It turned hard like jerky, and a strong scent of musty dust was suddenly all anyone could smell. The medic stepped back, and Daniel’s corpse fell to the ground.
Everybody froze. They all silently searched for an explanation. The cemetery was dead quiet.
Moving only his eyes, Tom instructed, “Everyone photograph everything.”
They all took out their communicators and snapped photos of Daniel’s remains, the dug-up grave, the plot’s location within the yard, the marker and Daniel’s dirt trail. Tom, on the hood of his car, wrote a detailed report of the incident.
***
The coroner arrived just as the medics were loading Daniel’s remains in the ambulance. Tom, Carver and Kattic huddled near the Buick.
“If anyone has a theory as to what is going on in this damn county, I’d love the insight,” Tom said.
Kattic stared down at the photos on his communicator.
“The past is coming back to haunt us,” Carver said.
Kattic raised his eyes to Carver. “What did you say?”
“It’s like the past is coming back to haunt us.”
The two men locked eyes. “Good,” Kattic said, nodding. “Keep going.”
“Do you know something, Kattic?” Carver asked.
“I know this town was founded the day Daniel died in 1805. That’s 157 years of history. I know that history seems to be returning to 1962. Now who do we know that has messed with time?”
Both Carver and Tom simultaneously let out a sigh.
“The man in the street,” Tom said. “The military doctor, uh, Whittier.” He paused, focusing on a thought. “But he’s dead.”
“No,” Carver said, shaking his head. “He’s not.”
Chapter Eleven
Heaven
Julia’s white cotton dress showed off her silky legs, as she sat down next to Carver on his living room couch. He placed his arm over her shoulders and kissed her cheek. The slow song playing on the record player was intertwined with a sportscaster’s announcement about the national baseball league, as Carver checked the scores on his portable radio. Colorado was up by three against Philly. Carver clicked off the radio, when he felt his communicator vibrating in his pocket.
“Hello? This is Carver.”
“I got some news,” Tom said.
“What’d you find out?”
“This doctor we’re looking for is pretty much untouchable. The military won’t let us anywhere near him.”
“Damn,” Carver said, as Julia grabbed his free hand and interlocked their fingers.
“Once they started asking questions, trying to find out who I was, I hung up.”
“Please
tell me you called from a pay phone.” Carver got a nervous knot in his stomach.
“Of course. Kattic says he’s got an idea on how to find the doctor. So I’ll keep you posted.” Tom’s voice sounded hopeful.
“OK, that’ll work.”
Carver put his communicator back in his pocket and pulled his girl close. She rested her head on his chest, near his heartbeat. His hand slid from her shoulder down her back to her right hip. He could feel her under the thin cotton dress. He was hard. Julia’s hand moved to his crotch, and his bulge got bigger. She squeezed it, then unbuttoned his pants and shoved her hand inside to stroke his long, hard shaft.
As she pulled his penis out, she brought her face close, opened her lip-glossed lips and massaged the tip with her tongue, then slipped all of it in her mouth. It was big for her. She sucked it, softly at first and then a little harder. He could feel the slightest hint of her teeth; it was the closest Carver would ever get to heaven.
He savored the moment. His hand moved to her ass, which was slightly elevated in the air. He squeezed her cheeks, and his fingers made their way in between them, along with the fabric of her dress. Her tongue and lips worked like a slow-moving vibrator, caressing every inch of his dick. His free hand found the back of her head, and he watched it bob up and down with her motions. Trying to hold on as long as possible wasn’t an option for Carver. Julia’s flawless technique and natural beauty overpowered him. As he held his breath and pumped his warm juices over her tongue, he felt her swallow three times.
She sucked what was left on the head of his penis, then looked up and gave him a smile. Carver put himself away and buttoned his pants back together. They sat in silence, both of them with racing hearts.
***
The sound of twisting, snapping branches opened Carver’s eyes. Julia was asleep in his lap. He heard a loud pop from just beyond his front door and then what sounded like leaves shaking violently. Something suddenly blocked the sun from illuminating the closed drapes over the living room window. Then silence. He shook Julia awake.
“What’s going on?” she asked, somewhat groggy from her fifteen-minute nap.
“I need to get up. Something’s happening outside.”
Her arms pushed her into a seated position, as lightning flashed through a few of the nearby windows in the house. Fat drops of rain hit the roof, and, in no time, Carver could hear the water flushing from the gutters.
“It’s just a rainstorm,” Julia said.
“But it’s late October in Colorado. No rain falls here from October to April. Besides, it’s not the rain I’m concerned with.” He got up and walked to his front door, pulled it open and stepped into the storm. A tree, taller than a twenty-story building, its trunk the width of a ’55 Ford Crown Victoria sedan, stood in his front yard.
Rain ripped through its canopy and dripped down its bark-covered stalk. Thirty feet over was the driveway where Carver’s car sat, untouched by the weather.
Julia rushed through the rain, the water drops quickly spotting her white dress. Her feet stepped onto the driveway’s dry concrete surface, leaving her footprints by the Chevy. Carver—ignoring the storm—walked on the grass, his clothes already soaked.
“How is this happening?” he yelled across the thunder and held up both arms. “Most of the redwoods we have in Colorado now are fossilized.”
“I have no idea! Look!” Julia pointed to another tree; it sat slightly leaning but firmly planted in the dirt road, twenty feet behind Carver’s car.
Carver lifted his head to find its branches and leaves another twentysome stories up, sitting calmly, not moving an inch, while the giant redwood in his yard was fighting the forty-mile-per-hour winds. Lightning flashed in the distance, casting Carver’s shadow against the house’s siding but leaving Julia without one. Tired of the water and beginning to feel cold, he rushed over to his girl to share in her weatherless zone. The dry concrete was quick to absorb the water dripping from him, turning it a darker color on contact. Carver looked above and beyond his house to see the tops of hundreds of giant redwoods scattered all throughout Sorrow’s Sky.
Chapter Twelve
What We Accomplished
Carver and Kattic tucked their IDs under their suit jackets, while Tom removed his badge from around his neck and stuffed it in his pocket. They figured three men walking into a private building wearing black suits looked suspicious enough; no need to broadcast their connection to the local police department. The tall ten-story building looked vacant. No locks were on the doors. No guards were in the halls.
Kattic never explained to the guys who had tipped him off; he told them it was better for everyone if the details were left unexamined. The truth being, he had a “friend,” a contact in the military. This friend was like him, an ally from the same corner of Earth, someone who had worked his way into a high-level position. The contact was tipped off to the name Whittier and performed an internal search of the military’s database. What came up were mostly classified documents, only accessible via a twelve-digit passcode. But as Kattic’s ally dug a little deeper, a single picture popped up—of a building. And under the photograph were the numbers 302.
The men examined a directory board hanging in the lobby. It informed them that Room 302 was on the fifth floor. The place looked modern, as if it had been renovated within the previous ten years. Carver noticed the fire extinguishers were all fully charged and had been inspected only months ago. The halls smelled of cleaning solution, and the floors were shiny. Trash cans were empty with fresh bags lining them, and all the windows were clean. They stepped into the elevator and selected number 5.
When the doors opened, Kattic peeked into the hallway and gave the guys the all clear. They quickly found Room 302 very close by, and they cautiously approached it. Tom reached into his suit and unbuttoned the strap that covered his firearm. Carver peered through the small window in the center of the door. It appeared as nothing more than a messy lab.
“What do you see? Anyone in there?” Kattic asked.
“No,” Carver replied. “I see tables with equipment on them, papers, computers and a chalkboard with equations I couldn’t solve in a million years. No Whittier.”
Kattic gripped the doorknob only to find it locked. “All right, fellas, I’m not sure how much time we have here, so I’m going to do something, and you can grill me about it later. OK?”
A confused and simultaneous “OK?” echoed through the halls. Kattic pulled a small rectangular device from his suit. He activated it by pushing in a silver button. It powered up with a quick hum and glowed dark blue. As he pressed the device against the handle and rotated it, the security mechanism inside turned with it, unlocking the door.
“What the hell wa—” Carver began.
“No, no! Later,” Kattic interrupted.
Upon entering the room, they were immediately hit with a wall of cool air. They wasted no time and searched for anything connecting Whittier to the chaotic events that plagued their town. All of the equipment looked like everyday lab tools. The papers were mostly research on dark energy and black holes, torn from a selection of old books. A blood trail led across the tile to one of the sinks.
“There’s blood over here. It’s pooled in this sink,” Carver said. “Not a whole lot though. Probably just a minor accident.”
“That ain’t from a paper cut,” Tom chimed in, peering into the sink over Carver’s shoulder.
Moving on, Kattic and Tom opened up cupboards and sifted through them. Carver checked the refrigerator to find a watermelon sitting next to a jar of ketchup. The freezer was empty. Large hands ticked away, as the wall clock informed the guys it was set two hours fast. Passwords were required to access the computers, just as they had expected. Carver looked at the tile floor to find a small torn-off piece of paper. He knelt down and picked it up.
“What is it?” Tom asked.
“It says, ‘Think of the craft.’ It’s nothing.” He tossed the paper on the counter and shook his head.
“Let’s get out of here, before we get caught. There’s nothing here.” Disappointed, they walked to the door and headed for the elevator.
***
Gary Whittier stood in an empty field. He felt proud. The afternoon sun poured down on him; he could feel it penetrating his gray wool sweater, as a cool October breeze lightly pelted his pressed black pants. The field was an easy choice for such an experiment. With a large dirt lot and forest on three of its four sides, what could be better?
Jon, however, was nervous, but he knew his mission. It all seemed easy enough. And, by the time the day was done, he would be able to call himself a true explorer. Not that he ever strived for such a thing; his accomplishments were usually more academic. He did, however, as a child, read books about men exploring worlds beyond Earth. Those books, for a time, sparked in him a need to do something truly great. This experiment would be his one great contribution to the world. He imagined that, if the project weren’t classified, he’d probably go down in the history books.
A blue-and-chrome open-cockpit hovercraft floated silently a few feet from them. Whittier had built the craft to replace the actual crashed UFO from 1955. It was a dumbed down version but for their purposes it would work fine. Inside the machine was the oval metallic time device. The four coils of alien symbols were mostly deciphered, their translation written next to each symbol in black permanent marker. The doctor and Jon had been busy. The first coil represented the month; the second, the day; the third, the year; and the fourth, the time.
Gary had noted, just after the crash, which symbols were already selected. He had assumed correctly that those symbols indicated the exact time the craft had first appeared in the sky that day, giving him the pieces of the puzzle he needed most: a starting point.
Once the doctor decided to think of the craft, it occurred to him that the vessel never intended to touch the ground, but to remain detached, with no actual contact with Earth other than the air around it. The hint he received also helped him see that the presumed five occupants within the hovercraft—based on the crashed UFO’s seat count—would most likely power the device, which would feed on their consolidated energies.
I Can Barely Breathe Page 5