by David Beers
“Did you call the cops?” Thera asked, ignoring his joke.
“No. I came home and tried to go to sleep.”
“Jesus, Michael. Are you going to call them? Do you want me to? Someone needs to know about that thing; I’m surprised no one does yet.”
“Yeah, I will. I want to check on Bryan tomorrow first and then I’ll tell them something is out there,” Michael said.
“Is he okay, Michael?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I hope so.”
* * *
Bryan knew he was in trouble, all he had to do was look across the table at Julie to understand that. She hadn’t gone off on him yet, though he really did deserve it. He stood her up last night, not even calling with an excuse, and she was pissed. Rightfully. They weren’t talking, just sitting in O’Charley’s, her watching the television behind him and he moving food around on his plate with his fork. Chicken fingers. He wasn’t hungry, hadn’t been all day, hadn’t eaten since…
Last night.
And he couldn’t tell Julie that. He couldn’t tell her he didn’t show up for the movie last night because he went to the place that she specifically didn’t want him going. So silence ruled over the table, silence that she obviously wanted him to break.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking up from his plate.
She didn’t look away from the television, the one showing sports that she would never watch on her own. But this wasn’t on her own. Bryan’s actions drove it.
“I am. Michael needed me.” He knew as he said it that he should have told her almost anything else. Anything besides that name.
“That’s great. Were you able to help him?” She still didn’t look down at his face.
“Listen, I’m sorry, Julie. I’m really, really sorry. His father,” and he was already lying to her, so why not go ahead and make it something big, something that might get him out of all this goddamn trouble? “Wren hit him while he was sleeping. Just slugged him in the face, screaming about something or other.”
Julie looked at him then for the first time since they had sat down. “Hit him?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he okay?”
Oh, Lord, what was he getting himself into here? He couldn’t remember lying to Julie before, especially not about something of any importance.
“Yeah, he’s okay,” Bryan said. “He just wanted someone to go blow off steam with. He was scared that if he had to stay home, he’d end up hurting Wren, so I went and picked him up and we drove around for a few hours.”
Julie looked at him, her eyes big and honest, letting him see the hurt that lived there, but she was going to forgive him. She wasn’t okay, not completely, but this was better than nothing. It was better than her staring over his shoulder and watching a television program she couldn’t stand. It was better than not talking.
Even if he had to lie to her?
Bryan didn’t know the answer and he didn’t really want to contemplate it either. He had lied to her, and now things were looking like they might shape up, that he might be out of the dog house. That was enough for right now, even if it wasn’t enough for later on.
“You could have called,” she said.
“I know.”
Dinner went on and speaking resumed, at least for Julie it did. Bryan tried to focus on her, on her voice, on what she said, but he couldn’t. There was the immediate crisis, her anger, but after that his mind went back to the only other thing it could focus on. That orb out there beyond the field. He literally couldn’t stop thinking about it. The only few seconds of relief had been this dinner, at the beginning with Julie’s anger. Now that things were back to level again, nothing she said sounded the least bit interesting. And it wasn’t that he found her boring, just…
That orb.
But it wasn’t an orb. He didn’t think so at all, though he hadn’t said anything to Michael about that. Hadn’t spoken to Michael about it at all, really, because something happened out there. Something happened and he thought it was still happening. The word obsession floated across his mind as he looked at Julie, her talking and him nodding. He had been obsessed when he was out there, though he couldn’t remember much. Just a want, a need to get to that thing, to get as close as he could, to lay across it if possible. To touch it.
That’s what he had wanted, to feel it on his skin. But why? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t kick it. He still wanted to touch the thing. Still wanted to go out there and see it again. He remembered what it looked like, but not clearly, crisply—as if he watched it through a lens, one that was cloudy and scratched, only giving him a semblance of reality. He had never looked through that lens before, never seen anything but the clarity of reality until last night.
He saw the orb though. He saw the spaceship—and that’s what it was. Whether or not anything lived inside it, that thing wasn’t some goddamn rock. It was built, and exquisitely so.
I’ve gotta touch it, he thought. Tonight.
Julie kept talking and Bryan kept thinking, not a single connection being made between the two of them.
* * *
Michael had finally quit calling, Bryan thought. It was far too late for Michael to call his house, and this stretch of twenty minutes between cell phone calls was the longest yet. Bryan hadn’t answered any of them, had actually turned his phone off at dinner with Julie so she wouldn’t ask why he wasn’t answering. He didn’t know exactly what Michael wanted, but he had an idea, obviously.
Michael wanted to know what Bryan thought about last night. He wanted to know if Bryan was okay, and Bryan’s answer wouldn’t suffice: I don’t know. He didn’t, but he was leaning toward no. He wasn’t okay, but he didn’t care, not really. Not enough to answer the phone and talk to Michael. He’d rather not be okay and sit here in his truck, looking at the forest line in front of him. He’d rather not be okay and see that thing again.
I should call him, he thought, a piece of him rational and calm—understanding how wrong this was.
I’m not going to, he thought, another piece of him, also calm—but understanding that he was going forward.
He stepped from his truck, not bothering to lock the door. He would be quick. He could do that at least. He could get in there, see it—touch it—and get back out here. He could be done with the whole damn thing in just a few minutes. That would be good; that would keep him safe, and once he was done, he wouldn’t have this urge anymore. It would die once he got his fix.
His fix. He smiled at that, the moon above lighting on his face as he stood in the dark field.
He started walking, his flashlight on and leading the way. He knew where he was going, knew exactly the spot he wanted.
Bryan didn’t react when the flashlight dropped to the ground, its light shining crookedly off his path, illuminating another area that he would never see. He didn’t realize when his thoughts slowed down, and when the lens he described earlier fell over his eyes. The deeper he moved into the forest, the thicker that lens grew, until Bryan saw nothing but gray mist. Still, he walked forward, his feet sure and steady over the uneven ground, littered with branches and roots sticking from the dirt.
He reached the edge of the burnt land and didn’t pause. He moved over the line between living plants and dead ash as quickly as he had the previous mile of forest.
The orb in front of him was glowing again, though Bryan couldn’t see it. He saw nothing, only thought that he was about to have his fix, that he was close to his fix, that soon—only seconds away—he would be able to scratch that itch and lay this all to rest.
He didn’t slow when he reached the orb, but walked forward like a sleepwalker. Intent on his own yearnings with no idea, and no care, what happened in reality.
He leaned onto the orb, stretching his arms out to either side, turning his face to the left so that his cheek lay across the white surface.
The woods surrounding the orb were bright, the shadows unable to creep in for two hundred feet, far past the line of burn
t trees. Bryan lay across a massive lightbulb, one that would have blinded him had he been able to see.
The needles moved out of the orb fast and with purpose. They pierced Bryan’s skin quickly, sinking deep into his flesh. His eyes widened and he let out a small gasp, his mouth not closing once the air exited. He stood there, attached to the orb by the sharp needles plunged inside him, for hours.
And when he straightened, his clothes ragged and blood soaked, the light on the orb died.
9
Present Day
Morena looked out into the world.
She found the name of the planet, at least the name that the creature she inhabited used: Earth. Perhaps Bynimian had a different name for this planet, but Earth would work fine. And Bynimian was no more, so it mattered not what anyone on that planet called anything.
That’s not true.
It was only irrational anger rising to the surface; she knew she couldn’t hate her home anymore than she could hate her husband. She couldn’t deny her heritage, couldn’t deny the beauty that her society had created, the genius. There was too much pride, too much good that her kind had done for her to simply discard that knowledge. She was the last of them, the last Bynum to exist, and so she had to carry that legacy onward. She had to do what she and Briten set out to do in the beginning of all this.
She stood in a dark place with large objects shooting up from the ground all around her. She found the names to those objects quickly, as all of this creature’s thoughts were laid bare to her. Earth had a cycle of darkness and light, and she was in the dark part of the cycle. It would change though, within the next few hours. Good. She searched through the creature’s memories, trying to find if this was a place where she could start, if this was a place she could bring Briten back to. That was step one. Her husband, she needed him, and then they would decide about the rest of Bynimian.
Morena began walking through the forest, her steps as sure as her host’s had been when he arrived—his body was now hers.
She needed to understand this place, because this creature’s memories didn’t have everything. He didn’t know the specifics. Someone would though. Someone out there had to know about the core of this planet. Someone had to know if this was an inhabitable planet for her kind. Someone had to know if she just traveled through the universe only to land somewhere useless.
Morena walked out of the woods and into the field, looking at this creature’s…vehicle, that was the word. She got in and after a few minutes of sifting through the creature’s brain, she started the vehicle’s engine and drove off.
10
Present Day
William J. Thompson never liked going by William. He had preferred Will since he started grade school. He wasn’t really sure that anyone even knew his name was William anymore, because he hadn’t been called it in so long. Certainly no documents had his government name listed so in all reality, his name was whatever he chose it to be. His mother had birthed a William, but that person pulled a Star Wars, died a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (at least it felt like a different galaxy, even if he was born in the States). All in all, he didn’t feel too bad about it. It had been necessary, and now Will J. Thompson could be anyone he wanted, or at least his outer appearance could—the core of Will, well that didn’t change regardless of who he was. Not anymore. The time of metamorphosis for Will was over.
He had told Rigley he would make it here in forty-eight hours, and it took him forty-seven. Had he been late, he wouldn’t have cared too much—Rigley wasn’t his boss in any real sense of the word. Nominally? Maybe, in some org chart somewhere a blank box rolled up to her name, but in reality? Their roles were set long ago.
Will looked around the diner, a Waffle House that sat in the middle of a shopping center. He’d looked at the signs when he pulled in, seeing a grocery store called Publix, and other businesses not holding the same prominence. Great Clips. A Chinese restaurant. Not necessarily small town America, but not quite medium either.
He was looking over the menu as a waitress sat silverware and a napkin down in front of him.
“Hey, honey. What can I get you to drink?” she asked.
“Water’s fine,” Will answered, looking her in the eye as he did.
“Sure thing, be right back.”
She walked off and Will went back to the menu. He wasn’t reading it anymore, but looking out across the restaurant, seeing the people in here. It was one in the morning on Monday, but five or six people filled up booths. A few older folks, a few teenagers—probably eighteen, old enough to not have a strict curfew at home, but still in high school. No one else was looking around, no one else observing the rest of the restaurant. The people might not mind their own business, but they didn’t find anyone in here interesting. The town, to them, was simple, understood if not boring.
Will was looking for infection.
Infection could appear as any number of symptoms, and even that word wasn’t accurate. The infection, which was how Will classified these things even if the suits in Washington didn’t, manifested itself in different ways.
Will had looked at all the data sent over by Rigley. Something was here, he felt pretty confident about that, though he had no idea what. If the people in here were infected, they showed no outward signs. No ticks. No rashes. No strange questions. Just people shoveling food into their mouths, food that would kill them the same as cigarettes, but that didn’t matter to anyone anymore. It didn’t matter to Will either; he’d eat this slop and be happy about it. He might even have a cigarette when he walked out of here.
He had seen a lot of things, cancers that came both from infections and from man. He was fifty years old and had started this when he was twenty-two. That’s a long time and a lot of infections. In all those years, he’d never seen data that looked like the stuff on his phone. This was new, different. Will hadn’t eaten at a place like this in ten or fifteen years, not after he decided that age wasn’t going to slow him down—or at least not as much as it wanted to. Now, though, age didn’t matter. Looking around at the people in here, he didn’t think it mattered what he put into his body. Slop from diners, cigarettes, or a bullet. Everything in this town was going to end the same way and sooner rather than later.
Whatever infection had come to this place, whatever made that data, it wasn’t something that could be allowed to survive—nor could anyone that even chanced contact with it.
Will pulled out a newspaper from his bag and laid it down across the table. He read it while he waited for his food, and when it came, he folded up the paper and ate in silence.
* * *
Will rented a large truck, a newer model, one that could handle whatever he needed to do in this town. Grayson, Georgia. He liked the name, it sounded…quaint, he supposed. It sounded like a place to raise a family.
Will parked the truck at the edge of the forest, leaving the lights blazing. He put on his vest while still in the cab, picking up his lantern with his left hand and the pistol with his right. He stepped out of the truck and nudged the door closed with his elbow. He let the lantern illuminate the darkness around him while he walked across the grass, his eyes down.
He looked at the dirt and grass carefully, his eyes focusing on the bend in the blades, looking for anything that said someone might have been here recently. He took an hour canvassing the entire field, walking in rows like corn grew here instead of grass. Quite a few times he squatted down, bringing the lantern closer to what he wanted to see. He would move his hand across the grass, and stare for a few minutes, then stand up and continue his progress.
At the end of the hour, he went back to his truck and stood in front of it, the lights shining deep into the forest. People had been here, recently. A lot of people, and then at some point, a smaller group. Maybe even one person. The tracks that led up to the forest line, two pairs of tracks, showing him that the infection most likely wasn’t contained. Every other car that parked here stayed up on the hill, but twice someone had
driven down here to where Will stood. And for what reason? To see what was in these woods, the same as him.
Will started walking, moving through the brambles and dead pine needles. He kept the gun holstered as he walked, sure that he would be quick enough getting it out and up if he needed, but also sure that it would do little good. Humans, Earth animals in general, were fragile creatures. It was amazing that so many species had managed to progress for so long. Infections, though, weren’t as fragile. A bullet, in most cases, did no more damage than a strong wind. He kept it on him though, because…well, just in case. There were other things he could use against infections, of course, but that wasn’t his job. He was recon. He was containment. He was the first on the ground, and the first on the ground brought pistols, not real weapons. Will hadn’t started out wanting to be containment or killer, but in time he had been both.
He kept walking for a while, becoming more and more sure with each step that whatever had been here forty-eight hours ago wasn’t here any longer. Infections, they often times gave off something. He didn’t like calling it telepathy, because that was an Earthly trait. They gave off their infection, and you didn’t have to be right up on one to start catching it. Will didn’t feel that now though. Something had been here, but not any longer. The wood was dark, quiet, and still. Peaceful, as if the danger had passed from this place.
His lantern’s power showed him the black, scorched ground a hundred feet from it. He didn’t stop when he saw the black area, but kept walking, knowing that he had reached his destination. This was what Rigley wanted him to see, and at four on a Monday morning, he was here.
He looked at the nearly perfect circle of burnt earth, completely empty besides the ash. He walked toward the middle, his black shoes causing small puffs of ash to shoot into the air. When he stood in the middle, he turned around three hundred and sixty degrees, looking at the entire area. This is where it landed, whatever it was. Gone now. Back there in the town, doing whatever it was this infection did.