CHAPTER
4
Patton’s train streaked across the remainder of the Great Basin towards Salt Lake City. He was sitting at a small desk, his head resting against the cool window. The moon was full and it cast a radiant light onto the white desert salt and sand, making it glow a ghostly white. He was mesmerized by the landscape—almost hypnotized. The last several hours had been a whirlwind of emotion and it was beginning to catch up to him, currently in the form of a headache. Part of it, he realized, was a shadow of guilt. Getting to know Jennifer wasn’t wrong, he knew, but the memory of his wife children was still very strong. Perhaps meeting Jennifer was the cause of his melancholy.
A surge of adrenaline rushed through him and for the first time in years he was beginning to feel alive. Not just feel alive, but wanting to be alive. And it wasn’t just Jennifer, he now realized, it was this new adventure. Maybe he was running away from his past, but maybe he was running towards something. The years of guilt and self-inflicted torment suddenly seemed to melt away. He wasn’t the one who had veered into her lane, causing her to maneuver onto the shoulder, to break through the barrier and run off the cliff. He hadn’t killed his family. They were taken away from him.
No, he thought, shaking his head at himself. There was nothing he could have done and there was nothing he could do now. He felt a pinprick of absolution that spread through his entire body, as if an invisible set of shackles been removed. The feeling was so tangible that he raised his wrists to his face. He was crying now and was beginning to fog his window. Embarrassed, he looked around his sleeper to make sure he was alone. He chuckled at himself and wiped at his cheeks. This was his first moment of real healing since his family’s death. Eventually he fell asleep. He wasn’t accustomed to all of this emotion and it finally caught up with him. And for the first time in years, he had a dreamless, peaceful sleep.
Patton’s train reached Salt Lake City before daybreak. He and his fellow passengers were supposed to exit the train again. Supposedly hotel rooms had been arranged for them. He met Jennifer in the dining car for coffee and they headed off together. The two held hands, walking east. The sun broke over the jagged peaks and without a word they both stopped. It was a breathtaking sight. They looked at one another with wonder.
“Wow,” was all Jennifer could say, pushing her arm through Patton’s. The morning air was cold, but they stood and gazed at the scene for a few moments.
“Do you think the mountains are like this where we’re going?” he asked.
“I sure hope so.”
They continued east towards the tall buildings downtown. They asked a passerby where their hotel was located. The person told them it was two blocks south of the temple. When they asked the woman what the Temple was she gave them a ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ look and walked on. They looked at each other in amused shock at the woman’s response. They walked another block and saw a diner where they decided to eat breakfast. While eating they ascertained where the Temple was – one of its six spires was actually visible from where they sat – and decided to go see it when they were done eating.
After breakfast they returned to the street. It was turning out to be a bright and beautiful morning. The air was warming and they were getting more and more excited to be in this beautiful city with time to burn. Both of them had heard about Mormons, but neither of them knew much about them or their beliefs. They were pleasantly surprised with the simple, yet beautiful grounds that surrounded the Temple. The Mormon Church owned two large downtown city blocks and had connected them with a courtyard full of fountains and flowerbeds.
They took a tour of the grounds with a young woman who was in business dress and wearing a black nametag that said “Sister Black,” who they later found out was a missionary. She showed them the exterior of the Temple building itself, with its spires going impossibly high into the bright blue sky. The gigantic, awe-inspiring structure had taken forty years to complete, she told them, and it was built with granite that was literally cut out of the mountains by hand, transported by oxcart, and laid together using the most primitive of tools.
They walked through the courtyard and enjoyed the peaceful surroundings. By the time they were done, it was time for lunch. They went back to their hotel to eat, change, and call around to see if there was a way to get up to the mountains. To their delight, their hotel had a shuttle that took skiers up to the many resorts.
As beautiful as the mountains had been from the valley floor, the city looked even more beautiful from the mountains. It stretched out across the entire valley, to the mountains both southwards and westwards. The Great Salt Lake ate up the northwest part of the valley, extending north and west. Neither of them skied, but they found a terrace at the lodge that provided the breathtaking view. They alternated between drinking wine, coffee, and water. They talked to some of the skiers who were taking a midday break and even stayed late enough for dinner. It was nice to be off the train, stationary, without feeling the rush or push of a clock.
The next day they would finally arrive at their new town and their new homes.
The glossy black Chevrolet Tahoe exited from Interstate-84 and made its way north on a two-lane highway towards the Idaho border. A large man in a dark suit was driving. With his mirrored sunglasses and unsmiling face, he resembled a Secret Service agent, but he was an employee of Insight Resources. Riding shotgun, however, was an actual Secret Service agent, tasked with protecting the U.S. Senator that was riding in the back. Riding next to the senator was Ryan Wiley, the Insight Resources’ vice president of logistics. He had a large laptop that displayed a map of the newly-built town to which they were driving.
“These hills to the left,” Wiley said to the Senator, pointing out the window, “mark the southern border of the town.”
The SUV began to slow. The senator turned his attention from the map to the large gate the bisected the highway.
“What’s this here?” the Senator asked, pointing at the arched gate.
“This is the security gate that monitors who comes and goes.”
“How exactly does it do that?”
The SUV came to a stop. A security guard motioned for the driver to roll down the window. The driver flashed a badge and the guard motioned for him to drive on.
“Well, there’s a couple of ways,” Wiley replied, waving to the security guard as they passed. “In the middle is a sensor that reads the license plates as they go by and there are cameras that record the cars that come in and go out.”
The Senator nodded. “So people can come and go as they please?”
“Pretty much,” Wiley answered. “And people from the outside can come in. However, there are pretty strict rules about people from the outside.”
“Like?” the Senator asked, impatiently gesturing for him to continue.
“Outsiders can come in and work and shop and go to restaurants. But they can’t stay overnight without signing a waiver.”
The Senator nodded then a potential problem occurred to him.
“What if a single person from the outside meets someone living here and they want to get married?”
Wiley grinned sheepishly.
“We haven’t really hammered out those details. I don’t anticipate that happening much so I don’t think it would skew the results the eggheads are looking for.”
“Okay.”
The Senator gazed out his window to the west. Rising above the highway was a small mountain range. The foothills were mostly barren, spotted with sagebrush. He felt the vehicle ascend, level out, and then descend again.
“Up ahead, Senator, is the lake,” Wiley mentioned, pointing to their left.
“I understand this was dredged out and made deeper,” the Senator said, somewhat interested now. As a young man he’d worked on a dredging crew. The job helped him pay his way through college.
“Yep,” Wiley replied. “That
was a tricky piece of engineering but it’s a nice feature and it will serve as the town’s water supply. It’s deep enough for boats and wave runners and that type of thing too.”
The Senator merely nodded his approval. He was only on this fact-finding mission because his majority leader wanted a report. He’d sponsored the bill but only as a favor. The whole experiment project and money allocated were rolled into a much larger spending bill. No one had actually read the damn thing, especially after it was combined with other pork projects. The Senator thought the whole thing was a joke but he owed the leader a favor so here he was. Besides, he was promised a week away from home to do some skiing.
The road turned slightly to the northeast, ascending into the foothills above the valley floor. From the new elevation the entire valley came into view. The Senator was impressed. To the east were the Samaria Mountains, by far the tallest in the valley. The smaller Hansel Mountains created the valley’s western border. To the north was a string of low-lying hills. It truly was a breathtaking view and the senator finally understood why this location was chosen.
“Most of the town is located on the Idaho side of the border. The better part of the lake is on the Utah side,” Wiley remarked, still playing tour guide. “We made this highway we’re on now circle the entire valley. As you can probably see, the two main streets extend out and meet the highway.”
“And why did you do that exactly?” the Senator asked.
“We’re not sure how long this will go on so we made room for growth. Other than that it gives the people places to go. They won’t be so anxious to leave.”
“And what would be wrong with that?”
Wiley shared a knowing glance with the driver in the rearview mirror.
“The whole point is for the scientists to collect the data they need. If people keep leaving I guess the results won’t be as reliable. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
The Senator grunted. He didn’t really care either way but he had to put as many details into his report as possible.
“But they can leave right? I mean, at least temporarily?” he asked after a long pause.
“Yes. They can leave for a total of a few weeks per year to visit family and what not, but for the most part we want them here. Buying. Spending. Interacting.”
“Any how many people again?”
“Just over thirty thousand, counting children. Like we told your aides everyone will receive the equivalent of a half-million dollars. They can start a business or keep the money and work for other people. It’s all up to them.”
“And this cost how much?”
Wiley smiled at this one.
“Don’t ask me, Senator. You’re the one who wrote the bill remember?”
The senator smiled for the first time. He hadn’t even read the bill, let alone written it. Some group wrote it and passed it along to his staff. He’d just put his name on it and had pushed it through. His reward was given the form of donations, dummied to look like the money had come from hundreds of individuals. It had actually come from one donor who wanted to see this experiment happen for one reason or another.
And that was how the bill was passed and the money was appropriated without any solid guarantees of the people’s personal welfare—no one had actually read the entire bill. Years later, when he would read about what happened here, he felt some regret. However, by then, he’d been voted out of office.
A stream of buses, carrying experiment participants, made its way from Salt Lake City north to the Pocatello Valley. The buses were interspersed with semi-trucks, which were hired to carry people’s personal belongings to their new homes. Although the new town was largely stocked with necessary goods, participants were allowed to bring a limited amount of personal belongings with them.
When the buses rolled into the yet-to-be-named town, the people were stunned at its near perfection. The buildings and streets were laid out beautifully. Some of the downtown buildings were old-fashioned, but they were obviously new builds. Many residents separately observed that their new town looked like a movie set. It looked, beautiful, but the town was fully functional. It only needed people to make it complete.
Patton had seen pictures of his new home, but no picture, no matter how well taken, could do it justice. His simple, yet beautiful farmhouse sat on the eastern ridge overlooking the lake. The few personal possessions he’d brought were in one large suitcase and a large duffel bag. Everything else had either been provided for, using his credits, or had already been shipped from home. He stood there, gazing at his new home, his bags at his feet. A lump formed in his throat and he blinked back tears. “I wish you could see this,” he whispered to his now-departed wife. He pictured himself and his wife watching their children running and playing in the fenced front yard.
Two hot tears poured down his face but he didn’t wipe them. Eventually, he let the emotion flow and he started sobbing. He knew that by leaving California he was also leaving his family behind. In time, he hoped that the memory of them would remain but that the pain of their loss would fade. Patton gazed around one last time, almost hearing his children’s laughter. Hanging his head, he reached down, grabbed his luggage, and made his way into his new home.
Mike Wilson was exhausted. He had traveled the world and had been on twelve hour flights before, but he had never been this tired. When he reached his house he didn’t even unpack. He merely undressed before collapsing onto his bed where he slept through the rest of the day, through the night, and almost until the noon the next day.
When he finally woke, he had a nasty, throbbing headache—worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced. He rooted through his bags and found his Goody’s headache powder. He emptied two of the small paper packets into a glass of water, stirred it with a finger, and downed the concoction in three messy swallows. He turned on the large flat screen TV and surfed channels until his headache was almost gone. After an hour of this, Mike showered, dressed, and drove into town and find something to eat. He eventually found a Japanese restaurant where he ordered a steak and ate it while downing two beers and watching spring training baseball games on TV. After that he went to the large warehouse, similar to Costco, and bought all the things he would need for his house.
Mike left the store and soon found himself in his truck, driving and exploring. He drove west from the city center and connected onto the highway that went all the way around the lake. The highway went up onto a chain of hills and ridges, weaving back and forth, climbing and then descending. He made it around the southern tip of the lake and started back towards town. He remembered that one of his business partners was supposed to have property in the area. As he searched his mind for the man’s name, he zoomed past a large, arching sign that read “Larsen Farms.”
“That’s it!” he said triumphantly as he sped past. He brought his gigantic diesel pickup to a stop, checked oncoming traffic, made a hasty U-turn, and then turned onto the gravel driveway. He passed through the arched sign and climbed a small rise. As he descended back down towards the farmhouse, the view of the farm opened up before him. It looked to be something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was the ideal American country home. Regaining his senses, he drove on towards the small but well-built farmhouse.
To the left of the farmhouse and set back a hundred feet or so was a large red barn trimmed in white. Parked inside the barn was a gleaming, green and yellow John Deere tractor. Mike smiled and shook his head jealously. As a kid growing up in the Texas panhandle, he’d been fascinated by John Deere, mostly because his grandpa had owned one and he would often take Mike on long rides around his large ranch.
To the left of the barn was a large hay barn, open to the elements on all sides but with a beautifully sloped metal roof. This structure also brought back memories of he and his brothers and cousins playing cops and robbers in and around their grandfather’s hay. Sometimes they would make little tunnels
and caves in the hay, like they were hunkering down in a real gangsters’ hideout. Mike pulled into the large gravel turnabout and parked. Letting his engine run, he stepped out into the crisp, fresh air. He did a full-body stretch. He walked around the farm, taking in the rest of his surroundings, enjoying the nostalgia that this place was conjuring within him.
Besides the small lawn that surrounded the farmhouse, the property was left mostly natural, without much landscaping. The prairie grass was sagging and was still a dull brown color. There were patches of sagebrush, but there were no wildflowers as of yet. Mike tried to imagine how beautiful the place would be in full bloom. Seeing the place made him envious of the owner of this property and he began to wish that he’d done the same. Perhaps, he thought, when their business was up and running and bringing in money he would be able to build something similar.
While lost in his mental reverie, a large pickup truck pulled onto the drive and headed up towards where he was standing. Suddenly feeling awkward about his intrusion, and not knowing what else to do, Mike waved to the driver. The driver turned and said something to a passenger and then returned the wave. The driver parked the large diesel and he and the passenger got out and walked towards him.
“Can I help you?” asked the man, who was of average height and had an athletic looking build.
Mike walked towards him and extended his hand. “Sorry, I’m sure this is strange of me to just come up to your place, but I didn’t know you wouldn’t be home,” he said with an awkward smile. “Mike Wilson,” he said, extending his hand.
“Patton,” the man said, taking his hand and shaking it and releasing it. “Patton Larsen.” A pensive look brushed Patton’s face, but then the dawn of recognition came. “Mike Wilson. I recognize that name,” he said, smiling now.
Mike cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m part of the corporation. I’m doing the cattle ranching.”
“That’s right,” Patton said, his smile growing wider. “So what brings you up here?”
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