Apollo Project

by Brittany E Brinegar

  With a little nudging from Tom and Barb, the team continued the journey. Around a bend in the road, they encountered a dark Ford sedan. “Looks like a government car,” Tom said. Dixie sprinted ahead. “Hold on there, Lefty. Let’s all go together.”

  Locusts snapped in the heat and Tom for once thanked the heavens for the green cover keeping the burning sun from making it worse. He figured the temperature hovered at 110 degrees.

  Dixie stayed in front and twirled after inspecting the vehicle. “Ooh, there’s a body there.”

  “I’ll check. You guys stay back.” Tom tapped the blistering door handle. Inside he found a dark blue windbreaker with yellow lettering of ATF. The woman in the jacket shifted her weight and moaned. “Looks like an ATF agent,” he called to the group. To the woman, he asked, “You okay?”

  “What happened?” She shut her unfocused eyes, trembled, and the corner of her mouth drooped. He placed the woman somewhere around his daughter’s age, or maybe a bit older. Her bright eyes, thin nose, and chipmunk cheeks cut through the worn appearance. He noticed the Glock on her hip a second before she pulled it on him. “Don’t move a muscle, Smithson.” She scooted to the door.

  Retreating, Tom checked his group. “I’m not Smithson. My name is Cassidy. I’m here with a group of people. We were on a boat and there was an explosion.”

  The woman cut her hazel eyes to the huddled crew behind Tom. “Don’t move until I clear my head. Something happened.” She leaned on the hood of the Ford and recoiled. “Holy crap, that’s hot.” Her eyes strained at the strange sky. She swept long hair from her face – the color a chameleon-like brunette, blond, auburn mix. Like her hazel-blue-green eyes. “I have a feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

  “Kansas?” Dixie spewed. “Isn’t Kansas landlocked?”

  “Watch a movie, kid. You know, Dorothy and Toto. Anyway, I assume I’m still in southern Louisiana.” She holstered her gun and clutched an elbow to her side. “You people had an accident?”

  Nudging forward, Barb attempted her magic. “Two days ago, on a fishing boat we encountered bad weather and the boat exploded. We bailed to the life raft and fought our way to shore. If we are in fact in Louisiana, we drifted a substantial distance. Do you know anything about this weather?”

  The woman ducked into her car for sunglasses from the visor. The groggy and disoriented mask on her face remained. “Have you seen my partner?”

  “We haven’t seen anybody,” Tom answered. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m Robin Sherwood. My partner and I are with the ATF and we’re part of a manhunt.” She struggled for breath. “A firearms dealer – the illegal kind. He’s dangerous.” She contorted both her body and face. “I’m remembering some – I got sick. Uh, dark in the middle of the day and my stomach started heaving. I told Jon to stop the car.”

  Barb placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Do you remember what happened after?”

  “I don’t know. I still feel off. Something is wrong.” Robin rubbed the nape of her neck. “It’s really sore.”

  “You have a little burn mark,” Tom noted. “What else is going on with you?”

  Robin frowned as she stretched her neck trying to check. “It hurts down my back, my ears are ringing, and my stomach aches. I feel like I ate the worst kind of bad seafood or something. Throat’s a bit dry.”

  “We’re a mess here, Sherwood. A genuine disaster of the highest order. If you’re a government agent, get on the horn and get some help pronto.” Davidson rested his bulk on the makeshift cane.

  Barb edged beside her ex-husband, cutting him off from grilling the agent. “I understand you’re engaged in this manhunt, but we believe there’s a natural disaster or maybe a military exercise. Nothing works: Phones, cars, our watches, and even a compass with nothing but, whatever are in compass parts.”

  With a wince, Robin balanced on the car. She popped the trunk, rummaging for a second before brandishing a black pump shotgun with a strap. It was a riot shotgun with a twenty-inch barrel and a full magazine tube. She mimicked Tom’s posture. “I take you for a military man.”

  “Tom Cassidy. Retired Navy pilot, still in reserves. I’m a Commander.” He hoped his resume warranted the shotgun.

  With a chin nod, Robin handed him the shotgun. “How many boxes of shells can you carry?”

  “Give me all you got in there. It never hurts to be prepared.” He loaded them into his backpack, giving it a comfortable heft.

  Searching beyond Tom to Barb, Davidson and the others, Robin licked her lips. “I could use some water.”

  Barb produced a bottle. “I’m Barb Sanders. Take only small sips, dear. We’re running low.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me make the introductions. This is William Davidson, and his wife Genevieve. My daughter, Dixie. Jeremy Hibbert is in the orange shirt. He’s an expert on the weather.”

  “Has more degrees than a thermometer,” Dixie snapped. “And not a bit of common sense,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Gus is the twelve-year-old boy,” Barb continued.

  Robin lowered her voice. “What happened? He doesn’t look well.”

  Ducking into the conversation, Tom explained. “We lost his mother at sea. Bad storms knocked her from the raft. His father stayed on the shore hoping to find the Coastguard.”

  “Lots to take in.” With a grimace, Robin bumped her backside into the edge of the trunk before hopping away due to the heat. “Wow, that’s hot.”

  “Tell us about the manhunt,” Davidson growled. “As if we don’t have enough to deal with, now we have to worry about some maniac fugitive.”

  “As I said, we’re tracking this man.” A loud gunshot rang as grass and dirt popped into the air twenty feet from them. “Take cover!” Robin tilted in the direction of the explosion. “Jon?”

  The group huddled behind the Ford. Tom scanned the area as a second shot flattened a tire on the vehicle. He pumped the shotgun and his eyes traveled skyward to a gentle ridge and a row of trees in the distance. “Got to be coming from there. Wish we had a rifle.”

  “Partner might’ve taken it. We had one in the trunk. This can’t be him, but it sounds like one of our weapons.” She raised her voice. “Little. Agent Little, are you there?” Her jaw twitched. “Whitehead?” No reply.

  Chapter 14 – Collecting ‘Firewood’

  Reagan

  The temperature dropped several degrees and the sky dimmed to army green. Visibility would soon fade. Reagan exited the ranger station with Travis Wayne at her side.

  “I’m guessing you don’t really need my help collecting firewood.” Reagan bent to collect kindling.

  Travis Wayne’s brown hiking boots smashed into a fallen limb. He collected the splintered logs before speaking. “I didn’t want to alarm the rest of the group.”

  “Did you make it to the parking lot?”

  Travis Wayne gathered another log. “Neither vehicle started. I checked under the hood. Everything was normal. The batteries weren’t fried.”

  Reagan tussled her braid. “Is it possible the lighting storm caused this? Maybe it knocked out all the circuits in the area.”

  “Don’t know much about lightning. Could it cause this?” They both stared into the haze for several moments. Travis Wayne stretched his sore neck. “What should we tell the others?”

  “Not too much. Those Maine folks are kind of jumpy,” Scotty said from a few steps away.

  Reagan spun on her heels. “What are you doing here? I thought you stayed in the cabin.”

  “Of course not. Y’all said you were ‘collecting firewood’. Everyone knows it’s code for talking strategy away from the Maine folk.”

  “First of all, we like to refer to them as the Caribou Crew,” Reagan said. “Secondly we aren’t talking strategy. We’re just talking.”

  “Then I guess we can all just talk together.” Scotty placed a log onto Reagan’s armful. “What’s with the neck thing?” Scotty pointe
d to Travis Wayne. “It seems like every other person here has a crick in their neck.”

  “Like who?” Travis Wayne asked.

  “For starters, the two of you.”

  “Who else?” Reagan pressed.

  Scotty rubbed his chin. “The ATF guy, Grandpa Tucker, Olivia, and Meredith’s husband.”

  “Meredith is the husband,” Travis Wayne corrected.

  Scotty swung a long stick like a baseball bat. “Okay, then he has some kind of neck issue. Possibly Jasper too. Or he likes stroking his hair.”

  “Good to know.” Reagan narrowed her gaze at Scotty. “How about you? Is your neck hurting?”

  “Nope. What’s it mean?”

  “The Caribou Crew hasn’t mentioned it?” Reagan asked.

  Scotty leaned his shoulder against a tree. “I asked my question first.”

  Travis Wayne tucked another stick under his arm. “We don’t know what it means. But we have burn marks on our necks. Mr. Tucker, Mr. Little, Reagan, and I.”

  Scotty frowned. “Burn marks? From what, the lightning?”

  “Your guess is as good as ours.” Reagan lifted her shoulders.

  Scotty grabbed a second stick. “As far as I can tell, we’ve had a crazy lightning storm knocking out our cell phones, radios, watches, and compasses and also left behind creepy burn marks on certain people.”

  “Or random people,” Travis Wayne offered.

  “Don’t forget the dead cackles,” Reagan said.

  Scotty’s cobalt eyes widened. “What’s that?”

  “Hundreds of dead cackles formed a circle around our camp,” Reagan said.

  Travis Wayne snapped a branch. “And our cars don’t start.”

  “Then there was the swarm of giant bees. Be glad neither of you was there to witness it.” Reagan shuddered.

  Scotty clapped. “Gee, I’m sure glad I followed y’all down here to the sunshine symposium. Do you have any good news?”

  Reagan tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Sorry, Peter Pan, didn’t know I needed to sugarcoat things for you.”

  “I’m not sure if the Peter Pan jab was supposed to be an insult but I’ll take it as a compliment.” Scotty tugged on his Ranger baseball cap. “The Caribou Crew said their RV was working this morning. I suggest we head there. What do you think, Reagan?”

  “I wonder if their RV is working or if they just want it free of the ditch.”

  “We don’t have another option,” Travis Wayne said. “Two choices: hike for help or wait for the ranger.”

  Scotty raised his hand. “Am I the only one who finds the ranger’s absence troubling?”

  Reagan mulled his question. “The station doesn’t show signs of a struggle or anyone leaving in a hurry.”

  “But the ATF guy found a shotgun, right? Why would the ranger leave it behind?” Scotty wasn’t convinced.

  “He has a different gun,” Travis Wayne suggested.

  “The armory wasn’t bolted when Jon and I arrived,” Reagan said. “And Jon opened it as if he expected to find the shotgun.”

  “Something about the agent doesn’t sit right with me,” Scotty tsked. “He’s alone, in the woods, in distress, at the exact moment y’all happen by. He feeds everyone some baloney about chasing a fugitive with his partner. Yet he isn’t concerned about the fugitive or his missing partner.”

  Reagan and Travis Wayne shared a look. “One could make the same argument about you King George.”

  Scotty put a hand on his chest. “How am I suspicious?”

  “You’re alone and missing a brother,” Travis Wayne said.

  Scotty snapped. “I am not, I have Mickey.”

  “You have an entire pack of supplies,” Reagan said. “Almost as if you were preparing for something like this.”

  “Or maybe I am simply camping. Not everyone travels like the Caribou Crew.”

  Reagan chuckled. “We’re just giving you a hard time.”

  Scotty yanked at his collar. “I know.”

  Travis Wayne adjusted the firewood under his arm. “I don’t like Agent Little with a gun.”

  Scotty pointed at Travis Wayne and Reagan. “But you two both have guns, right?” They nodded. “Between the three of us, we can keep an eye on Jon Little.”

  “You have a gun too?” Reagan sighed.

  “Yup.” Scotty drew a Colt .45 from the waistband of his dark jeans. He twirled it in his left hand like a gunfighter in the old west. “And I’m pretty thankful I brought it. You know, in case I need to shoot any polar bears.”

  “Polar bears?” Travis Wayne asked, eyebrows furrowed.

  “Sawyer here is referring to a TV show,” Reagan explained. “You should get into a debate with Granddad and Kelly.”

  “Good to see some people managed to keep their sense of humor. Meredith and her husband are as stone-faced as they come.” Scotty twirled his gun a few more times.

  Reagan motioned to his gun. “Alright Wild Bill, why don’t you put the sidearm away before you hurt yourself.”

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Travis Wayne asked.

  “We head for the Caribou RV. If it doesn’t work, we’ll go from there.”

  Removing his cap, Scotty fluffed his puffy brown hair. “I’m not sure where Hunter, my brother, is. But he’ll come lookin’ for me.”

  Reagan frowned. “You shouldn’t stay here alone.”

  “My brother’s alone. I can’t leave him.”

  “Leave him a note,” Reagan suggested. “If he shows up here, he’ll know where to find you.”

  “I guess it makes sense,” Scotty said. “Hunter knows the mountain better than me. He’ll make his way to the bottom.”

  “What do we tell the others?” Travis Wayne asked again.

  “What’s there to tell?” Reagan shrugged. “We’re speculating. No reason to worry the others.”

  “What about the weird neck thing?” Scotty circled to the earlier question.

  Reagan gathered her last piece of firewood. “There’s not much we can do is there? I mean it hurts like crazy but we’ve got to move forward.”

  Scotty added another stick to his measly armful. “What do y’all do in the real world? Or should I guess?”

  “Don’t guess accountant or something math-related.” Travis Wayne grinned. “Just because I’m Asian doesn’t mean I like math.”

  “You’re not an engineer?” Scotty asked with a squint. He snapped his fingers. “Musician, probably guitar.”

  “I’m sure the guitar slung over his back earlier wasn’t a clue.” Reagan laughed.

  “I work in construction. Music is a part-time thing.”

  Scotty narrowed his gaze on Reagan and tapped the brim of her Stetson. “Cattle rustler?”

  Reagan lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s a career.”

  “Rodeo clown,” Scotty fired. “Oh, I got it – lawyer.”

  “How do you get from rodeo clown to lawyer?” Reagan waved away the question. “Never mind. I’m a writer and a substitute teacher.”

  “Ah. My next guess.” Scotty half-grinned. “Care to guess what I do?”

  “Amateur athlete?” Reagan predicted. “Probably baseball.”

  “Well. It was either a really good guess, or I have a stalker I didn’t know about until today.”

  Travis Wayne tried to hide his amazement. “You’re a baseball player? That’s cool.”

  “Minor league ball. As many scouts have pointed out, I’m not good enough for the majors.” He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth in a whisper. “I can’t hit a curve or slider to save my life. And the changeup is also pretty tricky when I’m looking for the fastball.” Scotty halted Reagan’s march. “How’d you know?”

  “I’m observant.”

  Scotty rolled his eyes. “Thanks for not boring me with specifics.”

  Adjusting her shoulders, Reagan put her body into a position where it didn’t hurt. “Your dog is named after Mickey Mantle; you wear a Texas Rangers ball cap…”

 
; “Maybe I’m a fan,” Scotty said.

  “When you threw the tennis ball to Mickey, you threw right-handed. But you swung the stick left-handed. It’s pretty common among infielders so I figured you probably played at some point.” Reagan broke into dimples. “Or I recalled reading about you in the minor league baseball report last week.”

  “Ah yes, my claim to fame was being released by Cincinnati. You should have probably guessed former amateur baseball player.”

  “No wonder you had the time to go camping in the middle of the season,” Travis Wayne said.

  “Yeah, I’m trying to maintain a positive outlook. Maybe try pitching or something.”

  “Did you see that?” Reagan pointed in what may have been the western sky.

  “Is it lightning?” Scotty squinted through the haze.

  A distant, dim light shined through the mossy fog. Its glow dulled like a fluorescent lightbulb. “It’s not flashing. Maybe a star?” Reagan suggested.

  “Add it to the list of weird things.” Eyes downcast, Scotty shook his head.

  As they made their way to the cabin, a strong wind howled. Reagan gripped the brim of her Stetson. “The wind was like this shortly after the lightning storm.”

  “What? I can’t hear you.” Scotty tucked his cap inside his jacket and shuffled.

  “We better hustle,” Travis Wayne said leading the way.

  The wind knocked Reagan backward into a tree. She dropped the firewood and attempted to catch Scotty and Travis Wayne. Her feet lifted from the ground as if in an anti-gravity chamber. She hooked her arms around the tree as the wind reached tornado-like speeds. Through the dark fog, she spotted Scotty and Travis Wayne. She called to them, but nothing penetrated the noise of the jet engine wind. Reagan closed her eyes and focused on her grip. Branches and leaves struck her face but she didn’t lose her hold. A tug on her arm sent her eyes open. Travis Wayne and Scotty stood on each side of her.

  She read Travis Wayne’s lips. “Cabin ahead.”

  She nodded as the three linked arms. With each step, she lifted cinderblock-weighted feet. Dust swirled around them and invaded their senses. The visibility was zero. Travis Wayne pressed onward until he brushed the handrail of the ranger station. He clutched the rail and propelled the trio onto the porch. They crashed into the door and the wind vanished.