Apollo Project

by Brittany E Brinegar

  After a sigh and a shake of the head, Barb touched Hibbert’s elbow. “Jeremy, can you fix the phones? I mean, maybe we could take all of them apart and try to cobble together one working phone?”

  “Good heavens, I don’t have those kinds of skills. I’m a full-blown idiot with electronics, my dear. I understand next to nothing of how components work.”

  “Yeah, you are a full-blown idiot,” Davidson growled. “But communication is what I do. I can give it a whirl.”

  “You run a communication company, Slick,” Tom said. “What’s your knowledge about the workings of cellphones?”

  “I have more than anyone else here.”

  “Not entirely true,” Campbell said unfolding his long body and straightening. “I’d be happy to take all of the phones and try to make something work.”

  “No way,” Davidson said. “I’ll do it.”

  “What’s your background in this?” Tom asked the ranger.

  Those with cellphones waited. As the argument progressed, Barb gathered the phones and placed them into a sack.

  “In a past life, a previous career let’s say…” Campbell stopped and swallowed. The swirling green in the sky gave way to a dark, gray and foreboding sky. The mean guise of a Texas thunderstorm, but this one escalated in minutes. It didn’t drift from the southwest for a few hours but built all at once.

  A deluge of water fell, followed by ferocious thunder and lightning. Hailstones the size of quarters pelted the clan as Tom lead through the gate, opened by wire cutters Barb stored in one of the backpacks. The one hangar door, made of thick steel did not open. Ramming it did not work either. As the hail increased to golf ball sized, lightning felled a tree twenty yards in the distance.

  Tom motioned for Hibbert, the nearest man to him. “We can use the tree as a battering ram for the door.”

  “Yes, I believe it would do the trick.”

  “I have a hatchet.” Dixie dropped her backpack and dug into the contents.

  “I have one too,” Tom said into the whirling rain and the hail pounding into the metal building. “Chop those limbs off and I’ll cut through the main part. We can’t wield anything more than twelve feet.” Dodging hail, Tom hacked away and finished breaking it apart with his foot.

  Most of the clan, sans Emerson guarding Hunter, heaved the log into the solid door. It didn’t give on the first run, but on the second run, it groaned. On the third try, the door dented. On the fourth, the door separated from the doorjamb one inch. Tries five and six did little, but the seventh knocked the door from a hinge.

  A couple of seconds after getting inside, the hail, rain, and wind stopped. Hibbert motioned them toward the middle. “This is the calm before the storm. Tornadoes often hit moments after something like this.”

  The twister whipped debris inside. Tom and Davidson muscled a giant toolbox across the cracked concrete floor to block the heavy door. Dixie and Barb propped a two-by-four on the door. Glass showered them from high above as the window thirty feet in the air shattered in the wind.

  “Cram inside the office,” Tom commanded.

  With the hot smells of engine oil and the metal of tools, Tom listened to the storm rage. He wiped his cut knuckles on his Levi-blue cargo shorts and identified cuts on his legs as well. Dust from inside the airplane hangar blew into the air from the busted window above. Lights from the tall ceiling swayed on the chords. Dripping water seeped from the welds in the ceiling and groaned with the violent wind.

  The aluminum ductwork whipped loose and a metal pipe clanged, crashing to the floor. Inside the office, Tom huddled with Barb, Gus, and Dixie in one corner. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the office, Davidson, Genevieve, and Hibbert huddled near the middle. Further away he made out the outline of Robin, Emerson and the hostage. He strained his eyes to the other corner, searching for Campbell.

  As the terror wind lessened a smidge, Tom shoved out of the office with his M-16 at the ready. The light from above and from the open door let him see the entire hangar. No planes, but plenty of tools and other assorted junk. “Campbell,” he called. After pacing the length of the structure, Tom peaked outside. “Campbell!”

  Barb scooted behind him, her brunette hair whipping. “Tom, where did he go? He has all of the cellphones.”

  “Beats me.” He raised his voice over the roar.

  To their northeast, a tornado dipped from the sky. Barb planted her feet. “The tornado is massive but isn’t it moving away from us?”

  The twister mesmerized Tom for a moment. “I’m not sure the twister is moving at all, honey.”

  Several minutes later the entire group observed the immobile tornado. Hibbert strayed outside and Davidson joined after a few more minutes.

  Barb whispered to Tom. “The sky isn’t as green right now. Not much anyway. I’m going to try the radio.”

  He motioned her toward the office in the hangar. “Do it in there away from all the drama and hubbub. Let me know if you have any luck.” He loped to the door, anxious about the newest crazy thing to happen. “Doc, what are you thinking?”

  “I must watch this. It is fascinating and I can’t manage to avert my attention.” Hibbert, his hair layered with cowlicks wafting in the squall, studied the whirling motion in the sky at two o’clock.

  “Doc, the sky has a milky texture and is churning sea-like in the distance. It’s gray, like dusty chalk on a chalkboard.”

  Hibbert didn’t budge from his analysis. “Dust isn’t spiraling from the outflow as one would expect. I would expect to see a condensation funnel emerging from cumulonimbus clouds. This is almost artificial.”

  “The air is cold, Doc,” Tom said.

  “As expected.” Hibbert remained firm, eyes glued. “Fascinating.”

  With his trademark huff, Davidson kicked at the metal wall of the hangar. “I’m at a loss, men.” Off came his glasses and he leaned on the wall, cleaning them as he shook his head. “I have no words.”

  Emerson poked his shotgun between Hunter’s shoulder blades leading him outside. “Get going.”

  Dixie pointed skyward. “It looks like a bad special effect. Is it even there?”

  “Doc?” Tom asked. “Is this thing real?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Yank, I’m beginning to wonder if we’re all in a dream. Is anything out here real?” Emerson’s mouth dropped into a frown and he pulled his hat low. For good measure, he jabbed Hunter. “I do know the shells in this shotgun are plenty real, so go ahead and try to slip off from me.”

  With a smirk, Hunter wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. A drip of blood trickled. “If we have any more trouble, you need to take the gun away from the teenager there and let me handle it.”

  Dixie barreled her anger at Hunter and held the rifle. “I’ll smack you in the nose again if you don’t shut up.”

  The group continued to squabble, ready to tear apart. Tom motioned for Davidson. “Let’s discuss a few things. We have to get away from the twister. Some of the mirages we encountered were dangerous. The train station is where we go. We have to buck up, guys. Time to face the fact this is going to be difficult and we keep fighting our way through it or face death. We stick together and take one step at a time.”

  “Now you’ve come around to my way of thinking? To my paranoia.” Davidson cleared his throat. “You don’t have all the answers, Navy man.”

  “I don’t have any answers but I’m not giving in. Your theory about getting pushed a certain direction has merit. If an enemy is pushing, we’re taking the fight to them.”

  Davidson slumped his shoulders. “What the hell are we fighting? What do we know about any of this? I have a feeling of doom.”

  “We’re all frazzled. Let’s take shifts watching the twister and the rest of us sleep. If nothing else happens, we head out in the morning.”

  The group acquiesced to the plan before Dixie spoke. Her head swiveled. “The park ranger isn’t inside. Where did he go?”

  Robin plodded from t
he hangar. “I saw him wander into the teeth of the storm a few minutes ago. I tried to follow but the wind was too strong.” Her hand brushed across the pistol on her belt.

  Making eye contact with Robin, Tom held the gaze. She didn’t blink. He crossed his arms. “We still need to talk.”

  “Well don’t exclude the rest of us,” Dixie said.

  “Let’s hear what this is, Cassidy.” The harsh conversation woke Davidson from his pity party. “You coming around to my suspicious of her?”

  “She hasn’t told us the whole truth, that’s all.” Tom zeroed in on Robin. “Good a time as any to fill us in on what else is going on.”

  “Gilbert Whitehead, the man shooting as us, the man Tom and I killed, was my boss. Something made him go nuts.”

  “He was your partner?” Davidson asked.

  “No, Jon Little is my partner and he disappeared. Gilbert is or was our boss. We were assigned a specific list of tasks and were told to expect hostiles. Something about a thirty percent chance of anomalies. We’re out here for specific skills.”

  “What’s your skill, ATF?” Tom asked.

  “Marksmanship mainly. Though the psych profile labeled me an extrovert who likes to work in a team atmosphere.”

  “Stop with the mysteries, young lady. Spit it out.” Emerson rotated his prisoner to face Robin. “You’re with the government and on a secret mission. What is it?”

  “I’m not with the government.” She hesitated. “I’m not ATF at all.”

  Chapter 33 – Shopping Spree

  Reagan

  Reagan woke refreshed but confused. She blinked a few times as she untangled from the covers. Several seconds passed before she realized she wasn’t at the ranch or in her comfortable bed. Granddad’s light snoring filled the room and memories flooded. The green sky wasn’t a nightmare. She stumbled into the bathroom and put in her contacts. Not being able to see was even worse in their situation. What if she lost a contact lens? How were people supposed to follow a blind leader?

  She rolled her eyes. Was she their leader? Everyone came to her with their problems and looked to her for advice. Maybe she was. Grabbing her coat from the chair by the door she stepped outside. She found Jon wrapped in a wool blanket on the wagon. Reagan tapped the bottom of his boot. “Everything alright last night?”

  Jon looped his hands around a mug. “Scotty made coffee.” He jerked his head to the smoldering fire. “It’s strong, bitter, and lumpy but it’s warm.”

  “At least it hasn’t snowed anymore.” Reagan peered into the distance. The town below was barely visible through the haze. “Why don’t you tell me more about the ATF?”

  “What’s there to say?”

  “Yesterday you told me you were in Louisiana before the sky turned chartreuse.”

  “Right.”

  “With your partner, Robin.”

  “Yes.”

  “Looking for a fugitive.”

  “Do you have a question?” Jon snapped.

  “Not at the moment. But I don’t believe you’re sharing everything.”

  “You’re a civilian. By definition, I can’t disclose more.”

  “A flimsy excuse.” Reagan poured a cup of coffee. “But we don’t have time to debate. I hope your secrets don’t put the rest of us in danger.”

  “As long as you understand I can’t tell you everything about me.”

  Reagan stepped toward the motel. “We’ll head for the town as soon as everyone’s awake.” She dropped the coffee for Granddad before heading to Kelly and Travis Wayne’s room. She raised her hand to knock as the door opened.

  “Still nothing on the radio,” Kelly said as a way of greeting.

  “I’ve collected parts from the motel. Maybe I can boost the signal.” Travis Wayne’s attitude didn’t match his words.

  Letting her hands linger on her hip, Reagan read his posture. “You don’t seem convinced.”

  “No, I'm not,” Travis Wayne said. “Nothing’s worked. This won’t.”

  Reagan chewed her lip. “Junior saw Nate Campbell communicating with the radio. It will work.”

  “Or thought he did,” Travis Wayne said. “I’ll keep trying.”

  With Kelly and Travis Wayne awake, Reagan shuffled to the next room for another series of wake-up calls. Fifteen frantic minutes later they loaded on the horses and the wagon.

  “What’s our plan when we get to town?” Scotty asked.

  Confirming her thoughts on leadership, faces deferred to Reagan. “Um…” The Caribou Crew needed proper clothes. Their food and water supply diminished. Someone needed to check the cars and phones. It wouldn’t hurt to stock weapons. “Dawn, Meredith, Olivia, and Jasper, y’all could use some winter clothes, so head to the store. Granddad and Annabeth will gather food and water. Travis Wayne and Jon will search for transportation. Kelly and Scotty, I’d like y’all to search for a way to contact civilization.”

  “Sounds good.” Granddad clapped.

  “Hold your horses,” Jasper said standing in the wagon. “What about you?”

  “I’ll keep watch and stay with the horses,” Reagan said. Her real plan involved finding more weapons. But Jasper didn’t need to know.

  “My wife can find clothes for me. I better stick around and help you,” Jasper snarled.

  Reagan didn’t like sending Dawn, Meredith, and Olivia on their own without protection. “Kelly, why don’t you join them in their search for clothes?”

  Travis Wayne handed Kelly his gun. “Here. Take this.”

  The main street came across like a ghost town or an old Hollywood set. Reagan half expected the buildings to feature cardboard backing. A dozen abandoned cars lined the street. She often drove through Kalispell but Reagan never stopped to admire the quaint mountain town. According to their sign, it was home to 22,037. All of whom appeared to be on vacation. They dismounted in front of the clothing store and tied their horses to the hitching post. Mannequins posed in the front window decked in ski gear. A mound of snow piled against the dark-stained wooden door and an ‘open’ sign hung in the icy window. The other storefronts carried a similar design and housed a café, a law office, and an antique store. A lonely grocery/convenience store rested by itself across the street.

  “Someone find me a pack of smokes,” Meredith called. “Marlboro.”

  Each group followed Reagan’s instructions and scattered to their tasks. Jasper hung back and bounced on his toes. “What’s your real agenda?”

  Reagan saw no way around his direct question. “We’re going to the sheriff’s station.”

  “What makes you believe the sheriff, of all people, is going to be sitting in his office waiting?”

  “I don’t but we should find some guns.”

  “Finally,” Jasper said with a fist pump.

  The sheriff’s station, only a short walk, resembled Andy Taylor’s in Mayberry. Reagan jiggled the knob and the unlocked door swung with a groan. Beams of chlorophyll light filtered inside as dust particles floated. Melting snow dripped from a leak in the ceiling. A smokey, burned stench invaded her nose. “Guess Goober’s on a coffee break.”

  Jasper shimmied by Reagan and made a beeline for the gun cabinet. “It’s locked,” he said after a strong jerk. “Give me your gun, I’ll shoot it off.”

  Reagan pounded the butt of her rifle against the lock a few times until it popped loose. She situated her rifle on her shoulder before swinging the cabinet.

  Jasper hovered way too close. “What do we got there?”

  Two handguns and one shotgun filled the cabinet. “We’ve got a Smith and Wesson Model 29 revolver, a Smith and Wesson Sigma, and a Winchester 1894 rifle. Which do you want Jasper?”

  “I’ll take the Sigma. I'm better with a handgun.”

  Reagan reached into the cabinet and spilled the boxes of ammo. “I'm such a klutz,” she said with a bubbly laugh.

  “I’ll say,” Jasper huffed.

  As Reagan bent to retrieve the spilled ammunition, she emptied the Sigma’s cli
p. With a sleight of hand, she supplied Jasper with an unloaded weapon. She planned to disburse the loaded weapons to her people.

  The groups reconvened a half-hour later in fresh, warm clothes. Reagan changed into a lined plaid shirt in various blue tones and dark Levis. Kelly supplied Reagan with a trendy North Face jacket in a color she called cool blue. Despite the cold weather, Reagan kept her summer clothes in her pack, in case they experienced a bi-polar reversal.

  Annabeth zipped her new camo hunting jacket. “I feel weird wearing stolen clothes.”

  “Consider it a loaner.” Kelly changed from her hiking capris to black Nike running pants, thin yet insulated. She stuck with her raspberry North face jacket but added a mock turtleneck underneath. She also selected a furry ski cap.

  “What’s our next step?” Travis Wayne asked.

  “Why haven’t you changed yet?” Kelly glared at her husband.

  “I’ve got cold-weather gear.” He shrugged.

  “You haven’t changed since Tuesday. The horses smell better than you.” Kelly handed him the clothes she selected. Brand new blue jeans in a gray hue and an olive-colored sweater.

  Travis Wayne stomped into the store and passed Scotty on his way out. Scotty sported a clean shaved face, a sky-blue Henley under his light brown jacket, and wranglers, which made him look more like George Strait.

  “And shave your goofy mustache,” Kelly called after Travis Wayne.

  “I didn’t have any luck with communication,” Scotty said approaching the group. “I guess it goes without saying.”

  Reagan fiddled with the annoying tag on the new jacket. “Any signs of people?”

  “I checked a couple of houses but didn’t find anyone.” Scotty hesitated a few seconds. “One place looked like the family got up and left in the middle of dinner. The house smelled terrible too.”

  Kelly’s eyebrows arched. “How so?”

  Scotty closed his eyes, attempting to place the stench. “Metallic I guess.”

  “Like blood?” Kelly asked.

  “No, it was different.”

  Reagan knew the smell. It haunted her for the last few days. A metallic taste tainted everything she ate or drank.