Apollo Project

by Brittany E Brinegar

  “What are you going to do with me?” Elaine whined. Dixie’s fist pounded into the shoulder. “Stop!”

  “Answer the question,” Tom said. “Why attack us? Robin told us some things, but we don’t understand your play. Seems this Nottingham guy didn’t play straight with you.”

  “No, he didn’t. Bill, Gilbert, and me and maybe Jacki figured some things out. We decided to leverage your group. We wanted some hostages to bargain with Nottingham.”

  “Yeah, and what’s up with the Ricks and Guy?” Robin asked. “You brought them in?”

  “No, they found me and Bill. Don’t ask me how, but they got an assignment to take out some so-called anomalies.” She pointed to Hunter. “Him for one. He isn’t supposed to be here.” She coughed with a pained face. “I doubt the brass knows about you, Robin. They probably figure you’re doing whatever J.L. tells you.”

  “Jon and I were separated.”

  “You broke mission?” Elaine flashed a sign of amusement.

  “Whitehead tried to kill me. Not sure why, but perhaps because I joined Tom and his group. These are good people and don’t deserve to be treated like lab rats.”

  “Whitey tried to kill you? Where is he?”

  Tom stepped closer. “Tried is the operative word. It didn’t work and we sent him to his maker.”

  With eyes wide, Elaine twitched her head. “Mistake. If you wanted answers, he probably had them all.”

  “Spill what you know, Elaine. Start from the beginning. Where did you come from and what is your assignment? What was it initially and what is it now?” Tom crossed his arms and studied her face. “Stop trying to cobble together a story. This isn’t my first interrogation.”

  “We gotta hurry this along, boys and girls.” Hunter pointed to the rectangular window as a second, third and fourth bird smashed into the glass. “These flying varmints are zeroing in on a point of entry.”

  “I vote Elaine for bird feed,” Dixie said. “She’s got no more information than our phony AFT agent.”

  Trepidation shadowed Elaine’s face as she peeked at the pounding birds. “Okay, here’s the story. I was a tennis player, a failed pro. Ranked around 300 at my best. I quit, tried triathlons, and had some success.”

  Tom spun his finger signaling disinterest. “Don’t care about your background. Give us something actionable or this ‘feeding you to the birds’ option is the next step.”

  “Okay, Tom. We were told about you. I’ll get the point.” Her pained expression vanished. “I’ve known Raymond, uh, Bill for a few years. He was in medical sales when I met him. Uh, he did a side business with some steroids and I needed them for my triathlon training. He hooked me up, but I never got much better. He introduced Nottingham. He got me into the program. We trained for months and Bill got bored.”

  Tom kicked her foot when she stopped. “It’s getting interesting now. Keep going.”

  “I can’t catch my breath.”

  “No, you’re stalling. You’re not even hurt.” Tom checked to Dixie. “Take her left arm and snap it.”

  “Stop, don’t. I’m cooperating.”

  “You’re doling out information a tiny bit at a time. You’re hoping for a rescue.” Tom motioned to Dixie. “Hurt her.”

  Breaking glass shattered into the basement. Robin fired the shotgun at dozens of the cackles pouring inside. She connected but the overwhelming force blitzed inside. Birds landed on Tom, pecking through his layered clothing. Stinging, but not yet hurting, the sheer numbers of birds would eventually win the day. In the confusion, Elaine scrambled away from them and through the steel basement door.

  “No birds in the hall,” Hunter said.

  The foursome raced after him, exiting to the hall. Tom slammed the basement door. “How did we let Elaine escape?”

  “My fault.” Gasping, Robin leaned against the basement door. “I should’ve known she was acting. She’s never been weak – always strong. She played me, waiting for her chance.”

  “Why aren’t those birds out here now?” Dixie asked.

  “Someone controls them. Maybe Campbell?” Tom coasted the narrow hallway, hyper-aware.

  Hunter from the rear whistled. “Hey, y’all hold up. Why don’t we see any bird carcasses? Hundreds of them slammed into the door, but I only see about a half dozen.”

  “These things are gross.” Dixie squashed one of the dead ones with her boot. “I don’t wanna touch it with my hand, but it is even real?”

  “I gave a few birds to Doc, but he acted wacko. I never got him to analyze them.” Tom poked at a bird with his foot.

  Peeling his gloves Hunter touched one and cut into it with a knife. He butchered the thing for a minute. The tip of his knife sparkled as he held the bird to the light coming from the front door. “A microchip embedded into this one’s beak.” He stabbed another, cutting into the beak. “Same thing on this one.”

  Nudging the front door, a chilly blast of outside air accosted Tom. The black cloud of birds retreated toward the sun and blinked away. “Does the chip make them invisible too? Or transport them via one of those wormholes? We get more questions than answers at every turn.”

  Outside, Hunter placed a hand on hip, his duster flapping. Robin scanned the area with her scope. Dixie pounded snow from the flaps of her candy-apple red hat. Fresh footprints – Elaine’s – trailed one direction. Older frozen tracks and drag marks led the other way.

  “Which way, Tom?” Robin fished mirrored sunglasses from her Dalmatian patterned coat.

  “I’d like to get my hands on Stutley or Elaine.” The stubborn Irish part of him wanted to pursue, but his military discipline won. “But we should head to home base and check everyone’s safety.”

  In agreement, the party rounded the corner of the old bookstore and set a course to the country club hideaway. In the sunshine more details of the town were visible. A green building, one-story with a rounded roof was on a side of the street with various cars parked. A minivan, a Honda Civic, and a Chevy 4x4 truck parked near the front door by a sign announcing ‘Live Poker, Friday and Saturday Nights!’. A tall roadside sign identified the place as The Wilderness Bar and Liquor. The marquee boasted live music on Mondays and Wednesdays. On the other side of the street, a connected building held three businesses: Rowdy’s Saloon, a steakhouse, and a boot shop. Pine trees grew tall behind the building, casting shadows into the street. A few steps beyond the steakhouse, a tiny maroon building, the Coyote Café, featured a marquee indicating huckleberry shakes returned to the menu. A motel called the Last Woodhouse and another called Hotel Lincoln dueled one another across the street. Both contained bars and restaurants.

  Dixie adjusted the rifle on her shoulder and pointed to the Last Woodhouse, semi-hidden by pines. “These Montana folks sure have lots of bars. More bars than people.”

  Bringing up the rear with his walking stick, Hunter veered to the Last Woodhouse. “We could use a pit stop. Maybe grab a bite and a cold beer.”

  “Cool, I could use a beer.” Dixie grinned. She had tested her mother on the subject earlier in the summer.

  “Nobody is having a beer. Keep a clear head, troops.” Tom pointed the other way to a gas station with a cabin-like feel. “This would be a better option. No way to cook food in the motel. We can find packaged items at the store.”

  A few minutes later, Tom ate beef jerky, salted peanuts, trail mix, and drank a bottle of Lipton tea with fruit flavor. Robin enjoyed a Coca-Cola and a cold sandwich from the fridge. Dixie munched on Doritos, Oreos, bagged popcorn, a Twinkie, white powdered doughnuts, and Ritz crackers. She washed the snacks down with a Diet Dr Pepper.

  Hunter slapped his thigh. “A diet drink? Seriously?” His choice, like the night before, consisted of a hot dog from the rollers. Or five. In a neat row, he applied mustard and shoveled them into his mouth like he was in a Fourth of July hotdog eating contest. He swilled a thirty-two-ounce thirst quencher bottle of Gatorade and tore into Fritos.

  “You’re gonna get sick.” Robin
snatched a hotdog from his hand. “Get some jerky or something. These cold sandwiches are good.”

  “You nag more than my ex-wife. I like hot food.”

  All of them laughed and Tom jumped on him first. “Big Game, that stuff hasn’t been hot for some time.”

  “It used to be hot.” Hunter accepted a sandwich from Robin and Tom noticed the spark. The old boy was in the process of falling for her. She seemed aware. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He squirted a glob of mustard onto the turkey and ham before smashing the bread lid.

  With his stomach growling, Tom rummaged through the cold sandwich area and picked a ham, turkey and roast beef submarine. The chewy stale bread kept the sandwich from great, but the mountain of meat made it good.

  A noise outside caused them to bolt for the front door. A hooded figure in army fatigues ducked from the street into a long, one-story building with a 1970s ranch house design. An inclined sidewalk with rails led to the door and the figure pulled himself to the railing, dragging and bleeding.

  “I know him.” Robin pressed her face into the glass door. “T.C. Friar.”

  No one budged as T.C. tried the locked door. A Ranger Station sign hung in the front. Robin reached for the door, but Tom intercepted her. “Hold on.”

  “What’s the problem? Let me talk to him. I think I can trust him, but if we go at him with four guns, he might fight.”

  “No, we all go. If he fights, he fights.” Tom shoved out the door first, shotgun drawn. Hunter steadied a pistol, Dixie held her rifle and Robin joined them, rifle at her side.

  T.C. spotted the foursome and held both hands in the air. “I’m hurt.” He coughed. “Likely dying.” Hands in the surrender position, bloodshot, but alert eyes on his ebony face showed recognition. “Robin?”

  “Yep. How did you get hurt?”

  He shrugged. “Long story. This isn’t what I signed on for.”

  “Where’s Jacki?” Robin asked.

  “Guess I could ask you the same about Jon.”

  “I asked first.” Robin chuckled. “Jon and I got separated right in the beginning. I don’t know much about what happened to him. Were you with Bill and Elaine?”

  “Nah, not them. Who are these people with you?” T.C.’s bright eyes evaluated the group.

  Tom relaxed the shotgun but made eye contact with Hunter, motioning to stay alert. “We have some trust issues. My first inclination is to take you out and not take the risk you’re with the rest of those murdering Merry Men.”

  T.C. sucked in a breath and leaned on the rail, careful to stay passive. “Robin must’ve filled you in?”

  “Some. I sleepwalked through most of our classroom training. It’s now biting me in the butt.” Robin’s bright eyes cut to Tom before she continued. “But things went south. Gilbert went completely off the rails and Stutley too. Bill appears to have the Ricks, Guy, and maybe Dave with him. Elaine for sure. How about you and Jacki? Are you in with all of these creeps?”

  “I’m alone, Rob. And like I said, likely gonna die soon.”

  “Help us with some answers and maybe we’ll help you out.” Tom wrapped the strap of the shotgun around his shoulder. “You armed?”

  “No. I swear. I have a hunting knife is all.” He pointed to his belt. “I’m losing blood.” The camo jacket draped to the side and he showed a bloody wound above the beltline.

  Tom’s long strides arrived at the inclined entryway and he used a powerful right foot to kick in the door. “Let’s take a look inside this ranger station and see if we can find medical supplies and antibiotics to fight off infection. If you provide answers, we’ll patch you up.”

  The front desk inside the station featured an “L” shape. On one side, rows and rows of metal baskets held brochures. The front had a U.S. Forest Service badge, a green pine tree between a tan “U” and “S” on a brown background. One of those Nate Campbell dopey hats hung behind the desk on a shelf. Maps and framed lists dotted the walls.

  A corner office contained a medical kit and Tom smashed a locked cabinet to find antibiotics, snake antidote, and other drugs. He purloined the stash into his backpack.

  Hopping to a cold, stainless steel table, T.C. removed the jacket, shirt, and t-shirt, displaying the frame of a former athlete. He carried fifteen extra pounds, much of it around his middle. He tensed as Tom and Robin cleaned the wound.

  Tom threw the first question as he dabbed at the deep gash, requiring stitches. “Tell us what you learned about traveling between here and Louisiana. We have a theory about wormholes.”

  Hunter drifted a few feet away. “We got a scientist with us, who knows a thing or two. I spent quite a while picking his brain.”

  Gritting through the pain, T.C. lifted his chin. “If you landed on the wormhole theory, good job. Though we all started working in the dark, some of us figured out part of this experiment. We didn’t fathom the brutality, or at least I didn’t.”

  “Tell me about the wormholes,” Tom snapped, not willing to engage in regretful moaning. Enough spewed from Robin. “They allow traveling back and forth. We’ve seen one and traveled through another, though not willingly.”

  “The wormholes are real and allow for travel long distances.” T.C. wrung his t-shirt. “They’re created through an instability, but I can’t explain the science. Once you use one, you can’t create another one in the same location. We don’t know the number of them, but Gilbert has a map and he also used a beacon. I noticed Jacki with one too. It is a tubular, metallic finish or maybe matte finished metal. It’s the size of a thermos.”

  Tom twisted his body to Robin. “Didn’t we search Whitehead’s body?”

  “I didn’t find a map or a thermos. We should’ve tried to find his base camp,” she said.

  “You’ve seen Gilbert?” T.C. rotated his torso. “Before I split from Jacki, we were looking for Gilbert. She kept the beacon in her stuff, but told me it didn’t show his location.”

  “How does this beacon work?” Tom poured alcohol on the wound.

  T.C. didn’t jump from the burn, but his eyes closed. “The beacons show the location of the travel portals, which is what we called them. But wormhole is a better term. The portals, uh wormholes, are located in various places near where our groups offloaded. I don’t have exact locations, but schools or courthouses are the norms.”

  “What about train stations?” Robin paced, peering to the desk where Dixie guarded the door of the Ranger station.

  “Uh, maybe.”

  “We traveled from a train station in western Louisiana to a train station in this town,” Tom said.

  Robin cleared her throat. “Jon and I were separated. He was in Montana and me Louisiana. The same thing happened to Hunter.” She pointed. “The tall dude snacking on an energy bar. He and his brother were separated. Jon and I were in our car trying to get around a forest fire. Jon drove straight into the fire with me yelling.”

  “Sounds odd, but maybe it is one of those unstable areas. Maybe all of them don’t have courthouses or schools.” T.C. glanced at the blood, which no longer flowed as Tom used surgical tape for sealing.

  “This needs to hold. I don’t see a way to stitch it.” Tom gripped the end of the tape with his teeth and tore a piece. “Tell us about this experiment. Where are all the people?”

  “What’s been created is a fracture. It ripped specific marked people away and placed them into a cloned world. Nottingham called it the Apollo Zone. We were looking for Gilbert because things went haywire almost from the start. The experiment, part of it anyway, is to test this cloned area for survivability. Technology doesn’t work, most of it anyway, and early tests indicate the magnetic and electrical profiles of these areas won’t allow construction of microchips or many of the building blocks we use.

  “Some mechanical items work for a short time. Things like those beacons and radios and even some snowmobiles were sent to this cloned world in lead-lined transports. Frankly, they don’t work long in the case of snowmobiles and work sporadically otherw
ise – like the radios Nottingham gave us for communicating with each other. They haven’t worked consistently since the get-go.”

  Tipping the Aussie hat, Hunter scrunched his nose. “Are you saying we were picked for testing?”

  “A group was selected for the experiment. You weren’t on Jacki’s manifest.” T.C. pointed to Tom. “He’s on it. Along with his traveling group. All of their names are listed. In one radio call I overheard, Jacki said something about anomalies surviving. Emerson and Malone.”

  “I’m Hunter Malone and my brother is Scotty Malone. I don’t like the idea of being some redshirt in this guy’s game.”

  “I’m not justifying anything,” T.C. said.

  “Hold on here,” Tom said. “What’s the deal with this Jacki you’ve referenced several times?”

  “Okay, Jacki is the young manipulative girl. She was T.C.’s partner.” Robin leaned on the gurney. “Has she gone rogue?”

  “To put it mildly. She stabbed me with a fireplace poker. We had a falling out over plans she and Gilbert cooked up. I was in the dark about their scheme. I pressed her on the problems and if Gilbert was behind them. The sky and the weather, the bees.” T.C. closed his eyes as he clicked off details. “Jacki and I were scouting a client group with Guy and Dave. We were on snowmobiles. I pressed them to stop the observation assignment and make contact. The other three decided to ambush instead. I refused and headed to camp. Jacki returned alone later. Said Dave was killed in a shootout. She wouldn’t talk to me. She started a fire in a cave and used the poker to move wet logs from near the fire. Next thing I know, she stabbed me and sent us through a portal. We landed in a hot swamp. I was dizzy and losing blood. Left for dead, I hitched a ride, unknowingly, and landed outside of a post office in the snow. It’s been a long few days for me.”

  “You must’ve arrived with the bright lights. Your wormhole left a giant ditch where we were nearly electrocuted.” Hunter spat from the side of his mouth. “Were you near a bridge? An old railroad bridge?”