by Unknown
Willy ordered his radioman to phone it in, report what they were observing. And, to ask for the ‘rules of engagement.’
A panicked captain, probably younger than Willy, ordered them to fire upon it. He said he was convinced it was a Chinese craft of some sort. His radioman protested that their small arms fire would do very little.
But, his protest fell on deaf ears.
The captain wasn’t thinking straight. Not many soldiers were that day.
They aimed their machine rifles to the sky and fired in unison.
The bullets came back almost instantly, popping into the snow piled around their perfect little culvert.
Their very own bullets came right back at them.
They continued to fire until the lights swung around in their direction. They were totally illuminated now and mesmerized by the strange lights. Each of them started yelling out how they couldn’t see anything, that it was too bright.
Then, a different light came their way. A large beam that zapped them in one quick burst.
Willy knew they had to run. But, there were few places to run to. He recalled a large flood run-off pipe that was only a few dozen yards to the east. It was their best and only option. He yelled out a command for his men to follow him. They didn’t need a second invitation.
Once each of them had crawled into the pipe, and the vomiting began. One after the other, so violent that blood accompanied what little else was in their stomachs.
When that trauma was over, the radioman flicked on a torch. That’s when they were treated to the sight of each of them as virtual skeletons. Any parts of their bodies that weren’t covered with clothing, which basically meant their faces and hands, were transparent. At first, they thought it was just a trick of the torch light, but it didn’t take long for the reality to set in. They were indeed transparent.
After being transported to a MASH unit for examination, treatment, and interrogation, Willy heard reports from the field about a mysterious retreat by the Chinese troops off that particular ridge, right after the strange craft had fired its beam on Willy’s unit. In fact, it wasn’t just a retreat, it was a stampede. The strange craft obviously wasn’t theirs. The Chinese were just as spooked as the Americans.
Willy opened his eyes and looked towards the window. The blinds were down again, and he was still all alone in the room except for the three white-coated attendants. He looked down at his skin—yep, some more improvement since he’d closed his eyes for his trip down memory lane.
He sighed…and suddenly got an irresistible urge for a joint.
Chapter 4
“Stick out your tongue, Dad.”
Willy gazed curiously at his son, but kept his mouth firmly shut.
Helen was pretending to be busy in the kitchen, but paying close attention.
Wyatt and Willy were sitting across from each other at the dining room table, each with a fresh cup of coffee. They’d been back from the hospital for a couple of hours now, and Wyatt could tell that his dad was relieved to be on familiar ground again. After a three-night stay in the hospital, he had been declared fit as a fiddle. There were no obvious side effects from the weird transition he’d endured.
But, no answers, either.
Being the natural-born detective that he was, Wyatt wanted some answers. And, he wanted them now.
“Well, Dad?”
Willy chuckled, and his professorial features crinkled up into a knowing grin. “You may be the police chief, son, but that doesn’t carry much jurisdiction in this house.”
“All I asked you to do, Dad, was stick out your tongue.”
“Do you want me to raise my hands in the air, too?” He chuckled again. “Am I under arrest or something?”
Wyatt frowned with exasperation. “C’mon, Dad. Quit giving me the gears. I just want to see how you’re doing. The tongue is always a good indication of health. If it’s white, that usually means some kind of bug.”
“Well, just so you know—I’ve already brushed my teeth since I got back, and my tongue looks fine.”
“Prove it. Show me.”
Helen walked into the dining room from the kitchen. She took a seat at the head of the table, where she usually sat. Willy always deferred to her on that. While he was undeniably the ‘king of the castle,’ she was his queen and he always treated her as such.
Wyatt knew that Willy was proud of how Helen had always managed the house. While he’d be out in the garage in his sculptor studio, which was his domain, she kept the house immaculate. Sometimes, she wouldn’t see him for several days and nights at a time while he had a project on the go.
The garage was a sight to behold—never once used as an actual garage. The studio occupied the entire ground floor, but it also had a fully functional apartment in the extensive loft area above.
When Willy was in his ‘artistic mode,’ he’d be out there continuously. Helen never minded in the least—it was his passion and he was indeed an incredible artist. And, Wyatt suspected she was glad not to have him under foot 24/7.
When he wasn’t creating, he tended to be quite restless and impatient. Not angry or anything like that, but more just like a little lost soul.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Wy, give your dad a break! He just got back from the hospital!”
Wyatt studied his dad closely. He was, unabashedly, wearing a short sleeve shirt, apparently not the least bit concerned about displaying his skin. Skin which had now completely reverted to normal, and Willy seemed to show no concern at all that the phenomenon might suddenly return.
“I just want to make sure, Mom.” Wyatt stuck out his own tongue and displayed it to his parents. “See? No big deal. You can see that my tongue is nice and pink, which is healthy. Show me yours, Mom.”
She laughed—her hearty laugh that she reserved just for her son, who always loved to tease her so much.
“I’m just so glad to have your dad home, now. And it’s so good to have you hanging around with us for a bit, too. Feels like old times.”
“You changed the subject, Mom. Stick out your tongue.”
“Oh, alright! Just to shut you up!” She slid her tongue out of her mouth, and wiggled it back and forth. “This is just going to get your dad horny—all we need now is for him to have a heart attack!”
Willy laughed and gave his wife a wink. “See you upstairs?”
Helen gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “Why don’t you take your only son out to the studio and show him your latest creation?”
Willy got to his feet. “Good idea. C’mon, ‘only son.’ Follow me.”
Willy led the way out through the back door, and down a little slate pathway to the detached garage at the rear of the house. Wyatt realized that, at least for now, he wasn’t going to see his dad’s tongue. Okay, he’d play along—for a while. But, Willy’s resistance set off alarm bells in his head.
Wyatt hadn’t been in Willy’s inner sanctum for years—strange, considering that he lived only minutes away. He always saw the finished products, when they were being loaded by crane onto flatbed trucks to be hauled away to some fortunate location for permanent or temporary display.
He had also visited Lake Louise many times to watch his dad compete in the annual ice sculpture competitions. But, it had been at least a decade or more since he’d been in this shrine—where all the creativity happened, where his dad was the most proud and fulfilled.
He glanced around the cavernous room and could see several works in various stages of completion. Willy seldom worked on one piece of art at a time. He always had several on the go. He always explained that it helped keep each work fresh, gave a break to the vision for a day or two, and then when he went back to it after working on another one for a while, he could look at it through new critical eyes.
They just stood inside the door for a couple of minutes. He felt like they were in church together, and there were indeed some similarities to being in a place of worship. Something solemn, something magical. Objects that were lifel
ike, but silent. Ghostly in some ways, religious in others.
Wyatt whispered, “It’s been so long since I’ve been here. It still gives me such an overwhelming feeling, a feeling I can remember so clearly.”
Willy smiled warmly at his son. “Why are you whispering?”
Wyatt chuckled. “I dunno. Seems like the proper thing to do.”
“Well, stop whispering. You won’t wake any of these characters up, I promise you.”
He crooked his finger for Wyatt to follow, as he walked over to a large object in the center of the room covered with a tarpaulin. He grabbed a corner, and yanked it off with a flourish.
Wyatt gasped. Staring back at him was a 60s era hippie, as lifelike as could possibly be imagined by an artist’s vision. He was about six feet tall with long hair and a big glorious smile on his boyish face. In one hand, he held a rifle, barrel pointed towards the ground. In the other hand, he held a document, but one that had clearly been torn in half. It had jagged edges, and the figure’s hand holding the document was erect and proudly waving it in the air like one would wave a flag.
Wyatt spoke in a whisper again. “Dad…this is brilliant. I’m not an artist, but I know exactly what this is depicting. He’s a draft-dodger, isn’t he? Defiantly pointing the gun to the ground, and waving a draft notice torn in half?”
Willy smiled. “Very good, son. That’s exactly what it is.”
Wyatt raised his voice now. “Wow! This is amazing! The expression on his face is so happy, so victorious. And, the detail in his face, his hair, the rifle, the draft notice. God, how on earth do you do this stuff?”
Willy blushed. “A lot of tools…and time.”
“Did you have a sketch to work from? As your model?”
Willy tapped the side of his head. “Only up here.”
“Amazing. How long?”
“This one has taken me about two years—but I’ve been working on others, too, of course.”
“What material is this?”
“Marble.”
“Jesus! That must have cost a fortune!”
“It did, especially since it was one big slab. But, I also charge a fortune for what I do, so the material costs never concern me.”
“What will you sell this one for?”
Willy shuffled his feet. “Well, this would normally go for a hundred thousand. But, my intention is to give this one away.”
“What? Why?”
“I want to convince the city council to mount this in the Town Square, downtown. As a monument to the brave people who made this city what it is today.
“They deserve a monument, some measure of thanks and a sense of pride for the brave choices they made for peace. And, we’re getting short on time. Most of them are getting on in years—they’re all younger than me, because they were of the Vietnam years. But, in a couple of decades they’ll all be dead. Would be a shame to give them a monument after they’re gone, don’t you think?”
Wyatt nodded. “Did you get a commission from the city council for this?”
Willy shook his head. “No, they turned down an idea about this in the past. So, I’m just hoping that once they see it, they’ll want it.”
Wyatt shook his head in astonishment. Then, he leaned in to his dad, wrapped his arms around him and gave him a bear hug. Willy hugged him back, and Wyatt could feel his eyes starting to mist up.
He let go, and stood back. “Okay, show me your tongue now.”
Willy laughed. “Hey, an affectionate little moment of bromance sure isn’t going to convince me to stick my tongue out!”
“You’re amazing, Dad. And, you’re doing a phenomenal thing here. I’m very proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you, too, Wyatt. Tell you what—when they lay me out in a coffin, you can tell the undertaker to stick my tongue out if it means that much to you.”
They both laughed.
“Dad, I really don’t want that to be my last memory of you.”
Willy chuckled, then turned to lead the way back out to the driveway.
But, before Wyatt followed, he noticed something odd. There was another object, way off in the east corner of the studio, covered with a tarpaulin as well, but surrounded by other finished and half-finished pieces.
He pointed and walked over to it. “What’s this, Dad? Another surprise piece that you’re going to spring on the world?”
Willy called out. “That one’s not worth looking at. I did that a long time ago, and I’m kind of ashamed of it. Not fit for viewing. C’mon, let’s get back to your mother.”
Wyatt walked around the statues that were blocking it, and pulled off the tarpaulin.
“Wyatt! No!”
Wyatt stood in stunned silence, staring at the ghostly apparition in front of him.
The detail was absolutely brilliant, even more breathtaking than the draft-dodger statue. This one was constructed of a softer material. He guessed soapstone.
It was clearly a soldier in battle, kneeling. Wrinkled and torn uniform, helmet on his head. His face was so alive, so riddled with anguish. The eyes were closed and actually squinting, pinched; as if in pain, in fear, or...maybe blinded?
He was grasping a machine gun in both hands, the index finger of his right hand pulling tightly against the trigger. The gun was pointed towards the sky. And, there was drool of some sort seeping out of the soldier’s mouth, draping over his chin.
The only parts of his body that weren’t covered in military fatigues were his face and his hands.
The statue was both beautiful and vocal. It was screaming out something, seemingly a message of pain and abject fear.
These things were clear to Wyatt even though he didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. It was a credit to the artist to be able to convey such messages to the uninitiated.
But, it was one of the most macabre images he’d ever seen.
The skin on the face was transparent.
The bone structure of the skull displayed itself in full shocking horror.
And the hands gripping the machine gun were the hands of a skeleton.
Chapter 5
The Druid Hills, Georgia.
It was an enclave unto itself, but also enjoyed the status of being a suburb of the City of Atlanta. With a median family income of around $250,000, it was the most affluent satellite of the massive city.
Druid Hills was a planned community, conceived by a prominent Georgian and developed with the determined efforts of several leading families, including the Candlers of Coca-Cola fame. It flew in the face of the demographics of Atlanta, with only 6% of the population in the Druid Hills being African/American. In Atlanta, it was over 50%.
About 20,000 people lived there, and a good majority of them worked at the prestigious Emory University along with its affiliated hospitals. Typical of affluent university towns, there was the usual abundance of parks and ‘soft’ recreational facilities. Generally, a quiet place to live. A studious place to live. It was away from the hustle and bustle of Atlanta.
In addition to the university, it had one other major employer.
The Centers for Disease Control.
The CDC employed 15,000 dedicated people, but only about 5,000 of those at its headquarters in the Druid Hills. The rest were scattered across the country. It was formed in 1946, and was the leading national public health institute in the United States. A federal agency, it was established with the main goal in mind of protecting public health and safety through the control and prevention of disease, injury and disability.
One of its main target areas was the research, understanding, and annihilation of infectious diseases in the United States and around the world. The CDC had performed crucial roles in outbreaks of SARS, Ebola, and virtually every other scary epidemic or potential pandemic that had hit the newswires in the last half-century.
Of particular concern now to the CDC was the emergence of antibiotic-resistant bacterial infections, an ominous trend that put the world on a path towards a drastic change in
health management, and perhaps in lifespan expectations.
The CDC maintained extreme vigilance against diseases entering the United States from other countries, so easily accomplished these days with global travel being so prevalent. Infections alien to America could be deadly, due to the lack of natural resistance and known drug preventions or cures.
No doubt, the CDC was one of the world’s most crucial organizations, and they had their hands full with challenges that no one anticipated decades ago, when it was established.
Dedicated people, busy at their jobs—too busy perhaps to be aware that another, more obscure organization, was operating right under their noses.
It hadn’t always been there. It was an organization that was formed only a year after the CDC, and had headquarters that were fairly fluid up until just a few years ago. It was formed under the orders of the President of the United States, Harry Truman, back in 1947. Formed after a famous event that had left the world scratching their heads in wonder and mystery.
That famous event prompted the formation of this shadowy organization, and ‘shadowy’ was a good word for it. It operated entirely in the shadows. Literally and figuratively.
Its base of operations was deep in the bowels of CDC headquarters—in a level of the basement structure that most CDC employees probably didn’t even know existed. All of the elevators went officially down to basement level one. But, there was one more level; a level that only a select group of people with special magnetic cards could access. A level that could only be reached by one particular elevator. An elevator that, for everyone else in the building, was always ‘out of order.’
No one puzzled over that—they were far too busy.
The headquarters for this organization had a suite of plush offices, a large meeting room, a lunchroom, a fully-equipped lounge, a small gym with hot tub and sauna, and a state of the art medical lab and clinic. There were no windows though, because this was, of course, just a basement.
