by C A Bird
Another critical individual was someone skilled with environmental equipment. He chose a man from Las Vegas, New Mexico who had been the chief of the Crafts Department at Los Alamos for many years and had extensive experience with sophisticated environmental systems similar to the one they had at the shelter. The man was around sixty years old, but had two sons, one of whom lived close by and was his partner in his air-conditioning and appliance repair business. They would back up the permanent staff member responsible for those systems. Hopefully, they would make it.
Hargraves estimated that approximately fifty percent of his selections living in northern New Mexico had an excellent chance of making it to the shelter if they heeded his warning in time. In some cases, even though qualified people lived closer, he chose individuals who were top experts in their fields who lived a little further away. The probability of them arriving on time was lower, unless he could provide them sufficient advanced warning. They included two world-renowned astronomers from Lowell Observatory in Arizona, a history professor from The University of Texas in El Paso, two Nobel prize winners from the faculty of the University of California at San Diego, and farmers from Imperial County in Southern California who were specialists in hydroponics gardening. If he could only allow them a head start!
His money helped considerably in investigating backgrounds and checking qualifications. He vetted over three thousand individuals. It all started out as a game and he had fun with it for a while but then the Gulf War, Iraq and Afghanistan and al-Qaeda convinced him he needed to take it more seriously. He compiled a list of people with the requisite qualifications, considered proximity to the shelter and finally considered age, sex, and marital status. Women of childbearing age with technical skills were especially desirable. Conceivably he could be choosing the beginnings of a new race of humans.
His list that started with three thousand candidates was eventually condensed to five hundred names. Hargraves hoped forty percent would make it and bring friends or family. The shelter had been built to support six hundred people.
Some people had moved and it was Karl’s job to keep track and let Hargraves know so he could make adjustments. Actually, Karl did keep track of some of them but failed to inform Will. He just mailed the devices to their new addresses and hoped they could travel the necessary distance.
Others included teachers, an army chaplain, carpenters, a geologist that taught at the University of Northern Arizona in Flagstaff, a famous singer who maintained a residence in Santa Fe, a city manager of a small town in Utah, a writer, cooks, electricians, biologists, physicists and botanists. All received packages in the few days prior to August 21.
It was just in time.
August 20, 4:30 p.m.
Denver, Colorado
“Good Afternoon Denver! Welcome to the Johnny Jay Show. We have a wonderful afternoon of tunes and talk for all you commuters in beautiful Denver, Colorado.” Johnny’s voice had a staccato, singsong quality as he broadcast his afternoon talk-radio program, helping to alleviate the boredom of the homeward bound traffic. Johnny’s show generated considerable controversy as he tried to imitate the style of the acerbic west coast hosts, and he was capable of insulting anyone, regardless of their opinion or the subject matter.
A diminutive man, Johnny was punier than his resonant voice would indicate and he used his on-the-air persona to enlarge his off-the-air image of himself. Wearing speakers that dwarfed his head, with the exception of a shock of blond hair sticking straight up, and speaking into a mike suspended from the ceiling he continued, “We have a rumor going around here in Denver of mysterious black boxes being distributed to some of our citizens. They come by mail, and even by personal delivery. No one has a clue what’s in them, but the Johnny Jay show will be the first to provide you with this vital information.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “We’d love to know who’s getting them and why, but no one’s talking. What could they be? I personally think they’re from aliens, and the chosen few will be whisked away in the mother ship any minute now. What do you think, Denver?” He raise the volume of his voice as he went on, “I’ll tell you what, the first person that brings one of these mysterious little boxes to our KDVR studios will receive two free, prime seat tickets to see Taylor Swift in concert, at McNichols Arena, on September twelfth. She’s hot, Denver, and worth sacrificing your little box for.”
He went on to introduce the news and traffic segments and flipped the switch to go off the air. Ripping off his headset - he hated that thing - he turned to the sound man in the next booth and demanded, “If anyone brings in any little black boxes let me know. Don’t anyone open it or they’ll be toast. I want to check it out myself. You got that?”
“Yes sir. I’ll bring it to you personally.” Everyone on the set was deathly afraid of Johnny Jay. He had a nasty habit of firing people for the slightest infraction, real or imagined. Don Jerrold had kids to support. He would love to tell Mr. Jay where he could put his little black box but obediently kept his mouth shut and manipulated his dials.
August 20, 5:00 p.m.
Sangre de Cristo Mountains, New Mexico
Sandi had never seen any place so beautiful in her entire life. The higher mountains reached up to kiss the western sky, while the mountains to the south tapered downward to lower elevations and she imagined she could see forever to the deserts and plains beyond. She saw the ridge to the east that they had gone around by taking the trail north. There was a tall outcropping atop the ridge blocking her view to the east. Green pine forests and flower-filled meadows covered the mountains, while fluffy white clouds drifted through crystal blue afternoon skies.
She shot a few dozen digital photos and had circled the small lake to the opposite side when she stumbled across a small dam, with a spillway on either side that allowed the river to flow around the dam and continue downstream. Pete had said he didn’t remember the lake and it appeared she had discovered the reason why - it had been artificially created. Exploring the area further, she found additional signs of man-made activity; evidence of a deserted road and a foundation for a small building long since removed. It had obviously been a while, since the brush had overgrown everything, and in another year or two all signs of man, with the exception of the dam and the lake, would be erased.
Excited about her discovery, Sandi retraced her path, and found Pete sitting cross-legged on a rock at the north end of the lake, his line dangling in the water. When she’d left him earlier he’d been fishing upstream in the river. Three fish were strung on a rope passing through their gills.
“Hey, Sandi. Check it out. Two Rainbows, and I even caught a Cutthroat Trout! We’re going to eat well tonight. Ye of little faith!”
“Hey that’s cool, but guess what? I found a dam creating this lake. You want to see?” After stashing his gear, and catch, at their camp they circled the lake to explore the southeast side. He was every bit as puzzled as she by the dam.
They followed what remained of the road, a few broken chunks of asphalt, until it ended at the edge of a precipice. Just to the south were jagged rock formations that blocked the view in that direction, but directly ahead, as they squinted into the afternoon sun, they looked out over a breathtakingly beautiful valley southwest of the plateau. They didn’t want to get too close to the edge, although Pete could tell that it didn’t fall straight off, but could discern forests and a meadow with a river flowing across it. They stood looking out over the valley for many minutes appreciating its beauty.
“I never came this far south before. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? You know, if we had more time there might be a way to climb down into it.”
“Not a chance, Bud,” she told him. “You can climb down into it next year. Just remind me not to accompany you.” She walked over to the right side of the road. “This cleared off area looks like it was a helicopter pad. That’s the only way you’d get me down there. Bring a chopper and I’m there.” The cleared off spot did suggest the possibility of a helicopter pad but i
t was obviously abandoned. He gestured back toward the lake, “The Fish and Game department probably put this lake here to protect and preserve the native fish population. They work in mysterious ways.” He took her hand and they started back toward the lake. Come on, let’s get back to camp and have some fish for dinner.”
“You’re cleaning them,” she told him.
“Of course.”
“You’re cooking them.”
“Of course.”
“OK, I’ll do the dishes.”
August 20, 5:30 p.m.
Denver, Colorado
“God Damned traffic.” The cars crept along at between ten and fifteen miles per hour, freeway construction in Denver making the traffic unbearable at almost any time of the day or night. John Arnaud had a splitting headache; created by the ongoing stressful conditions he faced at work and this intolerable daily commute. He’d had a miserable day, getting his ass chewed because that bitch Denise turned his report in late. He’d left it on her desk when she wasn’t there but she should have noticed it, and it was quite possible that she’d intentionally turned it in late to get him in trouble. He longed to be lounging in his recliner, a beer in hand, watching ESPN.
Johnny Jay, his favorite radio host, was talking to some imbecile on talk-radio. The man, calling from a cellular telephone, was complaining about the loss of civility in America, having been flipped off three times in twenty minutes while driving on the freeway. John glanced around but didn’t see anyone with a cell phone. He’d flipped someone off only moments ago when the idiot had cut him off. The other driver had signaled, but John attempted to close the gap and the asshole squeezed in.
“Well, Denver, you did it!” exclaimed Johnny Jay. “That only took one hour from the time I requested one of the mysterious black boxes until a brave soul delivered it to the studio. Free concert tickets go to Sherman Moscowitz. He brought us our box and right after this commercial we’ll find out exactly what it is.”
John finally reached his freeway off-ramp and flicked off the radio. It would take him another ten minutes to reach home after exiting the freeway. As he drove down quiet suburban streets he passed tract houses with a wide variety of landscaping, some with well-kept yards and others with yards of dirt or overgrown with weeds. This particular residential area wasn’t considered the high-rent district, but nevertheless, he insisted that Lori keep their own landscaping looking nicer than that of his neighbors. She only worked part-time, and he figured she had sufficient time to do it. As he turned the corner onto his street his house came into view, third on the left, and he hit the garage door opener.
His mood had steadily darkened as the traffic and his job had combined in a conspiracy to make his life miserable. As he approached the house he noticed Lori’s car was in the driveway and the garage door was still closed. He whipped into the driveway next to her car and, furious, flung the control on the car seat. He clutched his briefcase, jumped out of the car and slammed the door.
Lori heard it and realized he wasn’t in the garage. “Oh no, I forgot about it,” she moaned. She had tried the opener earlier when she and the kids had arrived home, but it had jammed. Intending to troubleshoot the mechanism before John got home, she got busy with preparing dinner and completely forgot about it.
“Ashley, Kevin, go to your rooms until dinner.” She quickly called out. John would be angry and she didn’t want him to take it out on the children. Lori quickly released her hair from the ‘pony’ allowing it to fall around her shoulders the way John liked it, hoping to distract him.
“Mommy, we’re watching TV,” Ashley protested.
“I know, baby, but Daddy’s home and he might be mad. Go on okay? Take Kevin with you.”
Ashley took Kevin’s hand and half dragged him from the family room into their bedroom. She didn’t want Daddy to hit him again.
John stormed into the house slamming the front door.
“What the hell’s wrong with the garage door opener?” He yelled without so much as a “Hi, how the hell are you.”
“I don’t know, Honey” she lied. “Is something wrong with it?”
“No, you idiot, I just asked what’s wrong with it to hear myself talk.”
“I promise I’ll have it fixed right away, John. Dinner’s almost ready.”
She quickly set the table while he went into his ‘shop’ in the garage. If she were lucky he would remain there long enough to calm down.
She called the kids, put dinner on the table, and went to the connecting garage door. Knocking timidly, she started turning the doorknob, when it was suddenly jerked from her grasp. She jumped, as if she’d been slapped, and John smiled, gratified by her fear.
“Di . . . dinner’s ready.” She lowered her eyes as he smirked at her. He brushed by, and with her trailing him, went into the dining room. She’d learned soon after their honeymoon that she could be neither too aggressive nor too submissive. If she tried too hard to be nice, it disgusted him and he verbally abused her. If she didn’t act subservient enough, it became physical.
When he saw the children, he acted as if everything was fine. “Hey, how you guys doing?” He ruffled Kevin’s hair and gave Ashley a big hug. “Let’s have some dinner, okay?” He was in total control. He needed to be. It diverted attention from his working late last night as well as several other nights this month.
They ate dinner with John questioning the kids about daycare and carrying on what appeared to be a normal family conversation. The changing moods, not knowing whether things were okay or not, not knowing when, at any minute, the situation would change and become violent, these were the ways John kept her off-guard and the way he maintained total control. A short while after supper Lori put the children to bed, relieved the evening had gone better than she’d expected. She was more convinced than ever something was going on between John and his secretary. He was being purposely magnanimous.
She cleaned the kitchen, brought him a beer, and took her place beside him on the sofa to watch old reruns of “Baywatch Nights,” his favorite program. She detested it but it gave her a chance to relax and dream of other things.
Like getting out.
She knew, though, she could never leave him. What would she and the children do? Where would they go? He would come after them and never, ever, let them escape.
“Is it okay if I make a phone call?” she asked. “I want to check on Dad.” She started to get up.
He grabbed her arm, holding her down until he’d answered her. “Bring me another beer first.” Then he released her arm.
She tried her dad’s number but he wasn’t home, an unusual circumstance since he seldom went out at night. Concerned about him, she left a message for him to return her call, if it wasn’t past nine, John’s curfew for her to receive calls.
Lori grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and when she returned to the living room she knew immediately, by John’s scowl, that she’d done something wrong.
“You Bitch! I told you to bring me the beer first!” he raged. “Are you purposely trying to piss me off?”
He jumped up from the couch and extended his right hand, but didn’t move forward to accept the bottle.
“I know you’re smarter than that, big college graduate, so you must have done it purposely just to piss me off!” He stood, his hand still out, not moving.
“No . . . honest, John, I’m just worried about Dad and I didn’t think for a moment.” She moved toward him like a moth to a flame, unable to stay away, but knowing she was going to get burned.
Just as the beer reached his outstretched fingers he reached out and viciously grabbed her wrist, twisting it slowly, and as the beer tilted, yellow liquid slowly moved toward the mouth of the bottle. “Lori,” he said tauntingly. “Are you trying to spill my beer?” He grinned, squeezing tighter and twisting farther.
Her eyes widened, fixed on the beer as it continued inexorably toward the orifice.
“No John . . .” she said. The beer was closer to the opening. He
twisted.
“I’m sorry . . .” she whispered. It was there. He grinned. His grip tightened like a vise, bruising her wrist.
“Please . . . John.” She whimpered. The first drop of golden liquid overflowed the lip and dripped to the carpet.
It broke the spell, and she looked directly into his eyes, angry, crazed eyes. She didn’t see the blow coming but knew it would nonetheless. His left hand came out of nowhere, catching her on the cheek, and carrying through to smack the bottle, the beer flying across the room, clunking against the wall and spraying droplets across the couch, carpets and furniture.
“Look at this mess, Lori!”
He looked toward the hall. ”What the fuck are you two staring at?” He took a step in their direction.
Ashley and Kevin scurried back to their room, jumped on the bed and listened for footsteps, Ashley holding little Kevin in her arms as they huddled against the wall.
Lori sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around his legs, desperately trying to distract him.
“Please John. They’re okay. They’re gone.” She rubbed his legs, pushing her head against his crotch.
“Please. You can hit me. Please, let’s go to the bedroom.” She kept talking, wheedling and rubbing her head against his legs, between his legs. She caressed his legs with both hands.
He grabbed her head with both hands and thrust his hips against her. Entwining his fingers in her hair, he pulled her to her feet and crushed his mouth against hers….hard… grinding her lips against his teeth. She tried to ignore the pain as he viciously took hold of her arm and lifted, pulled and shoved her into the bedroom.
August 20, 8:30 p.m.
Marina Del Rey, California
Thus far, the evening had been a total disaster. Jean realized this was a mistake the minute Ron picked her up. They’d attempted to carry on a conversation about various subjects en route to the restaurant, but each attempt had fizzled and even before dinner was served, she’d excused herself and escaped to the ladies’ room. While washing her hands she spoke to her image in the mirror, “Jean, sometimes you do the stupidest things. Here you are trying to save your job in the worst possible way, socializing with the boss. What’s next, dessert and bed?”
