Boy Gone
Page 1
Boy Gone
Mark Wayne McGinnis
Table of Contents
Part I: Ways of the Human
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part II: Ways of the Vallic
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part III: Return to Earth
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Acknowledgments
Other Books by MWM
PART I
WAYS OF THE HUMAN
Chapter 1
Sixteen years ago … Nantucket, Mass.
The silver G-Class Mercedes Benz SUV glided up the driveway and came to a gentle rolling stop, directly in front of the sprawling, colonial-style, beachfront home. It was a surprisingly warm Memorial Day weekend and the family of five, along with their dog, clamored out of the Mercedes. Even at nine years old, Scotty knew the drill—no one goes into the house empty-handed. All five lugged their suitcases into the front foyer, dropped them there, then hurried back to retrieve what seemed like an endless supply of filled plastic Stop and Shop bags.
Ten minutes later, wearing a grape juice-stained tank top—and, with the assistance of his mom, who’d rolled up the cuffs of his jeans—Scotty Sullivan was back outside. An unruly tow-headed boy, with bright blue, mischievous eyes, he stormed toward the beach—excited to be out of the house, away from his cranky little sister and bossy older brother. Scotty glanced up at the darkening sky. A warm sea breeze was blowing onshore from the southeast. Choppy ocean wavelets, dancing in the distant Atlantic, were a magnificent glimmering spectacle, but one that soon would be ignored by the exuberant boy, now storming toward the distant surf.
Scotty and his siblings visited their family vacation home every year since he could remember, sometimes twice, maybe even three times, each year. He figured today there would be fewer crowds on the beach—the typical Nantucket Island vacationers—since officially it wasn’t even summertime yet. So, for the most part, their late afternoon beachside frolicking belonged to the two of them.
“Come on, boy!” Scotty yelled over his shoulder without looking back. He knew Larry would follow him. The three-year-old golden retriever mix, named after Larry Fine, from The Three Stooges, never strayed too far off. Never left his side for more than a few minutes before lumbering back to check on him.
Scotty crested the tallest of the sandy dunes, squinting against the wind- blowing sand. He surveyed the beach for any sign of others but found the seashore completely deserted. Fast-running strides, along with the heavy sound of panting behind him, brought the boy’s attention back to his lumbering dog. A stick—twisted and smoothed from years of floating adrift at sea—protruded from both sides of Larry’s open, gaping muzzle.
“Hey, give me that!” Scotty demanded, tugging the three-foot-long piece of driftwood from the dog’s reluctant jaws. Taking ahold of it at one end, he held it tightly within two clenched fists and he made the accompanying sounds, “Voop, voop, voooop!” The makeshift light saber moved smoothly within his well practiced—left to right, then right to left—arcing sweeps.
Now, with the intergalactic weapon held high overhead, both boy and dog were off—charging through bunched tufts of beach grass, then down the slope of another sandy bluff toward the calling surf, some fifty yards away.
Scotty hadn’t remembered how strange it felt for the cool wet sand to slosh beneath his sneakers from his visit there the summer before. Nine months’ time seemed an immense span of time for one as young as nine. He ran right into the chilly surf then let out a scream, surprised when a somewhat higher wave crashed into him, nearly bowling him over. Scotty flung the stick toward the next approaching high swell, laughing aloud for no particular reason.
It occurred to Scotty that Larry had been barking pretty much non-stop for a while now. Typically, he didn’t mind his dog’s incessant barking. The silly animal barked at just about anything—the dorky paperboy, riding his old Schwinn bike too close to the house, a high-pitched sound that only a dog could hear, or at a big rock that looked, perhaps, something like a rodent.
“Geez … what’s wrong with you? Knock it off, Larry!”
Scotty saw that the thrown stick, bobbing now in the surf up ahead, was farther out than he figured he should go to retrieve it. Neither advancing nor receding, it appeared stuck within battling currents. A dark shadow above was suddenly upon them—a cloud passing overhead. Larry’s barks turned to more of a constant howl.
Glancing overhead again, Scotty noticed the cloud was not a cloud at all, and he heard a faint humming noise. Larry, also staring upward, ceased howling. Together, they watched as the object hovered above them. Eyes wide, his mouth agape, Scotty took in the impossible—that which only occurred on TV, or in the movies. Nope, there was zero doubt about what he was seeing. It was a real spaceship, he was sure of that. But it didn’t have a definitive, geometric shape, like those he’d learned about in school. Neither chevron nor hexagon in shape, nor triangular, like a rocket, it slowly and steadily descended downward. Then, some fifteen feet above him, the strange vessel began maneuvering—its flight becoming more horizontal, more circular.
Excited, Scotty began waving his arms up high. “Hey … do you see me up there?”
The spaceship suddenly descended, came all the way down to eye-level—where it hovered—almost close enough to touch. Ocean waves lapped against its underside. Scotty now could make out more of the craft’s intricate detail—its odd design, with various parts of its exterior protruding out in furrows and ridges like the worn-tanned surface of an old man’s face. A sudden movement caught his eye when a series of articulating arms began twisting outward from a recessed little nook on the side of the craft closest to them. Then each claw snapped open and remained that way. Reaching further and further outward, Scotty realized they were coming toward him and Larry.
Only then did Scotty’s thrilled expression switch to something that suggested concern, realizing now he might be in real danger. That he should not be there—alone—with this now not so friendly-looking spacecraft. He felt cold and began to shiver. He shot a backward glance toward the large beach house, partially obscured by distant dunes. His home now seemed so very far away. The next series of waves, crashing loudly onto the sandy shore, drowned out Scotty’s voice as he frantically shouted out for someone to please come help him.
Chapter 2
&n
bsp; Present day …
Officer Donald Platt stared at the ancient police mobile radio, hanging a little off-kilter just below the dashboard. “You have to be fucking kidding me,” he said aloud, through a mouthful of egg salad sandwich. He brushed the most recent avalanche of crumbs away from his gargantuan midsection. Reaching for the mic, he hesitated, chewing a bit more and then swallowing. He snatched up the mic and keyed the talk button.
“Yeah, Joan … I can take that call,” he said, listening to the hiss of prolonged dead air. He rolled his eyes, Christ. “Officer Platt, going 10-8 … that any better?”
Dispatch came back with, “Possible 10-91A, reported by resident homeowners in the vicinity of Dover and Pritchett Drive.”
Platt glared at the radio. Come on, Joan, you stupid bitch. Who the fuck would remember what a 10-91A was? Prowler? No … maybe it indicated an intoxicated asshole. Then he remembered it had something to do with animals. He cursed under his breath. Added to that, Pritchett Drive was way the hell over on the far side of the island. “10-4, rolling now … be there in about ten.” Replacing the mic, he leaned back and continued to devour the rest of his egg salad sandwich.
At thirty-four years of age, Officer Donald Platt was the latest addition to the Nantucket Police Department. More accurately, his employment would be limited to this summer only—a hiring contract extension possible only after a three-month evaluation by his direct superiors. It was his fourth transfer position within five years and his first stint above the Mason Dixon line. Pratt, a good ol’ country boy from Louisiana, tended to be a handful. He already knew that—was fine being considered as such. He was also something else too—a change agent. Hearing that term used recently on TV, he’d adopted it for himself. He was a change agent, for things that needed changing. Fortunately, an out-and-out firing of a police officer wasn’t all that common these days. That entailed far too much paperwork. The risk of litigation, in today’s sue-happy climate, was way too high. Better to just make him some other precinct’s problem. Again, he was fine with that. Sure, he had his own way of dealing with the lowlifes who broke the law. But he got results—his own kind of results.
How Platt ended up amongst the prissy-rich island homeowners, and the hordes of affluent pre-summer vacationers, wasn’t all that complicated. The Nantucket station was in dire need of able-bodied officers. They’d lost another two cops already this year. Apparently, crime-stopping duties of finding stolen bicycles, tracking down the jerkoff who’d keyed someone’s new Mercedes, or rousting the growing homeless community, weren’t nearly exciting enough for burgeoning Nantucket Academy graduates. So Nantucket had become a constant revolving door—good cops off to other, far more crime-stricken precincts, like those in Boston, or even Manhattan. And then a brew of perhaps not so qualified, maybe even problematic, cops coming in. But desperate times called for desperate decision-making. Thus, Officer Donald Platt’s somewhat colorful, and highly edited, past employment history passed muster. To that point, he’d landed what was sure to be, in his opinion, a piece of cake summer gig. Hell, he could have done a whole lot worse for himself.
Getting a bit turned around en route to the scene, it took Platt close to twenty minutes to arrive at Dover and Pritchet Drive. Prior to opening the cruiser’s driver-side door, he turned on the overhead dome light and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Making a sucking sound, he used his tongue to evict hanger-on globs of egg and bread still snagged between his oversized incisors, canines, and premolars.
Hefting his two-hundred-sixty-pound bulk up and out of the car, he repositioned his duty belt so his service weapon hung down properly by his side. As an afterthought, he leaned back in and retrieved his Streamlight PolyStinger flashlight from the passenger seat. A cop with a PolyStinger had no need for a baton. These things were heavy—practically indestructible.
Standing tall to his full height of six-foot-three, Platt took in the cool salty air. Squinting into the near total darkness, the sound of distant crashing waves gave him an indication of his proximity to the vast ocean beyond.
Platt spun around, hearing another sound—the squeak, squeak, squeak of a Stop & Shop shopping cart. One of its wheels obviously out of alignment, it wobbled as it rolled along. Platt instantly recognized the scraggly, bearded man, pushing the filled-to-the-brim grocery cart, holding an assortment of only God knew what. It was Dr. Klaus, one of the growing number of seaside bums taking up residence recently on Nantucket Island. Platt had no idea if Klaus was an actual physician, or anything else, regarding his back history. And he didn’t care to find out either. The recent arrivals were little more than vermin. Little more than disgusting animals with their bad hygiene and constant rummaging through curbside trash bins. But Dr. Klaus had apparently stepped up his game since the last time Platt had seen him. Sure, his long hair was still a tangled, matted mess, and his scraggly beard could be harboring all sorts of crawly things, but today he was better dressed, wearing clean, pristine in fact, khaki overalls that almost looked like some kind of uniform. Typically, he was barefooted, but tonight he wore shoes, or maybe boots—hard to tell in the night’s near-total darkness. Officer Platt was tempted to arrest the man, but just the thought of the foul-smelling bum sitting within the confines of his cruiser—all those lingering odors …
“Officer! Over here,” came a woman’s gravelly croak, clearly someone who’d been a long-time smoker.
Platt looked around—noticing no corner streetlights anywhere. Moving toward the lady with the scratchy voice, he could just barely make out several shapes in the near distance. Looked like at least five, maybe six folks huddled together.
Switching on his flashlight, pointing it directly at their faces, their hands came up to block out the high-powered beam. “What’s the problem here, folks?” Platt queried in his friendliest Southern drawl. He kept the light shining in their faces, figuring nary a one of the old geezers was younger than seventy-five or eighty.
“Can you please lower your torch?” a woman asked, her British accent heavy with indignant irritation.
Platt ignored her. Instead, he redirected the beam straight into her face and held it there. He repeated himself, now in a louder voice—like she might be hard of hearing or something: “Exactly what’s the problem here? It’s a busy night, so what do you say we bypass the idle chit-chat.”
One of the two elderly men, this one tall and mostly bald, pointed a crooked finger out into the darkness. “There’s a dog right over there. If you listen, you can hear it panting. Been barking for over an hour now. You know, we have strict leash laws around here.”
One of the three women broke in, “The dog’s quiet now … but I assure you, the barking’s been non-stop.”
Platt redirected the beam of his flashlight to follow in the direction of the man’s still outstretched pointed finger. Sure enough, something was scurrying around over there—around something lying on the ground.
“Dog like that could be wild … rabid, even. Lucky none of us got bitten,” the old lady continued.
“Yeah … uh huh,” Platt replied dryly. “You people need to stay back. Better yet, let’s get yourselves back inside your homes. Let the police take it from here … okay?” Platt waited for them to move. “Come on … get … your presence here is a form of obstruction of justice,” he lied.
He waited for them to move off—ancient hunched-over couples now going in opposite directions. Only then did he approach whatever was nestled in the dunes just ahead.
At ten paces out, Platt held up. The dog’s eyes, eerily reflecting back into his own, were glowing like hot-white embers, were beginning to freak him out. The dog, now squatting on his haunches, was lying next to something, or someone, on the sand. Platt slowly moved his free hand down to his duty belt. Finding the canister of mace secured there, he repositioned his hand further back, onto the butt of his service weapon. “Easy boy … no need to make this difficult.”
Platt panned the beam of his light over what was obvious
ly a man. A totally nude man, his eyes were closed, his lips purple-bluish in tone. God, the guy’s dead. Platt never liked being around dead people. Went to great lengths over the years to avoid any such encounters. He reached for his shoulder mic then remembered he wasn’t wearing one. Of course not! Issued the oldest cruiser in the department—the crappiest, most worn-out equipment—he was still on the waiting list for a repaired mobile radio unit. God forbid they’d ever buy the new guy anything new.
The dog now had his head resting on the chest of the dead guy. Ready to call it in when back in his car, Platt took a step backwards. Then the naked ‘dead’ man moved an arm.
Chapter 3
Base Ship Communications: Protocols Initiated …
Absolute Command: Searching Broad Spectrum Spatial Coordinates …
Absolute Command: Intermediary Organism Identified …
Absolute Command: Synchronizing To Intermediary Orand-Pall 052333 …
Absolute Command: Initiating Direct Contact With Host …
Absolute Command: Communications Not Established … Timeout / Abort …
* * *
He awoke feeling cold. He remembered that was the word for it, cold. Immediately, he regretted being here. The loss of freedom hit him first, coupled with a nearly overpowering sense of isolation—that and despair. He had to fight back emotions not to weep. God … how do others handle this? Survive the minutes, let alone hours or days, feeling like this? Being Human again. That and the result of something referred to as a Projected Transport. Truly a horrible way to travel.
His eyes fluttered open but found only darkness. Did something go wrong? Am I both miserable and blind? Something was in his mouth—something gritty and salty. Sand. He tried to spit.
He touched his face, feeling scruffy stubble on his cheeks and chin, then ran a hand up his bare abdomen onto his chest. That’s strange … didn’t expect to be naked. Where are my clothes? My boots? Terrific … someone has stolen my clothes.
Something wet touched his hand. Startled, his breath caught in his chest and he ceased his moving about. Then he recalled what it felt like to be licked just like this. The licking tongue, more vigorously now, moved up onto to his face. He felt his heart leap, remembering a friend he’d neither seen, nor been licked by, in many years.