Stranded

by William Vitka

  “About four hours,” Mosshart shouts from outside the kennel. He and Gordy grab chainsaws off the racks in the garage. “Not pushing you, but Swift and Ackerman and Fiske are on their way to the crash.”

  Gordy stares at the dogs. He’s got a funny look in his eyes.

  Doc rubs his face. He thinks about running the dogs down to one of the towns. They seem to be up for it. Full of anxious energy. That or they just want to get the fuck away from here.

  Who doesn’t?

  Doc says, “I need coffee. A lot of coffee.”

  * * *

  Kong says, “Gordy thinks he’s hearing voices on the radio.” He slops down eggs and corned beef hash for Doc. Decent hangover cure. “Aliens, he says.”

  Doc forks some meat into his mouth. “Yeah?” He dips his toast into an over-easy egg to catch the yolk. “Guess what?” Hopes the bread will soak up some of the booze in his system. “I don’t give a shit.”

  Kong sighs. “Good. So you think he’s nuts too.”

  Doc grabs a liter bottle of water. “Didn’t say that. At all. If he’s nuts then we’re all nuts.” He chugs the water. “Or did you not see that giant spinning disk in the sky last night? The one surrounded by blue fire.”

  Kong frowns.

  Doc thinks to himself: Yeah, I’m gonna get into a fight today.

  Kong says, “You think... I know he wigged out on the yarder. Now he’s getting weirder. You still think he’s Okay? Someone we can trust?”

  Doc grabs a can from their dwindling beer supply. Hair of the dog and all. “Trust is a hard thing to come by these days.”

  * * *

  Mosshart and Gordy look at one another. They’re both carrying chainsaws. Husqvarnas. Tools set with a reasonable eighteen-inch blade. Far different from Ackerman’s obscene tree-killing Stihl.

  These saws are designed to cut fallen trees around camp. They’re not meant to log proper. Just for cleanup. All the same, Gordy thinks: Mosshart could cut me in half.

  But Mosshart isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at a pine that fell against the main building wall. It needs to be chopped up and hauled away.

  Mosshart chews into the wood with his Husqvarna. Cuts big logs into manageable ones.

  Gordy joins in. He trims the length of the tree. He thinks: Son of a bitch doesn’t believe me. None of em do. He grips his chainsaw a little harder.

  He wishes they’d listen to him.

  And the voices on the radio.

  10.

  It’s a slog. A brutal, miles-long trek across a frozen landscape none of them recognize anymore.

  It was bad before. Cold. Treacherous.

  Now?

  Nothing but icy debris. Trees that seem to have exploded. Holes punched into the Earth from the bouncing and skidding of the whateveritwas.

  Ackerman slips on the edge of a crater when some of the dirt gives way. He starts to slide. There’s a hundred-foot plunge waiting for him on the other side of the lip’s slope. He screams, brain unable to think of a word. Not even a proper curse like Doc’s doggy halt command of “Fuck.”

  Fiske lunges. He catches the middle-aged logger’s outstretched arm. But Ackerman has far more than fifty pounds on the greenhorn.

  They both slide.

  Swift catches Fiske. “Jesus pissing Christ, Sam. Between your gut and that monster of a chainsaw—”

  Ackerman shouts, “Oh, go to hell, Tom.”

  “Could let you drop right now.”

  “But then you’d lose my charming personality.”

  They all grunt with effort. A human chain link. Monkeys with their arms intertwined. Using Swift as an anchor, they pull themselves away from the drop.

  Ackerman nods to Swift.

  He pats Fiske on the shoulder. “Thanks, kid.” He exhales once through his nose. “God.” He looks back at the crater. Hocks a loogie. Spits a fat gob of snot and saliva over the rim.

  “Yeah,” Swift says. “That’ll show em.”

  * * *

  Fiske says, “How far’ve we walked? Feels like... Shit, I don’t even know.”

  Swift says, “Bit more than four miles. Four and a half, maybe.”

  “So we should be right on top of it.”

  “Hard to see through the trees. Too thick. We’ll check once we’re over the next ridge.”

  * * *

  There are no words.

  And they are “on top” of it. Except, in reality, they’re cowering in its shadow. The upturned edge of the thing towers over them. A broken monolith.

  It’s three square city blocks in diameter. At least. Much of the craft was sheared off in the crash. Bits of it litter the whole area. They sparkle like change tossed on a sidewalk. And a good chunk is lodged in the side of a mountain.

  It’s a disk. The center bulges. A cracked sphere, bright yellow in color. The airfoils that make up the actual disk shape of it are serrated and made up by blades, like on a rotating fan.

  Ackerman says, “Biggest metal Frisbee I ever seen.”

  Swift grunts.

  Fiske is awed and silent. But the greenhorn shakes the cobwebs loose in his head. “So...do we knock?”

  * * *

  They spy a section of the ship that’s cracked in such a way that they could get inside. If they wanted to.

  And they do want to.

  But they’re also terrified.

  They touch the ship. Run their hands over its skin. Warm. Warmer than the Alaskan wilderness, anyway. And there’s something more: Every touch gives them a jolt. A shock of blue. It’s not much stronger than a joy buzzer, or a static spark, but all the men are glad to be wearing insulated boots.

  Fiske and Ackerman look to Swift.

  He sees them. Furrows his brow. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  A shape moves in the trees behind the men.

  Two more shapes join it.

  They hide. Stick to the cover the trees provide. They sit on their haunches.

  It’s impossible to tell their true outline. Their design. Even how many appendages they really have. But they’re tall and long. And they’re quiet.

  The shapes watch.

  11.

  Doc lashes the dogs to the sled outside. They’ve eaten. They’ve rested. And they’re ready to move. They jump and tug at their harnesses. They yip and bray. None of them will take off till Rubin does, but even that machine of a husky wants to haul ass.

  Kong watches from the door of the main building. His arms crossed over his chest. “We need beer.”

  “Very aware,” Doc says. He pulls his keffiyah up over his mouth and nose. He pulls his goggles down and puts his cap on.

  Gordy and Mosshart wave from farther down the building. They haul pieces of a fallen tree away from the compound. Toss the lumber into a pile that could be used for fire if they need to. Never know.

  Doc waves back.

  Kong says, “How’s it feel to be a journalist?”

  Doc says, “The fuck you talking about?”

  “Well...” Kong shrugs. “You’re the only one spreading the news now.”

  * * *

  It takes the dogs five minutes to become visibly happier. The more distance the huskies put between the camp and the crash, the perkier they are. Faster. More like themselves.

  Doc feels better too. The wind and the ice growing on his beard notwithstanding.

  It’ll be nice to get to Wiseman. To Mags.

  * * *

  Except it isn’t. At all.

  Two miles outside Wiseman, Doc shouts: “What the fuck.”

  The dogs halt hard enough to throw him against the brace bar of the sled.

  Doc mushes the canines over to a bank of trees, where they’ll stay hidden. He holds up his hand. They sit and wait. They know they aren’t supposed to move.

  He squats near a thick pine that gives him a good vantage point on Wiseman. He pulls off his goggles and his keffiyah and his knit cap. He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. Lights a cigarette.
Watches.

  He sees helicopters. Sandbags. Soldiers.

  Impossible to tell if it’s CIA or Homeland Security or Army or Air Force. Maybe some mix. National Reconnaissance Office. Army Space & Missile Defense Command.

  He says again: “What the fuck.” Takes a drag from his cigarette.

  A voice in the back of his head says, Well, you had to know that a ship like that would get their attention.

  “Yeah.”

  A voice in the back of his head says, And it’s never good when that happens.

  “This’ll be a clusterfuck.”

  Doc doesn’t have any experience in the military. He never served. But his brother did. And Doc’s seen what the kids coming home are like. He’s seen what the government is willing to do to its own people. Mostly, though, Doc has serious problems with authority.

  He rubs his face. Thinks about the new legs his brother is still waiting for.

  He wonders when these bastards actually arrived. Wonders if they’ll start quarantining people. Searching them. Questioning them.

  A nice little goddamn internment camp right here in America.

  He thinks of Swift. The site manager so worried about reporting what had happened. As if there was really much need to report it.

  Doc flicks his cigarette into the snow. Considers his options.

  Head back to Sugar Tits empty handed.

  Or.

  Keep going into town.

  Doc grunts. “Well... We need more beer.”

  He moves the dogs out so he can buttonhook in from another direction. South. So they won’t think he’s from the logging camp they must know exists.

  12.

  First Lieutenant Zach Miller does not like the cold. It irritates the hell out of his left leg. The one an IED tore up in Afghanistan.

  And he does not like what the brass told him he has to do.

  Up here in the goddamn mountains.

  He doesn’t even like his silver bar. The silver bar that made him an officer. The guy in charge. A lieutenant overseeing his part of all this insanity.

  Miller was promoted for one reason: He’s seen some weird shit. Not just seen, but survived. Back in Arizona, at The Boneyard where the military keeps its dead aircraft.

  Now he’s trying to keep the dozen or so folks who live in Wiseman from going bugfuck. Americans are rightfully wary of surprises from authorities. Got a history of that. He knows they’ll put their faith in the government—to a point. But they expect a fair shake.

  Right now, a fair shake ain’t something he can promise.

  A Huey circles overhead. The UH-1 helicopter blows up thick waves of white. Miller scrunches his nose as particulates of snow smash themselves on his sunglasses and melt. He wonders if he should buy sunblock. All the snow around here bouncing light against his skin like a parabolic reflector.

  Sergeant Copper salutes Miller. “Lieutenant. We got wire and bags up. Town’s locked down. Nothin’s getting in or out without us knowing.”

  Miller nods. “Good. You and the boys, take five. See if the woman who owns the general store will toss us some scraps. Food. Water. No booze.” He smirks. Pauses. Says, “Sergeant, do you have any idea what kind of asshole is flying that bird up there?”

  Copper looks up at the chopper. “That’s a Yankee, boss. UH-1Y Venom. Super Huey. Marines use em.”

  “Marines?” Miller shifts his weight from his left leg to his right. His left leg had been blown into chunky ham in Afghanistan. Years of therapy and medical care helped, but he still feels it. Every day.

  “Yeah. Marines. Badass Osama-killing types?”

  Miller squints at Copper. “That’s cute, sergeant. Thank you for reminding me who the Marines are. Except it was a SEAL team that got the Bin Laden job done. So get your ass to the general store and see if our little group here can rely on the old lady for food. Otherwise, I’ll make sure you’re stationed at a research station in Antarctica.”

  “Yessir.”

  Miller rubs his forehead. He wants a drink. And he’ll probably hit up the store in town later. But for now, he just watches as the Huey swoops around his men’s battlements. Then descends.

  Miller was Army. Then he worked at The Boneyard under the Air Force’s flag when he was injured—gotta take jobs where you can find em. Now, he’s back home as a first lieutenant in the Army. With two squads of ten men apiece, deployed to the middle of nowhere to hold a small... It’s not even a town. Settlement, more like.

  As the heli touches down, Miller thinks: Who is running this show?

  * * *

  “Lieutenant Miller?” The man holds out his hand. Guy in his late-fifties. Wearing a thousand-dollar suit underneath a fluffy parka. The man’s tie is so perfect and tight that Miller identifies him as a bureaucrat and a bullshit artist on sight.

  “Yeah,” Miller says. He takes the man’s hand. “You are?”

  “Parker. Homeland Security.”

  Miller thinks: Balls. He hates the guy already. Fancypants privileged Washington types. Always used to getting their way. And, hey, spying on Americans is just a perk.

  Miller says, “Why’s Homeland using a Marine chopper?”

  “Ah.” Parker turns. He regards his own men standing beside the Huey. They’re dressed like Mr. Fancypants. Each totes an MP5 submachine gun. “My acquaintances and I are borrowing it.”

  “Does that mean you’re taking over?” Miller hopes he and his men can go home, now that the grunt work is over.

  “Welllll...” Parker draws the word out. “This is a multi-agency project.” He turns back to Miller. “But, yes, I’ll be overseeing it. If that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I assume General Anderson knows.” Meaning the man Miller reports to.

  “Yes. He’s been very cooperative.”

  Miller thinks again: Balls. Says, “What’s the first order of business, then? Sir.”

  “I want your men to maintain the perimeter. I want you to continue acting as a liaison. Keep the people here quiet. Keep them calm. Especially since I’ve taken the liberty of disabling their radio, phones and internet.”

  “Cuz making Americans feeling like prisoners in their own country is sure to win hearts and minds.”

  Parker smiles. A thin, predatory smile. He takes a step toward Miller. The Homeland agent is about four inches shorter, but his smile creeps the lieutenant out.

  Parker says, “I’ve been doing this for a long time.” He hisses. “The only thing you can assume about me? I’m a survivor. The people who don’t cooperate with me aren’t.” He clears his throat. “So now. I would appreciate it if you and your men would do your jobs. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  13.

  Doc slows the dogs near Wiseman.

  Hastily constructed barricades block the entrance of the town. Sandbags about four feet high. Spiky caltrops to halt vehicle traffic. Troops move in pairs all over the place. There’s a fence that didn’t exist before—the southern entrance to which is guarded by two soldiers. Each with an M4 carbine.

  Doc thinks, If they did this shit overnight, in the middle of the storm, they must have been expecting something. Tracking that ship, maybe.

  The soldiers, both on the young side but with a look telling Doc they’ve seen some action, hold up their hands.

  Doc stops the sled.

  Soldier on the right says, “Can’t let you in, sir. State your business.”

  “Supplies,” Doc says. “I’m camping out with my dogs here to get em used to the weather. Dogs gotta eat. I gotta eat. Was hoping to get some goods from the general.”

  Guy on the left says, “Sorry, sir. A stash of chemical weapons was accidentally uncovered here. Too dangerous to let you in.”

  Doc says, “Chemical weapons? In the middle of nowhere? And you’re not wearing masks so it can’t be a gas. Which should make it safe for me and the dogs.”

  Right says, “The town is under quarantine, sir. Nobody in or out.”

  Left says, “It’s
better to cooperate than not.”

  Both guys annoyed now.

  Doc steps off the sled. The dogs sit. They watch.

  Doc walks up to the troops. Not quite in their faces. But close. Both eyeball the Colt on Doc’s hip and the rifle slung across his back. Doc says, “If you don’t let me get to that general store to get food for my dogs, they are going to die. Do you understand me? I set up camp a good ways south of here, but close enough to gear up in case we needed to make a run back to civilization.” He points his finger at Left and then Right. Feels a flush of anger. “My dogs die? I die. But before I do, mark my fuckin words, I will scream over the CB radio and my satellite phone about how the military is up here dicking around and getting Americans killed.” He exhales once heavily through his nose. Furious. “You let me in, I’ll get my shit, and go away.” He smirks. “Then you will not have an angry, armed American trying to make your lives hell.”

  Left and Right look at each other. Right nods and Left turns his back, keying the microphone in his helmet.

  Right says to Doc, “You’re sort of an asshole.”

  Doc says, “I’m a taxpayer.” He leans in to look at Right’s name tape. “Corporal Whitmore.”

  Left turns back around. “You can go in. Once you get your gear, you leave. And your guns stay with us. Be fast.”

  * * *

  Mags says, “Daniel!”

  Doc puts his hand up. “Shh, shh. Quiet. They think I’m just some jackass on a camping trip gettin supplies. And I don’t have a lot of time. What the hell’s goin on? They said there was a chemical spill and had to quarantine the town.”

  “Bullshit. These guys fly in here last night. Big sunvabitch plane comes in at the airport. Just as the storm was ending. Then there’s two big fat helicopters with lights shining all over the place, making an incredible racket. I looked outside. Christ. Thought it mighta been aliens.” She laughs.

  Doc bites his lip. “Yeah. Sounds insane.”

  “Before I can even get my damn jeans on, these guys are setting up fences and sandbags and all kinds of stuff. Then they tell us we can’t leave. But we believed em. Sure we did. Till they shut off our radios. Our phones. Internet. Everything. We’re totally cut off.”