If not for the heavily armed, mind-fucked family escorting us, the scene would be picturesque and quintessential Americana at its finest. But it’s also not our destination.
“This way,” Harry says, opening a gate in the electrified fence on the left side of the drive. We follow him through, into a field of wild grasses that are far greener than anything in this part of the world has any right to be.
Part of me is relieved to not be led into the small village of buildings, any one of which could house a slaughter room or incinerator capable of making us disappear. Then again, maybe the cult keeps a mass grave ready for ‘get off my land’ scenarios that get out of hand.
While the Stepford wives and younger children continue on their way, Harry and his three eldest, shotgun-wielding sons take us into the field. Harry and the youngest of the brothers take the lead, while the other two close the gate behind us and follow.
We walk through the field like herded cattle, maneuvering around wildflowers and rocks. Through all the shifting, I manage to get Lindo beside me, Young behind me, and Godin and Wini in front. Harry sets a merciful pace, I suspect thanks to Wini’s presence, allowing me to have a quiet conversation with Lindo.
“What is the Mutual UFO Network?” I ask. “And why didn’t you mention it before?”
I’ve learned to not trust most people, but Lindo had been warming on me. His involvement in all this had been random at first, and then motivated by a stack of cash. Despite helping put Harry at ease, Lindo’s revelation of being part of some kind of UFO investigative group has left me feeling wary.
“MUFON,” he says. “For short. It’s an organization of UFO investigators, specialists, and enthusiasts pretending to be one of the two.”
“Which are you?” I ask.
“Honestly man, they’re pretty much all the same,” he says. “Just normal people living out their X-Files fantasies. I’m an investigator, though I haven’t been on an active investigation in years. That mostly means interviewing witnesses, taking photos and measurements, and if you’ve got the green to cover the cost, checking the site with a Geiger counter. Nothing ever comes of it. I was called in to help with a few cases involving Spanish speakers, but I don’t think they appreciated my style. Know what I’m sayin’?”
I think I do, but don’t say so.
“Have you seen one?” I ask. “A UFO?”
“Pssh. I wish. From a distance though. I don’t want to screw around with them Grays.”
“Grays…”
“Aliens, man. Gray heads. Big black eyes. You know the ones.”
He’s right. I do. Despite not immersing myself in science fiction, the classic big-headed, black-eyed aliens with diminutive bodies have become iconic beyond the realm of those with aluminum foil hat collections.
“I’m interested in the phenomenon, you know? But I don’t want to be part of it. This shit right here?” He motions to Harry with a flick of his finger. “This is beyond weird enough for me.”
“Have you ever seen an animal mutilation before?” I ask.
“In books, sure. There’s even a chapter in MUFON’s blue binder manual about them. They’re pretty gnarly, without being gory, if that makes sense. But the really crazy thing about mutilations is that there’s been like ten thousand of them since the sixties.”
I nearly pause to call bullshit on that, but he anticipates my reaction.
“That’s a lot, I know, and you’d think that more people would know about it, but there’s a few reasons you don’t.”
As Lindo delves deeper into the lore surrounding UFOs, aliens, and animal mutilations, his accent slips a little. How much of his ‘gangster’ personality is a show cultivated to fit in with his friends? I’m working on stereotypes here, but how many people his age are UFO investigators with MUFON? Can’t be that many.
“Ranchers don’t want people to know,” he explains. “How many people you think will be lining up for their meat, or milk, or whatever, if it was public knowledge that some of their cows had been hacked apart and left bloodless in a field? A lot of people hear that shit and think of Satanists. No one is gonna buy food that might be cursed by El Diablo. Right? And then there’s this. You investigate people. You find missing people. How many go missing every year and never turn up? Couple thousand?”
I nod. The exact number varies from year to year, but in the U.S. 95% to 98% turn up within forty eight hours. Another 1% to 2% in the weeks that follow. The rest never turn up.
“Let’s say two thousand,” he says. “So going back to 1960, that’s roughly a hundred and sixteen thousand. People. Now, you’re a smart dude, so you probably know this. Or have a guess. I actually don’t know. How many people have gone missing around the world?”
Globally, the numbers are much more daunting and frightening. “Six hundred and seven a day. Roughly.”
“And are never found?”
Another nod, this one more solemn. The conversation isn’t exactly boosting my hopes of finding a girl whose presence in this investigation dwindles with every passing hour.
“Damn, man. That’s around two hundred twenty one thousand every year.” He pauses, doing more mental math faster than I could with a calculator. “Since 1960…that’s twelve million, eight hundred eighteen thousand…what?”
“That’s impressive,” I say. “The math.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing and continues. “So nearly thirteen million people have gone poof since 1960. How many people know that happy-ass fact? Freak’n nobody. If we’re not hearing about all of them, why would we hear about ten thousand cows and horses?”
“Over there,” Godin says, pointing out into the field. At first I can’t see what he’s pointing at. Then I realize that what looks like a rough, brown stone rising out of the ground is actually the body of a brown cow.
Harry redirects the group toward the body without a word, unsurprised and unconcerned.
That was fast, I think, and then I ask Harry, “This happen a lot?”
When Harry doesn’t answer, Godin does. “Enough to be a pain in my backside.”
When we round the cow’s back and catch a glimpse of its backside, I pull up short, bumping into Young, Lindo, and Wini, who all see what I do and react with a mixture of revolt and intrigue.
The cow’s asshole…is missing.
Where once there would have been a cow-sized sphincter, there is now a perfectly round, clean-cut, blood-free cavity. It’s like the thing’s anus was apple cored.
Harry, his boys, and Godin stroll around the creature like it’s no big deal, and that’s when I realize it happens enough that the sight is just part of life on a ranch in this part of the world.
“How many mutilations happen in this area?” I ask Lindo. “I mean, on the parallel?”
“Most,” he says. “Within a few hundred miles in either direction. But they’re more frequent the closer you get.”
“And we’re right on top of it,” I note.
“What are you talking about?” Godin asks.
“Thirty -seventh parallel,” I say. “Latitude. Runs straight through town. Separates Colorado City from Hildale, and Utah from Arizona.”
“What’s so special about it?” he asks as I round the cow to find another gaping hole, this one in its side. The cut is clean and concise. I wouldn’t call the circle perfect, but I suspect it would have been before the cow’s insides were removed.
I glance around the body. There’re no signs of transportation and no footprints other than ours. Whatever happened to the poor beast, happened right here. And yet there is no sign of blood on the cow, or in the soil and grass surrounding it.
“It’s where most of the weird sh—stuff in the U.S. goes down,” Lindo says, minding his language. “UFOs, abductions—of the alien variety—and mutilations. A lot of government bases are built on, or close to, the thirty-seventh. Area 51. Dulce. Fort Knox. Then there’s the sacred American Indian sites, cave systems, and other well-known locations outside the country, l
ike Fukushima and—”
“Fukushima?” Young asks. “As in the tidal wave and nuclear disaster?”
Crouching down, I look inside the open cavity. No maggots. No rot. No smell. Despite looking like it’s been drying in the sun for a week, this cow hasn’t been here long.
“The day after,” Lindo says. “Yeah. Some people think it helped keep things from getting worse. Like with Chernobyl.”
Before anyone can jump down that rabbit hole, which is on the far side of the planet and not on the 37th parallel, I turn to Harry and ask, “Is this fresh?”
He bends down, checks the yellow tag on the cow’s ear, and says, “She was up and about last night.”
All of this is interesting, but it doesn’t get me any closer to finding Isabella or figuring out any of the weirdness that’s happened since arriving at her carefully concealed home. I stand up and note the cow’s eyes, or rather its lack of eyes. There are now two clean holes burrowed into its face. No brains leaking out. Maybe no brain at all.
I’m about to move the conversation, with a high degree of care, back to the subject of missing people. See if it ruffles Harry’s feathers or gets him talking. In the midst of a conversation, especially a stressful one, most people give up information without ever intending to—or even when they’re trying to conceal it. But before I can speak, a cellphone chimes.
The sound makes Harry, his three boys, and Godin all flinch.
“The hell is that?” Harry asks. For a moment, I think the family is so backwoods that they haven’t experienced cellphones or text messages, but then the old rancher clarifies. “Ain’t no signal out here, and you know I don’t allow calls.”
“Shouldn’t be any reception,” Godin agrees, digging out his phone. “Never has been, and with all the land you’ve got, I imagine there never will be.”
Godin flicks on the phone and looks down at the screen.
It’s subtle, but the micro expression on his face freezes for a second. Whatever he’s read, it’s not good. But he recovers quickly. “Just the office checking in.” He smiles. “They must be worried on account of knowing where I am.”
Harry actually smiles at the joke, but not in a way that says, ‘that’s funny.’ The grin is more…pride. “Seen enough?” he asks.
“I think so,” Godin says, looking me in the eyes.
“Yes, sir,” I say, and motion for Harry to lead the way back.
As we form up and start the trek back to the dirt driveway, where we’ll have to pile into the sheriff’s SUV, Godin slides up next to me and holds his phone out so I can see it, but no one else can. “This mean anything to you?”
I glance down without tipping my head and read the short text message from UNKNOWN:
Incoming in 5. Evac ASAP.
16
The endless sky stretching to the south and west reveals no incoming threat—by air at least. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a fleet of black SUVs roaring up the long dirt drive. The view to the north and east is all cliff, rising up high, blotting out the sky.
“What are you doing?” Godin asks, voice hushed.
“Huh?” I say, and then realize I was whipping my head back and forth like I was sitting center court at a rapid-speed tennis match. I haven’t watched any TV or listened to news radio since leaving Santa Cruz, but I’m certain the battle at Young’s church is international news by now. “You know what happened in Santa Cruz.”
He stares at me. No reaction. “That wasn’t a question.”
“Doesn’t need to be,” I say. Unless he doesn’t know. “The gun battle between armed mercenaries, civilians, and the police? Should have been on the news. Hell, every department in the country should have details on it by now. And the Internet should be crawling with videos captured on smartphones.”
He gives his head a slow shake, looking me over with suspicious eyes, reassessing his opinion of me.
“Wini.” When she looks back, I wave for her to join us. She slows for a few steps until she’s between Godin and me. “What happened in Santa Cruz?”
“A lot,” she says.
“Give him the CliffsNotes version,” I say.
She looks up at Godin. “A bunch of heavily armed goons dropped out of a helicopter and interrupted our search for Isabella Ramos. They chased us in SUVs. I shot out their tires. Then they followed us into the good pastor’s church…” She motions to Young. “…during Sunday morning services no less.” Then she motions to me. “He shot one of them. I shot two more. Might all be dead. Might have all lived. We didn’t see, on account of the helicopter’s machine gun. Probably wouldn’t have escaped if not for Lindo.”
“And he is?” Godin asks.
“Our Uber driver,” I say, now feeling bad for having Wini bring up the men she shot, and probably killed. She doesn’t seem upset by it, though. The fortitude of her spirit never ceases to amaze. Before Godin can verbalize the ‘Seriously?’ expressed by his twisted eyebrows, I point to Lindo and Young. “Ask either of them. They’ll corroborate, starting with when they became involved. But not now. There isn’t time. We’ve already eaten up three of those five minutes.”
“Five minutes to what?” Wini asks.
Godin shows her the text.
“Shit’s sake,” she whispers and then whacks me on the shoulder. “Why did you waste all that time telling him?”
“Because,” I tell her, “Right now, he’s the only one with a gun.”
Godin turns to me, his southwestern tan going a little pale. “And that’s important because…”
I’m about to answer when Harry and his three boys snap to a stop, once again perfectly coordinated. I’ve seen them enough to know when they go all freakshow, bad things are brewing. Harry cocks his head to the side, like he can hear something. With no visual or verbal command, the three boys break and run for the gate ahead. Their strides are stiff and awkward, like they’ve never run before, but even stranger because they all run the same way and in perfect synch.
Young turns around, flabbergasted by the sight. “I’m ready to go. I think I’d rather face the—”
“What did you bring down on us?” Harry says, turning his wrath, and his shotgun, on me.
I make a show of checking our surroundings once more, and find no signs of approach. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Who are they?” he demands, looking down the shotgun’s barrel.
Harry is obviously unhinged and capable of the violence he’s threatening. More than that, I’m just as convinced as he is that we’re about to have company. The text warnings we’ve received have all been accurate. I have no reason to doubt them now. And that means this conversation needs to end, ASAP.
I try to respond. To placate. But the itch in my head returns with a suddenness and a fury that drops me to one knee.
Wini is by my side, clutching my arm, speaking my name, but it’s all a haze. I can feel myself being drawn from my body, and when Harry’s question repeats, I hear it in my thoughts.
WHO ARE THEY?
My response isn’t of words, but of memories. The tiny house in disguise. The photo of Isabella and Marta. The mercenaries. The gun fight at the church. The helicopter. The flashes of past events approach the meeting with Lindo and then snap to a stop.
“I got you, bro,” Lindo says, his voice in my ear. He’s clutching my arm, keeping me upright. There’s a sharp pain behind the ear he’s speaking into, but it fades as he pulls me back to my feet. My disrupted mental state fades as fast as it arrived. I’m back to myself by the time I’m upright, which also happens to be just in time to see Harry’s trigger finger start to pull. I’m torn between wondering what the hell happened to me and if I’m about to die.
Then Harry twitches, lowers the weapon and says, “No time to deal with you now.” He turns his gaze to the cliffs above his ranch. “I see any of you all again…” The threat doesn’t need to be finished.
Harry breaks into a run, just as awkward as his sons’—even more s
o since he’s too old to be running that fast—and I wonder for a moment if they just learned it from him. If they never participated in sports, or saw them on TV, the simple act of running might have been learned from their father alone. And if that’s the case, who taught him?
Useless questions for another day, or not at all.
I start for the gate again, herding the others. “We need to get the hell out of here. How close is your station?”
“Not,” is his simple answer.
“Then we’ll find cover in t—”
The whump, whump, whump of helicopter blades slicing through crisp Arizona air is distant, but slaps into me. My nerves are rattled by it, and I suddenly have to pee. “Move!” I shout, heading after Harry, who has just rounded the open gate and continued his comical sprint for the homestead and his family.
Lindo reaches the gate first, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him as he sprints up the long drive’s slope. Kid is fast. By the time we reach the dirt road, he’s at the top of the hill, but no longer running.
That can’t be good, I think, and I have the concern confirmed when he turns tail and runs back toward us. He waves his arms, motioning us to flee, and everyone obeys. The ‘oh shit’ look on his face is impossible to miss.
Before he catches up, I spot the first problem. The Charger and the sheriff’s SUV have been moved into the homestead, parked beside three long, white cargo vans. The second problem is relayed to me by Lindo as he sprints past. “Two SUVs, man! Coming in hot.”
Then he’s beyond us, heading for the Charger.
“You okay?” I ask Wini, who’s chugging along beside me. Free of her tight skirt, her form isn’t bad. Young and Godin both seem more winded than she is.
“I use…a treadmill,” she says between breaths. “Stop worrying about me.”
“You’re the only one I’m worried about,” I say, getting a smile out of her.
“Now you try to get into my pants?” She chuckles. “All those tight skirts, and what turns you on is cargo shorts and a gun fight?”
The drive opens into a large dirt lot holding the five vehicles, which look like our best chance of cover. Beyond the drive, the cult family bustles about, armed with shotguns and rifles, taking up positions in the home’s windows, in the various barns, and in and around the smaller outbuildings. Their actions are smooth. Practiced. A well-oiled machine.
The Others Page 10
