Overture

by Mark Wandrey

  Mindy finished her work and shut the office up before riding the elevator down. The streets of Portland were nearly deserted, as you’d expect on an early Sunday evening. The weather was clear and mild, unusual for this early in spring when rain was more normal than not.

  As she drove south, she passed Lookout Mt., and she did her best not to look. But, like every other day, she looked. On top of that peak was the clear shape of a gleaming white, concrete-domed observatory. Life as a customs broker wasn’t bad. It was a lot better than doing manual labor for a living. Jake was waiting for her each night. She watched the top of the mountain until Interstate 5 turned and disappeared out of sight.

  * * *

  The man sat on a bench well away from any streetlights, wondering what was going on in the center of the meadow. It was one of the largest open areas in NYC’s Central Park, more than 200 yards across and often busy. But after midnight, even in this era of increased police presence, few ventured out to tempt fate.

  He gazed curiously across the meadow. His vision wasn’t what it used to be. Nor was the rest of him, for that matter. He knew it was the drugs, and honestly didn’t care. Few things provided any solace in his destroyed life except drugs. Still, he could see a bright light radiating over there, far brighter than the evenly spaced area lights around the meadow, with a strange ethereal quality to it.

  “Victor,” a voice said from behind him. He glanced back to see a small man crouching further back in the shadows.

  “Picho?” Victor asked and could just see a head bobbing. “Whatchu want, man?”

  “You holdin?”

  “Man, would I be sittin here ifn’ I was holdin?”

  “Naw,” Picho said, “I guess not. Whatdafuk you tink is goin’ on over there?” Picho pointed to the light across the meadow.

  “Don’t know,” Victor admitted. But he wanted to know quite badly.

  “I bet it the popo,” Picho said and looked around cautiously. “You know, one of those stinging things. I’m outta here, bro.”

  “Later, man,” Victor said. A moment later he heard someone moving through the brush, and Picho was gone.

  Victor sat for several more minutes watching the strange light, his back hurting and the hard, wooden bench digging into his thighs. Finally, he had to know, and he got to his feet. He strolled down the concrete path for a bit, parallel to the light in the distance, hoping the change in perspective might offer some clue to what he was seeing. But it just continued to be a bright, strange light.

  He cut across the meadow, continuing to walk at a casual, slow gait. He had his hands in his pants pockets, the cheap knockoffs belted low, just under his butt. He grasped the knife hidden there and felt the plastic bag of weed under it. The dew-soaked grass quickly made his worn sneakers sopping wet, and he felt the moisture reach his skin. He frowned and pushed on.

  Halfway across the park, he slowed to barely a walk. He could make out something moving in the light, but no detail. It was an impression of something vaguely horse-like. The light grew more intense with every step; it seemed to pass from his eyes straight into his brain. He closed his eyes and was stunned to realize it barely made any difference.

  “How is that possible?” he wondered aloud.

  It was the hope of a freebie that kept him going. Movies and TV shot scenes in the park all the time. With that came free food and sometimes some cash from rich dudes. He’d stolen a bag from someone’s car one time when they were shooting a police show. Ironic. There’d been almost $200 in cash in the bag and a cellphone he’d fenced for another $100. He’d bought a lot of blow with that money.

  If they were shooting a show, where were the cops? Where were the hundreds of trucks and all the equipment that went along with the filming? A cold chill ran up his spine that wasn’t caused by his damp feet or the crisp night air. He felt wind ruffle his hair and looked up.

  Something was in the sky above the park. Something impossibly huge. An insectile shadow, its wings caught some of the strange light and reflected it like a disco ball. The shadow moved and shot upwards without a sound, but the wind behind it sounded momentarily like a tornado.

  “What da’ fuck is going on?” he screamed over the maelstrom. In a heartbeat, the wind subsided and left behind complete silence. No dogs barked, no crickets chirped. It was as though the sounds of New York temporarily ceased in acknowledgement of the strange apparition’s departure.

  Victor took a few stuttering steps toward the light, almost falling on a discarded soft drink bottle. The light hurt his brain, so he put up a hand to shield his eyes. Victor almost screamed when he realized he could see his bones through his skin. Then the light just stopped. One moment he was staring in shock at his own hand bones, the next it was so utterly dark he feared he’d somehow transported into outer space.

  The change was so profound he fell back, landing on the damp ground with a grunt of surprise.

  “Who’s there!?” he yelled into the night. He sensed someone was out there in the dark. Little flashbulbs popped behind his eyelids. He couldn’t see anything. The sensation reminded him of those things the cops used. What did they call them? Bang flash bombs? Whatever, he couldn’t see a fucking thing. “I’m gonna call the Popo,” he said, not realizing how scared he sounded. Then he remembered he didn’t own a cellphone anymore.

  At the shuffling of feet on grass, Victor tensed, his entire body shaking with terror. It was coming closer. He shook his head and tried to get up. His legs wouldn’t cooperate, so he crabbed backwards as best he could. In a moment he was flat on his back. He flipped over and crawled. He heard another footfall, this one right behind him.

  Victor froze, his breath coming in panicked gasps. He half-turned and stopped. He could feel gunsights on his back, and knives being readied. He saw a huge machete poised to decapitate him. No, it was an axe like that honkey Paul Bunyon used to chop down trees.

  “Please,” he moaned, “I ain’t nobody! Don’t do me, man. Please…please…please,” he said over and over, quieter and quieter. But nothing happened. Slowly, so incredibly slowly he wasn’t aware he was moving, Victor began to roll over.

  As he turned he realized he could see again. He could see the sparkle of porch lights from million-dollar condos in Central Park West, as well as a nearby flood light aimed at another part of the meadow.

  Victor flopped the rest of the way over and looked at what was standing there. Instantly, he thought of a horse. No, this was more like those Greek myths. Vague memories of a childhood education in the classics danced in the back of his mind. What did they call it?

  “A centaur,” he whispered. Only this centaur was almost skeletal. It was not quite as tall as a man, standing on legs that were not jointed like a horse’s. They bent backwards and ended in stubby toes instead of hooves. The arms were reverse jointed, as well, and ended in three fingered hands. One of those hands held a rod of glowing, blue crystal. Like the light earlier, the crystal’s glow had an otherworldly quality.

  The creature wore no clothing, but Victor could see no sign of the sexual characteristics commonly found in his people or horses. Around its neck was a shield-shaped pendant. The creature turned its heart-shaped head toward him, and Victor felt a jolt of fear and disgust as he found himself looking at a head with no nose, no mouth, and a pair of lidless, almond-shaped eyes.

  He’d seen that face and head before, at least sort of, in a million drawings of aliens from all over the world. But, instantly, his mind rejected the idea that this was an alien, even as he processed what he’d seen above him only moments ago. This was something else. It had to be.

  “What are you?” Victor asked. The thing cocked its head almost like a dog regarding an unusual command from its owner. It looked at him with its shiny eyes before turning and walking a few feet away.

  Facing away from Victor, it did something with the glowing rod, set it on the ground, and stepped away. It produced another rod—Victor didn’t see from where—but this one didn’t have a glo
wing light inside. In the dim light of the park, it appeared to be a simple glass rod. The creature pointed the rod at the one lying in the grass, and its other hand moved. Symbols appeared in the air, and it used its free hand to manipulate them. Then the rod on the ground flashed impossibly brightly.

  Victor put his hand up to shield his eyes. He was relieved that, this time, he couldn’t see his bones. Some part of his mind was warning him about the unknown hazards of radiation.

  The light was gone in a second, but the creature remained. Behind it now stood a round, flat stage about 20 feet across with three short steps leading up to it. It glowed faintly with a milky-white color.

  The creature turned its head to look at Victor, who jumped a little. He thought he saw the creature wink at him.

  “What are you?” he asked once more.

  The thing’s hands moved in strange patterns, and its skin seemed to pulse in unusual hues of light. “A savior, and a messenger.” The words floated to him on the night air, in almost perfect English, even though the centaur had no mouth.

  “What is your message?” More gestures and pulses of light. They were almost hypnotic.

  “That this is the beginning and the end.” It turned and walked to the dais. It set one foot on the first step, and an almost perfect, milky-white circle appeared floating above the dais. The creature walked to the top step, took out its clear rod, and again did something. The floating circle flashed blue once. A ring of little gems appeared around the dais perimeter, and flowing symbols materialized around the floating circle. They moved and changed like one of those billboards on Times Square.

  Victor opened his mouth to speak, but the creature gestured with its rod, and the floating ring flashed once more and transformed from a circle into a window. Looking through the window, Victor couldn’t see Central Park after midnight any more. Instead he saw a bright, sunlit forest.

  “What the fuck?” Victor gasped. “What in the holy fuck?” The being glanced at him once more, stepped into the circle, and onto the other world.

  Victor seemed to have control of himself again. He jumped to his feet and ran up to the…what? The window? The portal? He looked through and saw the creature walking through the forest on the other side.

  Victor held up his hand, expecting to feel a breeze, but he felt nothing.

  “What do I do now?” he asked. The creature took no notice of him. Could it hear him where it was? Instead, it raised its rod and pointed it. Its fingers worked once again, and poof, the window was gone, leaving only the dais.

  Victor stood there for many minutes, his legs quivering with pent-up energy as he waited for the creature to come back and do something. More magic, anything. No, he thought, magic wasn’t the right word. This was much, much bigger. His mind began to put terms to things he’d seen. The hulking thing above him had been an…angel! No, an archangel, a centaur? Some representative of God. It had said it was a savior!

  Knowing flooded through him and illuminated his being with a blazing intensity that seared his damaged soul with a healing energy more powerful than the light which had shown through his skin.

  “It picked me,” he said and stepped on the dais, intending to follow the angel to heaven.

  Just as before, the ring flashed, and another scene appeared. Only this one wasn’t the snowy day he’d witnessed earlier. This one was dark like Central Park. In fact, for a moment he thought he was seeing right through it to Central Park West, but there were no buildings or lights on the other side. He could see trees, very close by, and some rocks. He was seeing a very different place now. The power of God was confusing.

  Victor wanted to go through. He wanted to leave. He wanted to understand. Instead, he just sat on the top step and stared in dumb amazement.

  He looked up after a while to see a police car driving through the grass, stopping only a few feet away. Two officers climbed out, their powerful flashlights illuminating the scene—him, the dais, the floating window to heaven, if that’s what it was. Victor glanced over his shoulder as the cop’s light washed over the window. He saw the light pass through and over a nearby tree. His eyes were huge in amazement.

  “Hey,” one of the cops yelled, “what the hell is that thing? What are you doing out here this time of night?”

  Victor just shook his head and laughed. “There ain’t no way you’re gonna believe me.”

  * * *

  Lt. William “Call me Billy” Harper spread cream cheese on his toasted sesame seed bagel and tuned out the screams and crashes from the Monday Morning Battle Royale upstairs as he browsed the Times on his tablet and waited for his Keurig to finish. In a moment, a cup of Starbuck’s finest was ready.

  The floor thumped, and he cast it a sidelong glance. The Parkers came with the rent controlled 4th floor walkup on west 52nd street. If it were just Monday mornings he wouldn’t mind so much, but the Parkers fought on every day that ended in Y. For evening battles, he had Bose noise-cancelling headphones. Luckily for him, their normal engagements were mild compared to what he’d dealt with as a beat cop in his early years on the force.

  He finished his coffee, stuffed his tablet in his shoulder bag, and headed for the door to his tiny flat.

  “Have a nice day,” he called up the stairs as he headed down, buttoning his jacket over his service piece. Outside, his unmarked unit waited where he’d parked it. A lot of cops lived in neighborhoods where they could never take a unit home. They’d come out in the morning and find nothing but a burned-out frame, or less. Billy’s neighborhood was quite nice, though. His neighbors kept an eye on him and his unit, and he kept an eye out for them. Having a cop on the block offered some security, and no small amount of gravitas. Fire department and ambulance crews usually arrived a lot faster, too.

  “Morning, Billy!” called a familiar voice from the brownstone two doors down.

  “Good morning, Mr. Nebowitz. How are you today?”

  “Better than yesterday. You be careful out there.”

  “Always, Mr. Nebowitz. Always.” Billy knew what the man meant by better than yesterday. Widow Bedford on the other side of Billy’s building had been seen regularly coming out of Mr. Nebowitz’s brownstone in the wee hours of the morning. Every wagging tongue on the block was talking about it. Billy approved, scandal or not. When Mrs. Nebowitz died from cancer only a year after her husband retired, Billy feared the man would follow her into the grave. A change in circumstances meant he’d decided to go on living.

  In the car, Billy signed in through the laptop computer mounted there and noted he was on duty. As usual, there were several hundred calls underway, including dozens that would warrant the assignment of a Lieutenant in the Criminal Investigations division like him. He ran down the list and found the closest to him. A B&E, or breaking and entering complaint, only 2 blocks away. With a tap of his finger on the touch screen, he accepted the call. He started the car and pulled out of his parking space.

  He spent the next several hours investigating all sorts of robberies, assaults, and petty larcenies within a 10-block radius. He was considering grabbing a gyro from one of the ubiquitous food carts that lined 42nd street when he saw something brewing in Central Park. At least 40 units were there already. Curiosity got the better of him, so he accepted the request for a Criminal Investigation lieutenant and turned north on Avenue of the Americas.

  When he reached 59th Street, he ran into a pair of marked cars blocking traffic. One of the men recognized him and moved the barricade, and he cruised on through. All the usual Monday morning traffic was gone. The park had been cordoned off from 59th Street to 72nd Street.

  On Central Park Drive he followed the road over the 65th Street Traverse, cut a hard right on East Drive and onto the traverse, going back under the road he’d just been on. A few hundred yards further he came to West Drive. He turned right and found a sea of police cars parked around the old Tavern on the Green. He left his unit and followed a few other cops heading into the Sheep Meadow.

  There w
as a flurry of activity on the meadow. A dozen police cars were parked on the grass around some weird Avant Garde statue. As he walked, he fished his shield out of his inner coat pocket, flipped open the cover, and stuffed it into his outer breast pocket so the gold Lieutenant shield was clearly visible.

  He looked up when he heard a thrumming sound to see a huge, heavy-lift helicopter approaching. It had an equally big trailer suspended underneath which was being lowered toward the ground where a crew of men with reflective vests was waiting. A dozen TV vans were being held back on West Drive by uniformed units, and a black FBI Chevy Suburban was parked near where the trailer was landing. This shit looked serious. He wondered why a CI was needed.

  “What are you doing here, Harper?” asked a homicide captain who was eating a huge polish dog. Billy’s stomach growled in protest.

  “Responding, same as you.” Billy recalled the details. “Can you point me to Unit 210?” The man pointed with his dog past a tactical command trailer Billy had missed because of the crowd around the statue. “Thanks, Cap.”

  As he walked toward the unit, he noticed there were more Feds than before, and they’d already constructed a perimeter of tall, concrete barricades. He stopped to admire their work and a big guy in body armor emblazoned with “FBI” in tall, gold letters ordered him to move along.

  Billy glanced down at his gold detective badge and back at the man who looked at it without interest. Years of experience working in and around Feds told Billy a pissing contest was futile.

  “What’ve you got in there, King Kong?” he asked, trying to get a rise out of the Fed. The man just stared at him, so Billy went about his business.

  He circled the meadow—now effectively controlled by the Feds—until he reached a pair of marked cruisers. A 20-something black male sat on the hood of one of them with a look on his face that was hard to describe.