Once he was close enough, he felt the heat. It was impenetrable, blasting against his cheeks and his forehead. He swiped his own rag from his pocket and blocked it over his cheeks and mouth, blinking wildly. He felt his eyebrows could singe off, that his eyes could melt into pools.
The barn was a dark, simmering mass of rubble, constantly eating at the remaining pieces of wood. Clay found a slight path through the devastation, thankful for his high-top boots, and stepped carefully around the glowing embers.
In the center of the once-barn structure, a crater had pushed deep into the earth. Clay edged toward it, feeling that this, perhaps, supported the bomb theory even more. As he drew closer, he felt he could hardly breathe. His lungs felt singed with the heat of the black smoke.
The moment he reached the crater, he tilted his head and peered into the darkness. The crater held a massive, glowing black rock that reflected the high sun, even through the smoke. It was clear that the rock was the cause of the fire … and all the surrounding destruction. And as Clay assessed it, his mouth open, confusion palpitating through him, his mind arrived at one very serious conclusion: a meteorite.
After several moments of gazing at the alien form, Clay backed away and spun from the black smoke, coughing. He leaned heavily, his hands upon his knees, choking and waiting for oxygen to come. Around him, the fields were empty. The sky was far too blue. Something was off. He felt far too alone.
Sheriff Dobbs returned to his cruiser, his mind stirring with the image of the meteorite, and pondered his options. Should he phone it in to the local university for study? Should he call the coroner and explain that he was unable to find a single sign of Caleb’s body? Should he first call his deputy and marvel at the terrible nature of the earth and outer space, and at how nothing could have prevented this? Nothing at all?
He turned the ignition and began to drive back, still feeling the heat upon his cheeks. He sniffed, imagining the massive meteorite bearing down upon him—making it the very last thing he saw on earth. He knew this had been the reality for Caleb. Fear had given way to nothingness.
But once closer to town, Clay began to relax. He surveyed the passing cars and town inhabitants, carrying on with their days as if nothing was out of place. It was just another day in the life of Carterville.
He stopped at the only drive-thru restaurant in town and bought a small fry, reminding himself that he hadn’t yet eaten, and that the salt—albeit unhealthy—would boost his blood flow. And besides, he wouldn’t have to tell Valerie. Although surely she would smell it on him. That woman was sharp as a tack.
He drove easily into his normal spot at the station, leaned his head back, and shoveled ketchup-covered fries into his mouth, one after another. In this world of chance, he figured he might as well eat the whole damn thing.
Chapter 7
Clay stuffed the fast food bag into the side compartment as he crept from his cruiser. As he did so, Alayna pulled in beside him, giving him a quick wave and smile.
She met him at the front door, sighed intensely, and eyed him. “You look like you’ve just spent three days out in the sun,” she said.
Clay’s eyebrows went high. He touched his cheek, feeling its heat. “Well, that’s because I discovered much more than just a fire out at the Crawfords’,” he said. He leaned closer to her, his eyes dancing. “A meteorite.”
“What the hell?” she blurted. “Like, from outer space? Aliens and all that?”
Clay shook his head. He stomped his boot against the step, knocking farmhouse debris onto the concrete. “I mean, I wouldn’t go that far. But meteorites do exist, scientifically speaking. And sometimes they fall to earth—apparently choosing random lives to ruin at the same time.”
“Wow. That’s a bad day when a meteorite chooses you,” Alayna said, a bit flustered. She swallowed sharply. “I saw Darcy. And her father.”
“Is she doing all right?” Clay asked. With the scene from the farmhouse fresh in his mind, he couldn’t imagine how she could be. Everything had been scorched black. Any hay bales that had protected her had crisped out hours before.
“They said they’re going to monitor her for a while yet, but they think she’ll be okay,” Alayna said, shrugging. “But she doesn’t seem all right, mentally. She said what happened, and how Caleb was killed instantly. And Mack. First he lost his wife a few years ago, and now this? I think he might need a psych evaluation before this is over.”
“I’m sure the docs will come to that same conclusion,” Clay said uneasily. He gripped the station door, opening it for Alayna. They entered, smelling burnt coffee and stale donuts. The cliché was assuring.
As they moved through the entry, they noted that one of their deputies, Kyle, was releasing Trudy Benson from jail. Trudy was leaning heavily against the desk, watching with flirtatious eyes as Kyle signed her release form. She was sloppy, her blonde hair frizzy and wayward from sleeping in the jail cell once more. Black mascara streaked down her cheeks, giving her a clownish look. And the moment she saw Clay and Alayna, she all but squealed with happiness. As she traipsed toward them, Clay noted that she was sweating. She looked erratic, but that wasn’t uncommon.
“Clay. Alayna,” she said, her smile stretching wide. “I want to apologize, again, for . . . landing myself back in here.” She shot her thumb toward the jail cell. “Another faceless night, one more terrible mistake. I didn’t mean to. I—I never do.”
Clay felt assured, if only for a moment, at the normality of this event. He stepped up to Kyle and read the report. It was quite typical. “Trudy was blackout, disorderly, and kissing people at the bar without their agreement. She was kicked out of two bars before being picked up near the station and taken into custody.”
“You brought her in, Kyle?” Clay asked.
“And she tried to kiss me, too,” Kyle affirmed, shaking his head. “What a goddamn mess.”
Trudy giggled uncertainly, eyeing the three officers. “So. Is it okay if I leave, or—” She turned toward the door. The smell of her was horrid, a mix of body odor and whisky. Clay saw Alayna turn up her nose. He knew this was probably a memory for her. Her mother had been a terrible drunk before her death.
“Trudy, Trudy. We’ve been over this,” Clay said. “You can’t just run around, drunkenly kissing whoever you run across.” He tilted his head, giving his voice a fatherly tone. “It’s an invasion of privacy, and it could be termed sexual harassment.”
“I know . . .” Trudy said, trailing off. She dropped her head and pouted her red lips like a child.
“Trudy, this is your seventh time here in just the last three years,” Clay continued. “Seven times! It’s like you’ve lost any semblance of self-control. Maybe you’re sexually harassing us?” Clay said. “But we don’t want you here anymore. You need to restrain yourself. Stop living this way. Let’s not make this a habit . . . again.”
Trudy batted her eyelashes. Clay knew she was the town temptress, generally getting her way when she used her body, her smile, her eyes—with the promise of pleasing men. As far as he knew, she hardly paid for any of her drinks. In exchange, she was flirtatious, happy to see anyone and everyone who entered the bars, and usually only went home to her slight studio apartment within town limits when the bars closed. She filled the role nicely. And yet he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Trudy had been an intelligent girl in school. She’d been engaged, even, before breaking it off and heading to the big city for about a year. When she’d returned, she’d found her ex-boyfriend had married someone else. And that she’d latched on to the party lifestyle that she couldn’t abandon. And people like Kyle, a sheriff’s deputy, had to clean up her messes.
Trudy nodded in agreement. Then she shuffled toward the door, waving at them with fluttering fingers, and began her traditional route home. She didn’t drive anywhere. She was drunk far too often to keep a driver’s license.
Kyle rolled his eyes and sighed evenly. “She was up all night talking to me in there,” he said, gesturing
to the jail cell. “I didn’t think she’d ever shut up. Does that woman get any sleep?”
“You know she keeps different hours than the rest of us,” Clay said, slapping his hand upon his deputy’s back. “Thank you for your work. You’re keeping this place safe. Or at least a little less chaotic.”
Clay and Alayna continued their path through the front office, where they separated. Alayna headed toward the vending machine and then to her office to fill out paperwork, and Clay retreated to his own office. It was only just after noon, and already the day had been incredibly, even terribly, eventful.
Chapter 8
Back in his office, Clay rested his feet on the edge of the desk, tapping his pen upon the surface. He cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder, dialing the unfamiliar number and noting that despite having only eaten French fries that day, his stomach felt bloated with nerves.
As he’d spoken to Alayna about the meteorite, he’d realized that he needed to alert the nearest, larger city of Helen for assistance. Without much scientific knowledge, and with an overactive imagination, he reasoned that meteorites might allow for contamination or lend themselves to viruses or microorganisms, and ultimately impact the ecosystem of the surrounding lands. In reality, he was just a small-town constable, with small-town habits and small-town opinions. He just needed a little, tiny bit of backup from the neighboring county.
The receptionist at the Helen police station picked up on the second ring. Her words were curt, stern, almost reminiscent of Lois, the Carterville mayor. “Hello, Helen police.”
“Yes, hi,” Clay began, lifting himself into a straight posture. His feet fell from the desk with a thunk. “My name is Clay Dobbs, and I’m sheriff over in Carterville. I was wondering if I might speak to your chief about a particular situation we have over here. We might need—”
“Please hold,” the woman said, and silence fell on the other end of the line.
Clay waited in great anticipation, feeling unsure if calling out to another city was the right thing to do without first running it by Lois. In his years as sheriff of Carterville, he hadn’t required much assistance. He’d prided himself on being the leader, on walking his people through every great tragedy, and on keeping the wretched kisses of one town floozy from passive or married men.
But meteorites? He Googled them quickly on his desktop, waiting as the other end buzzed with silence. Articles from NASA, Time magazine, and various science-based sites flooded his screen, asking terrible, wretched questions like, “Is Earth facing a threat of an asteroid collision?” and “Giant asteroid headed our way, but NASA says no worries.” No worries? Beyond that he read that, as life possibly existed outside of Earth, meteorites could contain viruses and bacteria from other planets—ones that the people of Earth weren’t accustomed to. Ones that could destroy them all.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the woman on the other line called out his name. “Sheriff Clay? Clay Dobbs?” she said curtly.
“Yes. I’m still here,” Clay said. He hoped his voice didn’t shake through the receiver.
“I’ve spoken with the chief. He says that help has already been dispatched to your area.”
Clay shifted his weight, his eyes still upon the screen before him. “I’m sorry. Help has already been dispatched? Just since I made this phone call? And he doesn’t want to speak with me?” He felt the tension in his voice.
“No, sir. In fact, help was dispatched about an hour ago. They should arrive with you shortly. Unfortunately, the chief’s in a meeting right now, but I can have him call you when he’s available.”
Clay’s mind buzzed. Something was incredibly off. How could Helen have known about the meteorite? And if they didn’t know about it, what were they sending help for? Besides the fire, nothing else had occurred to justify such a quick, if not premature, response. Nothing that he recalled, anyway. And Clay’s mind was generally sharp. He swept his fingers over the wrinkles in his forehead, finally answering the woman on the other line. “Sure. Have him call back when he can. Tell him thank you, I guess.”
Clay hung up the phone and stretched his arms over his head before striding toward the window. His eyes danced over the horizon. The sky was far too calm, almost irritatingly so. Helen was on their way.
After a thought struck him, he ran to Alayna’s office, and was breathless when he reached her. She was hovered over her paperwork, a pen in her hand. She smiled as he burst in.
“Thought you’d catch me in the middle of slacking off, didn’t you?” she teased.
But Clay’s face didn’t break into its familiar grin. He raked his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “You didn’t call Helen about the meteorite, did you?” he asked her. “Or anything else?”
Alayna frowned, shaking her head. “No. Of course not,” she said. “That’s up to you. I wouldn’t overstep.” She paused, thinking. “Why. What’s up?”
“They’ve already sent help,” Clay said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Like they already know we’re in trouble.”
Alayna dropped her pen. The pair stared at each other, faced with this terrible truth. Who had called Helen? Had it been someone in the town who didn’t trust Sheriff Clay’s actions or abilities? Had it been Lois herself? He quickly dismissed this thought after recalling their conversation that morning about discretion. Perhaps Darcy’s father, certain that something was afoot?
“Damn it all to hell,” Clay burst, which was quite out of character for him. His normally even-keeled temper suddenly took a left turn. “Lois is going to have a conniption when she hears that word has leaked out somehow.” Clay sighed heavily, trying to level his mood out. “I think I’m going to order something real to eat. Maybe I just can’t think straight. You know?”
“Order me a sub sandwich,” Alayna affirmed. “Otherwise, I might collapse in this office. And I know you need me. You’re getting up there in age, after all.” She winked at him, trying to spring their playfulness back to life.
But Clay gave her just a brief nod before returning to his office, feeling like the world had tilted just a little bit off. And he was left to figure out what was going to happen next.
Chapter 9
Cliff Henderson stared at his hands helplessly as he sat on the jail cell’s only bench. Feeling his stomach quake within, he shuddered uncontrollably. It was nearly three in the afternoon, and he still hadn’t used his allotted phone call out of fear that nobody would answer. He didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that after nearly nine months in Carterville, he was alone. It was as if he was a foreigner in a far-off land. He was only half correct.
He’d gotten drunk and, in turn, too rowdy. And this time, he’d landed himself in an unfamiliar jail cell. Despite having a relative fondness for the drink, he had the unequivocal inability to embrace loneliness.
The previous evening’s antics were blurry at best. He remembered feeling the tremors in his chest, and then the coughing fits as he wrapped up his shift. He’d stripped himself of his white coat and gloves and glared at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, feeling the onset of flu alongside sheer, unadulterated solitude. The familiar creep had been present within him for nearly a decade, and he knew just the ticket for release.
Cliff had marched to the local bar at around nine in the evening, hearing the roar of the local football team’s crowd down the street. He’d spit upon the ground, feeling a sudden rush of hatred for their kind. The men and women who always belonged—and always would—were the cheerleaders, the football players, the popular ones. It never changed. He’d always been a freak scientist. He wouldn’t be anything else. Ever.
He’d eased into the local bar, collapsing upon the barstool and ordering a whisky. Or was it a double? He hadn’t eaten since he lost his appetite, most certainly caused from the unexpected off-gassing that had overcome the lab. Of course, the rest of the town thought he worked at Moe’s Candy. As if a town like this could support an abundance of truffles.
A
nd so, because of his experimentation, he drank on an empty stomach, feeling his eyesight grow blurry as the night swept on.
Then, around midnight, Trudy had come in, all legs and thin arms and big breasts and fluttering eyelashes. He remembered flirting with her and tossing his arm around her, feeling like she was the only person he’d ever known his entire life. It was strangely pathetic.
He remembered feeling that violent anger toward her when she’d leaned toward the other woman at the bar and kissed her. Was Trudy a lesbian? He didn’t care; he didn’t mind lesbians. He just didn’t want to bark up the wrong tree. The moment Trudy finished her face sucking, the woman she’d kissed called the police, irate, and he’d begun to scream at her. “I THOUGHT THIS WAS IT FOR US. I THOUGHT WE WERE GOING HOME TOGETHER.”
As the memories of his own voice rang through his head, regret sputtered through him. And as he fell into it, he felt his stomach constrict. His eyes opened wide as he realized, all at once, that he was going to vomit.
“Shit,” he said. He lunged for the toilet and wrapped his hands around the cold steel, feeling the vomit erupt from the depths of his body. Kyle, the officer who had picked both him and Trudy up the night before, shifted in his chair on the other side of the cell bars.
“You okay?” he called.
“Sure,” Cliff spat. “Probably just the hangover.”
“You were pretty messed up when I got to you,” Kyle affirmed. He flipped a page in his newspaper.
Before Cliff could agree, before he could inquire when he could go home, the vomit was coursing through him once more. His eyes were wide, panicked. He felt as if his brain was burning. As he retched again, he noted that the toilet was filling with blood. He hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. He had nothing left. Was this a side effect from his experiment? No. Surely he’d been careful enough. Surely he’d followed best lab practices.
Humanity's Edge Trilogy (Book 1): Turn Page 3
