Stanford drove up to the field, parked behind one of the trucks, and the lamps threw down a fierce white glare that temporarily blinded them. Epstein closed his eyes briefly, opened them, looked again: he saw the dust boiling through the bright light, around the men walking back and forth. All the men looked odd: they seemed to have no eyes or lips. Epstein shivered and tried to concentrate and then saw the reality. The men were wearing protective goggles, their mouths covered with white filter masks. They were waving at one another and shouting against the wind, bending over the dark, motionless bundles that littered the ground.
‘Here we go,’ Stanford said. He handed Epstein a mask and goggles. ‘Put them on. You’ll need them out there. That stuff could choke you to death.’
Epstein did as he was told, sniffed the mask, felt claustrophobic, then he stared at Stanford through the misted-up goggles and beheld a strange creature. No eyes. No lips. Epstein thought of his UFO reports. There were connections wherever you cared to look and it was best not to think of them. Stanford opened the car door. He pointed ahead and then jumped out. Epstein opened his own door and slithered out and felt the fist of the wind.
The wind smacked his face, punched his chest, pushed him back; he reached out and grabbed the door of the car and then pulled himself forward. The noise was eerie, bizarre, a constant, tormented howling, the wind-blown sand making a separate hissing sibilance that tortured the eardrums. Epstein felt that he was dreaming: demoniac shapes formed in the murk. A grotesque, faceless creature materialized and reached out to grab hold of him. Epstein was pulled forward. He followed Stanford toward the lights. The dust spiraled over the trucks, around the men in the bright field. Epstein and Stanford approached a truck. A man was kneeling beside it. He was dressed in coveralls, wore the protective mask and goggles, and was studying the intestines of a cow that had been disemboweled.
Stanford waved his right hand, indicating the field illuminated with arc lamps. ‘All dead,’ he said. ‘A hundred head of cattle. All dead. Every last one of them.’
Epstein looked around the field, recognized the dark bundles, the dust settling on blood, bone and tripe, the hides slashed and peeled back. It was a scene of incredible carnage. The wind carried the stench away. The masked men moved back and forth, looking here, looking there, kneeling repeatedly and then standing up again with gloved hands dripping blood. They were using surgical instruments, probing exposed intestines and dismembered limbs, moving to and fro as if in a trance, still not fully believing what they were dealing with. Epstein shivered. It was hot, but he felt cold. He saw the gleam of white bone, a slashed udder, a pool of blood, the wind howling, the dust sweeping over all, trying to bury the horror.
Stanford led him across the field, zigzagging between the dead cattle, skirting around the bulldozer that was roaring into action, passing more blood-soaked men. The cattle were everywhere, scattered over the whole field, some stripped of their hides, their rib cages gleaming dully, throats slashed and udders chopped off, eyeballs torn from their sockets. Epstein had never seen anything like it – it was a shocking, nightmarish sight. The wind blew the sand over the men, around the trucks and arc lamps.
Stanford walked on ahead, skirting around blood-soaked pits, then turned his head and pointed at a nearby truck, telling Epstein to follow him. Epstein nodded and continued walking. The wind pummeled his body. He put his head down and fought his way forward, trying to see through the hissing, twisting sand. Eventually he reached the truck, went around it and saw a car, a group of men squatting in the narrow space where the wind was less fierce.
Epstein approached this group and knelt down beside Stanford, seeing the tripe on the dusty coveralls, the men minus their masks. These men looked very weary and were drinking from cans of beer. The narrow space between the truck and the car afforded modest protection. Stanford pulled his mask off and Epstein gratefully did the same, then Stanford opened a can of beer, had a drink, wiped his lips and grinned at another man as if they were old friends.
‘Help yourself to a beer,’ this man said. ‘Don’t wait to be asked.’
Stanford grinned boyishly. ‘A fine brew,’ he said. ‘I only come out nights like this on the chance of a free beer.’
‘What the hell are you doing here, Stanford? I thought this was secret. We only got the word an hour ago and we haven’t passed it on.’
Stanford winked at him. ‘An old MSC friend. He gave me the word on the hot line and I just came right over.’
‘He?’
‘Oh, well…’
‘You’ve been poking some cutey.’
‘A man has to give something in return; it’s the least I could do.’
The squatting man grinned and shook his head from side to side. ‘Oh, boy,’ he said, ‘you really are a mover… you’re some scientist, Stanford.’ He spat dust from his mouth, wiped the grime from his eyes, had another slug of beer and glanced around him, shook his head again, slowly. ‘You ever seen anything like this? It’s happening all over the country. Cattle and sheep and sometimes horses: a real butcher’s paradise.’
‘Bless the wind,’ another man said.
‘Yeah,’ said yet another… ‘the stench.’
‘Stanford, you’d better keep your mouth shut; we don’t want this widely discussed.’
Stanford nodded and sipped some beer. ‘That’s understood,’ he said. ‘We had a case like this three months ago; the very same thing.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Lubbock.’
‘I think I remember it.’ The squatting man looked curiously at Epstein. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.
Epstein felt himself flushing, feeling a little out of place, but he looked the squatting man in the eyes and said, ‘Frederick Epstein.’
‘Who?’
‘Dr Epstein’s from the Aerial Phenomena Investigations Institute in Washington, DC,’ Stanford said. ‘He’s been on a few cases like this before and he doesn’t talk much.’
‘The APII?’ the squatting man said. ‘So why the hell are you interested in this?’
‘Come on, Miller!’ Stanford said.
‘Come on, nothing,’ Miller retorted. ‘I don’t know what you birds want out there. It’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘Yes, it has,’ Epstein said. ‘As you just said yourself, there’s been a number of cases like this right around the whole country, and invariably they’ve occurred when UFOs have been reported. Cattle mutilation isn’t commonplace, so there might be a connection.’
Miller drank some beer, wiped his lips with his free hand, shook his head wearily from side to side and sighed in despair.
‘I don’t believe this,’ he said. ‘You fucking dogs stop at nothing. The slightest chance to pin something on a UFO and you can’t wait to do it. Well, this has nothing to do with UFOs. There’s no connection at all. What we have here is the work of a gang of rural deviants – or possibly some bizarre religious ritual. It may be sick, but that’s all it is: a gang of headcases on the loose.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Epstein said.
‘You come from Washington, DC,’ Miller said. ‘You don’t know what some of these country boys are like. The lack of sex drives them crazy.’
Stanford chuckled at that. ‘Not my problem,’ he said.
‘No,’ Miller said, ‘not your problem. You’re a clean living city boy.’ He sighed again and stood up, finished off his can of beer, threw the can into the back of the truck and then held up his face mask. ‘We’ve got work to do,’ he said. ‘We have to bury these carcasses. I can’t sit here and talk to you lunatics. Go on home. On your feet, boys.’
The other men cursed and groaned, wearily clambered to their feet, started putting on their face masks and goggles, the dust swirling around them. Stanford stood up as well, handed his beer can to Epstein, walked up to Miller, tugged his elbow and leaned very close to him, talking into the hissing wind.
‘Just tell me one thing,’ he said quietly. ‘Have you had any UFO re
ports?’
Miller looked coolly at him, turned away and surveyed the field, his shadow stretching out from his feet, heightened by the bright lights.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
Stanford wasn’t smiling. ‘I’m talking about fucking UFOs. I’m wondering what you boys are doing here if what you told me is true.’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘You told me this was nothing. You told me it was the work of some crazies. If so, it’s a police case.’
‘We’re burying the bodies,’ Miller said.
‘You work for NASA,’ Stanford said. ‘You work for a decontamination unti and you’ve done this before.’
‘So what’s your bitch? Dead cattle can contaminate. We came out here because we don’t want this mess causing any disease. We’re the nearest available personnel. That’s all there is to it. We got called out because there’s no one else and because we’re equipped. The local health officer called us out. He said he wanted this mess cleaned up. He said it would take too long to get civilians, and he asked us to help. There’s no mystery to it.’
‘Bullshit,’ Stanford said.
‘Suit yourself,’ Miller said.
‘That apartment in Austin,’ Stanford said. ‘It’s booked out from this moment.’
Miller sighed, shook his head in disgust, walked a little bit away from his men, tugging Stanford along with him. They stood together at the edge of the field, the carnage spread out behind them, the lamps on the trucks beaming down, the sand spiraling and hissing around them.
‘You’ve got a friend in MSC?’
‘That’s right,’ Stanford said.
‘And he’s the one who told you about this?’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head.’
Miller nodded and rubbed his eyes, the wind tugging at his clothes, the dust sweeping across the flat field and the slumped, bloody cattle.
‘So you’re going to see him.’
‘Right,’ Stanford said.
‘Then presumably he’ll tell you about it and I’ve nothing to lose.’ Miller glanced around, making sure he was out of earshot of his men. Epstein moved closer to him. The wind made it difficult to hear, and Miller spoke softly. ‘There’s a rancher and his daughter. The rancher seems to be in shock. The daughter’s about eighteen years old and she doesn’t seem too bright. The rancher’s still babbling. The daughter doesn’t say much at all. The rancher says he was in the house, having dinner with his daughter, when they heard a humming sound, the whole place went bananas, and a strange light, much brighter than the sun, almost blinded them both. The rancher dived to the floor. He says his daughter just sat there. The light faded and the rancher stood up and grabbed his rifle and rushed outside. At first he saw nothing. Then the humming began again. His daughter joined him on the porch as he looked up, so she looked up as well. There was something over his grazing land. He’s pretty vague about what it was. All we know is that he believes it was huge and that it glowed and climbed slowly. I don’t think he’s all there. I think they’re both a bit nuts. He says the object was as big as the field, that it was silvery and disk-shaped. It hummed and climbed slowly. There were lights right around its rim. It ascended to a hundred feet or so and then it shot off obliquely. His daughter smiles when he mentions it.’
‘What about the MSC?’
‘They’ve had radar lock-ons. The blips appeared, then disappeared, kept returning and disappearing, and some jets were sent up to pursue them, but there wasn’t a hope. Those unidentifieds were moving fast. They made the jets seem like toys. They were going faster than any aircraft we know of and the jets never saw them. The radar located them here. Same place and same time. We were sent out immediately but when the rancher saw us coming, he jumped in his truck and came out here as well and almost went crazy. And here’s what we all found.’
Miller waved his right hand, indicating the floodlit field, the men stooped and working hard in the churned-up dust, the bulldozer roaring, the dead cattle everywhere.
‘Are these storms commonplace?’ Epstein asked.
‘Not at this time of the year.’
‘It might be electrical,’ Stanford said.
‘It might be anything,’ Miller said. He waved at the nearby men, told them to get back to work, then he put on his protective mask and goggles, and said, ‘Come with me.’
Stanford and Epstein followed him, skirting the edge of the field, both wearing their face masks and goggles, bent against the fierce wind. Miller climbed into a jeep, told them to get in the back, and when they did so, he shot off down the road, the dust obscuring his headlights. He drove for about five minutes, driving blindly and dangerously, bouncing over potholes and mounds of earth until he came to the ranch. It was badly dilapidated, an overgrown shack on stilts, creaking in the wind and the hissing dust, its lights piercing the darkness.
Miller drove up and braked, killed his headlights and jumped out, waiting for Stanford and Epstein, then walked up to the steps. The house lamps were all lit, framed by shuddering windows, and the light fell from the windows to the porch, illuminating the silent girl. The girl was unkempt, her long hair whipping across her face. She was wearing a cheap cotton dress, her legs and arms were bare, and she stood there with a thumb in her mouth, staring up at the sky.
‘Hello, Emmylou!’ Miller shouted. ‘What are you doing, standing out there? You’re going to choke in the dust!’
The girl moved slowly, turning her head with clear reluctance, as if not wanting the intrusion, gazing down at them, her thumb still in her mouth, her brown eyes uncommonly large. She didn’t say anything, simply studied Miller and Epstein. She glanced at Stanford and her eyes flicked away and then came back toward him. She smiled, the thumb still in her mouth, looking directly at Stanford.
‘Can we come in?’ Miller asked.
The girl blinked and then nodded. The three men mounted the steps to the porch and then stopped by the front door. They are stared at the girl. The howling wind pressed the dress to her body, revealing large breasts and broad hips. The dress had buttons up the front, but the buttons were undone up to her thighs. The dress was being blown back, exposing her legs which were tanned and quite muscular.
Stanford studied her at length. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had the insolence of a child, a sort of lazy sensuality, just standing there and sucking her thumb, staring at him and smiling. Stanford wanted to put it into her. He suddenly saw himself doing it. The lust took him with immediate, startling force and stripped him of commonsense. He shook his head and controlled himself. He was sweating and felt feverish. The girl sucked her thumb, smiling slightly, ambiguously, while stroking the back of the ankle of one bare foot with the toes of the other.
‘You’re the daughter,’ he said.
The girl smiled at him and nodded.
‘We want to talk to you and your father. We want to know what you saw out there.’
The girl was standing only a few feet away. Stanford wanted to touch her. He could scarcely stop himself from doing so. The girl sucked her thumb and stared at him and offered no reply.
‘Can we go inside?’ Miller asked.
The girl nodded dumbly. Miller knocked on the door and then opened it and they followed him in. The house was brightly lit, with oil lamps near the windows, casting shadows on the dusty, plank floor and the makeshift furniture. Stanford stood beside Epstein, the girl inching in behind him. He felt that she was pressing against him and it made him uncomfortable. The shadows fell down flaking walls, crept over handmade wooden chairs. The old rancher was at the table, his hair white, his chin unshaven, a bottle close to his left hand, most of the whiskey gone. Miller touched him on the shoulder, shook him gently, murmured something. The old man raised his head, licked his lips, gazed around him, stared at Miller and went bright red and then reached for the bottle.
‘Not again,’ he growled. ‘No!’
Miller stepped back a little. ‘Just once mo
re,’ he said. ‘Just tell these men what you think you saw. It could be important.’
The old man drank from the bottle, slammed it down and glared at Miller; his eyes were bloodshot and he had the glazed look of someone not in control of himself. He wiped his lips with one hand, the fingers blistered and grimy, flicking whiskey from his lips and then lowering the hand to scratch at his chin. Miller’s shadow fell across him, blotting out half of his face, and he moved out of the shadow and glared at Epstein and then settled on Stanford. The girl was standing behind Stanford. He heard the rustling of her dress. He thought of her dress sticking to her skin, to her hot thighs and soft breasts. Stanford felt very strange, obscurely threatened by the girl, having to force himself not to turn around and stroke her breasts and belly. He couldn’t understand the feeling: it was something more than lust; it was a dream carried in on the wind and now surrounding his being. Stanford felt sick with longing; he had a hard, pulsating erection. He stepped back into the shadows to hide it, but the girl moved back with him. The old man was staring at him, glaring at him, snorting contemptuously, then he glared at Miller and Epstein in turn and started drinking more whiskey. His hand was visibly shaking. He was not as fierce as he looked. He spilled some whiskey down his shirt and then cursed and slammed the bottle back down.
‘I saw nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing!’
‘Please,’ Miller said.
‘Go to hell,’ the old man said.
‘It’s important that you try to remember.’
‘Go to hell. I saw nothing.
The girl moved away from Stanford, slipping quietly through the shadows, pressed herself against the window’s wooden frame and gazed up at the sky. She wasn’t sucking her thumb: she was biting her tongue and humming distractedly, her belly pressed against the windowpane, her spine arched, her breasts outthrust. Stanford tried not to stare; his eyes were drawn against their will. Shadow and light flickered over the girl, over Miller and Epstein, over the old man who sat at the table and spilled whiskey and cursed.
GENESIS (Projekt Saucer) Page 14
