by Peter Idone
8
Henry Bock had recently begun renting a room from a woman who lived in the Station off of Nineteenth Street. It was a couple of miles from Logan’s house, so it really wasn’t out of his way. He managed to get Henry into his pickup and drove down Jefferson Avenue, the main thoroughfare that cut through the heart of the Station area. Past the stationhouse, under the trestle, the area was mostly semi-industrial: small warehouses, lumberyard, equipment storage. There were supply and maintenance shops and areas of littered waste in between. This was no longer a bustling, thriving place. There was little traffic and no pedestrians. It all looked so mean and stepped-on, but to Logan’s way of thinking, the whole country, the entire planet, possessed these same characteristics. It seemed like a graveyard, the night-brownness of it, streetlamps lit every third or fourth block with nothing but darkness in between. He passed Hamilton Road, the street he lived on.
The woman Henry rented from, Mrs. Barbara Pryce, lived with her son Derek. Apparently the boy, actually a grown man, had some challenges, Henry explained. The father left when Derek was only five years old. Mrs. Pryce raised the boy on her own. “When she goes,” Henry explained, “Derek will be all alone. He’s an all-right fellow, but he couldn’t manage on his own.”
They reached Nineteenth Street, where a large grocery store used to be open twenty-four hours but had long since closed. Logan turned and followed Henry’s directions through the back streets. A lot of foreclosed homes— derelict, windows and doors boarded over—lined the streets. The graffiti scrawled on the empty houses, the crudely drawn images, were some of the filthiest Logan had ever seen. These façades were the pages of a new manual being written by a new type of human. It was their plague journal, writ larger than life.
Bock told him to pull over to the curb. The house was obscured by two pines with broad, sweeping boughs. It looked diminutive, a brick façade with a gable in the front that came to an extreme point. Houses on either side reflected the same architectural motif. It reminded Logan of a design one would see in a department store window display during the holidays: a model train set with tunnels and a quaint old-fashioned village. This could be one of those houses, toy-like but very run down. “Come in with me for a moment. I want to show you something that may interest you.” When they approached the front door, Logan could smell old.
Derek Pryce was seated in the living room watching television when Logan and Henry entered. “Mother, he’s back and I think he’s brought company,” Derek said too loudly, not taking his eyes off the television set. He was around Logan’s age, perhaps a little older. It was obvious he was challenged, but most noticeable on a first impression was his size. His skeletal mass seemed to be first cousin to the mastodons. Everything about him was big: hands, feet, head, shoulders as broad as a wingback chair, hips wide. His bulging stare was accentuated by thick eyeglass lenses rimmed by black frames. He possessed a drooping smile that never adjusted back to a straight face, only a lazy grin set in a jowly face with ears the size of jug handles.
When Mrs. Pryce entered the room to greet them, Logan was struck by the woman’s petite size. She was at least sixty, but he could imagine her being very striking in her day. Her son seemed too huge to have issued from the woman’s small body, and it probably ruined her; either that, or having produced this offspring, she found it wise not to try for another. After introductions, Barbra Pryce asked, “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Mr. Logan?”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account, Mrs. Pryce.”
“Not at all. I know Henry would like some. The coffee should be ready in just four minutes.”
When she left the room, Henry excused himself and made a beeline to the upstairs. Logan sat down on a rocking chair near the divan. Derek said, “That’s what the booklet says. Shall we time it?”
“How’s that again?”
“The coffee. Four minutes. Should we time it to see if the manufacturer is correct? Hurry up with your decision, mister, or we will lose count.”
“Sure, if you’d like.”
Derek returned to the movie he was watching. It was a disc on an old DVD player, some hideously bad monster movie from the 1950s. A bipedal sea creature with a fish face and scales over its entire body was loping around with a human head in its webbed hand. “How long has it been? The time?”
“Sorry, Derek, but I haven’t been keeping track.”
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“Just guess.”
“All right. You haven’t been keeping track of the time either.”
Derek shook his head. “Wrong! It’s been four minutes and counting. The clock on the player I’ve been watching. Can’t you smell it?”
“The coffee? Yes. It has a pleasant aroma.”
“You should do TV commercials. You’re a natural.” Derek returned to his horror movie and snorted as it came to an end. When the end credits rolled, he switched over to the video monitor and, with remote in hand, started to change channels. It became obvious he wasn’t surfing, only pressing buttons randomly to see what would happen. Logan looked away from the bouncing images on the screen.
Mrs. Pryce entered with a tray supporting a complete coffee service and admonished Derek not to play with the remote or he would break it. He huffed and mumbled but complied. He left the monitor with a blue screen. The service tray was all neat and tidy, and Logan thanked her for her hospitality. She poured a cup and handed it to him. He declined sugar and milk and drank it black. There was a small plate of homemade sugar cookies. Logan took one and found it tasted flat, probably made with cheap shortening. “That’s very tasty,” he lied.
“How do you know Henry, Mr. Logan? Are you assisting him in his investigation?”
“We only just met today. You can call me Joe. We’re both searching for answers for things, and our interests just happen to intersect.”
“Oh,” she said politely, although the vagueness of his answer, he realized, bordered on the rude.
“There are some strange things happening lately. My dog was killed and the body was taken by persons unknown.”
“How tragic. What was your dog’s name?”
“Tara. She was with the family for years and probably didn’t have much time left.”
“How did it die?” Derek inquired in a tone worthy of a police investigator.
Mrs. Pryce interrupted. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to talk about it, Derek.”
“He brought it up.”
“It’s OK. It was killed by a very large animal. A dog or something dog-like.”
“The only thing dog-like in this world is people. I could never understand the attention they get. Dog designer clothes, furnished and decorated dog houses, dog hair styles, dog Internet websites by and for dogs, dog movie stars, dog porn…”
“Enough Derek! Can’t you just—”
“Dog poop. I hate dog poop more than I hate my own.”
Mrs. Pryce, exasperated, could only shake her head. She probably enjoyed Henry Bock living at the house, even if he was intoxicated and shabby most, if not all, of the time. She could then partake in a normal conversation, which had probably slipped from her grasp since her son learned to talk.
Since the conversation had degenerated so quickly, at least Logan didn’t have to get too detailed in what he had experienced in the last twenty-four hours. “How’s the neighborhood, Mrs. Pryce? Any trouble?”
“Not too much other than vandalism and some of the local kids will party at night with alcohol and drugs.”
“But I chase them away, don’t I, Mother?”
“That you do. And they run. Derek can conjure up a storm when he has a mind to.”
“I act all crazy and they run like hell. Some of the houses haven’t been broken into for a while because of me. I break heads like eggs,” he bragged.
“You do not…The Station isn’t what it used to be,” Mrs. Pryce said.
Logan agreed. He told her where he lived and the fact that his parents
had also lived there and his father had lived in the Station all his life. Then began a guessing game, mostly on her part, if she knew his folks and who they were related to, or if they had an acquaintance in common, but the search was futile. The most Mrs. Pryce could come up with was having seen the truck his father used to drive for the utility company. As though it could only be his dad and not some other supervisor on a road crew. But Logan left it at that.
“Have you seen any UFOs? There are a lot of UFOs around here,” Derek suddenly interjected.
“Where? Here in the Station? No. No, I haven’t.”
“My friend Josh saw one. It was a flying Cyclops. You can see them hover over by the Pine Haven base.”
“I’ve never seen a UFO.”
“They’re really cool. My friend Josh said it’s the size of a school bus and makes a loud buzzing sound like a refrigerator or an electric generator motor. It has one light in the front that shines an orange ray of light. That’s where it gets its name Cyclops. You know, one eye. The light can tilt down, side to side. It art…art…art…art…artica…”
“Articulates is the word I think you’re trying for dear,” Mrs. Pryce said while she poured more coffee into Logan’s cup.
“Yeah, that.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything Josh says, Derek,” said Mrs. Pryce. To Logan she said, “He lives up the street. He likes to credit himself with being in the know on everything going on in Essex.”
“He’s my best friend, Mother. My all-time best friend.”
“What about you, Mrs. Pryce, have you witnessed anything unusual?”
“I personally haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary, that’s if you call living in Essex Station ordinary.” She giggled. “But you do hear all manner of weird stories.”
“Personally, sometimes I think of UFOs as a form of psychic pollution,” Henry Bock said as he entered the room carrying a bundle of files and papers under his arm. Despite his impairment he poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed a handful of cookies, and plopped down on the divan next to Derek but closer to Logan. “Derek, or his friend Josh, is correct at any rate. There have been numerous sightings over Pine Haven.”
“Could be surveillance drones,” Logan said.
“Yes, they might be, but I have it on good authority that drones or any form of unmanned aerial vehicle do not operate very well over there. In fact there are numerous problems affecting technology systems at Pine Haven. Alarms that refuse to operate when they are supposed to and then reacting when there is no sign of disturbance. It is why, for the time being, there are more men actually patrolling the grounds. Too much electromagnetic interference has blocked signals or caused misreading.”
“Where did you hear that?” Logan asked, his interest aroused.
“Let’s just say I have it on good authority. Actually, it was Natalie Schneider, but Natalie can be very defensive about what is attributed to her.”
“She’s a real babe,” Derek exclaimed with enthusiasm. “I met her when she came by to see Mr. Bock. She has really big tits.”
“Derek! That kind of talk is unnecessary,” Mrs. Pryce yelled.
“Well she does, Mother.” He added petulantly, “Your inability to commit to the truth goes way beyond the pale, Mother. Her tits are enormous. It’s a fact, so get used to the idea.”
“Enough. We have guests, and that is not the way to talk in front of guests. I’m sorry, Joe.”
Logan nodded that it was okay. Actually, he was trying to stifle an outburst of laughter that would only encourage Derek to find other means to torment his mother.
Henry jumped back into the conversation. “We’re having something of a ‘wave,’ as they say in the UFO trade. They’re everywhere, flitting about, mostly over Pine Haven. These things…lights, objects, what-have-you, whether from another dimension in space and time or extraterrestrial in nature, are directly affecting the environment in some way.”
“You mean other than dioxin tetrachloride, radiation, and any number of heavy metal pollutants that you and your department would have interest in?” Logan said.
“I don’t think the cysts or the Ouroboros are the result of manmade pollution, Joe. I don’t mean to infer that the UFOs are causing them or somehow responsible, but maybe they are acting as a beacon or warning of something more intense to come, even dangerous. And Colonel Turner must be feeling rather oppressed about it all, I should imagine.”
“Oh is he?” Logan said. “What is he doing to salve this oppression? Taking it out on the local population?”
“Not only have there been sightings over Pine Haven. Several months ago some gigantic monstrosity, a triangle-shaped object, was seen hovering over the Triumph nuclear power station. You won’t find that reported in the media. Not even local news.”
“Then who told you?” Derek asked, again with his police-interrogator manner.
“I got it on good authority,” Henry said, giving a wink and a nod to Logan and Mrs. Pryce. “Witnesses were interviewed. Tacticals who work at both sites were on duty there that night. Also, several residents from the local community saw it. It just floated over the cooling towers for nearly half an hour. People could see the headlights of vehicles driving in an erratic fashion on the plant grounds. By the descriptions given, it wasn’t the stratospheric surveillance craft. Some thought it might be the ‘Vampire Ship,’ that secret low-orbiting weapons platform which it is alleged the Air Force possesses.”
“What is a vampire ship?” Mrs. Pryce asked, looking quite perplexed, as though she had yet another thing to cause her worry.
“Nothing has been substantiated,” Logan said. “Claims have been made that it can suck energy from power plants, even entire cities and towns. It’s folklore, Mrs. Pryce. Don’t give it a second thought.”
“The Russians and the Chinese believe there is something to it,” Henry said. “But then again, it is in our government’s best interest that they believe and are afraid of it. Still, the things flying about these days, you can’t tell if it’s one of ours or one of theirs. Whoever ‘they’ are.”
“This is all so very unsettling,” Mrs. Pryce said, obviously disconcerted. “Ever since those Response Team people took over Pine Haven, there have been strange goings-on. For the past few years, most people, including myself, have put the Air Force facility out of mind. There were certain roads that were closed, but it never affected anyone very much. I never had a good reason to go over that way.”
“Speak for yourself, Mrs. Pryce,” Derek said, slapping a pillow. “We liked going to the farm stands for produce.”
“Thank you for reminding me, Derek. That’s true. Derek and I would go over to the farm to buy sweet corn and other vegetables at the farm stand over on Stag’s Path. That entire farm and surrounding acreage was the first to be put under the exclusion zone. What comes to mind, after all these years, the sounds of emergency sirens and helicopters since the night of the accident and for days afterward, you would have thought a bomb had dropped. I’ve heard that people who live closest to the Pine Haven border experience a very eerie feeling. I would have to say since this summer, talk of Pine Haven has increased.”
“Guilty as charged, Barbara,” Henry said. “Having me around these past few weeks hasn’t helped matters.”
“Don’t be silly, Henry, it’s been a pleasure having you, and we will be sorry when you have to leave. How about you, Joe? What do you remember from the night of the accident?”
“Nothing really. I was living over in Whitfield. It wasn’t until I visited my folks’ house that my dad told me what happened. At least as much as was known at the time.”
“Before it gets any later,” Henry said, hefting his bundles of papers, “I have a couple of things you might want to see.” He brought a red folder with maps he had made copies of. “I managed to get these from the Town Board. The surveyor’s office there still had filing cabinets with copies and a whole host of information. I’ve detailed the acreage taken over by the Air Fo
rce shortly after the accident and the years following. Also, I have made notations of other properties that the authorities are planning to add to the exclusion zone. Once again, this information was garnered through conversation, but the source I believe is trustworthy.”
Another reference to Natalie Schneider, a name better left unmentioned for the time being, Logan thought. He took the file from Henry and began to look over the detailed grids of section locations and townships. “You can see the farmland on the east side of Maplewood Road, that entire strip of acreage that borders directly on the Pine Haven estate farms.” Henry indicated it with an old, wavering finger. “That belongs to the Judge and Engle families. Nothing could grow there successfully for at least two years after the accident. Then there’s the state forest, which a third of the acreage has been under a closure order, though initially the entire forest was to be shut down and access denied for any recreation. Fortunately some local officials and community groups fought to keep the majority of it open, but I don’t think that position can be maintained forever, no matter who protests or which lawmaker sides with the general interests of the public. I believe that the entire area is slated for closure, or exclusion—however you care to call it. Take them home, Joe. You can keep them. I think it will prove interesting how the exclusion zone has grown over the years and what may be in store for the future.”
“I can see right now that my house on Hamilton, in the Station, is only six or seven miles from the e-zone border. I mean taking into consideration these buffers. I’m surprised. Actually, shocked would be a more accurate word.”
“I’m of the opinion that several concentric rings of security, of varying degrees of intensity, are to be established. It will take several more months before all the electronic monitoring systems are properly integrated, shielded, and up and running before achieving anything that resembles full-spectrum dominance of the property line. The Tacticals will still maintain patrols for a long time to come.”
