by Peter Idone
“If the DoE or whoever is burying low-level radioactive waste this close to a residential area, especially as far as the Maplewood Road border, won’t that entail pretty intense security for the duration? That’s practically in my backyard.”
“I don’t think the authorities are planning to bury anything toxic in that old farmland, Joe. Maybe the acreage nearer to Pine Haven. Maybe this other property is an outer buffer.”
“An outer buffer for what?”
“I’m not really sure. Perhaps they’re trying to keep something in.”
That’s what Natalie had said to him this evening, Logan thought. He wondered if Henry heard the same sentiment from her and was simply repeating it.
“What do you mean, Henry?” Mrs. Pryce asked uneasily.
“I won’t pretend to know what happened at Pine Haven, but I’m beginning to formulate some ideas of my own. I believe the military scientists managed to blow a hole through the membrane that separates our world from another dimension. They didn’t do it deliberately, but it happened. After the accident I think the Air Force engineers and technicians thought they had successfully sealed the rift shut. Perhaps they did, but something leaked through. Microscopic germs, viruses. Can you imagine a life form from some other dimension? Maybe that’s what the Ouroboros is, or that thing growing inside the cysts. These are not earth-bound mutations but unknown entities from another world. I think Response Team Management and Control, the Tacticals, have entered unknown territory and don’t quite know how to deal with what they are up against. And for that matter, neither do the residents of Essex.”
Mrs. Pryce and Derek nodded in silent agreement. Then, to Logan, Henry said, “Thank you for the ride home.”
Logan got to his feet, the file tucked under his arm. “It’s getting late, I know. Thanks for your hospitality, Mrs. Pryce. It was a pleasure meeting you and Derek.”
“Thank you so much, Joe. I suppose we will be seeing you again, won’t we?”
“Yeah, sure. Goodnight, Mr. Bock. If anything comes up, you’ll get in touch. About, you know…”
Henry nodded. “Talk to Chris Glass if you can. He can probably help you more than I.”
“Well then, goodnight. Nice meeting you, Derek.” As Logan left the house, Derek stared blankly at him with as much interest as one would a dust ball.
Once in his truck, it crossed Logan’s mind just how many damaged people he had crossed paths with that day. First there was Frenchy’s kid, the “boy,” with his mismatched pair of arms. Then Squire, who appeared as though he drank a shot of dioxin, his complexion was so lumpy and just plain fucked up. Now tonight Derek Pryce, who suffered from some kind of syndrome or other. The man wasn’t an idiot, not by half. There was some obvious emotional stunting involved, but Logan sensed the guy was reasonably bright and if put in the proper learning environment, would probably achieve something. He wondered about himself: what kind of damaged goods was he? Maybe Pine Haven is doing it all, is responsible for the accident and everything thereafter. The effects have only made things worse: the illnesses, the breast cancer, the mutations, and the dog-man. Now Logan felt anxious. Maybe staying here was a bad idea all along, he thought. But he didn’t know where else to go or where else he would rather be.
9
The next morning Logan decided to do a recon of the Pine Haven border. He was looking over some of the maps Henry Bock had given him the night before, and the idea sprang to mind while he sat at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee. He wondered what the field investigator’s motivation was in giving him the maps. Maybe there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind it, only that Henry wanted to share what he had learned with the people that mattered, the people of Essex.
He got on the computer and printed some articles he had come across after he had dropped Henry off. Some of these files were undoubtedly specious, but he printed them anyway. After he dressed he gathered a number of items to take along: binoculars, camera, pocketknife. He considered taking the Ruger, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to get stopped and searched by a chance patrol (the thought of which almost made him back out of the venture altogether), nor did he want to ditch the weapon in a hurry so as to not get caught holding. He rummaged through the pantry for some snack bars, mixed nuts, and raisins, and filled a water bottle from the filtered tap. Logan didn’t have the same concerns over the quality of the local water as had his ex-wife, his sister, or Natalie Schneider, for that matter.
A nearby filling station was usually open, and he had a decent chance of beating the crowds before the supply dwindled to nothing. That is, if there was any gas to be had. As it turned out, he was in luck, although by the look of it, he would have to wait in line for over an hour before he pulled up to a pump. The cars were wrapped around the block, and every so often a police cruiser would drift by to ensure tempers remained in check. Logan remembered the stories his grandfather had told of the fuel embargoes back in the seventies. Alternate license plate numbers for odd and even days of the week, drivers cutting in line and creating all sorts of havoc, even shootings. Compared to that time, people now had positively flat lined, Logan thought. He supposed that since the shortages of everything, people had begun to accept it as a normal way of life. Things used to be better, more convenient, but it was best not to consider that time with any degree of waxing nostalgia. It would never be that way again.
With time on his hands, Logan opened the maps Bock had given him. They were scans of originals from the maps on file at Town Hall. Somebody had been keeping an account of properties sliding away into exclusion. The boundaries were marked in pencil—at least those areas that hadn’t been surrounded with fencing, such as the farmlands off Maplewood Road and Sheffield State Forest lands that flanked the northern and western edge of Pine Haven. Part of the state forest was under what was called a closure, the term applied to public lands closed to the public, which normally had the right of access for recreational purposes. Usually, closures were invoked in wilderness areas to keep environmental demonstrators out of sectors slated for logging. Sheffield consisted of nearly five thousand acres of forestland with hiking and horseback-riding trails and fishing in the creeks that flowed through it. A large portion of the property had been part of the original Pine Haven estate and was donated to the public to be set aside and protected. The forest was named after a state senator and conservationist who saw the deal through. There certainly wasn’t any logging to be done. The only purpose was to create a buffer like Henry spoke of, to help enhance security for the former Air Force research site. To the west of Pine Haven and Sheffield were more farms, with lines and shaded areas denoting more acreage that had fallen under Response Team supervision.
But where to start first? Logan wondered. Head toward the county road north that skirted the river, park, and then hike south? It might prove to be too open, and he would be far too visible. Maybe from the opposite direction would be best. The line started to move, and he folded the maps up and shoved them into the glove compartment.
After filling up—five gallons would be more than enough for this excursion and for the next few days—Logan drove to downtown Essex and headed west on Main Street, taking the fork at Raven’s Perch Road and continuing almost as far as it went, to Frenchy’s depot, before turning right. It was yet another gravel road, narrow and shrouded on either side with growth. The houses were few and far between and not as stately as the ones in the Hills, but their property value had been high at one time, before the accident and the creation of the exclusion zone. The homes were situated amid a forest of mostly saplings interspersed with birches and mature oaks. Some had swimming pools that were now dormant, with algae-green water, withered gardens, and large mildew-freckled decks. One item appeared prevalent: the ubiquitous satellite dish. Every house had one, either small, mounted inconspicuously on the façade, or the older version that stood in a small clearing some distance from the house and was quite large in diameter. What kind of shows were they getting with a dish that
size, Logan wondered? Hardcore porn from another galaxy?
It was interesting, what both Natalie and Henry mentioned about the Tactical patrols making sweeps of the nearby roads, but still not highly irregular. They were expanding the perimeter or were about to do so, and if a cluster of houses or a small neighboring community happened to be in the way, well then the locals would have to get used to the idea of a small occupation force traipsing across their front yards.
He drove another five hundred feet down the road and pulled off at the first opportunity, onto an old foot path barely roomy enough for the width of the truck to fit. He could go no more than twenty feet before he had to stop. The vegetation was too dense. At least he was relatively obscured from any vehicle headed in either direction on the gravel road. He retrieved the maps, shoved them into the small daypack with the rest of his gear, and got out. He knew this road would continue for approximately three miles toward one of the side entrances to Sheffield, through the large parking lot by the ranger’s office and to the other side. You could head straight to the river at one time not that very long ago. Now if he had wanted to connect to the river, he would have to head back to the highway, then pick up the county road and drive north.
He locked the pickup, and then ducked deeper into the woods. The birches were almost bare of yellow leaves, as were the tall oaks. A dense carpet of leaves covered the ground and crunched under each footfall with a sound like dry cornflakes. Every several hundred feet, as Logan progressed carefully and as quietly as possible, he would have to step over a fieldstone wall no more than a foot high. These were property lines, or plots, marking the boundaries of the original owners dating back to the nineteenth century. The early settlers were farmers, herders, and woodsmen. Who owned the land now was anybody’s guess: probably the county or homeowners living in the immediate area. If Response Team Management and Control was going to gobble up any more land, it would have to pay. Maybe they could get it for cheap or claim eminent domain.
Logan got a visual on the fence line thirty yards to his left. What caught his attention were symbols painted in a bright, highly reflective white on the trunks of maples and pines on the other side of the fence. Looking through binoculars, he saw what appeared to be a skull and crossbones. It was painted very neatly, as if a stencil had been used. The image was affixed at eye level so as not to be missed. There were other symbols of a design he did not recognize, but they had a runic look to them. The lens on his digital camera wasn’t sophisticated enough to get a clear picture, even though he walked quite close to the fence line. He would have to embed the symbol in his memory and try to look it up. Somebody was leaving a message, a warning, and he didn’t think it was part of the Tacticals’ standard practice to use so imaginative a means. Theirs would be heavy handed, like the sign at the closed exit ramp off the highway that read: “warning Restricted Area. It is unlawful to enter this area without permission of the Installation Commander. Use of deadly force authorized.”
Well, Logan thought, I wouldn’t put it past the Tacticals to employ deadly force if the occasion presented itself.
He hiked another kilometer and decided to hole up. The vegetation was beginning to thin out. He checked one of the maps Bock had given him. This was the general area where August Fergusson had established a working farm on the old estate. Some pastureland bordered this end of the property. The trees were interspersed with a much-less dense ground cover.
Using binoculars and the sparse undergrowth for cover, Logan scanned what lay to the west. He saw the observation tower a quarter of a kilometer away. It was about thirty feet high, and the skeletal support framework was visible. It looked like ordinary scaffolding, with sections of corrugated plating attached to the middle section from top to bottom. This shielded the stairway leading to the top, on which sat a ten-by-ten prefabricated enclosure or booth made of what he assumed was insulated vinyl paneling. From the booth’s flat roof, an array of electronics sprouted. Aside from communication antennae, he could see parabolic dishes, microphones to pick up sound and movement, and infrared and CCTV cameras with very long lenses. The windows had been blinded with some kind of material or coating, but from his angle, he could see two small slits, apertures for an immediate view.
There was no telling what kind of computer displays the booth contained, but Logan guessed there was enough room for several terminals and operators to monitor live feeds from the numerous alert systems both along the perimeter and from the tower. He took several snapshots with his camera. He felt it unwise to linger in this spot for longer than necessary. Actually, he felt his presence here was totally unnecessary. The risk was too great, even though he was not on the wrong side of the fence. What if his signature was now revealed? Not so paranoid a concept considering the technology the tower was equipped with.
He retreated back into the deeper part of the woods, still keeping closer to the fence than to the narrow road that ran the length of this end of the property. He stopped at the first fieldstone boundary line he came to, sat down, and had a smoke. The woods were quiet, too quiet. Nothing stirred. No birds chirped or flitted from branches. No squirrels or any other small animals rustled over the leaf-covered ground. There was only a general gloom accentuated by the usual dense gray cloud formation that continued to linger without rain, as it had for weeks. A sense of fear permeated this landscape, but Logan couldn’t put a finger on it. Were animals afraid to be this close to the Pine Haven perimeter? He ate a power bar and washed the dog-biscuit flavor down with several swigs from the water bottle. From his field-coat pocket, he took the folded pages he had printed off the computer and started to read.
One of the articles dealt with unidentified sources who had participated in the recovery and cleanup at the Pine Haven site shortly after the accident. These were hazmat specialists, Air Force personnel who had gone in to measure radiation counts. Judging by the brilliant flash and thunderous explosion, critical readings were expected, but the radiation wasn’t there. Higher-than-normal readings were observed, but nothing exceeded “safe levels.” The structure was severely damaged. The central section of the old estate house had been scooped out, from basement to roof. The grounds surrounding the building had been littered with debris; most of it shattered stonework and an assortment of pulverized building material. The radius extended several hundred feet. Teams were sent into the building, specifically to the basement that housed the lab. The room, except for damaged scraps, had been thoroughly annihilated. The floor was covered with an inch of dust, what remained of hardware and, one could assume, people.
Still, there were signs: imprints of equipment that had been bolted to the floor, sockets and cable lines in protective coverings that somehow escaped the terrible forces that had been unleashed during the course of that night. There was also a circular impression, a medallion embedded in the flooring that was over six feet across, with stumps of twisted and fused metal jutting upward. One could look out from this subbasement laboratory and gaze upon the naked sky.
Strangest of all was the description of what the first hazmat team saw on the concrete walls of the laboratory: shadows. Shadows of people and equipment stacked along the walls. The outlines were crisp, clearly delineated. The human figures were poised in their final living position: sitting, standing, walking, taking measurements; and some shadowy forms, two or three, seemed poised in a physical stance that could only be described as expectant. They existed, and then in a moment too swift to calibrate, they no longer existed. It seemed only a very few knew that something terrible was about to occur. One hazmat official described it as a nuclear blast, but contained inside a bottle.
During these procedures, security was extremely tight, and debriefings were held after every work shift. What the authorities—both officers and unidentified civilian leadership—were looking for they never said, but they cautioned everyone not to hold back on describing anything they encountered, no matter how ridiculous it might sound or anomalous it may appear.
Some anomalies were quite obvious and visible to all for a time following the accident: namely the three crescent-shaped objects that hovered over the ruined building for nearly a week. These were not solid objects, but opaque or blurred colored lights. These three staggered crescents, like a pie with a wedge missing, were a pale red, yellow, and green. They were most pronounced in color and detail around the late afternoon hours into dusk. For the several days in which this anomaly remained, a lot of time and energy was put into discovering exactly what their significance was. Every manner and type of meter and spectrograph was employed to get a fix on the distance, size, and composition of these objects or reflections of diffuse light. The only references called these things “rents” or “tears,” or described them as a kind of ‘scar tissue’. Eventually, this anomalous lighting faded from view. What, if anything, was discovered had not been explained and probably never would be.
The next article Logan read dealt with bizarre sightings during the time when the lab was operational. Sources were listed as “nearby residents,” but no names were given; the author explained that people were reluctant to go on record. There were sightings of Bigfoot, or at least of a tall, hairy, upright creature possessing similar characteristics; red balls of light careening down the hiking trails in the state forest, as witnessed by some high school kids; and the usual assortment of UFOs that made an appearance on a regular basis. No one was cited as having seen or reported a bizarre dog-like creature—something Logan was hoping to read. Then the article devolved into the realm of fantasy, as claims were made that the Pine Haven project was developing teleportation and/or direct communication with an alien civilization.
The subject of the next article dealt with ufology and its connection to the occult and how Pine Haven fit in. A number of similar websites also dealt with this topic, Logan had discovered from his quick researches; some articles dated as far back as the mid-nineties. The name Aleister Crowley figured prominently throughout, as did some creature or entity called Lam. The material Logan had printed out was quite possibly intended for an audience of the already initiated. What had caught his attention was its title: “Pine Haven, Aleister Crowley and Dr. X.” The author hadn’t established the identity of the lead scientist on the project, so he referred to him only as Dr. X. As for Aleister Crowley, Logan only knew the name from Death Metal and Goth kids when he was in high school, but that wasn’t his scene. All he knew was that the name was linked with the occult. He began to read:
