by Terry James
“Went to see it as a kid,” the elder Prouse said. “Got a little woozy in those scenes where Fay huddled on the ledge.” He spent time reading… mouthing the words, “‘Was beauty that killed the beast.’”
They walked toward the elevators. “Well, it’s a long way from the Regions branch lobby in San Marcos,” he said, eliciting another chuckle from his grandson.
“Yeah. I thought it would be a good place to meet. Get in a little history and sight-seeing,” David said, while they moved farther into the lobby.
“Just like Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr,” Randall Prouse said.
“What?”
“In ‘An Affair to Remember’ Cary Grant was to meet Deborah in front of the Empire State Building. Glad our rendezvous turned out better.”
“That a movie?”
“Yes, a real love tragedy,” Randall Prouse said with a chuckle.
“What happened?”
“Deborah Kerr was hit by a car on the way to the rendezvous, crippled for life,” David’s grandfather said solemnly.
“Yeah, well, you be Deborah, okay?”
“One of your grandma’s favorites, that movie, you know,” Randy said, genuine sadness creeping into his tone.
David said nothing. They both felt the hurt of losing her too badly to go further.
“What’s this all about, Grandpa?”
“Like I said. I--we--don’t really know. But it involves things that happened those years ago, before you were born.”
They stood with the others, watching the numbers light as the elevators ascended and descended.
“About that weird stuff going on in New Mexico, and all that? Yeah, you and Grandma told us about all of that. Had something to do with UFOs, too.”
“But not the extraterrestrial sort. These things, they are real. But they aren’t tangible, except when they want to be material in appearance,” Randall said, moving with David and the crowd toward the large elevator, which had just emptied of its passengers.
“Yeah, you said they were from the Benai Elohim –the fallen angel ranks,” David said in a subdued tone, not wanting to attract the ears of those surrounding them.
“You remember that, huh?”
“Yes. You told us about it a lot, Gramps. Pretty spooky. I remember having Dad come in to look in my closet about five times after hearing about that,” David said with a laugh. “Heck, I still have to look into the closets, when I think about it.”
His grandfather laughed. “Guess I did a pretty good job of story-telling, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Well, it is all true, I assure. And, looks like it’s happening again,” Randy said, while the elevator sped toward the Empire State Building’s highest observation point.
“That’s why I wanted you to get me to that advertising agency. The girl agreed to meet with me this afternoon about Morgan Lansing. They are best friends, according to what Lori and Mark –Morgan’s mother and dad—told Christopher. Since I’m here, I need to find out what she might know about Morgan’s…seemingly being missing.”
They stepped out of the elevator and transferred to the next on their way to the top.
“But, it’s only been a few days, you said Chris told you. Maybe she’s just involved in some meetings and things that she can’t break loose from,” David said.
“But it’s the other factors. Her brother, Clark, has been unable to be reached, too. The same time-frame. Plus, both of those kids are in the Colorado mountains, working, apparently, on things for the U.S. government that are secretive. At least their work involves things dealing with government projects. And, neither Clark, nor Morgan knew—as of yesterday—that the other is in the same area working on those governmental matters, whatever they might be.
“We hope maybe this girl--” He retrieved a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, then read the name he had penned. “--Kristi Flannigan--will be able to tell us something.”
Washington, D.C.
The meeting in the bowels of the Pentagon had been both painful and angering, and George Jenkins simmered in silent rage while riding in the back of the black government sedan. He remembered Wayne Snidely’s words, wishing he could cleave the head from the Department of Defense’s smirky hatchet man like the mid-East terrorists were beheading all who opposed their version of religion.
“The apartment,” Jenkins said, looking out the dark, tinted window to his left at the familiar monuments and buildings of D.C.
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, switching lanes to begin the trip he had made many times for the covert operations chief.
“Pick me up at 1800 hours, Ted,” Jenkins said, letting himself out of the back of the car, slamming the door and walking toward the building without looking back.
Thoughts of the chiding, the “instructions,” of the mental midget’s scathing words ate into the rawness that was already there from having lost the opportunity to get the Saudi terrorist. He didn’t know if the lecture had come from Rumsfeld, or from whom. Had the little scab just taken it upon himself to give the dressing down? The thought that such a boil on the backside of defense department bureaucracy could have, upon Snidely’s own decision, called him from truly imperative matters taking place in the mountain, poured gastric juices directly upon his developing ulcer. He popped several antacids, chewing them while riding the elevator to the 11th floor.
At least he would have a few hours to catch up on some things. He threw his suit coat across a chair and began looking through mail that had accrued since he had been away from his D.C. home.
He felt the coolness of the slender fingers through the shirt. They massaged the tenseness of the muscles from his neck to his shoulders. It felt good, and he turned to look into April Warmath’s eyes.
“You are so tense,” she said, continuing the massage from his facing position.
“Yeah. Quite tense,” Jenkins said, closing his eyes and rolling his head to help with the massage.
“Bad time at the Pentagon?”
“Hmmmm,” he said, a combination of pleasure from the probing fingers, and irritation at remembering the meeting with Snidely.
“What did they say?” the girl asked, changing the position of her fingertips and beginning to massage his temples.
“It was only Snidely, the little puke,” he said. “The Secretary was busy elsewhere, according to Snidely,” he said, adding a swear word.
He noticed that April Warmath wore only a diaphanous negligee. She pressed against him and kissed him, her fingertips continuing to knead the back of his neck while her slender arms encircled him. She ran the long fingers through his hair, her kiss becoming more insistent.
Jenkins started to remove his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. The phone’s ringing broke the rising passion, and he moved to retrieve the receiver.
“Yes?” he said gruffly.
He listened to the colleague for several seconds, then said, “They will get him. Let them handle it. Do whatever they want to do.”
When he hung the receiver on its cradle, he looked again into April Warmath’s eyes. “Someone is doing reconnaissance from above the valley,” he said.
Her eyes had turned from their normal color to solid black during the seconds he had been on the phone. His own eyes did likewise, and he smiled, continuing to unbutton the shirt.
Colorado – wilderness surrounding Crestone Needle
He had seen things. Unexplained, perhaps even unexplainable things. He trained the binoculars on the dark green against the vast field of white. It was just as if the things, as solid objects –flying disks—descended, then brightened to the point it hurt the eyes. And…they sat atop the forest, seeming to merge with the greenery, then vanished into the forests. All, without disturbing the trees in any way.
Several of them had descended this way. None had left, but, several had merged with the forest, and he saw no trace, even with the larger, more powerful telescope he used to check the mind-boggling scene.
Heav
y thumping overhead aroused Nigel Saxton from his deep concentration on his spying activities. Snow cascaded in front of him from the ledge he had called home overnight and into this snowy Colorado afternoon.
They were onto him!
“He’s in there,” the voice crackled over the radio between the two small helicopters.
“It’s not a cave. It’s an overhang of some kind, looks like,” the white-uniformed man said from the right seat of the copter 100 feet directly above the slope that descended sharply from the mountain wall.
The bird’s noise and wind-created turbulence caused a minor avalanche to pour into the canyon below.
“We can’t land. Too steep!”
“That’s a roger,” the voice of the pilot of the other helicopter crackled.
The pilot of the closely hovering chopper announced, “I’ll move around front. See what we can see.”
Nigel heard the chopper’s engine thumping louder while it rose higher above the overhang. It began to move over the canyon that opened into the valley beyond.
“Now I’ve had it,” he said, grabbing the equipment around him and scooting back on his elbows, pushing with the heels of his boots. Maybe the deeper recess of the cave would swallow him in its shadows.
He saw, then, a distant light. A glowing, colorful sphere was seemingly suspended above the canyon. It moved to the edge of the recess, then became a blinding light, and he crossed his forearm over his eyes to lessen the pain of the brightness.
The chopper pilots swung the white copter to just above the overhang, then moved out to above the deep ravine. He lowered the bird slowly, until he hovered directly in front of the recess. He swung the aircraft’s tail to the right, so the man in the right seat could get a shot with the automatic weapon he readied, sighting it into the recess.
They saw nothing. An empty space.
“Ain’t nothin’ there, the man with the weapon said. “Thought they said we would find him here…”
“That’s what we were told,” the pilot said, reaching to call the base. “There’s nothing here. It’s just a ledge covering a cave-like space. Doesn’t look like anybody has even been in there lately,” the pilot said into the helmet microphone, still searching the recess along with the gunner to his right.
“That’s weird; they’re never wrong,” the voice on the other end of the transmission said, as if to himself.
“Well, they are this time,” the pilot affirmed.
“Sweep the area a few times, then come home,” the voice at the choppers’ home base said.
Manhattan, late afternoon
Two young women approached. One was a little taller with dark hair that was swirled into a bun and dressed in a well-tailored business jacket and skirt. The other was in a tangerine blouse covered by a stylish black leather jacket, above dark gray slacks with barely perceptible vertical stripes. The girl with the auburn hair had to strain to keep up with her longer-legged companion.
“Miss Flannigan?” Randy looked at both girls, not knowing who was Kristi Flannigan.
“That would be me,” she said with a big smile. “And this is Cassie Lincoln.” She gestured toward the other girl.
“I’m Randall Prouse,” the archaeologist said, “and this is my grandson, David.”
“David Prouse,” the younger Prouse said with a smile equal to Kristi’s in its friendliness.
The four were soon sitting at a small café at street level just outside the skyscraper that was home to Guroix, Tuppler & Macy.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” the elder Prouse said. “As I told you on the phone, it’s about Morgan Lansing.”
“We haven’t heard from her,” Cassie Lincoln spoke up, anxiety in her voice. “It’s not like Morgan not to call Kristi,” she said.
The men looked to Kristi.
“Cassie--she’s been so sick, in the hospital, and so forth. We are Morgan’s best friends. Cassie has some things to tell you, Dr. Prouse.”
Randall looked at the girl in a surprised expression. He had said nothing to them about his degree…
“Morgan’s mother, Lori, talked with me. Said you were a good friend. That’s how I know. A doctorate in archaeology, I think she said?”
Randall smiled and nodded yes.
“Something strange is going on, Dr. Prouse,” Kristi said. “Tell them, Cass.”
They looked to the young woman sitting across the table from David, who saw in Cassie’s expression a spark of animation he had seen in no other. He fought to listen to her words instead of staying lost in the visual pleasure presented by her loveliness.
“You will think I’m crazy, Dr. Prouse,” she began, her voice animated with excitement to get the story told.
By the time she finished telling of her experience, from the night when she passed out, to awakening in the rehab center, Randal Prouse’s mind blazed with realization. This girl had had an experience like that of Morgan’s grandmother. Laura Morgan had lost consciousness and remained comatose for weeks, then suddenly had emerged totally unaffected.
“But, that’s not all,” Cassie said, a degree of uncertainty in her voice, while she glanced nervously at Kristi, who sat beside her, then across the table at David.
“Just tell us, Cass,” David said, reaching to take her hands that fidgeted on the table’s top.
“I’m seeing…things.”
“What things?” David asked.
“Dark, cloud-like things. Human-like monsters that are made of boiling, black smoke. And, they aren’t dreams--at least, I don’t think they’re dreams,” she said, looking into David Prouse’s gaze for validation.
“Tell us,” he said. “These dark, cloud-like things--do they say anything?”
“They say, they, like, growl the words, ‘The kingdom has come.’ Not only that, I find written on my computer screen, in red letters, the same thing. Whether the screen is on or off, I can be working, or not, and this message will appear in red letters--‘The Kingdom has come’.”
Randall’s brow wrinkled in concentration. He leaned forward. “These… cloud-like beings. Do they ever take you places…in your mind, I mean?”
Cassie nodded her head yes but seemed reluctant to say more.
David, looking deeply into her eyes, said, “It’s okay, Cassie. We’ve seen them, too. That’s what this is all about.”
His grandfather wished, without saying so, that he could agree with David. One thing sure, he mused. Someone of higher authority had brought everybody involved together for some yet unknown reason…
Colorado Mountains
He had waited for two hours after the choppers left, before leaving the protection of the ledge. Another couple of hours found him moving with great effort through the field of white.
Clouds, thick and gray, hurried the coming night-darkness along. He stumbled and fell in the deep snow. Having to high-step was wearing him out, and the backpack was becoming a burden he would soon have to shed, despite the fact he needed the things inside to survive.
Nigel Saxton looked at the compass on his right wrist. He was headed east –back towards the complex. Well before entering that forbidden zone, he should encounter the crags and cliffs, places where he could find shelter, places the snowfall couldn’t cover with its life-sapping depth and coldness.
And, the snow came again in profusion, huge white flakes that made everything opaque in the growing darkness. The wind began to whip angrily, causing the mountains in the distance to look to be mere ghostly images that occasionally appeared as if apparitions, then to fade again to nothingness. He must find the rocky places, the craggy areas with their hiding places from those hunting him, and from the potentially life-ending blizzard.
The Brit sensed it then, something even the frigid wind couldn’t completely obliterate while it blew with raw, icy force against his face. The vile smell added to the singing effects the cold gale inflicted upon his breathing with each burning intake by his nostrils. A foul scent –of something beyond death’s sickl
y-sweet odor.
He had sensed the smell before two summers earlier while climbing in the Swiss Alps. Or had it been the Himalayas? His convoluting brain, half-frozen, and meandering between reality and delusion, fought to remember. The natives –must have been Cherpas –must have been the Himalayas—had fled. The smell… the same… The powerful little people running… Screaming in terror the word “Yeti!”
Saxton stepped higher, trying to run in the thigh-deep accumulating snow field. The thing was tracking him. Getting closer. He tried to turn to look behind at his pursuer, but the attempt was painful. The big backpack caused him to lose his balance, and his back twisted painfully, his lower half remaining stuck in the position of moving forward.
He struggled to stand and finally managed to do so. The exertion of running through the snow, and the effort to right himself once fallen, exhausted his last burst of energy. Whatever wanted him could have him. Resistance was no longer within his power to offer.
He fell backward, his body engulfed by the snow pack. He looked upward into the darkness of the overcast. The smell was overpowering. The thing must be near; it would be upon him at any moment.
He thought it strange. Fear of the thing pursuing left him. He no longer felt the chill that had hurt to the bone, no longer felt the sting of the biting wind that relentlessly assaulted the flesh of his face. He was growing euphorically groggy. It would be wonderful, just to climb into the high-tech tent and sleep. He could sleep forever…
Nigel shook his head, blinking widely. He indeed WOULD sleep forever, he reminded himself. He would sleep for eternity if he didn’t stay awake. His life would end after 30 years, in these frozen regions. He would die an ocean and half a continent away from his England…
“What ya smell, feller?”
Zeke smiled at the rottweiler, who stood sniffing at the cabin’s only door. Jeddy barked in answer to the old man’s question, standing stiffly with his nose pressed against the crack between the rough-hewn door of oak and its facing.
