She set the book she’d been reading on the top of a stack of books teetering on the coffee table. They were starting to overflow onto the floor and end tables. It was time for some housecleaning and an excursion to Half Priced Books to sell her precious babies for pennies on the dollar.
“No,” she said, standing beside him now. “Is that an Oldsmobile? Who the hell drives an Oldsmobile these days?”
“Not an Oldsmobile. There isn’t an emblem on the grill or a hood ornament. It reminds me of those cars I sometimes see in the reserved lot at Lockheed.”
Andrea knew the occasional politician or government bigwig with top secret security clearance would sometimes visit Lockheed Martin’s latest and greatest missile program. Michael hated when they did. He despised talking about his work to anyone without at least a master’s degree in engineering. It was the bane of most geniuses, having to explain things to people of average intelligence.
“It’s moving now,” she said. “Parking at our mailbox.”
Seconds ticked by, and nobody emerged from the automobile. Andrea began to feel anxious, even though it was silly to worry about a strange car in their upscale neighborhood; the crime rate in the gated community north of Fort Worth was nearly nonexistent. But her stomach had been queasy that morning, and the appearance of this odd car parked at their curb intensified the feeling. Maybe it was some leftover primeval instinct that was urging her to HIDE! She ignored it, continuing to peer through the wooden blinds.
Finally two men exited the car at the exact same moment, their movements so synchronized as to almost seem choreographed. They wore dark suits and sunglasses, and they walked with purpose toward her front door. One of them reached into his jacket pocket, while the other skirted the overflowing lantana on the sidewalk with the grace of a dancer. No, that wasn’t right. He reminded her of a panther, in his black clothes with his face hidden behind those dark shades.
“What the hell, Michael? Are they from Lockheed?”
“I’ve never seen them before in my life,” he murmured. He seemed mesmerized by the men. He was wearing that frown again.
“Something isn’t right. I have a bad feeling about these guys,” she said.
“I knew something like this would happen.” His tone was dreamlike and distracted. So much so that her attention wavered from the men walking past the fall mums planted next to her front porch and to her husband standing beside her.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re pale, and you look like you’re about to toss your cookies.”
The thought made her stomach lurch. A burp escaped her lips. Her own nausea was getting worse.
I need to get out of here. Now. Just grab the car keys and go.
Her body had begun the process of turning away from the window when Michael’s hand caught her wrist.
“Where are you going?”
“Let go. You’re hurting me.” She tried to fling off his grip, but his fingers were like a vise.
“What the hell, Michael? Let go!”
Panic now as the combination of her husband’s weird behavior and the sinister men ringing her doorbell made her feel like she’d wandered into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
“Answer the door, Andrea.” He was still looking through the window at the men on his porch. His voice sounded bleak, defeated.
“How the hell can I do that when you won’t let go of my wrist?”
The steel fingers let go so abruptly she almost fell. Instead of heading toward the front door, she darted in the opposite direction, to the garage and the Toyota SUV parked inside it. Had she left the overhead door open? Were the car keys in the bowl on the kitchen countertop where she always put them? Yes. Yes. She could make it. Where would she go? She had no idea. She just knew she must get away from those men. A new voice whispered in her head now: you must escape your husband as well.
The doorbell rang again just as she snatched the keys from the island countertop.
“What are you doing, Andrea? Where do you think you’re going?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled over her shoulder as she flung open the door that lead to the garage. She sprinted to the driver’s side door just as a man appeared in the opening of the two-car garage. His dark form was silhouetted against the overcast late October sky. His face was in shadows.
Why does he need those sunglasses if it’s cloudy? What’s behind them? The questions surfaced through her alarm. And then another thought: I’m not as fast as him. He moves like a panther.
“Ma’am, we’d just like a word with you. Please step away from the vehicle and let’s go inside where we can talk. There’s no need for these hysterics.”
His voice sounded normal...pleasant even.
“Take those sunglasses off!”
“Certainly.” A bland, unremarkable face wore a somewhat amused expression. “Better? Please, ma’am. Let’s go inside.”
She allowed him to cup her elbow and usher her back in the kitchen.
“Andrea, honey, come sit down. Everything is fine. Why are you acting so crazy?”
She could see Michael’s head above the back of the leather sofa. All that thick salt-and-pepper hair covering that oddly shaped skull.
She allowed herself to be guided through the kitchen, then placed next to her husband. The second man was sitting in Michael’s burgundy La-Z-Boy. He had also removed his sunglasses to reveal another bland-faced, thirty-something man who might have been a tax accountant or the day manager at Office Depot. Both men looked non-threatening. Why had she acted so irrationally?
“Who are you? What is this all about? Michael, are these men from your work?”
“No, ma’am,” the man in the La-Z-Boy replied. He still had one hand in his jacket pocket. The other man, the one who’d been in the garage, stood behind her.
He’s just the muscle. The one sitting is the one you need to worry about.
Her stomach did another somersault. She may have to throw up soon.
“Then who the hell are you?”
“Honey, simmer down. Everything is fine.” Michael didn’t even look at her when he patted her knee. He rubbed his forehead with his other hand while staring at the man in the chair. He was wearing the migraine frown.
“We’re from the United States government, ma’am.”
“Michael, what have you done? Is this about that missile system you’ve been working on?”
Her husband ignored her. He seemed enthralled by the man sitting in his favorite chair.
“This isn’t about your husband’s job. This is about you.”
“Me? I’m just a high school teacher!”
“You’re much more than that.” The man’s accent was just as bland as his face. Midwest, perhaps. His smile tried to be disarming, but it came off as unnatural – the smile of someone who doesn’t do it often enough to get good at it.
“What branch of the government are you from?” she demanded. If Michael was going to just sit there acting like he had been sedated, she would have to take charge.
“We work for the Department of Defense, USAF, stationed at Groom Lake.”
“USAF? Why aren’t you in uniform?”
“We’re not soldiers, ma’am. We’re civilians working for the government.” The unnatural smile again.
“Groom Lake? You mean Area 51? Where they do all the secret alien stuff?”
The smile vanished. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Get to the point then!”
“Yes, ma’am. We have an...arrangement...with the company that performed your DNA analysis. Yours was red flagged and forwarded to us. One marker in particular interested us.”
“What, you discovered my husband has mutant DNA?” She was going for a scathing tone, but it came out more scared than anything else.
“No. We were already aware of your husband’s 4p16 chromosomal mutation located in the 6-mb region between the DVS10 locus and the 4p telomere.”
“I have no idea what that means, of cou
rse.”
“It means that your husband possesses a modicum of extraterrestrial DNA.”
Her mouth fell open, but no scathing retort was forthcoming.
“As I was saying, that is not what interested us. There are a number of people scattered about the globe with similar DNA markers. What triggered our flagging system was yours. Not only do you also possess the same markers, but yours have begun to mutate in an unprecedented way. Humans with the genetic abnormalities you and your husband share have never been known to reproduce. We suspect it’s a kind of biological failsafe mechanism to keep the terrestrial population...human. Or at least mostly so. The reason for our presence here today is this: your saliva contained elevated levels of hCG. That’s human chorionic gonadotrophin. Are you familiar with the term?”
She would need to throw up in the next few minutes. “Yes. It’s a hormone, secreted by cells of what will become a placenta.” Her voice was monotone now.
“That’s it exactly. I must ask another question now, and I need you to be absolutely honest. Have you been faithful to your husband? Sexually?”
“How dare you? Of course, I’ve been faithful.”
“Now would be the time to admit otherwise. Much depends on your answer.”
She narrowed her eyes, and said through gritted teeth, “I have never cheated on my husband. I adore him.”
The man glanced up at his partner. Both seemed to agree she was telling the truth.
“Very well. You’ll pack an overnight bag and come with us. You won’t require clothes or toiletries. Just items that will bring you comfort in the coming months.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Yes, ma’am, you are.” He reached into an interior jacket pocket and pulled out some papers. “I’ll spare you reading the fine print. These are signed by a federal judge and give me the authority to detain you.” From the outer pocket, the one in which his hand had been nestled the entire time, he withdrew a small electronic device. It emitted a low subharmonic tone.
“On what grounds?” The panic was ebbing away now, replaced by a stifling sense of helplessness and impending doom.
“On the grounds that you are a valuable research subject for the United States.”
“What about Michael? Is he coming with me?”
Her husband still sat on the sofa next to her, wearing his migraine frown and staring at the humming device.
“Sadly, no. That would complicate things unnecessarily. Mr. Burns, please escort Andrea to her bedroom. We’ll be leaving in five minutes.”
A manic giggle escaped her. “Mr. Burns...like the creepy old guy on The Simpsons.”
The man only stared in response.
Minutes later she slumped in the backseat of the nondescript vehicle. Mr. Burns (Excellent...) sat behind the steering wheel. A single sharp gunshot came from her house. The man in charge stepped through the front door, closing it behind him. He still wore that unnatural smile as he slid into the passenger seat.
She didn’t notice the tears that were streaming down her face. “I need a barf bag,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. We anticipated that due to your condition. You’ll find them just under your seat. Now please, just sit back and enjoy the ride. It’s quite a long drive to Nevada.”
The Bunker
“I hate you. You don’t look a day over thirty, Olivia.”
When a Texas woman tells you they hate you, it’s actually a compliment. As a Michigan transplant, it took me a while to figure that out.
“You’re sweet for saying so, Karen. You look great too. We both look pretty damn fabulous for a couple of forty-year-old broads.”
“Not so fabulous now,” Karen said with a laugh. “I’m sweating like a pig. I’m relieved that cool front came through. This must be a miserable hike in the summer.”
“It is. When Robert and I come here to bring supplies and check on everything, it seems like it’s either hot as hell or freezing cold. This,” I said, raising both hands to indicate the azure sky and giant oak trees just beginning to show some fall color, “is lovely. We got lucky today.”
“I so appreciate the invitation. I know the other girls would have wanted to come too, but I’m glad we kept it just the two of us. I didn’t even tell David I was coming. I didn’t want to bother him at work. He’s been super busy.”
“Perfect,” I said with a smile. A real smile.
“I can’t believe we’re already two miles from the highway,” she said, fidgeting with her black Fitbit bracelet. “We’ll burn off all the calories in advance. Not that I’ll have any regrets about the calories in that bottle.”
She nodded at my backpack which held a bottle of L’Ermita Priorat. In her pack was our lunch: a selection of fruit and cheeses, kept cool in an insulated bag. The wine had been an obscene indulgence, but worth every penny. Karen not only loved wine, she knew wine. No sensible wine enthusiast would turn down the offer of a Spanish vintage like that; getting to tour my doomsday bunker was just a bonus. She would be the first to see what Crazy Olivia had been funneling so much time and money into the last couple of years.
“Just a bit farther now. Do you see that clearing up there on the right?” I pointed my walking stick rapier-like toward an area a hundred yards away.
Karen’s face fell. I bit my lip to keep from grinning.
“You mean we have to hike through all that brush? There’s no trail? I bet there’s a ton of poison ivy in that mess.”
“Of course there’s no trail, silly. The whole point of being remote and off-grid is to stay under the radar. When the zombie apocalypse happens, we’ll be safe from the walking dead and the scavenging living.”
I had told her all this before. Actually, the first time I mentioned our bunker (in a weak, tipsy, regrettable moment), I explained why it was important not to tell anyone else because of standard OPSEC rules – operational security. I emphasized how critical it was to keep this a secret...for me. Not just because of OPSEC, but because of what people would say about Robert and me behind our backs. There go the Franklins...off to their doomsday bunker! Get a load of those crackpots! How many cases of Spam do you think they bought at Costco today?
But I learned too late that Karen hadn’t grasped the concept of operational security, nor was she capable of being a loyal friend. Friends don’t tell your secrets. Not to anyone. Not ever. That rule is even more binding when it’s a colossal secret that could cause trouble, or hardship, or embarrassment. Or pain.
Less than a week after my indiscretion, Karen blabbed about it to several of the other women in our social circle. The women told their husbands. The men in turn have been giving Robert grief about it at every opportunity.
And Robert has been using the bamboo cane on the soles of my bare feet every Sunday morning since.
“Come on, girly girl. You can do it,” I hollered over my shoulder.
Twenty grueling minutes and several thorn scrapes later, we tromped into the circular clearing in the woods. Robert and I had removed the trees and brush from the surrounding thirty square yards. We hadn’t hired Mexican immigrants or local rednecks to do it for us. Why? OPSEC. Nobody would know we were here – along with our immense cache of food – when the shit hit the fan, because nobody but the two of us have been here. We did all that work ourselves, the clearing and the digging and the hauling and the building. Not a soul in the world knew about it but Robert and me...until I shared the secret with my ‘friend.’ And that ‘friend’ had shouted about it from the rooftops to anyone that would listen.
The only good news was that I hadn’t told her the location. The land had been in Robert’s family for generations, and as the sole surviving family member, all two hundred of the unimproved acres belonged to him. No one else knew the precise coordinates of our impressive underground bunker, which was supplied with all the basic necessities, a few luxuries, and five years’ worth of shelf-stable food – a stockpile which represented our life’s savings.
From
where Karen and I now stood, there wasn’t another person within ten square miles.
“Wow,” she said, doing a slow pivot to absorb all that she saw: the fenced vegetable garden, tilled and ready for the seeds we would plant later, the brick-lined fire pit with its cast-iron tripod and Dutch oven, the picnic table, the shooting targets and straw-stuffed dummies, scarred with the evidence of our practicing. “You guys are serious about this stuff. Where is the bunker though?”
“You can’t spot it? That means we did a good job. See that pipe-looking thing poking up? That’s part of the ventilation system. Look over there at that pile of rocks. That’s the opening. It looks kind of like a commercial freezer door built into the ground. The stairs lead to the bunker.”
She followed me, then watched as I kicked the debris from the top, exposing the metal of the blast-proof door. I punched in the code on the keypad, not concerned if she saw the numbers, then lifted the heavy door. Stale air wafted across our faces; I found it comforting.
“Go on down. Prepare to be impressed,” I said, flipping on the light switch.
She trudged down the prefab staircase, careful to hold on to the railing; it was a steep descent.
“Holy crap, Olivia. This is amazing. You have all the comforts of home here...is that a fifty-inch screen?”
We stood in the living room. The bunker had begun its life as a converted shipping container, purchased out of state and hauled here on a trailer with a leased Bobcat lashed to the back. We’d spared no expense in making it as comfortable as it was functional. We might have to spend weeks or months at a time down here.
“Yes,” I said. “Past the kitchen and through that door is the bedroom and bathroom. It sleeps up to six people, but that would be tight. With just Robert and me, it’ll be plenty spacious.”
“This is incredible. I had no idea you had gone to this much trouble. I figured your ‘bunker’ was just a hole in the ground...like a storm shelter.”
“That’s because you don’t pay attention,” I said, softening the sting with a smile.
Dead Leaves, Dark Corners Page 8
