THE HARVEST OF AREA 51
By
Elijah Stephens
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Liquid Heaven Productions™
The Harvest of Area 51
Copyright © 2013 by Elijah Stephens
Cover by Aumega Art
Paranormal Science Fiction
The Pattern Volume 1
The Overlap
The Apocalypse Internal
The Pattern Volume 2
Frankenstein’s Shadow (Part 1)
The Shepherds of Arcadia (Part 2)
The Dark Crown Goddess (Part 3)
The Golden Door (Part 4)
The World Within (Part 5)
Asylum (Part 6)
Futuristic Science Fiction
Infinity Point™ Anthology Volume 1
Dynasty Zero
God of the Machine
Diabolos
Anamorphosis
The Violent Awakening
The Moonlight Child
Historical Epics
Otherworld
Prophets of the Wasteland
Hellrunner
Pride of the Britons
Ancient Japan
The Poison Lotus
The Floating World (Book 1)
The Rise of the Last Rebellion (Book 2)
The Lotus and the Sword (Book 3)
The White Rider
Short Story Compilation
Ghost Dance
Poetry Compilation
The Woman Clothed with the Sun
Non-Fiction
The Cycle of the Infinite:
Metaphysical Handbook for the Sublime Oddity of Creation
Being and Non-Being:
The Alchemist Guide for Transpersonal Psychology
The Royal House of Terra:
A Semiotic Introduction to Comparative Mythology
Sin-eaters:
Ascension Principles and the Shamanic Tradition
Reviews are greatly appreciated and there are plenty of free eBooks available at my website: www.liquidheavenlive.com
* * * * *
THE HARVEST OF AREA 51
* * * * *
The desert air held a winter chill as the Sun fell below an orange horizon. The night came alive with the impatience of a sensation-poisoned city, and the luminescence of all disgusting manner of nocturnal life entered Fremont Street with the tourists. When a flash flared from a digital camera, Dekker Barnes turned away to avoid being filmed. He checked the pistol in his belt as he passed bright stores full of cheap affectations being sold as mementos and waited for his signal over the static in his ear, lost in the sea of pedestrians on the old strip.
At the end of the block he saw his contact, a man who was too small for the cigar he was puffing. The aging fellow stood with a look of paternal responsibility over the citizens admiring the canopy of lights. Dekker put his hands in his coat as he approached the diminutive loiter.
“So what kind of genetic mutation are you?”
“Call me Dominik,” the short man replied without taking his eyes off the oblivious civilians. “I assume your handler told you to comply with the men I’ve assembled to investigate the pattern?”
“But not how many of you I’m complying with. How many teams are independently investigating this now anyway?”
“At least eight, but few are efficient. They say you erase problems like ethanol dissolves bacteria.”
Barnes noticed three other agents blending poorly with the crowd. “Are you aware of what kind of animal we’re chasing?”
“Two families murdered. The target has eaten and he still keeps hunting. You tell me what kind of animal does that.”
“The ego hides as many things, innocence is one of them. I understand that the target used to be NSA?”
“He was exposed to something, don’t ask me what. You’re the best tracker out west, they say, but the NSA doesn’t live with the same insanity as we do. They’re left in dark basements to untangle meaningless chatter, so when they followed a wiretap reference to its source in the abandoned industrial area near the copper mines in Arizona, an agent named Felix Milton was the one who –”
Dekker nodded. “Returned from the mission and ate his family.”
“And the next door neighbors when he was finished. We don’t know how many he killed on his way here since he travels at night, but he leaves his victims mutilated. What have you heard from other agents?”
“That the pattern is growing more insistent and we’re as blind as ever. We have reports of an unknown vessel submerged in the Atlantic Ocean, with a distress signal creating electro‑magnetic radiation that alters compass readings and distorts radar near the Bermuda Triangle. Agents are investigating more UFO abductions in small town Alaska and continued incidents of indelicate mental probes. Unfortunately moral evolution isn’t congruent with technological growth, and for this specific alien race, they seem to enjoy invasively torturing us with their memories to see how we react. There’s also a group studying translocation that is rumored to be on the verge of advanced quantum teleportation.”
“How advanced?”
“Not just particles now, they’re transporting mice through the superposition of wave‑forms, or so they say. We also have a serious cult growing in Utah called the ‘Sons of Darkness, Daughters of Light.’ They profess to believe that they can manifest a spiritual gateway between worlds through sacrifice, but the ethical deterioration is always the same. They start with animals and when the value of blood is quantified logically, they move on to humans, virgins, and children. Their orgies gather a certain type of follower who is loyal to the bone, but as always they have no concept of self-sacrifice, the only real path to enlightenment. We’re all perverts in desire but rarely in action, and the resulting determination for self‑control is the sacrifice that society makes to ascend. Happiness is the unconscious disavowal of the false limitation of duality, it is elusive specifically because it has no structure. Everyone seeks it as a mirage in the desert, but the central fault of cults is the lie that we’re ever truly separate from the light of the Source.”
“What else? It seems that the Commission is busy.”
“There’s a serial killer in Montana hiding the brutality of his murders as wolf attacks. One of our agents thinks he was inspired by the Beast of Gevaudan in France in the 1760s, but they’re close to reeling in his insanity. Other successes are minimal yet distinct, we caught a hypnotherapist in New Jersey who started thinking of himself as a psychic vampire, feeding from the terror he instilled in his patients without their knowledge. He had to put the trauma somewhere, so during his sessions he created a recall mechanism in their fear to perceive a vision of an ethereal demon, historically known in that area as the Jersey Devil. Hysteria did the rest, but he eventually crossed the line and became a monster stepping from the nightmares he created.”
“I heard about that, though you never know what to believe in this career.”
“The Commission also closed a case for the lead scientist running a study to test astral projection for use in regenerative medicine. As a brief exercise, she was determined to see if she could pinpoint the Whitechapel district of London in the late 1800s to discover the real Jack the Ripper. Unfortunately, she dug so deep through sensory deprivation and psychiatric manipulation that she came to believe that she was the reincarnation of the Ripper himself. After a few sleepless nights for our agents and three of her colleagues dead and disemboweled, we finally caught up to her. She claims to have no recollection of the events.”
“I still haven’t gotten used to these assimilation cases yet,” said Dominik. “I knew Felix Milton, our daughters went to the sam
e school. Even if he’s no longer human, I want him taken down with the respect he deserves.”
“Our worst unsolved cases are proving to be the result of a man we’re calling Frankenstein. While our government debates the alteration of mitochondrial DNA to cure a range of preventable diseases, the world is pushing forward nonetheless. As this doctor unleashes his modified creations, we’ve been tracking his considerable funding to a shadow group who believes that there should be no boundaries on advancement. They deliberately neglect the morality of the mistakes that must be made on the path of progress. We think they abhor the notion of creating a genetic upper-class of humanity, but Frankenstein himself is known to be following a procreative instinct to experience pregnancy and give birth. Perhaps all developments in science and technology are the same, a way for men to know what it’s like to be a creator, we just use the word god instead of mother as a result of arrogance. When something like the thing we’re hunting tonight breaks through, their bloodlust becomes degenerate. Fortunately this specific type of target is the easiest to track. If his condition gets worse, he won’t be able to hide in public like he’s doing now. As far as I can tell, you have three agents with you. Send the order and I’ll help you bring a net around the beast in Felix Milton.”
* * * * *
The agents followed the signal of a cell-phone left carelessly in the clothes of the man crossing the line into ‘deformation,’ but they failed to recognize him as he left the old strip in the direction of the California Hotel. Milton was mutating faster than his cognition, and the part of his humanity that kept him in survival mode was fading into what would soon become a psychotic dog unleashed upon the streets of Vegas. Barnes left Fremont Street alone in pursuit of the target, who was buried in his hooded sweatshirt while stalking a female tourist that had wandered from the herd.
When the ceiling of lights over them ignited in a colorful display and lifted everyone’s eyes, Felix waited for the speakers to explode with music before he took the woman off her feet. Dekker circled the corner with his silenced pistol in hand to discover Milton leaning over a pile of garbage and sinking his teeth into the girl. He opened fire with muffled pops into the creature’s back and it turned with eyes sunk deep under white pupils. It growled to claim its meal as specialized rounds spit from his muzzle, shredding its clothing, and when it ran away it was barking under its breath.
Dekker went to the frantic woman, who was crying and holding her bloody forearm with a wound like a mangled shark attack. “He bit me,” she said.
Barnes put his phone to his ear. “Send medics to this signal.” He slipped on his sunglasses and tapped the rim on the lenses, altering the photon-receivers to detect a trail leading away from the puddle at his feet. He ran his fingers through the target’s blood and smelled what he was hunting. “Exoskeleton,” he said to himself, then pulled out a clip of red-capped cartridges. He advised the woman to keep pressure on her injury. “The cops will arrive soon. Tell them you were bitten by a psychopath.”
She gave him a confused look. “I was?”
“They won’t believe anything else,” he said, and left her sitting in garbage.
* * * * *
When the elevator reached the top floor of the hotel, Barnes stepped out wearing his glasses. He took his hand off his holstered pistol when a playful couple walked by, then he crossed the padded carpet while peering down empty hallways. Near a broken window, a trail of fluorescent blood in distorted footprints ended at the door to the stairwell. Every monster manifested differently, but the thing called Felix Milton was coaxing him into an ambush. He stopped and listened to it chuckling with a sound like stones being knocked together.
Beneath his feet was a puddle of metamorphosis excretion, a common byproduct of a mutation’s altered physiology. The chemical was a viscous fluid on a scale of human sight, but his sunglasses contrasted a deep purple of swarming microbes. A few floors below, Dekker could hear the noise of children playing with plastic men who were constantly dying and being resurrected for another war.
He followed the marks until they went vertical up the wall, proving that whatever his target had become was quickly deteriorating. When the final loss of self was complete, it would resort to the sadism attributed to an assimilation gone wrong. At that point, it would see all living beings as objects to dissect. The cannibalism that ended the Milton family was the original break, when Felix’s love became a perversion of absolute ownership. After all, to digest them was the closest a father could be to his kids. The family next door happened later, after it got hungry again. While it was still cognizant, the tragic beast considered Fremont Street to be a readily accessible buffet.
Barnes was wondering if he had lost the creature before Milton pinned him under snapping teeth. He shoved his gun into its dripping mouth and blasted a hole through its face, but as it gripped him with prehensile talons they crashed down the stairwell. Dekker bounced off its exoskeleton, which feathered its skin like armored scales. It clasped the bars of the handrail as it climbed to the roof and tore open the access door.
* * * * *
He was glad that the monster couldn’t dig a hole in the ground, as they often did to wait for their alteration to be complete. He walked along the upper terrace of the hotel and shot into the protruding ventilation system where the target was hiding, according to the blood-splatter. Sparks danced through the metal, forcing the mutation into the open. When it tried to escape to a lower tier balcony, Barnes adjusted his aim with the wind and shot it clean through the leg. It fell hard, giving him time to pierce its eyes. The thing once called Felix Milton sprayed vibrant circles in a sudden flare before it died with a pathetic screech.
Dekker said into his cell-phone, “Cleanup on my signal.”
* * * * *
The following morning, a black sedan pulled into the suburbs of Las Vegas. After two men from the government rang his doorbell, they spoke the word ‘contingency’ and he gathered himself for another mission. They left the crowded city and traveled into the desert, where the sky was dotted with clouds that broke over the wasteland of parched Earth.
The ride north was quiet until they turned off the highway onto a dirt road stretching to scattered hills in the distance. With military helicopters in constant flight over a sign that read, ‘No Trespassing Use of Deadly Force Authorized,’ they reached a roadblock of diligent security.
* * * * *
At the foot of the largest mountain, a military base was established with hangars dotting the grounds. It looked empty until they reached the external fence and another checkpoint, this time with personnel who waved them in and told them where to park. Barnes stepped into the cool breeze as a helicopter hovered over the mountain in a fog of dust. When the doors slid open and a group of civilians stepped out, a blonde woman with strawberry shades lifted by the wind composed herself in business attire.
They were quickly ushered to the nearest hangar and Dekker joined their procession to waiting soldiers, who pushed open a heavy door and moved aside without expression. Inside the sterilized atmosphere, they were guided through pearl-white hallways branching out in an indistinguishable maze. A freight elevator with three buttons on the panel allowed them all to stand comfortably inside as they began their descent.
The appearance of a somber and empty base fell to a room of bustling scientists. The citizens tempered their astonishment as they walked into the underground facility and were guided through an outer ring of cubicles. At one side of the complex, they were led into a conference room where they took their seats. After a tense silence, a high-ranking officer in uniform entered.
“Welcome to Area 51.” He walked to the front and loaded relevant files on the console. “You wouldn’t have been called here unless the situation was urgent, so let us work through the formalities quickly. I’m General Thomas Andronicus and everyone in this room has had at least brief military training. The seven of
you are the top minds in your respective fields, from biology to computer encryption.” Andronicus fixed his gold-rimmed spectacles as the shaded lenses caught the light of the projector. “Some of you are aware of the details surrounding alien activity on Earth, but most of you are new to this. The alien crash near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947 brought media attention to a phenomenon we used to exploit the natural ignorance of citizens by inundating them with fantasies about extra‑terrestrials. The public at the time was more practical but they were altogether naïve. While they would’ve bought a lie that secrecy was a matter of national security in opposition to Communism, our government had the foresight to downplay the threat of both.
“As disinformation watered down reports about aliens, and the fear of a nuclear attack was placated by having students hide under their desks as a smokescreen against the equal threat of chemical warfare, civilian life continued with more immediate and insular concerns during the prosperity of the military-industrial complex. From Project Sign to Project Grudge and then to Project Blue Book, the government’s task of disavowal became less and less conspicuous until its dissolution in 1969. The group of military rank and scientists who controlled the crash site at Roswell and subsequent studies, the Majestic Twelve as they were called, moved to more necessary avenues of culture before science caught up with their discoveries. The crash in Roswell afforded us a few pieces of next-level technology, but it also brought us the scorched bodies of three small hominids. Our best minds assumed that intelligent aliens were traveling to where complex biology existed, following the obvious conclusion that the rarity of life makes it precious in the Universe, and that these beings would hypothetically never do anything but observe to insure no change to what they studied.
“After atomic testing began, humans effectively broadcasted our evolution and attracted the attention of advanced alien cultures. With marginalized conflict in the depths of space, they view nuclear capabilities as marking a landmark of higher order civilization. Our species is now the most compelling in history, and with First World nations existing near Fourth World tribal cultures, we represent a specific paradigm of intelligent life. As we study animals in their habitats, therefore we are studied.” Andronicus took a breath. “Technology from UFO crashes like Roswell gave us a handful of useful technology, most of which aided NASA during the space race. Over decades, the Cold War was fought by proxy nations over a scale of continents, but it wasn’t total war, so our citizens only discovered these inventions after they were declassified.”
The Harvest of Area 51 Page 1
