The Collected Short Fiction, page 55
—Okay, he said, rolling his eyes.
—Oh, yeah? I’m not an idiot.
—I’ll reserve judgment until we check the perimeter footage. Somebody’s sneaking around, we’ll see.
They didn’t screw, which initially was a bit of a surprise to him until he heard her vibrator buzzing one night. Their sexual rift was acceptable —some of her kinks unnerved him. So he fiercely masturbated to images of early Playmate-era Shannon Tweed, and fell asleep.
He dreamed of his fellow scientist sitting lotus style among the torpid wasps. Her jumpsuit was dark with them. The sun hid behind the mountains and stained the sky a rich red that was almost black—the color that wells from a deep wound. The red light spattered her, dripped from her. She began stuffing handfuls of wasps into her mouth.
He awoke and lay on his cot, overcome by a sense of claustrophobia. Horrors skittered and scuttled at the fringes of his consciousness, feverish impressions that afflicted children with a fear of the dark. He listened to her working on the other side of the thin fabric wall. She clicked steadily at a keyboard and the dim, blue light from her monitor flickered on his ceiling.
She gasped, and said, —Holy shit. What the fuck.
He almost rose, almost went into the other room to ask what she’d seen. Another wave of weariness bore down upon him and his eyelids fluttered, and he was gone again, falling into a sea of red.
In the morning he made good on his promise to troll for suspicious activity on the tapes. There was nothing, of course.
He darted a mule deer and tagged it with a GPS chip. That was the most excitement he’d had since his arrival, and it was short lived. Within hours, the deer traveled deeper into the hills beyond his research radius. He waited three days and then moved the cameras at the den to sector C1, a prairie rife with rabbits and groundhogs. The backbreaking job left him caked in dirt and exhausted. He returned to the module and fixed a huge meal, chewed aspirin, and drank a quart of water. He sprawled on the floor, dressed in shorts, feet propped on a chair.
She said, —What’s it called when you can’t remember if you dreamed an event, or if it actually happened?
—Crazy?
—Yesterday I was lying in the hammock—
—I saw you’d strung one over there by that fir. Must be nice to have free time. I’ll think of you whenever I’m travois-ing three hundred pounds of shit across the rocks.
—No, no, I’ll be swinging in my hammock thinking of you, she said. —I made myself a pitcher of pink lemonade. Yummy.
—There you were, lying naked in your hammock—
—Sure, why not? There I was, sipping lemonade, watching the clouds, and someone called my name. I almost peed myself. Probably for the best I don’t pack heat—I’d have blasted the living crap outta some bushes.
—If you thought the bushes were talking to you, I think we should analyze the lemonade.
—I’m telling you, somebody stage-whispered my name from behind a juniper. Heard it clear as can be. I sort of froze, not quite accepting the situation. Of course it occurred to me you were playing one of your practical jokes. I also knew in the next instant it wasn’t. This was way different. It didn’t sound friendly, either. Whoever it was snickered.
—Are you kidding? You thought it was me? I’m hurt.
—For a second or two. Who else? Don’t get your nose out of joint.
—It’s a common phenomenon, the phantom voice. That’s your subconscious looking for attention. Happened to me a lot when I got rummy, scrunched into a blind or tree stand. Get tired enough, you see and hear things that aren’t there.
—But, I’m not tired.
—Yeah, however, we are isolated. Like I said, the mind gets bored and plays games. Don’t sweat it too much.
She said, —I had another dream last night.
—A wet one?
—Don’t be nasty. Yeah, okay, maybe. The other one—not so nice. It was sunset. Just about the most hideous redness covered everything. Made my eyes hurt. The light seeped from the sky, cracks in the earth, until I couldn’t see anything but shadows and blurry outlines of figures. People sort of appeared and gathered around me. Maybe they weren’t human.
—It being a dream, he said.
—My God, you are a jerk. I hate smug guys.
—If you were a model you could file that under turnoffs: smug guys!
—I was a model.
—Really?
—No. My sister was, though. I’m way better looking than her.
—Meh, you’re all right. Your teeth are too big.
—Jerk, jerk, jerk! Why did I say yes to this stupid assignment?
—The obvious answer would be…
—Grow up. We had a thing and so what? I bet you’ve humped a half-dozen sleazy little bitches since we called it quits.
—At least.
—At least?
—I lost count after ten.
—That’s a hell of a lot of money to blow on whores, so to speak. Besides, you’re a liar. I doubt half your stories come close to the dreary, mundane truth. The man, the myth. I call bullshit.
He laughed. —Tell me more about your dream, he said in a thick accent. —Vas your mudder involved?
—No. I didn’t recognize anyone. I was terrified, so I ran. The red light blinded me and I tripped and fell into a pit. Kept falling and falling until the sky became a pinhole, and finally not even that.
—Is that when you woke?
—I don’t think I ever did, she said. —Everything went black. Like the movies.
He limped across a plain that stretched beneath a wide, carnivorous sky. He’d run a great distance and was on his last legs; his breath was ragged, his boots crunched on gravel. Red light flooded the horizon. This was the light of a thin atmosphere, Martian light. He stumbled upon a cluster of low, earthen mounds. The mounds were brown and covered in fine, white dust. He thought this might be a native burial ground, a sacred place, and that had to be the cause of his fear. He’d trespassed and the spirits were furious, the spirits were going to punish him.
He realized his mistake soon enough when he came to a crater. Someone had stuck a shovel in the nearby pile of fresh dirt. At the bottom of the pit were arranged scores of plastic tarps, each wrapped around an object the size and shape of a human form. Among these forms were ruined bicycles, discarded coats, hats, and backpacks. Dresses, bits of costume jewelry, handbags, and wallets.
She said, —Psst! I wasn’t being straight with you earlier.
The bloody light of the sky winked out of existence. His sleeping cubicle was pitch black. He shuddered at the sound of her breathing nearby. His chest hurt and he massaged his ribs, thinking, here came the heart attack that felled his father, and his father’s father, and several uncles, hardy woodsmen all. Like them, he smoked and drank too much. Like them, he suffered night terrors.
—I did hear a voice, she said, her mouth centimeters from his own. —Not a phantom voice, either. Whoever it was, whatever I heard, it whispered my name. Then it asked me where you were. Where’s your friend? Where’s your friend? Where’s your friend?
His eyes watered. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob, shocked at the power of his compulsion to scream. He couldn’t remember if his dream was only a dream, or the reenactment of something he’d witnessed and immediately repressed. His father shot several people in Vietnam and said that he couldn’t always separate his nightmares from things that really happened. She didn’t say anything else and exhaustion descended like a club and smashed him into unconsciousness.
He climbed a ridge and stood in the shade of an oak. Its leaves were broad and dusty. Near the toe of his left boot was a snare of barb wire still attached to a post. Ants boiled from the rotten core of the wood. He removed his hat and hung it on a branch. Flies buzzed, drawn to the moisture. He sipped canteen water and scratched the deep itch at the center of his skull. The longer he watched the ants, the more intensely his brain itched.
He unsnapped the protective covers of his field glasses and used one hand to cup them to his eyes. Below the ridge, a basin spread for a half-kilometer to the foot of the mountains. Washboard ruts, decayed remnants of several abandoned roads, zigzagged through scrub and rocks. A stream ambled its crooked way toward the lowlands. His map designated this area as the infamous Site 3. The original ranchers lived to the extreme southern extents of the property—their homes nearest the city were converted to low-income housing, or bulldozed for school soccer fields and parks. After the last of the ranchers’ lines died off in 1965, the cattle and horses were auctioned and the vast acreage returned swiftly to wilderness. The Family hadn’t arrived until 1969 or 1970 and their presence wouldn’t have altered much. The shacks they’d squatted in had long since fallen apart, and they’d moved from place to place, migrating like nomads across the property in a pair of antiquated school buses.
—Oh, the places we’ll go, he said, lowering the glasses.
—Eh? What are you on about? she said.
He didn’t recall dialing her on the cell, but there the phone was pressed to his ear, and her sounding belligerent on the other end. —I’m looking at Site 3. Nice place to build a house, raise some kids. A tad on the dry side.
—A tad on the creepy side, you mean. Seems like you’re the one with idle hands now. Shouldn’t you be staking out a coyote den, or sniffing deer droppings?
—I’m munching on some at this very moment, he said. —Did I mention my great-great-great grandfather rode with Kit Carson? Why’d you call? Everything okay?
—You called me, silly. Yeah, I’m going through the tapes. There’s not much on them. Three, count ’em, three freakin’ coyotes in B5 and B6. No further visuals on the bobcat, and not a single bear. Did you scare all the animals?
—You sure are ornery today.
—I’m ornery every day; you’re too busy playing Boy Scout to notice, is all.
—Ri-i-ght—I’m tramping through the woods while you’re barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. How’s supper coming?
—Spam and beans. You’ll get it cold if you don’t take a shower, buster.
He touched the post and a few ants scurried onto his fingers. —Don’t get rid of the packing jelly.
—Ugh. You like the Spam afterbirth? I can’t believe I let you kiss me on the mouth.
—Spam placenta, if you please. He raised the binoculars. A brown shape separated from the cover of sage and trotted across open ground. The coyote was a scrawny specimen. —Fuck. Maybe there is a rabies outbreak.
—The ones on tape are definitely off. You gotta take a look. My theory is rabies, or a man-made agent. Something toxic. Hunters might’ve poisoned the water. There’s a bounty on coyote heads in this region.
—We’ve lived here, what, a month? You spot any hunters? Nobody’s coming this far into the boonies to bag a few coyotes.
—There’s another possibility. Government isn’t above testing its latest bio weapons on animal populations. The risk to humans is low. The Army could’ve dosed the area five, ten years ago. Now we’re here checking on their work, all unwitting like.
—Thanks for brightening my day, sunshine.
—My advice is, don’t drink the water.
—Got it.
—Super. Back to the horrors. She broke the connection.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and shook his wrists, flinging ants into oblivion. His lips were cracked. Thick, coarse stubble covered his jaw. He kept forgetting to shave. Personal hygiene was the first thing to go when he settled into the bush. Animals could smell chemical products all too readily. Gun oil was trouble enough.
A half-hour later, he’d carefully picked his way down the hillside and walked across the basin to the former CSI team campsite. The team pulled stakes months before. Signs of its presence were mostly erased by the elements, the proliferation of weeds. He flipped an empty soda bottle with the side of his foot. There was a fire pit, its ashes washed to gray mud and baked hard, and nothing else. This was where the team of fourteen men, women and dogs spent the better part of a month taking core samples and ground X-rays, sniffing for elements of organic decay, and snapping a thousand photographs. Yes, she was right—definitely creepy. He was glad their own camp was at a good, safe distance. It was irrational, and that didn’t bother him. In the animal kingdom, paranoia equaled sanity.
Why had he come to Site 3? No reason except curiosity, an overwhelming urge to reconcile his curiosity and fear. Fear was such a strong word, yet an appropriate one. That he carried a weapon and was trained to survive any conceivable scenario, that there was no visible threat, did nothing to pacify his mounting anxiety.
He was alone in the wilderness, yet when he spied the set of human tracks, he wasn’t surprised. He followed for a while—the prints of a large male in boots were made within the last seventy-two hours. The trail eventually led into the hills. The Family’s hideout lay in that direction: long-gone tepees, tarpaper shacks, and caves. He looked at the sky. Sunset creeping along, it would arrive within forty-five minutes. He told himself discretion was the better part of valor and turned away.
Later that night a storm rolled in as he lay awake, listening to the wind tear at the module. —You fool, he said. —There’s not a damned thing to be afraid of. He closed his eyes and slept. In his dreams, he stood in a field and regarded the carcass of a black bear. The bear lay on its side in several inches of jellified gore. Green rot wafted and a cloud of blowflies orbited the remains. From his angle he couldn’t tell if the head had been chopped off. A woman laughed and her hand clamped upon his shoulder. The hand was all rawhide and bone.
He spent the next day in a tree on the ridge overlooking Site 3. The branches were steamy from rain, but the stony earth had already drunk the puddles and pools. A hawk circled so far overhead it was a black grain against the superheated blue sky. A couple of coyotes padded along the basin floor. He contemplated shooting one, removing its blood and tissues and shipping them to HQ for analysis. He replaced the bunting lens caps on his rifle scope, and drowsed. When the light thickened and dimmed he lowered himself to the ground and walked back to camp.
—There’s no video of…of you know what, she said.
Stars cluttered the sky and the air was almost too crisp. They sat on lawn chairs at the edge of a dying fire. They smoked cigarettes from her carton of Pall Malls and drank many tumblers from his bottle of Laphroaig. A light wind swirled from the mountains and stirred the fire, occasionally scattering cinders upon their clothes. The wind tasted sweet, like ashes of a green tree.
—Of what happened at S3? A guy showed it to me, all right, he said. A third of the scotch was in his belly. He didn’t care if she believed him. He thought about the two ragged coyotes, the circling hawk, the coyote den empty as a forgotten mausoleum. He thought about the lone set of boot prints winding among the rocks, impressions coagulated in the soft earth. He wondered what it all meant.
—A guy? What guy?
—I don’t remember his name. He was with somebody. Oh, yeah, Bleeker, or Blecher. One of the CSIs. I think.
—Bleeker showed you a video.
—Not Bleeker. The guy with Bleeker. Lab rat type. Pasty, soft.
—Bleeker’s pal showed you a video.
—The Site 3 home video that those freaks shot in ’72.
She puffed on her cigarette. The light from the fire glowed red in her eyes.
—When did this happen? We were sitting together at the briefing.
—During the lunch break. He took me to an empty conference room and played it against one of those pull-down screens.
—The dude was walking around with the tape in his pocket?
—Maybe he’s stalking Michael Moore. Gotta be ready to demo at the drop of a hat, right?
—The Religious Freaks and Me. But, the lunch break was like only fifteen minutes.
—The film was a short-short.
—Well, hell. Now I know where you went to smoke a cigarette. Wish I’d followed you.
—No, you don’t.
—The Family didn’t film anything. That’s an urban legend. No photographs, either. Buncha dirt-munching, tree-hugging druids. I hear one of ’em worked in the Army motor pool before he got a Section Eight. Crazy fucker kept the school buses running. Otherwise, homeboys didn’t have a pot to piss in, much less a camcorder. If you actually watched anything, it was a fake. Guy was yanking your chain.
—It looked authentic. Really horrible.
—Um-hm. She extended her glass and he poured. —I take it there was some Dario Argento-style mayhem going on.
He filled his own tumbler until whiskey quivered at the rim, and closed his eyes and considered her voice, how it lately came to him deep in the darkness when he was alone on his cot. Her voice was breathy and harsh, like a breeze combing through dry leaves, a raspy lullaby. He said, —You’re right. It was a hoax. Hamburger and catsup in papier-mâché dummies. Smack that shit with a sledgehammer, watch it splat against a wall. Fooled the hell out of me.
—Catsup?
—Corn syrup and chocolate, he said. —I was a baby when the Family made the scene. Rabbits and wolves are more my thing. Starvation, predator/prey dynamics, I understand. Rabies, I understand. This psychobabble, religious bullshit, not a damned bit.
—Not me. I loooved my psych classes. People, bugs. Step back far enough, it’s all the same. I did a midterm paper on the cult. Honestly, I was kinda sweet on the D.A. He came to the university and lectured us about the case. Real sexy older guy. I wasn’t paying much attention to what he said, but luckily my dorm mate was pathological about taking notes. Anyhow, what they did was lure kids from parks and concerts. The Old Man sent his followers to train stations and bus depots on the lookout for runaways, war vets, anybody down and out and desperate for a meal, a place to crash. The Family brought ’em here, to the ranch.
—And then?
—And then? She smiled and threw back her head so her hair fanned over one shoulder. —I dunno. Mostly sat around eating peyote buttons and reading those anti-establishment pamphlets Father wrote by the bushel. Fucking and dancing to wild flute music. Some of the visitors converted, joined the cause. The shit that went down in Portland—
