6
The LifeFlight helicopter had become a noisy speck in the distance. I wiped my brow and turned back to the scene to find Russ by the cornfield with one of the state troopers. His bushy eyebrows lifted as he got his first good look at me since crawling out from under the truck.
My coveralls were coated with a mix of road grime, fuel, and blood. I reeked of gasoline and oxygenated iron.
“You look like shit, Mel.”
Not that he looked much better. “Nice to see you too.” I leaned forward, resting my hands against my knees, and took a deep breath. “They find our missing passenger?”
The grim look on his face told the story. “Nothing we could do for her. One in a million shot. Landed headfirst against a big rock in that field,” he said, holding his hands a couple of feet apart. “Caved in her head like a rotten melon.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “Otherwise she’d have probably made it. All that corn cushioned the impact.”
“We need to go in and recover?”
He shook his head. “Coroner’s on the way. Troopers are marking off the scene, getting pictures and all before they take her.” The protocols changed dramatically, turning into a full-blown investigation whenever fatalities were involved. He nodded toward the semi. “How’s our guy?”
I looked back in the direction the chopper had gone. “Stable for now but there was internal bleeding. If he lives, it’ll be without his legs.”
“Damn shame,” Russ said.
There wasn’t much left to say. We both turned silently, taking stock of the scene. Troopers had already marked off the spot where this cascade of calamities had begun and were getting photos of what was left of the first victim, smeared across the opposite side of Highway 40. The fire battalion chief was coming from there, headed in our direction. At a scene this big, the chief always shows up.
Our work was mostly done at this point; another squad was looking after the truck driver, who was mostly just shaken up. He’d had a front row seat to the whole horrific mess, and the troopers were going to have a lot of questions once he’d settled down.
“You two all right?” the chief asked. Any lingering displeasure from our earlier talk about missing my shift was lost in the chaos around us.
“Highway Patrol’s got one a hell of a mess to sort out, but for our part we’re good,” I answered for both of us. I nodded toward the scene across the highway. “What’s their thinking?” Not that it mattered to us, but we were curious as to how this catastrophe started.
“Cops think the BMW driver was speeding, but the guy he hit shouldn’t have been walking along the highway either. Driver drifted onto the shoulder at the wrong time. Probably on his phone.”
“That’ll be interesting,” I said. “Flight nurse said he’s a big accident lawyer out of Indy.”
Chief’s eyes widened. “You’re shitting me.” He turned back to where the troopers were working. “I don’t think they know that. None of their guys have been under the trailer to tag the vehicle yet, not until hazmat’s cleaned it up.” He pointed toward the trooper I’d spoken with when we first arrived. “Be sure you let the on-scene commander know the driver’s ID,” he said, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Good work today, Tiny.” The chief acted like he wanted to say more, but instead left me with a pained look that didn’t quite register in the moment. I’d find out why later.
Back at the station, I shucked off my utilities and threw them into a biohazard bag. There’d be no cleaning them. I stood under a steaming shower for what felt like hours, washing away the grime and gore and general tension. I could feel my body go slack under the steady stream of hot water, the adrenaline flushing out of my system with the dull woosh of each heartbeat. I wanted nothing more now than to curl up under a blanket and sleep. If things stayed quiet for a while, I might be able to do just that.
It was after I got out of the shower and opened up my locker when I learned what the battalion chief’s odd look had been about earlier. An envelope had been slipped inside, which I opened with more than a little trepidation.
My heart pounded as I unfolded the contents, a single page on department letterhead. That was rarely good, and this wasn’t an exception:
Disciplinary Action: 1) Failure to report for duty, 2) Failure to wait for secure scene (third offense).
It’s not worth recounting the specifics. I crumpled onto a bench, still wrapped in a towel. They were suspending me without pay for a solid month, signed off by the battalion chief and the union rep.
I knew it was bullshit, but what could I say? Sorry, Chief, but that plane crash I told you about? Totally not an airplane. And then I had these visitors . . .
There was no arguing my way out of this.
I pulled on a fresh pair of coveralls and looked up and down the empty women’s locker room. Being the only chick on shift, I had the place to myself. I opened my backpack and fingered the velvet bag inside, pondering its contents.
I’d been with the department long enough to where burnout was becoming a threat. Do this job long enough and you’ll eventually reach that point. You either move on to something else, or stay with it and become part of the furniture. Like Russ.
A burned-out medic can be as dangerous as a rookie; sometimes more so. I’d known for a while that the time for a change was coming; the question had always been what that would look like. Going back to finish vet school would take a lot of work and even more money, and I’d been out of it for so long that it’d be like starting over. Likewise, selling the farmhouse was an option that I couldn’t bring myself to consider, even though Mom and Dad had been gone for years. And though I’d sought a promotion, that desire had always been tempered with a healthy skepticism of moving up into management. This letter put the nail in that coffin.
I reached into the pouch and pulled out the blank crystal, again being careful to grip it by its edges and not accidentally set off a chain of events that couldn’t be undone. But whatever came next, I knew I didn’t want this anymore.
For the last several years my life had been consumed by work, either tending to what was left of the farm or rolling with the rescue squad. First-responder life isn’t very conducive to dating, what with the overnight hours and constantly rotating shifts. Think it’s hard to stay in a relationship that way? Try starting one in the first place. Eligible men tend to find other ways to amuse themselves after a few consecutive weekends of their dates not showing up.
I had no family ties left, no real relationships outside of the firehouse, and now even that was being taken away. This was a chance for a clean slate, a way to get out from under the battalion chief’s thumb, maybe for good.
“I’m too young to feel this old,” I muttered. Did that come from desire, or desperation? Did it matter?
I checked the clock on the wall. Less than six hours to deadline. Oh, what the hell . . .
I touched the crystal’s face and the silhouette of a blank handprint appeared. I pressed my palm against the glass.
It was all I could do to keep my composure and finish my shift. It was a quiet night, not a single run after the carnage on 40. I’d have welcomed another mass casualty event; it would’ve kept my mind off of the whole unjustified mess. I was mad at the station, the union, and myself.
This is what I got for doing the right thing? I could’ve passed the scene right by and no one would’ve been the wiser, including me. If anyone had come asking questions later, it would’ve been easy to chalk it up to fatigue.
Part of me was equally angry with my extraterrestrial visitors, which sounds peevish but it’s the truth. Of all the places they could’ve been, why’d they have to cross my path? What was so special about Nowhere, Indiana? It brought to mind the folklore of missing and/or mutilated cattle associated with strange lights in the sky. Most of the cows around here were of the dairy variety, so unless there was a galactic shortage of fresh milk, that didn’t explain their presence.
Of course it had been an accident; same as the one we’d just cleaned up. That lawyer hadn’t wanted to hit that hapless vagrant on the side of the road, but a moment’s inattention had set off a gruesome chain of events. What might have happened to the ship I’d come across? Clearly they hadn’t intended to crash-land in the woods near my house, but here we were.
Serendipity, a fifty-dollar word for random events that play out in beneficial ways, like hitting the lottery with a ticket you found on the sidewalk. Was this going to be beneficial?
It was hard to see how it couldn’t be. I didn’t feel all that special, but these “emissaries” thought differently. They’d invited me to join a rather exclusive club. Would I be the only human in it? That was a little intimidating, though the two who’d contacted me would’ve been impossible to distinguish from humans if they hadn’t told me.
I spent the remaining hours of my shift on a La-Z-Boy in the common area, zoning out on TV with the rest of the crew. Hilariously enough, one of the guys put on Men in Black. I had to leave the room after the first ten minutes, and no doubt everyone thought they knew what was up. I’d just been suspended and they must have figured I didn’t want to talk about it. They were only half right. Not a one of them could’ve suspected this might be the last time they’d ever see me.
How would they handle my disappearance? I wondered as I pulled up to the darkened farmhouse. Other than my truck’s headlamps, a single light on the porch was the only source of illumination. I was halfway expecting to find a flying saucer parked in the front yard, and was kind of disappointed to find both it and the house were empty.
Inside, I flipped on every light as I made my way upstairs. Having the place all to myself now, I’d taken to leaving most everything on. Funny how we humans can be about what might be lurking in the dark. I didn’t know when my visitors would return, only that they would. The crystal slate was blinking steadily like a homing beacon, a reminder that I’d put something irreversible into motion.
Not knowing what else to do, I began packing for an extended trip. With no idea of what kind of climate to expect, and no clue as to what clothing might be culturally appropriate, I grabbed whatever would feel comfortable and began shoving it all into a duffel bag.
I moved on to my parents’ room and opened the small safe in their closet. After all this time, that remained the only reason I’d ever set foot in their space and it still felt like I was violating their privacy.
The deed to their—my—property sat in a fat legal envelope on top of an old cigar box. I removed them both from the safe and sat on the edge of the bed. I hadn’t opened that box since Dad died. Almost six years gone, why did I still feel the need to compartmentalize?
I brushed aside a thin layer of dust and lifted the lid. Inside was filled with pictures going back to my childhood, the small mementos of daily life that had been the most important to Mom. She’d passed a few years before Dad, and putting together this collection had been one of her final acts.
“A house is only a house,” she’d once said, “filled with stuff that won’t mean anything after we’re gone. Experiences are what matters. That’s what you keep with you, that can’t be taken away.” And this frayed old cigar box held the physical record of her most treasured experiences.
A few trinkets were loosely arranged around the edges. My first baby tooth, in a tiny silver jar. An engagement ring which had belonged to my great-grandmother. A cheap plastic bead necklace we had made together when I was in kindergarten. I pushed them aside and lifted out a handful of yellowed photos. Vacations to Florida, high school and college graduations, an epically miserable road trip to Yellowstone (to be fair, I was only twelve), and a bunch of pictures she must have taken when I wasn’t looking. It was mundane stuff, mainly of me and Dad doing things like trying to cook for her (I wasn’t great, but he was worse), working in the barn, feeding the cattle, riding in his lap on the tractor, and one of me tending to an injured bird I’d found on our doorstep. All highlights from the millions of little moments that make up a life together.
And here I sat, about to leave it all for who knew what. It felt like I owed her and Dad an apology. My first instinct had been to take Mom’s memory box with me, but it was hers, not mine. I placed it back in the safe, locking it away for an unknown future.
I shouldered my bag, took the big legal envelope that held my last official connection to home, and headed downstairs. As I rounded the base of the stairway, I stumbled and dropped everything to the floor.
There they stood in the living room, like a pair of alabaster sculptures. Ol’ Blue Eyes and Green Eyes. I grabbed at my chest and caught my breath. “Don’t you two know how to use the doorbell?”
Green answered. “We apologize for causing you any discomfort. We assumed that you understood we mean you no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Is this what I can expect in the future? Aliens appearing out of thin air at random?”
“There may be some who do that, but over time they will adapt to your particular social customs,” Blue Eyes said, “like ringing the doorbell.”
I could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck. Expected or not, their sudden presence was unnerving. “How is it you two keep appearing in my house? Do you beam in with some kind of transporter, like Star Trek?”
Green Eyes turned to the foyer, somewhat puzzled. “We opened the door.”
“Next time use that doorbell. It’s the little plastic button on the right.” I moved past them to the picture window in the living room and peered into the front yard. The porch light didn’t offer much, but it was enough to see there was nothing parked outside. “How’d you get here? You didn’t just walk in from the woods.”
“Our vehicle is in your yard, out by the tree line,” Blue said. “It is cloaked to avoid any undesired attention.”
That was more like Trek than they could know. “Undesired attention . . .” I muttered while searching for signs of it. “So it’s invisible?”
“For now,” Green said. “At idle power, there is more than enough energy in the system to enable the electromagnetic camouflage.”
I whistled. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“It is not as fantastic as you suppose. Your own military is working on similar technology. Theirs is still quite crude in comparison, but they are on the right track, as you might say.”
“So what do we do from here? Is this the part where you lower your shields, or whatever, and take me aboard your flying saucer?”
Green Eyes smiled disarmingly. They were indeed good at this emissary stuff. “The next steps are going to seem rather mundane. We have been researching your local property statutes, and it will be necessary to ‘take care of business,’ as you might say. It appears you have been thinking about this as well.” He nodded at the envelope on the floor by my duffel bag.
“Not nearly enough,” I said. What to do about the house? I couldn’t simply abandon it. “I can’t let the farm go to seed. The house needs looked after, lawn needs mowed, brush will need clearing.” I was thinking it through on the fly. “It’s not like I can ask the neighbors to look after the place for a few years.”
“It is not,” Blue Eyes agreed. He pointed to my old iPad on a side table. “We took the liberty of making some preliminary arrangements on your behalf.”
I picked up the tablet, which showed a directory of property management firms. I shouldn’t have been surprised that they could do an internet search as well as anyone else. I noticed one of the selections was highlighted. “What kind of arrangements?”
“There is an establishment which can take care of your property during your absence, for however long you require. You simply allow for regular charges to your bank account. As part of your compensation, we will ensure that you maintain sufficient funds.”
“We’ll need to do the same for property taxes,” I said. They weren’t kidding about this part feeling mundane, but it was important. “If I don’t keep up with those, the county will eventually take over the farm. I’d like to have a home to come back to,” I said, assuming I eventually could and having no idea if that would be the case.
Another smile from Green Eyes. “That was somewhat easier. We have taken care of your property tax obligations for the foreseeable future.”
“Taken care of? How? They’re billed retroactively.” Not to mention the damned rates went up all the time.
“While property management requires physical interaction and timely payment,” he explained, “government tax obligations are easier for us to manipulate.”
“Manipulate,” I repeated. “In what way?”
“They are managed within a computerized recordkeeping system that is rather crude, even by the most advanced human standards. Your property has been removed from their records, and will remain transparent to the authorities until such time as you may elect to return.”
So I did have that option, but at the moment I was more impressed with their hacking skills. “What about other government databases?” I’d already sent my resignation letter to the firehouse, but it was only one of many official loose ends to tie up.
“Completely removed,” Green Eyes said with a certain satisfaction. He seemed to get a kick out of pulling one over on the establishment. “If you decide to return, your existence will be restored as if nothing occurred.”
I was warming up to him. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. And just let me say that if you ever wanted to set up shop here on Earth, you could become a very wealthy man.”
“Wealth is a concept which you’ll find to be somewhat malleable in our culture,” Blue Eyes said.
“So people—or whoever—in the Union don’t care about money?”
“Most do not. Some do. One or two in particular.” They traded a look that told me there was much more to that story. I had the feeling there’d be a steep learning curve. In time I’d eventually learn how right, and how wrong, I was.