“This man is in perfect health. Aside from the ghastly bump on his head, there is nothing wrong with him. I checked his entire body for external flashover. His heart is beating normally. I’d never have guessed he was struck by lightning. In fact, I don’t believe he was. Please, excuse me. Gina, take this to billing.”
The emergency physician’s words left Harry and Lester perplexed after what they had witnessed earlier at the SCANTV studio. A sobbing Pam was relieved. Dave’s diagnosis was a small comfort to her in perhaps the darkest moment of her life. While they had waited for the doctor to complete his examination of Dave, Lester took no effort in ignoring Pam’s hysteria. He had grown accustomed to her raving. On the ride to the hospital, Lester was wondering how appropriate it would be, for his sanity and her own good, to knock Pam out. He deferred to peace, and eventually the raving became background noise. Harry, on the other hand, had to work hard to curtail his natural instinct to give Pam a hug.
Lester was incredulous. “I think we need a second opinion. How could you be fine after getting walloped by the most fucked-up bolt of lightning I’ve ever seen?”
It was times like these, after seeing something that wasn’t hinted at in the mission briefing, when Lester wished management would give up just a little more intelligence to the guys in the trenches.
“Our eyes often lie. But in this case, I understand your confusion. It wasn’t I who was struck.” Dave too looked mournful.
“Dave, Missy wasn’t struck by lightning,” Pam tried to explain. She was in the midst of an interval of shock after coming down from a recent bout of hyperventilation.
“I know what happened to Missy. I wasn’t speaking of her.” Dave wrapped his arms around Pam. Grief was their stifling blanket.
The hospital was especially loathsome for Harry. It seemed like such a stark place for someone to spend his last vital moments, surrounded by the sick and moaning. The waiting room that night was full of human beings in various states of discomfort. A mother held her screaming baby. A man holding his right eye socket rocked back and forth. There was a pale woman holding a bucket of vomit. The nurses tried hard to brighten the environment with their Technicolor scrubs that did little to lift the pall of corporeal pain. People clinging to life don’t typically complain about the milieu. Do they? Harry imagined being hit by a Mack truck and telling the paramedics as they arrived to save his dwindling life, “Could you please take me to the top of the Space Needle? In all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never been to the top of the Space Needle. Is it worth it even?”
Harry snapped out of it and chimed in. “Dave, I know you’ve had a horrible night, but we really need to talk with you. Maybe we could hit a diner. We’ll buy you breakfast, a cup of coffee. After what’s happened, we don’t really feel comfortable letting you out of our sight. As a matter of fact, you’ve probably been anticipating the conversation we’re about to have.”
“As long as Pam can be included, I’m with you.”
In another part of the country, on the street outside the home of Claude and Agnes Bullock, an out-of-state car pulled up. Two well-dressed men exited the car and made their way up to the front door. Claude was waiting for them. The Bullock’s lived on a relatively quiet street. Any car stopping in front of his house at any hour rarely went unnoticed. Before the men had a chance to ring the doorbell, Claude opened the door.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
One of the men pulled out his credentials and smiled. The smile was magnanimous, but Claude read a vaguely malicious twinkle in the eyes.
“Mr. Bullock, we represent the federal government, and we would like to speak with you about your son, David.”
“David isn’t here. I don’t know where he is. It’s been many years.”
“We know where he is.”
After a moment of bewilderment Claude said, “Please, come in.”
Claude prayed for David every day. Claude refused to accept the visions David was having. David in turn refused to believe in Claude’s defined view of God. He turned his back on what was a dominating influence on his life. This was the break that split the two men apart irrevocably. The pain of losing David had never subsided. Claude had rehearsed the moment of David’s return to his life over and over in his head swapping various resolutions. Now that the moment had arrived, Claude found himself in the unfamiliar territory of the real. He struggled to rein in his emotions.
The men followed Claude to the dining room where he offered them both places to sit.
“Can I offer you gentlemen anything to drink—tea, coffee?”
“No thank you,” said the talkative one. “Is your wife here?”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. I didn’t get your names.”
“My name is Chamberlain. This is Agent Jordan. We know where David is, and we believe we have a way to cure him of his disease.”
Along this clinical path was not where Claude was expecting the discussion to go.
“Unless there has been some incredible medical breakthrough, it’s unlikely that you could cure him. Please, tell me where you found him. How is he doing? When can we see him?”
“We want to take you to him.”
Claude’s intuition about these men was beginning to appear spot on. Everything Chamberlain said could have come through a phone call. Why didn’t they bring David? Why the interest in curing him? None of it seemed right.
“Please, let me wake my wife. She’ll want to hear this.”
As Claude began to walk away, the one called Jordan quickly reached out and firmly grabbed Claude’s wrist. Chamberlain looked at Claude and shook his head stoically.
“You may not be aware of the fact, Mr. Bullock, that you too possibly suffer from the same condition as your son does-- as did your father.”
Harry, Lester, Pam, and Dave walked into the Shoreline Denny’s at 1:53 a.m. on Saturday morning. Lester picked the place. The car ride over to the diner was filled with silence. The atmosphere of the restaurant nearly overflowing with people voluntarily fulfilling the fundamental need to eat at such an hour was just the vibe Harry was looking for. Lester vetoed the hostess’s original seating assignment and found a more suitable booth for the odd-looking party. In a way they fit right into their new environment since there really was no mold to fit into. A pile of darkly-clad teenagers dominated a corner booth. It subconsciously struck Lester how large almost all of them were. Growing up, Lester remembered there being one or two fat kids in his class. Even most of the linemen on his high school football team wouldn’t have been considered fat. But here was a whole group of corpulent teenagers. The skinny fellow in the group was the exception. Harry noticed what was most likely a touring rock band in another booth. It looked like they hadn’t showered in more than a couple days. They had no drugs and no groupies—just an inexpensive meal after a show that probably five people attended. Pam meditated on an older balding man sitting alone at one of the central tables pretending to read the paper. His eyes appeared to light up when the waitress arrived to warm up his coffee. Dave ignored it all. Nothing in his mind could eclipse the significance of his recent loss—his longtime friend, Ru.
Lester ordered, “Moons Over My Hammy with grits, please.”
Pam only wanted water. Harry ordered coffee. Dave went without.
“Y’all are trying to make me look bad with my fourth meal here. My schedule is off.” Only Harry cracked the smallest of smiles.
“Should we really talk about this here?” asked Dave.
“It might not make a lot of sense to you, but we’re professionals, and one of us needs to eat,” came Lester’s response.
Harry added, “I’m not going to go into it, but from a tactical perspective, it actually works.”
Dave prepared himself for the line of questioning. Harry began.
“To reintroduce ourselves, I’m Hardy, and this is Agent Cohen. We represent a branch of the federal government that deals with paranormal activity.”
“Like the X Files,” Pam interrupted.
Harry laughed it off inside, but this was the game they were playing at the moment.
“Yes, like the X Files. Think of us as Mulder and Scully.”
Lester couldn’t resist. “You’re the redhead. You’re Scully.”
“Okay. I’m Scully. Whatever.”
Lester turned serious. “Dave, from what we’ve seen of your show and website, it seems you’re trying to send a signal to others like you. Are we on the right track here?”
“At first, I tried many different ways to reach out. The internet helped spread the message a little wider, but I mainly encountered people who wanted a laugh or people who truly had mental problems.”
“You don’t believe you have mental problems?”
“I do not believe I have mental problems any more than you believe you yourself have them. The show was a way to become even more visible to those I needed to connect with. I’m guessing you’re connected in some way with one side of the conflict, and you’re not a couple of network television junkies as you alluded to before. I’m hoping that you’re on our side.”
Lester was honest. “Dave, I’m not really sure which side we’re on at this point, but we have to know one thing from you in order to continue. Are you talking to someone who claims to be Ru or Ruahadavalat or who claims to contain this such-named entity? Or does the entity, Ruahadavalat, reside within your person? It is important that you are truthful in your answer.”
“Before I can answer, you are to tell me something. What is it?”
Harry and Lester were prepared for this request but were still surprised to actually hear it. They looked at each other a little spooked. Harry grabbed the reins and continued awkwardly not aware of what impact his words would have.
“Vros sends word that seven of the seventeen are in place and connected. They await further orders. The code word is simply ‘choice’.”
“I can tell you, Agents Hardy and Cohen, that you are indeed on the noble side. Unfortunately, the voice of Ru that was inside of me has been silenced—either completely extinguished I’m afraid or just extracted from me. I cannot help you.”
Suddenly, without a word, a spectacled youth pulled up a chair to the table.
“Son, do you see a sign anywhere that says, ‘Please sit your ass down wherever you like’? Because believe me—I’m not even close to being in the right mood for whatever you have to say. Leave, now!” Lester was milliseconds away from knocking off the kid’s glasses.
“Those guys over there at the entrance wanted me to tell you, Red, and the lady to leave the blonde guy and nothing bad will happen. I’m just the messenger.”
The kid quickly left. Standing at the entrance were four seriously dour individuals in dark suits. One of the men had etchings of welted up scar tissue on his face that formed an elaborate and gruesome pattern. Another one in a trench coat looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in decades. One was wearing sunglasses that were entirely too large for his head. Black eye make-up was caked onto the lone woman of the group giving her unusually large eyes even more apparent volume. Harry thought to himself, “Another shitty rock band.” The stare-down was in full progress.
“They have no idea who we are. Showing all your cards like that—this has to be a joke.” Lester was on the verge of laughter but still wishing some firepower was issued for the mission. Since it was diplomatic, both Harry and Lester were unarmed.
Pam wondered aloud, “Should we head for the emergency exit?”
“It’s pointless. We’d just meet them in the parking lot. Besides, I love a staring contest.” Lester already knew which two of the four he would be responsible for incapacitating if the situation called for it.
“I’ll go have a chat with them,” Harry volunteered. Lester wanted to join Harry, but had to remain with Dave. It was probably better with Harry as lead negotiator, since Lester’s negotiations tended to be less about talk and more about drawing blood.
Van Morrison’s “Moondance” floated through the air over the rowdy diners as Harry made his way to the claw machine full of stuffed animals. Harry felt very alive in moments of confrontation.
“The party is over, gang. You have all done a fantastic job making yourselves look very intimidating, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be enough for us to hand over our comrade. A—you didn’t tell us why you want him. B—you didn’t talk to us directly. C—we’re in a very public place.”
The horribly scarred man spoke. “If you choose to interfere, then you choose death. You choose the blood of everyone here on your hands.”
The rest of the group opened their jackets to reveal to Harry how heavily armed they were. Harry was impressed.
“Ok. You’re obviously serious about this. I can tell you, there are surveillance cameras that will capture your entire killing spree. You’re not going to be able to kill everyone in here; some will get away. But I can see you mean business, so let me go discuss this with my friends.”
“Send him over alone.”
Harry returned and sat down at the booth. “Let’s do it your way, ‘Cohen’. They’re each doubling up on MP5’s—multiple clips.”
“’My way’? I’m not seeing a ‘my way’ in this situation.”
“We can’t rush them, or they’re going to start shooting. I’ll go back over there like I’m going to continue negotiating and distract them enough to give you a chance to enter the fray. Dave, Pam, the minute ‘Cohen’ leaves, you get under the table.”
Harry stood up for the suicide mission when suddenly the restaurant lost power—the lights went out. Harry and Lester could barely see the gang of four moving towards them.
The scarred man boomed, “David Bullock, your protector is no longer here to save your flesh and your soul.”
“But I am!” a dark shadow a few booths over exclaimed as he stood up and revealed an orb blossoming in his right hand. Out of the orb, small spider-like automatons leapt towards the four attackers. The spiders latched on to each one injecting into them an unseen force. Each attacker instantly dropped to the ground, and the spiders returned the orb. The shadow moved towards David and company. Lester saw the yellowish eyes.
“Mr. Face.”
“We must hurry. Follow me at once.”
Dave recognized the being by another name. “Hrel.”
It was early Saturday morning in Somerset as two disheveled agents from the Chicago branch arrived at the Bullock residence. Delayed by a last minute assignment involving the re-education of a hedge fund manager, they were just then getting around to their latest red folder assignment. The two agents were delighted by the charming neighborhood and looking forward to an easy job. One agent rang the doorbell. The other one knocked. After two minutes without a response, one of the agents pulled out a torus-shaped tool and held it over the deadbolt and then the doorknob. They stepped inside. After a few minutes of searching the house, they hit a snag that required a call to management.
“They’re supposed to be here, right?”
The emergency physician’s words left Harry and Lester perplexed after what they had witnessed earlier at the SCANTV studio. A sobbing Pam was relieved. Dave’s diagnosis was a small comfort to her in perhaps the darkest moment of her life. While they had waited for the doctor to complete his examination of Dave, Lester took no effort in ignoring Pam’s hysteria. He had grown accustomed to her raving. On the ride to the hospital, Lester was wondering how appropriate it would be, for his sanity and her own good, to knock Pam out. He deferred to peace, and eventually the raving became background noise. Harry, on the other hand, had to work hard to curtail his natural instinct to give Pam a hug.
Lester was incredulous. “I think we need a second opinion. How could you be fine after getting walloped by the most fucked-up bolt of lightning I’ve ever seen?”
It was times like these, after seeing something that wasn’t hinted at in the mission briefing, when Lester wished management would give up just a little more intelligence to the guys in the trenches.
“Our eyes often lie. But in this case, I understand your confusion. It wasn’t I who was struck.” Dave too looked mournful.
“Dave, Missy wasn’t struck by lightning,” Pam tried to explain. She was in the midst of an interval of shock after coming down from a recent bout of hyperventilation.
“I know what happened to Missy. I wasn’t speaking of her.” Dave wrapped his arms around Pam. Grief was their stifling blanket.
The hospital was especially loathsome for Harry. It seemed like such a stark place for someone to spend his last vital moments, surrounded by the sick and moaning. The waiting room that night was full of human beings in various states of discomfort. A mother held her screaming baby. A man holding his right eye socket rocked back and forth. There was a pale woman holding a bucket of vomit. The nurses tried hard to brighten the environment with their Technicolor scrubs that did little to lift the pall of corporeal pain. People clinging to life don’t typically complain about the milieu. Do they? Harry imagined being hit by a Mack truck and telling the paramedics as they arrived to save his dwindling life, “Could you please take me to the top of the Space Needle? In all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never been to the top of the Space Needle. Is it worth it even?”
Harry snapped out of it and chimed in. “Dave, I know you’ve had a horrible night, but we really need to talk with you. Maybe we could hit a diner. We’ll buy you breakfast, a cup of coffee. After what’s happened, we don’t really feel comfortable letting you out of our sight. As a matter of fact, you’ve probably been anticipating the conversation we’re about to have.”
“As long as Pam can be included, I’m with you.”
---
In another part of the country, on the street outside the home of Claude and Agnes Bullock, an out-of-state car pulled up. Two well-dressed men exited the car and made their way up to the front door. Claude was waiting for them. The Bullock’s lived on a relatively quiet street. Any car stopping in front of his house at any hour rarely went unnoticed. Before the men had a chance to ring the doorbell, Claude opened the door.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
One of the men pulled out his credentials and smiled. The smile was magnanimous, but Claude read a vaguely malicious twinkle in the eyes.
“Mr. Bullock, we represent the federal government, and we would like to speak with you about your son, David.”
“David isn’t here. I don’t know where he is. It’s been many years.”
“We know where he is.”
After a moment of bewilderment Claude said, “Please, come in.”
Claude prayed for David every day. Claude refused to accept the visions David was having. David in turn refused to believe in Claude’s defined view of God. He turned his back on what was a dominating influence on his life. This was the break that split the two men apart irrevocably. The pain of losing David had never subsided. Claude had rehearsed the moment of David’s return to his life over and over in his head swapping various resolutions. Now that the moment had arrived, Claude found himself in the unfamiliar territory of the real. He struggled to rein in his emotions.
The men followed Claude to the dining room where he offered them both places to sit.
“Can I offer you gentlemen anything to drink—tea, coffee?”
“No thank you,” said the talkative one. “Is your wife here?”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. I didn’t get your names.”
“My name is Chamberlain. This is Agent Jordan. We know where David is, and we believe we have a way to cure him of his disease.”
Along this clinical path was not where Claude was expecting the discussion to go.
“Unless there has been some incredible medical breakthrough, it’s unlikely that you could cure him. Please, tell me where you found him. How is he doing? When can we see him?”
“We want to take you to him.”
Claude’s intuition about these men was beginning to appear spot on. Everything Chamberlain said could have come through a phone call. Why didn’t they bring David? Why the interest in curing him? None of it seemed right.
“Please, let me wake my wife. She’ll want to hear this.”
As Claude began to walk away, the one called Jordan quickly reached out and firmly grabbed Claude’s wrist. Chamberlain looked at Claude and shook his head stoically.
“You may not be aware of the fact, Mr. Bullock, that you too possibly suffer from the same condition as your son does-- as did your father.”
---
Harry, Lester, Pam, and Dave walked into the Shoreline Denny’s at 1:53 a.m. on Saturday morning. Lester picked the place. The car ride over to the diner was filled with silence. The atmosphere of the restaurant nearly overflowing with people voluntarily fulfilling the fundamental need to eat at such an hour was just the vibe Harry was looking for. Lester vetoed the hostess’s original seating assignment and found a more suitable booth for the odd-looking party. In a way they fit right into their new environment since there really was no mold to fit into. A pile of darkly-clad teenagers dominated a corner booth. It subconsciously struck Lester how large almost all of them were. Growing up, Lester remembered there being one or two fat kids in his class. Even most of the linemen on his high school football team wouldn’t have been considered fat. But here was a whole group of corpulent teenagers. The skinny fellow in the group was the exception. Harry noticed what was most likely a touring rock band in another booth. It looked like they hadn’t showered in more than a couple days. They had no drugs and no groupies—just an inexpensive meal after a show that probably five people attended. Pam meditated on an older balding man sitting alone at one of the central tables pretending to read the paper. His eyes appeared to light up when the waitress arrived to warm up his coffee. Dave ignored it all. Nothing in his mind could eclipse the significance of his recent loss—his longtime friend, Ru.
Lester ordered, “Moons Over My Hammy with grits, please.”
Pam only wanted water. Harry ordered coffee. Dave went without.
“Y’all are trying to make me look bad with my fourth meal here. My schedule is off.” Only Harry cracked the smallest of smiles.
“Should we really talk about this here?” asked Dave.
“It might not make a lot of sense to you, but we’re professionals, and one of us needs to eat,” came Lester’s response.
Harry added, “I’m not going to go into it, but from a tactical perspective, it actually works.”
Dave prepared himself for the line of questioning. Harry began.
“To reintroduce ourselves, I’m Hardy, and this is Agent Cohen. We represent a branch of the federal government that deals with paranormal activity.”
“Like the X Files,” Pam interrupted.
Harry laughed it off inside, but this was the game they were playing at the moment.
“Yes, like the X Files. Think of us as Mulder and Scully.”
Lester couldn’t resist. “You’re the redhead. You’re Scully.”
“Okay. I’m Scully. Whatever.”
Lester turned serious. “Dave, from what we’ve seen of your show and website, it seems you’re trying to send a signal to others like you. Are we on the right track here?”
“At first, I tried many different ways to reach out. The internet helped spread the message a little wider, but I mainly encountered people who wanted a laugh or people who truly had mental problems.”
“You don’t believe you have mental problems?”
“I do not believe I have mental problems any more than you believe you yourself have them. The show was a way to become even more visible to those I needed to connect with. I’m guessing you’re connected in some way with one side of the conflict, and you’re not a couple of network television junkies as you alluded to before. I’m hoping that you’re on our side.”
Lester was honest. “Dave, I’m not really sure which side we’re on at this point, but we have to know one thing from you in order to continue. Are you talking to someone who claims to be Ru or Ruahadavalat or who claims to contain this such-named entity? Or does the entity, Ruahadavalat, reside within your person? It is important that you are truthful in your answer.”
“Before I can answer, you are to tell me something. What is it?”
Harry and Lester were prepared for this request but were still surprised to actually hear it. They looked at each other a little spooked. Harry grabbed the reins and continued awkwardly not aware of what impact his words would have.
“Vros sends word that seven of the seventeen are in place and connected. They await further orders. The code word is simply ‘choice’.”
“I can tell you, Agents Hardy and Cohen, that you are indeed on the noble side. Unfortunately, the voice of Ru that was inside of me has been silenced—either completely extinguished I’m afraid or just extracted from me. I cannot help you.”
Suddenly, without a word, a spectacled youth pulled up a chair to the table.
“Son, do you see a sign anywhere that says, ‘Please sit your ass down wherever you like’? Because believe me—I’m not even close to being in the right mood for whatever you have to say. Leave, now!” Lester was milliseconds away from knocking off the kid’s glasses.
“Those guys over there at the entrance wanted me to tell you, Red, and the lady to leave the blonde guy and nothing bad will happen. I’m just the messenger.”
The kid quickly left. Standing at the entrance were four seriously dour individuals in dark suits. One of the men had etchings of welted up scar tissue on his face that formed an elaborate and gruesome pattern. Another one in a trench coat looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in decades. One was wearing sunglasses that were entirely too large for his head. Black eye make-up was caked onto the lone woman of the group giving her unusually large eyes even more apparent volume. Harry thought to himself, “Another shitty rock band.” The stare-down was in full progress.
“They have no idea who we are. Showing all your cards like that—this has to be a joke.” Lester was on the verge of laughter but still wishing some firepower was issued for the mission. Since it was diplomatic, both Harry and Lester were unarmed.
Pam wondered aloud, “Should we head for the emergency exit?”
“It’s pointless. We’d just meet them in the parking lot. Besides, I love a staring contest.” Lester already knew which two of the four he would be responsible for incapacitating if the situation called for it.
“I’ll go have a chat with them,” Harry volunteered. Lester wanted to join Harry, but had to remain with Dave. It was probably better with Harry as lead negotiator, since Lester’s negotiations tended to be less about talk and more about drawing blood.
Van Morrison’s “Moondance” floated through the air over the rowdy diners as Harry made his way to the claw machine full of stuffed animals. Harry felt very alive in moments of confrontation.
“The party is over, gang. You have all done a fantastic job making yourselves look very intimidating, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be enough for us to hand over our comrade. A—you didn’t tell us why you want him. B—you didn’t talk to us directly. C—we’re in a very public place.”
The horribly scarred man spoke. “If you choose to interfere, then you choose death. You choose the blood of everyone here on your hands.”
The rest of the group opened their jackets to reveal to Harry how heavily armed they were. Harry was impressed.
“Ok. You’re obviously serious about this. I can tell you, there are surveillance cameras that will capture your entire killing spree. You’re not going to be able to kill everyone in here; some will get away. But I can see you mean business, so let me go discuss this with my friends.”
“Send him over alone.”
Harry returned and sat down at the booth. “Let’s do it your way, ‘Cohen’. They’re each doubling up on MP5’s—multiple clips.”
“’My way’? I’m not seeing a ‘my way’ in this situation.”
“We can’t rush them, or they’re going to start shooting. I’ll go back over there like I’m going to continue negotiating and distract them enough to give you a chance to enter the fray. Dave, Pam, the minute ‘Cohen’ leaves, you get under the table.”
Harry stood up for the suicide mission when suddenly the restaurant lost power—the lights went out. Harry and Lester could barely see the gang of four moving towards them.
The scarred man boomed, “David Bullock, your protector is no longer here to save your flesh and your soul.”
“But I am!” a dark shadow a few booths over exclaimed as he stood up and revealed an orb blossoming in his right hand. Out of the orb, small spider-like automatons leapt towards the four attackers. The spiders latched on to each one injecting into them an unseen force. Each attacker instantly dropped to the ground, and the spiders returned the orb. The shadow moved towards David and company. Lester saw the yellowish eyes.
“Mr. Face.”
“We must hurry. Follow me at once.”
Dave recognized the being by another name. “Hrel.”
---
It was early Saturday morning in Somerset as two disheveled agents from the Chicago branch arrived at the Bullock residence. Delayed by a last minute assignment involving the re-education of a hedge fund manager, they were just then getting around to their latest red folder assignment. The two agents were delighted by the charming neighborhood and looking forward to an easy job. One agent rang the doorbell. The other one knocked. After two minutes without a response, one of the agents pulled out a torus-shaped tool and held it over the deadbolt and then the doorknob. They stepped inside. After a few minutes of searching the house, they hit a snag that required a call to management.
“They’re supposed to be here, right?”
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment