Rhubarb (12 page)

“Now, we can’t go into the technical details, like the exact
gear you prepared or the route you took. But we can discuss some generalities.
You had to prepare for several days and nights in a very harsh environment.”

“It took over a year to prepare. I got desert survival
training, learned stealth and evasion techniques from a former Army sniper, and
I trained my body for the strenuous walking, crawling, and deprivation. I
disciplined myself to stay still for hours under very uncomfortable conditions.”

“What did you hope to achieve?”

“I am not a spy. I am a U.S. citizen and a patriot. But what
disturbs me are the lies, the secrecy, the denials. The government spends over fifty
billion a year out there, paid mostly to Lockheed, Raytheon, Bechtel, and other
major defense contractors, with little accountability. That ethic might have
been appropriate during the Cold War, but it doesn’t fly in this Internet age.
I planned to get in, transmit as much video and audio as possible, and get
out.”

“You transmitted the data live?”

“I had adapted a satellite phone to upload everything
straight to a secure server. I didn’t want to be caught with any recordings on
my person.”

“What was your intention for all this data?”

“I could have streamed it all straight to the Internet, but
I would have been caught a lot faster. So I collected it. I wanted to use that
information to campaign for a new openness from the U.S. government and the
defense industry. They need to acknowledge that we are not simpletons to be
protected, but that we have a right to know. I’m not talking about needing to
know the alloy formulas for new aircraft frames, but I want to know that the
tax dollars spent in my name aren’t being wasted—or worse, used to develop
unethical weapons systems, like the next Manhattan Project. Or even worse than
that, used to protect me from myself.”

“You’re talking about positive knowledge of
extraterrestrials and the use of alien technology.”

“In so many words.”

“I’ll ask the question that everyone wants to know: Did you
see evidence of aliens or alien technology?”

“If I did, Lee, it was already folded into the designs of
the aircraft I saw. But, no, I didn’t see anything conclusively alien. However,
I never entered any of the buildings or underground facilities. I stayed on the
surface and never got closer than about half a mile from any infrastructure,
runways, or radar stations. But I still witnessed some pretty amazing stuff.”

“We’re all anxious to hear about it. After this break, we’ll
find out more about Chris’s amazing few days and nights inside Area 51, and the
harrowing story of his eventual capture. You won’t want to miss a second of
this. Stay up with us.
Beyond Insomnia
.”

~ * * * ~

Martin pulled the truck onto the side of the dirt road under
a pink sunrise. Across the cattle guard, and down the lane, the tail of the
Skylark peeked out from the trailer’s driveway. Martin gave himself one last
chance to bug out, then shut off the engine. A neighbor’s mutt scampered out to
the cattle guard to greet him, and after a couple of barks and a pat on the
head, it accompanied Martin to the porch.

The door hung open behind a screen door. Inside, in the
shadows, a man lay feet up in the recliner.

“I wondered when you’d show up,” said a voice unused to
talking. Stewart cleared his throat, and then said, “Heard you were in town
night before last.”

“May I come in?” asked Martin.

Martin expected Stewart to be squatting in miserable piles
of dirty dishes and festering laundry, but things had been pretty squared away.
Whether due to the kindness of neighbors or Stewart’s own competence, Martin
was relieved not to have to feel that extra layer of sorry for the man.

“Can’t decide if you’re too smart or too stupid for your own
good,” said Stewart.

“Probably too stupid,” said Martin, taking a seat on the
couch. “I can’t sleep. I don’t know if I’m responsible or even if there’s
anything wrong, but I feel like I need to put things right.”

“That’s the stupid talking,” said Stewart. “Especially if
you found yourself out at Doris Solberg’s place.”

“You came to me first. Don’t forget.”

“I was distraught, not in my right mind,” said Stewart.

“I don’t believe that,” said Martin. “I think you have a
pretty good idea of what Doris told me. And after what you asked the other
night…”

Stewart laughed, a cynical, mocking laugh that quickly
turned to coughing. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he sputtered
as he recovered.

“You don’t think Cheryl went to Boise, do you?” said Martin.

“Get out of here.”

“Please,” said Martin.

“Leave now,” said Stewart.

“Dammit, you need my help,” said Martin.

Stewart snapped the recliner’s footrest down with alarming
force. He rose to every inch he could muster of his once-formidable height.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” he asked.

“I only want to help Cheryl,” said Martin.

Stewart’s eyes flicked to the front door, then settled hard
on Martin.

Martin jerked and snuffled awake at the sound of brakes. The
semi had come from the south on 360, and its blinker signaled a turn west onto
15. Green truck, white trailer. Tri-Mountain Freight, not that that meant
anything to Martin. It turned out under a blast of black exhaust. Martin
guessed the truck would continue into Brixton, but it veered into the far
entrance of Herbert’s Corner, the one past the diesel pumps.

Martin scooted up in the bucket seat of his Subaru and
watched the truck disappear around the building into the truck lot. He wiped
the sleep out of the corners of his eyes and started his car. He parked in one
of the spots on the side of the building with a view of the lot, got out,
opened the hatchback, and pretended to rummage.

The driver of the green semi was a broad-shouldered,
narrow-hipped man with enough facial hair for two broad-shouldered men. He
hoisted up the waist of his pants as he neared the diner door.

Since Martin had arrived in Brixton on Saturday night, every
driver had gone straight to the restroom, first thing, without exception. About
half had used a stall, and the others had ignored Martin as he used a urinal
alongside them. Martin cringed at the noises this new driver made behind the
partitions, but they sounded more or less human.

Lorie rolled her eyes as Martin took a seat at the counter.
“Another one? Why don’t I give you my dress and you can go take his order?” she
said.

“I don’t have the legs for it,” said Martin. “Here he
comes.”

The driver strolled in, hitched up his pants again, and took
a seat at a free table.

“Have you seen him before?” asked Martin.

“Be right there, hon,” Lorie called, then to Martin said, “A
couple times. I think.”

“What do you think? Is he?”

“I don’t know. But I’m beginning to have my doubts about
you,” said Lorie. She poured him a cup of coffee and left to take the driver’s
order.

“What did he order?” Martin asked as she hooked the slip on
the rail at the kitchen window.

“None of your business,” said Lorie.

“Did you ask him if he likes rhubarb pie?”

“For the last time, I am not askin’ anyone that. What would
you suggest I do if they try to order some?” She waved over to the display case
of muffins, cobblers, cream pies, meringues, and a few melancholy fruit pies.
As she had pointed out before, it contained decidedly no rhubarb anything.

Martin nursed a coffee and a side of hash browns as the
trucker ate. He tried not to get caught staring as the driver paid at the till
and then strolled out into the sun. Martin tossed a five on the counter and
waved to a disapproving Lorie.

The truck rolled out of Herbert’s Corner toward Brixton,
filling the blue sky with its own personal thunderclouds of exhaust. Martin
counted to sixty and followed. He stayed back at least a quarter mile,
following his self-imposed rules. Heading west on 15, he’d go only as far as
the county line, Hansers Road, about twenty miles. East, he’d go to the wind
farm. North on 360, he’d drive as far as the Placer’s Homestead historical
marker. He hadn’t followed anyone south yet, but he guessed he’d go as far as
the turn to the Kiln Lake National Wildlife Refuge. Roughly the boundaries of
Big Thunder Valley.

The truck stubbornly headed west. Five miles, and then ten.
At Hansers Road, Martin put on his blinker and let this one go.

A few minutes later, he was back by the Herbert’s Corner
propane tank, where he could watch the junction inconspicuously. He shook his
Diet Mountain Dew cup; even the ice had deserted him a long time ago.

On his way into the store, he counted the trucks. The orange
one was still there, and the blue one, and the black-and-red one. But he had
missed the yellow one leaving.

“Martin, what do you think you’re doing?” Eileen called, and
flicked ash off her cigarette onto the ground by the back door.

“When did you get in?” asked Martin.

“Lorie says you’ve been here all night chasing drivers.”

“It’s my day off.”

“Hell of a way to spend it,” said Eileen.

“I went back to talk to Stewart a couple days ago,” said
Martin.

“I heard,” said Eileen.

“If he thinks Cheryl’s in trouble, he’s not doing much about
it.”

“Maybe there’s nothing he can do,” said Eileen.

“I can’t believe that,” said Martin. “I’m going to find one
of these…” He lowered his voice. “…these aliens, and I’m going to do whatever I
have to do to get her back from them.”

“Even if you find one, what makes you think he’ll know what
you’re talking about, let alone have anything to do with it?”

“I don’t know, I thought…”

“I know I took you out to Doris’s. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
But what she didn’t tell you—if you want to believe it—is that no one could
tell them apart from humans, except Herbert Stamper. They say Herbert would
point at one guy or another and say, ‘Yep, he’s one,’ or ‘Nope.’ Same with the
trucks.”

“How could he tell?” asked Martin.

“Doris’d tell you it’s because he was one of them.”

“Didn’t you say she…and he…were…you know?” He twirled a
finger.

“They were,” said Eileen.

“Do you believe it?” asked Martin.

Eileen considered her nearly finished cigarette, dropped it
in a five-gallon bucket of sand, and blew out one last breath of smoke. “I
didn’t know Herbert that well, but I admit, after a while I got a feelin’ that
things were a little weirder ’round here than they had a right to be. Don’t
know how else to explain it.”

“But if there are…alien…truckers, why wouldn’t they know
about Cheryl?”

“You said it yourself,” said Eileen. “They’re truckers. They
aren’t all in cahoots. The reason we can’t tell them apart from people is that
they’re no different. They come in here to eat, rest, visit a spell, have some
coffee, do their paperwork, and get on their way. Nothing sinister, nothing
special.”

“You’re saying that Herbert’s Corner is just a truck stop?”

Eileen smirked. “I gotta help Lorie get ready for the
breakfast rush.”

“One of them might be willing to help me find Cheryl, maybe
give me a ride.”

“I think you oughta be careful,” said Eileen.

~ * * * ~

That evening, Martin hurried back to his Subaru with an
armload of snacks and more Diet Mountain Dew, as much to hear the start of
Beyond
Insomnia
as to make sure he didn’t miss any trucks coming through the
junction. But there wasn’t much chance of that. Trucks were few and far between
on a Sunday night.

Martin wondered if after all this was done—when Cheryl had
returned and everything was put right again—if it would qualify him to be a
guest for Lee Danvers. He had always liked to imagine the “always-on-the-move
BI Bunker” to be some sort of tricked-out RV with military-grade stealth
technology, but Lee probably broadcast from some studio back East somewhere.

From the outside, it probably looked like any other
anonymous office in a business park. He’d be met at the door by a producer who
would lead him down a hall lined with framed promotional posters into a softly
lit green room with potted plants, a couple of couches, and maybe a counter
with a tray of cookies, bottled water, and a pot of coffee. One of the
evening’s other guests would be there. Maybe someone who worked for NASA who
had been ordered by men in black to keep the true nature of Jupiter’s moon
Europa a secret. Or maybe a Wiccan priestess who claimed that the rocks of
Stonehenge had been levitated into place. Maybe there’d be chocolate chip
cookies, good ones almost as big as your face.

Lee would sweep into the room like a benevolent lord to
introduce himself. With him would be X-Ray, BI’s notoriously anonymous, but
extremely competent, broadcast engineer. Lee would graciously spend a few
minutes chitchatting like an old friend, and X-Ray would make sure Martin knew
how to talk into a microphone.

A few minutes later, he’d be in the studio having a pair of
headphones fitted over his ears and a microphone boomed a couple of inches from
his lips.

“Look around at where you are right now, Waker Nation,” Lee
would begin, “because you’ll never want to forget where you were and what you
were doing when you heard this interview. The man in our studio tonight is soon
to be a household name. He’s a former account representative for a second-rate
hardware concern, but now a renowned expert on extraterrestrial hunting and
author of the upcoming books
Snaring ET: How to Build the Mother of All
Mousetraps
and
Among Us: A Love Story
, soon to be a Lifetime
original movie. Martin Wells, welcome to the Bunker.”