The recent barrage of UFO sightings, especially in the high desert, seems to have taken the country’s imagination by storm. From a smattering of strange lights in the hills, complaints of pre-collapse satellites falling to the ground, all the way to the kooky Goodrem’s claiming having been abducted by little green men, we’ve been hearing it all. We’ve even been inundated by groups of forty or fifty people seeing objects in the air over the salt flats in Deseret. Most sensible people have figured out that this is probably the Air Corps or Space Corps out playing with new toys, but a few propose that we’re being revisited by the aliens that they claim caused the Collapse almost two centuries ago.
Senate subcommittees in Tacoma have been called about this by Minority leader John Coleman who says that the Space Corps is hiding something. Senator Coleman said in a released statement, “Are we to believe that every witness talked to in every sighting is unreliable. The fact that both Corps responsible for our skies say every single person they’ve spoken to is untrustworthy is suspicious.”
“UFO mania in the High Desert!”
Eden Phillips for the Angelos Sentinel
August 20, 2190
Wildedale Township
Angelos Mountains, Califia
United Republics of Teivena
Unknown Reality
January 11 th , 2195 ESC
The last week had been hell. The first thing they had at the beginning of the week was a hell of a flash storm near the Maidenshroud Peaks surrounding the mountain town of Wildedale. The storm had lasted a few hours in the middle of the night. That wasn’t unusual in spring and fall, with them so high up, almost seven thousand feet. What was unusual was that it happened in the middle of winter with snow on the ground and had more water than snow. There was even a lightning strike – a weird green one.
That had been bad. Trees were knocked down near the ski lifts and in some of the smaller farms up in the high valleys. A tree had even landed on the cables but hadn’t damaged the pylons. Those were made tough when Wildedale first became a winter resort for the Angelinos from the coast. Frank from the Snow Valley resort was down here trying to poach people from the fire department as temp workers again for the repairs. It was the weekend now, and the tourists were pouring in from down the hill for their skiing fix.
The main lake hadn’t risen, which was a blessing, but the black ice on the roads that the minor flooding had caused was giving the tourists headaches. In turn, this gave him and the road maintenance departments major headaches. Due to the increased accidents, he had to call back several deputies from their days off. They had some troopers on the road up here, stopping people from heading up the mountain. Unfortunately, chains didn’t improve people’s driving skills, and they still had at least three accidents a day here.
“Boss,” his radio squawked. “Got a situation.”
He growled and looked out of the car into the Village shopping street.
“Henry, we’ve been over this,” he said. “Call me Sheriff or Sheriff Berger during tourist season.”
There was a burst of static, which he imagined as a sigh on the other side of the station’s radio. “Sheriff. We have a situation.”
“Which is it? Accident? A tourist lost another kid? Did someone’s house get broken into? Someone skipped without paying at the Badger?” he asked laconically as he watched the tourists mill around the snow-covered street in extremely expensive ski pants and cold-weather jackets.
“Not exactly. Some goats went missing around Frog Creek Ranch,” deputy Henry Peck continued. “Old man Raymond just chewed my ear off for ten minutes saying a there’s some sort of monster out there... Again.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Rhys Berger said without keying the radio as he felt a sudden headache coming on. Ewen Raymond was a cantankerous man with the weirdest ideas he’d ever seen. He had moved out to an old family ranch up Frog Creek on the other side of the peaks surrounding Wildedale about thirty years ago. Ewen was paranoid and a conspiracy nut, to name two of his faults, and had been both of his predecessors’ major sources of calls during slow times. Of course, that hadn’t slowed down when he had taken over eight years ago, but the old man knew not to call during tourist season.
“We got any deputies free for the drive out there?”
“Nah, Sheriff,” Henry continued. “I mean, you can come in and man the station, and I’ll head out there if you don’t want to deal with him. We got no one here and three drunks in the tank. Plus, we’re keeping tabs on the out-of-towner that Jen brought in from across the lake.”
Rhys squeezed the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Right. Right,” he said, turning the keys and hearing the whump-hiss as the propane ignited in the engine. Ten seconds later, he backed his truck out of the parking space. “We ever figure out where he’s from?” Poor guy had been in some sort of accident and had wandered to the road in the middle of the night. They had taken him to the hospital, where he still was knocked out. They’d been trying to find someone to contact to take care of him, but since he hadn’t woken up for a few days, they couldn’t ask him. His ID was all weird too, and the writing looked funny. The letters were more rounded, and there were several letters he didn’t recognize. Also, the man looked a bit like an Ink, but who knew these days? They were pretty reclusive, and you only saw them on tv.
“The ID’s all weird, but I called the Angelos PD down the hill this morning to see if they can contact the Incan Embassy,” Henry said.
“Thanks,” Rhys said. “Last thing we need is for one of them to get in trouble up here and have the Reps whining about international incidents.”
Forty minutes later, he’d been able to head through the winding roads up to Frog Creek. The woods looked the same as usual, but there was a weird feeling to them. It felt like someone or something was watching him. The radio station played a nice variation of Mobley’s “Cool Water,” a blend of western and jazz that hit the spot. He’d have to talk with Mike at the station to see if he could buy a copy on Tefifon. He’d gotten a player in his car last year, and music, where the radio signals didn’t reach, made the long trips down the mountain bearable.
Frog Creek Ranch was typical of the retirement farms around here. It was up in the high valleys where people usually camped among the trees. But, in this case, it was near Frog Pond, the only flat area for a few miles. The pond fed the eponymous creek that the ranch was named after. The patrol truck pulled up to the house surrounded by a small, well-kept fence. Off to the side were a barn and a small farmyard.
Ewen was outside staring at him as he pulled up. Old, crusty, and bearded, he looked like a caricature of a miner from a century ago when that used to be the major industry. He was dressed in blue jeans, a green flannel jacket, and a floppy prospector hat. He must’ve been standing outside for quite a while because his beard was frosted, and snow was on his hat.
“Sheriff! Sheriff Berger!” the old man yelled as he stomped up to the car. “You gotta stop them! They killed Betty, Veronica, and even Ethel!”
Rhys held his hands up as he got out of his truck and adjusted his cowboy hat on his sandy-blonde hair. “Whoa, whoa, Whoah!” he said. “Who got killed? I thought it was your goats?”
“That’s who got killed! It was a chupacabra! It ate my girls!”
“Ewen, calm down. It was coyotes or a bear,” an elderly woman called from the front door.
Rhys tipped his hat to her, “Morning, Nancy.”
The old man spun around and pointed at her. “It wasn’t no cay-yote, woman! It was big! It wasn’t no bear either. It’s winter. They’re sleeping! I seen the tracks, and they were like three feet long!” He grabbed at the sheriff’s hand. “I’ll show ya!”
“Morning, Sheriff Bergen,” the woman said tiredly. “Sorry about this.” Rhys shrugged to Mrs. Raymond and tipped his hat to her as she returned inside.
“When did it happen?” Rhys asked.
“Last night sometime,” Ewen said. “I went to feed them this morning, and they was dead,” he shook in anger. “Damned chupacabra got ‘em. It’s horrible.”
“Ok, mind showing me the crime scene?” he said and let the man take him to the barn. The door to the barn looked like it had been forced open. There were some large claw marks near the latching mechanism. Ok, that’s weird, he thought. Bear maybe? But, as he said, it’s winter.
“See! See! No cay-yote could force the barn open like this!” the old man crowed. He pushed into the barn, and it was a mess. The old man stood there amidst the carnage in both anger and triumph. “Tell me a cay-yote did this!”
The goat pen’s gate inside the barn had been pushed down, and blood was everywhere. The remains of the three goats were strewn about, with only horns and skinny feet here and there. On the ground, there were large claw marks dug into the hard-packed earth under the sawdust. Large singular claw marks that were about six inches long and deep in the dirt. The ground was packed too hard to keep tracks, but somehow these claw marks had penetrated it. Rhys pulled a camera from his pocket and began taking pictures of the entire scene.
The small chicken coop was left completely alone, as was the basket of feed for the animals, including older and odd vegetables for the now-deceased goats. Bears would normally have eaten everything, especially if it was awake in the dead of winter instead of hibernating. Maybe it was a pregnant female that hadn’t gotten enough food. This was a peculiar one, but he wasn’t an animal expert.
“You believe me, don’t you, Sheriff?” Ewen said, a bit less boisterous and smaller now. The older man looked at Rhys with sad and expectant eyes. It was a better look on him than the weird arrogance he usually displayed.
“We’ll find out what happened to your goats, Ewen,” Rhys said reassuringly. “Now you said there were tracks?” he asked, his derision before leaving him. If it was a bear, it was a really weird one, but at the moment, he wouldn’t be able to do much of anything. He’d have to get hold of the Forestry service after he had the photos developed at the station overnight.
The older man looked relieved, and his face relaxed imperceptibly as he headed out the back of the barn. The door pulled in and was held in place with a good spring. Deep claw marks were in the wood on the door frame and the latch, as if something had pulled it open and scratched it in the process. Rhys took another photo and had Ewen lead him outside.
“It was here!” Ewan declared and pointed to fresh snow. “Dammit! The snow must’ve covered it up!” the old man proclaimed as he frantically searched the patch of clear ground before the tree line.
“Snow does that, Ewen,” the sheriff said as he followed him into the lightly falling snow. Rhys looked around and saw broken branches on a few trees at a person’s height. He walked over and checked the branch. It was a new break. He looked around and saw a few further into the treeline. Then, following the sign of broken branches like he would a criminal, he found himself in a clearing. There was a little bit of blood on the ground, but what drew his attention were the large three-toed bird footprints in the snow. The sight chilled him even as he noticed the stillness of the forest around him. There was the feeling of being watched again.
Rhys took photos from a few angles and headed back to where Ewen was. The man was flitting about. “Hey, I know it was here,” he muttered.
“Mr. Raymond,” Rhys said quietly. “I got something. I need you and your wife to stay in your house for a while. I gotta call the station and get these photos processed. All right?”
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
“Did you catch it on film?” the old man said, suddenly cagey. “If you did, I get to sell those photos.”
“Ewen,” Rhys said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing so far. But I think it’s best if we get indoors.”
The man looked around suddenly in fear, “Uh, right. I’ll do that.”
Rhys sighed and went to his truck. He unhitched his shotgun from the carrying rack and placed it within reach before calling into the station.
“Henry, this is Sheriff Berger.”
“Yeah, Boss, er Sheriff.”
Rhys paused before asking, “We got any reports of a lost ostrich or emu?”
There was a pause on the radio, then, “What?”
The next afternoon, the photos were examined by Rhys and his deputies off and on. Ewen hadn’t called, so that was a bonus. They’d be able to check the library for weird animal tracks come Monday. Deputy Mark Johns thought maybe a tourist had dumped a pet that had gotten too big. They’d had to deal with that in the past. Someone had abandoned a jeweled tiger a few decades ago in the wilderness. It had scared a bunch of campers when the green and gold cat had come into their camps to beg for food. Luckily it was mostly tame, and they had gotten the mountain zoo to adopt it.
Johns had a sister who worked at the zoo who had told him that if it was an Emu or Ostrich, it might freeze to death. If that was the case, they’d better catch it, or its corpse might attract scavengers. On the other hand, this one didn’t seem too tame if it would eat three goats. Mark’s sister Judy said those birds were omnivorous, but they only ate small rodents and lizards, nothing like a goat. So he had a mystery animal on his hands. He’d better solve it before it decided a someone’s kid looked like a er… what were baby goats called? Kids, they were called kids. That wasn’t a good coincidence at all.
Sunday was slow. The department was busy with the traffic and picking up some drunks here and there. Tourists and out-of-towners and Larry. The old hobo was usually pretty scarce during winter as his place wasn’t heated except for a pot-belly stove. Usually, he’d head down the hill and stay with relatives during the freezing cold. The well-worn drunk worked odd jobs here and there and inevitably drank away his wages, like the old miners who used to make the mountain their home.
“Boss,” Henry said as he leaned into the small office. “Larry wants to talk to you.”
Rhys looked up at the younger man, his blonde mop of hair was unkempt, and his green eyes had bags under them. “Henry…” he growled warningly.
“We’re in the station, and nobody here, ‘cept us locals,” Henry said with the bright smile that had half the young women in town after him.
Rhys let out a growl and stood up. “What the hell does he want?” he grumbled and headed to the coffee pot. He placed a paper filter over his cup and carefully poured the coffee. If you weren’t careful, the powdery grounds would get into your drink and coat your tongue.
“He said he saw something weird out there. I think it might have to do with the Raymond goats incident yesterday,” Henry said with a light shrug.
After the coffee had filtered into his cup, Rhys squeezed the paper cone and tossed it into the trash. “Weird, huh? He’s seen our bird?” he asked as he poured liquid sugar into his coffee, just enough to take the bitterness out.
“Don’t know. Larry won’t tell me,” Henry said as he turned to walk away. “He’s in cell four.”
His interest piqued, Rhys walked over to the back of the small station and nodded to Mr. Martins, their janitor, as he headed back to the cells. Despite the station being over two hundred years old, the jail itself was well-kept. The machining was pre-collapse, and they took care of it well, so that was probably why everything functioned better than in some places down the hill. Sure, a lot of places were back to that level now, but he was proud that his town had kept it all going through the last two centuries.
He grabbed a stool and came to sit in front of cell four. A middle-aged man who had seen better days with nut-brown skin lay on the bunk, snoring. He had long hair surrounding a balding pate and a large bushy mustache under a bulbous nose. Rhys rapped on the bars, and he stirred. “Hey Larry,” the sheriff called out. “Brought some coffee. Sweet with no milk.”
The man blinked and rolled over to look at the sheriff. “Rhys?” he asked and then sniffed the air. Then, groaning, he grabbed his head, put his feet on the ground, and shuffled over to the bars, where he thankfully accepted the coffee. “You need more padding on these beds,” he complained.
“Can’t have better beds than the ones rented out to the skiers,” Rhys said with a smirk.
“True that,” Larry said and sipped the coffee.
“So what’s this super secret thing you gotta tell me, Larry,” the sheriff asked. There were some stirrings from the other cells, but not much.
“Well, remember that storm early Tuesday morning?” Larry began.
“Yep, still giving the resort headaches.”
Larry looked down at his cup and drank about half in a single pull. He looked back and forth, then said, “You know I’m a drunk, Rhys. Your dad knew me too. But have I ever just flat-out lied?”
Rhys sighed and shook his head, “You have told a few tall tales in your day, but nothing too wild. Just a bit of boasting.”
“Right. I never did bowl a perfect game, but I got close a few times,” the older man admitted. He looked at Rhys with the same odd look that Ewen had given him earlier. “This is going to sound really weird,” he said quietly and sipped his coffee. “You don’t have to believe me. I just gotta say it ‘cause it’s eating at me.”
Raising his eyebrow, Rhys motioned for him to continue.
“Er, well, I was out on Tuesday morning. I got some moonshine from the …” he paused as he remembered who he was talking to. “Well, anyway. I was out at my house. I got it all heated this year ’cause I insulated it over the summer.”
Ah, that’s where the extra fiberglass insulation ended up, Rhys thought. The school had had some extra from a renovation over the summer, but it had all disappeared in August.
“I went out to use the outhouse when that storm hit,” Larry said flatly. “There was this weird green lightning everywhere….”
Rhys nodded. That had been in the reports he got from the resort guards.
“But it was in a clear sky. Just this huge ball of lightning popped out of nowhere,” Larry continued. “It hit the mountain and part of the ski lift. I could see it from my house.” He finished his coffee and handed the mug back to Rhys. “Then these black clouds billowed out from where the lightning came from.”
“Larry isn’t it usually the other way around,” Rhys interrupted.
The other man nodded and sighed. “Normally, but I said this was weird. So you don’t have to believe me, you know?”
Rhys shrugged and leaned back on his stool. “Fine, continue.”
Larry nodded and said, “These clouds boiled up out of nowhere from the lightning, and it started raining like crazy. I had to run back into the house, but that was when I saw it.”
“What did you see, Larry?” Rhy asked, suddenly tired. “If this is another flying saucer.”
The man shook his head. “No, not a saucer. Some plane came out of the clouds and shot overhead into Henderson Valley. There were all these lights on it, and it was on fire. Looked like one of the passenger or cargo planes you see on the TV from Angelos. As it went over, some things fell out of it, like boxes or crates near the old fire road. I heard a boom a few minutes later, and I think maybe it crashed.”
“Why didn’t you report this earlier?” Rhys asked, shaking his head. “You trying to get out of the drunk tank early?”
Larry licked his lips and shook his head, “No. It’s just that….”
“‘Just’ what, Larry?” Rhys said a little louder than normal.
The older man sighed and shook his head, “I found some crates, and there was booze in them. The bottles were broken, but I got the kegs to work. I didn’t want anyone taking it away. I been trying to drink it up as fast as I can, but your guys got me last night when I was making a run for another keg.”
Rhys felt a headache coming on. He pinched the bridge to his nose. “And why are you talking about it now?”
He looked down, “I got sober in the middle of the night, and I overheard that you found some guy from the other side of the lake. Johns was saying he was real banged up.”
“Yeah, that’s true. We think he might be an Ink,” Rhys said, using the name that the Reps gave the inhabitants of the Empire on the southern continent.
“Well, I was thinking, if you got that guy, then maybe there are more out at that plane crash. He might have crewmates. So I started feeling guilty that there might be people waiting for a rescue party, and I was living it up drinking their booze,” Larry said in a rush of words.
“Oh Christ,” Rhys said under his breath. If that man was an Incan, and his plane had gone down in the mountains. Things might have just gotten out of control very quickly. He’d better check out Larry’s story.
The crates were where Larry had said they were, among the trees east of Wildedale. They’d been able to get out there around sunset. They were large, like what a big cargo truck would carry, made out of metal, and had some foamed cushioning that looked pre-collapse. Writing on the sides indicated tracking numbers and some odd dot patterns in circular areas that looked important. The writing was more of that odd script that had more loops and was, at the same time, more angular than theirs.
Rhys was out here with Deputy Keleman. The huge six-foot-tall Hungostralian was new to his force, but he had been pretty helpful when things needed to be manhandled. Rhys was looking at the divots the crates had made when they hit. The one that Larry had gotten into had cracked open on impact. There were indications that Larry’s small truck had been out here multiple times and the remains of a campfire nearby.
“Goddamn it, Larry,” Rhys said and kicked the broken crate. They were going to have to search and maybe even get the Rep troopers out here to help find that plane. First, people might be hurt because of the man’s greed and addiction. Then the town would be in the news for all the wrong reasons. Then they’d have rubberneckers out here and reporters. Every single one would ask why a plane crash went unnoticed for a week on his mountain. Hell, he hadn’t heard anything on the radio or TV. He was sure a missing plane would have come up in the news.
“Boss!” Keleman called from the other crate. The pale man with black curls waved to him.
He stomped over to him. “Call me Sheriff!” he grumped. Then, at the other man’s smile, he shook his head. “What you got?”
“I think I found a way to open it.” The large man pushed in a spot, and a handle popped out. He yanked on it and twisted to the side. There was a hiss, and they backpedaled as the crate rolled on its side twice by itself. Then there was a slight pop, and the box folded open like a flower, with each panel becoming a ramp. A pallet of bottles and cans sat in the middle of the crate, all wrapped in some sort of large cling wrap.
“Larry’s gonna be mad he didn’t find this stuff, Boss,” Keleman said with a smile as he walked over. “Looks like the liquor store got knocked over.”
“Think we can put it back together and get it back to the station?” The other man nodded and looked around on the ramps until he found a similar button and pressed it. The box made ominous beeping sounds until Keleman got off the ramp, at which point it folded itself back up. They spent the last of the natural light manhandling the crates into the truck bed. The sky was clear, and they would see a lot of stars tonight. The sliver of a new moon wouldn’t degrade the Milky Way at all.
“All right, looks like we might have to see if his story about the plane is true tomorrow,” Rhys said as they got into the truck. First, he had to call and see if the Ink had woken up so they could ask if he had any crewmates. No, better check him in person at the hospital. He thought one of the high school teachers maybe spoke Quechua. The light faded quickly after the sun went behind the mountains to the west. It was dark before they got onto the fire road that led out to the closest paved road. The snow in the forest looked beautiful, as did the clear sky and the stars. He was in the middle of organizing the search for tomorrow morning when the radio went out.
Rhys stared at it and blinked. He looked to his deputy, who shrugged. Then the truck’s lights faded even though the truck kept going. Stirling engines were good for that - they didn’t need electricity to keep running, just heat. However, they couldn’t see the road, so Keleman stopped the car.
“Dammit, the battery died? I thought we had a good alternator in this one,” Rhys said. He looked out the back window and was glad to see the hand-cranked battery charger. One of them would have to crank it while they drove to keep the lights on. It was enough of a common occurrence that they had high-efficiency ones now. Rhys grabbed the handle and pulled his hand back as it shocked him.
“What the fu....”
“Boss?” Keleman asked, looking over at Rhys as their ears popped and the sky lit up in green arcs for a moment. Then clouds boiled up and blotted out the stars. Moments later, it began to rain in big fat drops. Some of which froze and turned to hail, pelting the truck.
“Ah hell,” Rhys said as he shook his head. “Another freak storm?” The wind hit the truck, and it rocked. An odd rhythmic humming penetrated the truck from all around, making their teeth hurt. Then, a bright actinic light from above focused on them from outside and momentarily blinded them. “What now!”
Both men began cursing as a green beam crossed the truck from side to side. Then, the light suddenly winked out, and the wind buffeting the truck stopped. Rhys rubbed his eyes and looked out into the dark, but the bright light from above had night blinded him. He got out of the truck and looked into the night as the rain continued to fall less. Then, up in the sky, he saw what might have been a rectangular craft with tiny running lights. It occasionally set out the same actinic white beam as it slowly moved around the forest as if searching for something. All the lights from the craft suddenly winked out, and silence hit them except for the rain and the chuffing of the Stirling engine. The weird humming faded away as the craft seemed to leave.
Keleman leaned across the seat and looked at Rhys. “Boss? We’re not gonna tell anyone we saw a UFO are we?”
Rhys stood outside the truck as the rain slowly stopped, and the clouds began to clear. He shook his head and watched water sluice off his hat.
“No, deputy, we are not.”