“We are standing at Windkill one year after the events that led to the discovery of an atomic bomb lost for almost eighty years.”
Sunlight gave the desolation of the valley a look of possibilities. The growth of a summer season covered the trees and smaller debris, giving the valley the look of an alpine retreat. The two men working for a large television network were at ease, the feel of the valley far different from a year ago.
Brock Wood still wore a leg cast colorfully decorated with hundreds of signatures from admirers. He had lost weight while in the hospital, giving him a leaner, cosmopolitan look.
“The tragic loss of so many people associated with the show, including director Mark Goodwin, has left an indelible impression on those who survived. We may never forget those friends or the terror of the last minutes in this valley, and perhaps that is something good that came out of this event. We learned to cherish our friends and to remember them with love.”
“The subsequent hospitalization of Dolan Seratine, Anthony Ballard, and Marilyn Ottinger, as well as a few of the lesser injured, has given us time to understand the events in this valley and place them in perspective.”
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Sitting in an office on the West Coast, Melissa Koyle tried to stop the tears that rolled down her face. Looking at the microphone attached to her director’s desk she let Brock say his piece. The man deserved the last word after the ride he made that night.
“If ghosts exist, then they are something we can only understand and claim for ourselves; we can not show you a ghost, you must see one for yourself.” Brock shrugged and smiled at the camera. “Just don’t come here; this place is quiet as a tomb.”
The red light of the camera shut off and Paulie lowered the weight to the ground, his shoulder still hurt after holding a camera too long. “I like that last part.”
“I thought you would,” Brock laughed and picked up his friend’s camera. The men began the walk back to their car, chatting about memories and a wild ride on an ATV.
Behind them, a single figure wandered aimlessly about the valley, as it had for a year. Dressed in black and sporting a close-trimmed beard, the man seemed to look for something. As he neared the wall of the valley, he faded from sight and a low moan drifted on the light breeze.
The end.
R.A.Buehre