Wesley's Story (rough version)

Wesley's Story.

1.
Wesley opened his eyes.
He sighed, blinking at the sun. His fur was hot, and he could feel his throat scratching already. He stood shakily and shook himself off, sand flying from his pelt in a cloud. He bit at a tick on his rump, but couldn’t rend it. He growled and looked out at the desert, hoping for a sign of direction. Dunes stretched out endlessly, and he wouldn’t even be sure which way he’d come by except that he’d finally collapsed from exhaustion after ascending a particularly vicious hill, and had rolled down its opposite side and passed out at its foot. With it at his back, he searched for any sign of a passable course, or a heading that might lead him to water. He scented the air for anything hopeful; wet, tree, animal. But there was only the gritty, dusty smell of sand, and its pervasiveness had even muted his own aroma. Of all the crimes the desert had enacted on him -the thinning of his figure and stinging his eyes with red-hot wind daily- the covering of his musk was by far the one he took most offense to.
Wesley had pride in his scent. It was home and happiness, and experience, all the things he ever cared about. The wastes were already beginning to claim him, and that was a fact he had begrudgingly accepted. The least they could do was leave him his mark before he died. But that was the way it went, he supposed. Death gives no compromise to the dying.
Gathering his will, Wesley picked the direction that seemed the flattest, and took to that heading at a slow trot. He didn’t expect to find anything, nor was he certain that he wanted to. But he couldn’t stop. He could die out here, and that would be fine. But he had too many promises to keep to let himself die.
So, Wesley forged forward in the wastes, pondering the life he left behind.
It didn’t make him feel better.

2.
“So this is it,” Wesley muttered to himself, keeping his pace steady. He gazed wild-eyed at the desert, shouting at it to entertain his demons. “Born a bastard in a hateful world, raised in a culture of values so polarized as to be schizophrenic, forced to abandon the only creature I’ve ever loved, and here I am in the asshole of nowhere, dying of thirst and shouting at sand! Excellent work, Asthur. Only you could craft a life so pitiably pointless as mine!” He laughed, shaking his head. “At least I never lost a limb. I once knew a wolf who’d lost a foreleg, and had the terrible luck to survive. His name was Stumlein, but everyone called him “Stumps.” I think I’d just as soon kill myself if I ever lost one of my beautiful legs.” He whipped back to bite at the tick, now swollen and dangling, but found no purchase. He shouted, turning his head to the sky, “Agh, you would set me out in the wasteland with a tick. A tick! Of all the hells of animal ending, you are by far the most pestulent and intimately infuriating! I’m almost excited to die just so that you’ll die too. I think it’d be worth the trouble just so I could return the favor in the afterlife.” He huffed. “I’m not so sure how others in Asthuria would feel about torture. Oh, it’s my death, I’ll do with it what I please.”
He stopped and glared at the hill that loomed in front of him. He turned his head left and right, hoping to find a better way, but this dune stretched too far in either direction without lowering. Wesley gave a sigh and made his way up the hill.
He growled, “Damn the winds and the sand and the dunes, damn the sun, damn the sky, damn my burning paws, damn you you stupid bloody tick.” He panted as he reached the midpoint, his limbs burning. His tongue was a dry lump in his mouth, and a particularly strong gust hit him with a heat that made his eyes water. “I’m going to make it over this dune!” he exclaimed, “Keep blowing your spiteful breaths, you’re not toppling this coywolf!”
As he crested the hill, he felt his legs give out, and he fell face-forward down the other side. He slid several yards before coming to a stop halfway down the dune. He groaned, and opened his eyes, mumbling curses.
And then his ears perked up.
Plains rolled out ahead of him, lined sparsely with grass. Wesley blinked.
“I’ve died,” he said. “Well, that’s quite a shock. Unless…” He turned back to find the tick still throbbing. “You’re still here, which means…” His eyes lit up as he began to run, laughing wildly into the wind. He called behind him, “You thought you had me, didn’t you? Not this coywolf, not today!” When he reached the bottom of the dune, he plopped onto his side and rolled around in the grass. Pitiful an act as it was, it beat the sand by leagues.
Wesley exhaled and barked at the passing whisps of clouds, recalling the habits of his youth. His rapture slipped away as he was struck by memories; suddenly his nose filled with the ghost of fresh dew on the pines. He could feel the thick mountain grass on his back as he lay in the valleys below the Tall Ones, yipping at clouds in the company of his family. He’d been just a pup then, out of his element as always but long before he was wholly aware of the spite they had for him. He remembered touching snout to his mother’s breast, suckling as they lay beneath a grey cliff face, and they both passed into sleep and dreamt mingling dreams.
He took a deep breath, expecting the cool, moist wash of mountain air, but instead took a lung of hot, sandy dryness, and coughed. Wesley sighed and stood with questionable balance. Now he looked at the desert behind him and the plains before him and felt close to tears. For such a long time he’d been assured in his course, no doubts or regrets. But here, so many miles from the place he called home, it seemed his honor had indeed led him on a fool's errand.
In a moment, it occurred to Wesley that he had abandoned love for an empty journey.
But then he shook his head, and reminded himself of his reasons.
Then he swung his head around to grapple again with the tick, but it did not budge. Wesley screamed and, with no other option beyond moping and self-mutilation, forged forward into the wastes.

3.
“A round peg,” he said. “How interesting.”
The wooden pole stuck out of the dirt above Wesley, cracked and sun baked. Pressing his nose against it, he could smell the distant hint of farther lands. Better ones, with water and trees and-
“You just need to go right on your way!” came a shout from behind.
Wesley jumped, and spun around. A raccoon stood nearby, one eye fixed on the coywolf, the other turned to the horizon.
“Are you cross-eyed?” he asked.
The raccoon straightened his back. “Coyotes are not welcome here. Go on your way and leave us in peace.”
The coywolf blinked. “Coyote? Excuse me, but-”
“There is no excuse for the violence you would bring to me and mine, so leave before I have you killed.”
Wesley looked around, a shade nervously. “I see no others.”
“That's what makes them dangerous,” the raccoon said.
“Listen, I'm very tired. I'd just like a place to lie my head for a night.” Wesley sighed. “What am I going to do, eat you?”
“Precisely!” The raccoon brandished a small knife.
He rolled his head. “I have no interest raccoon meat, friend. I promise you that I bring no harm, I simply-”
Wesley heard a whistle from his left, and turned just in time for a rock to bounce of his skull. He shook his head, turning to accost the raccoon, when another hit him in the side. And another. Soon there was a rain of small stones, and it seemed whoever threw them ducked into holes in the ground before he could attack. The blows did not hurt his body so much as his pride, and he turned to see the raccoon with a triumphant smile on his face.
Another soul who hates me for what I am, Wesley thought, instead of who.
Without a word, Wesley trotted off into the prairie, away from the shower of rocks, until he passed around a hill. And there he heard cries of victory and relief.
The coywolf felt mounting anger and disappointment. What had he done? If the raccoon would just have listened...
Wesley shouted behind him, “I only wanted respite, you cross-eyed bandit! Thank you for proving once again that villainy lives in the heart of even the smallest creatures.”
He expected to be fighting back tears, but this was a familiar feeling. It was one he'd been grappling with all his life, from the moment he'd been old enough to hunt with his pack. The only wolves who ever showed him kindness, besides Isalia, were the pups, and that was only until their parents taught them otherwise.
He remembered Kal, the wolf everyone knew would one day be alpha of the pack. Everyone knew Wesley was not a threat to the leadership, he would always be the lowest of the low. But Kal asserted his dominance at every step. In the hunt, if Wesley made a mistake it would result in biting and growling and taunting. Whatever kills he took, Kal would criticize for their sloppiness.
It took many years for Wesley to understand that he, quite simply, was not a wolf. He shared only enough of the blood to look, at a distance, like one, and on occasion act like one. But at the end of the day, he would never be home there.
His face was that of a coyote, after all. No one trusted a coyote.

4.
Wesley sat on a hillside, staring down at the round peg from a distance. He'd made a round of the area, searching for food or sign of anyplace else, and found nothing. He was lost, he knew that much. Whether there would be hope for survival in the prairie, he was unsure.
Here, at least, there was food. It'd just be a matter of taking it.
Night had fallen, and through the course of his observations he'd found that the creatures throwing rocks at him had been prairie dogs. Hardly a tremendous meal, but the amount of meat was perfectly reasonable compared to the effort it would take to kill one.
So he watched, glad that, at least in this one case of night vision, his two warring bloodlines had agreed on something. The dogs ran to and fro, digging and moving large piles of dirt. It seemed to Wesley that they were being coordinated by the raccoon to make something. But what?
His curiosity vanished when he saw a pair of dogs leaving the general work site and coming towards where he lay. He moved his limbs into place, ready to jump, timing it as best he could.
They passed out of site for a moment, then crested the hill. His heart beat fast, suddenly very aware of the low moon on the hillside, the stars, the smell of the desert, the feel of the dirt and dead grass beneath his paws, the gentle heaves of his prey taking breath, the scent of their warmth coming closer and closer.
One passed him entirely. The next turned its head and saw him leaping like a monster, heckles raised, mouth opened wide, teeth bared.
It ducked, and Wesley missed.
Without a pause, he turned and jumped on top of the dog before it could think to run away. The other made its way around them, back towards the round peg, while its companion tried to speak, but found no air in its lungs.
Wesley looked down on the creature, dribbling saliva onto its chest. He pressed hard with his paw, reveling in its pained expression as it tried to take a breath, struggled against certain death, eyes wide and knowing all too much.
He imagined the taste of the blood and the meat, the crunch of its tiny bones in his maw. Hardly what Kal would call a worthy kill, but hell, he hadn't tasted fresh death in months. And Kal wasn't here to criticize.
Wesley's enthusiasm slipped away. He still held the dog in place, still held his mouth open, but it suddenly felt as though there was no joy in it. All he could think of was Kal, dancing back and forth, ridiculing him for his simple tastes.
Now when he looked at the prairie dog in his grasp, he didn't see food. He saw a small animal struggling for life, fearful of death, completely in the dark as to which he should expect.
But the dog seemed to have taken notice of Wesley's sudden disinterest, and watched him with a certain hardened confusion, and the faintest glimmer of hope.
With a sigh, Wesley let him up.
“Apologies,” said the coywolf as he turned away. “I suppose I'll just go die in the wasteland, since it seems I've lost what little edge I had.”
He began to trot away, when there came a bone-chilling sound from very close by. A howl, deep and loud, and Wesley knew the timbre of it like he might know an old enemy. He turned to the prairie dog and shouted, “Run!”
The dog made his way back towards the round peg, but a wolf jumped out from around a hill and barked. The dog fell backwards, edging towards Wesley. He stood over the dog and lowered onto his haunches, growling at the wolf.
There came another growl from behind, and another. A whole pack of wolves, at least six, possibly more. Before Wesley could ask what they were doing in the prairie, he answered, Well, I'm here aren't I?
One of them stepped forward, the alpha by the way he carried himself. His fur was laced with scrapes and scars, and he had muscle like a gorilla. His eyes seemed to glow an unnaturally red shade of orange in the moonlight.
“A coyote,” he said, treating the threat of Wesley's stance like he might treat the same physicality in a newborn. He walked around Wesley, taking him in. “Only, you're too big.”
“Leave this one alone,” Wesley said.
“What kind of dog are you?” asked the alpha, his voice smooth. Too smooth for someone who appeared so violent.
“He’s a halfbreed,” said one of the others.
The alpha made a noise of acknowledgment. “Ahh, Part coy and part wolf. Where are you from, mutt? By the grey tinge on your back I’d say the North.” He took a deep breath. “You’re a long way from home.”
Wesley growled as the wolf circled him, and he had to fight the urge to reciprocate the action. Were it not for the quarry he was protecting...
“You’re going to leave and never come back,” Wesley said.
The other wolves laughed, and the alpha nearly lost his balance. “Or what?” he said with a laugh.
“Or I’ll tear your throat out and feast on your insides.”
The alpha stopped moving. Any pretense of joviality left him. The other wolves stepped back.
And then the alpha pounced.
Wesley believed himself to be a coward by deed, but if his youth had taught him anything it was how to hold his own in a fight. He was not strong, nor blessed with speed. But he did look to be absolutely pitiable, and that was one of his greatest strengths.
A finecky creature would have dodged, flinched, or backed away. Wesley merely bowed, and the alpha’s hasty attack glanced off his side. Without pause, Wesley spun around and bit the wolf’s neck, pinning him to the ground. The wolf struggled, kicking at Wesley's head with his hind legs, but the more he twisted, the more the coywolf's teeth dug into his neck.
Wesley tasted blood, and hardened his grip.
The alpha whimpered slightly, and turned his belly up.
The surrounding wolves echoed words of surprise and fear.
Wesley let go and backed away.
He eyed the others. “If you want to help your leader instead of standing there like a couple of dumbstruck deer, feel free. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been outnumbered.”
The alpha wolf growled from the ground. “Why are you letting me live?”
“Because killing isn't in me,” he said. “Not anymore.”
He glanced at the prairie dog, who now stood behind him.
The alpha got up and turned towards Wesley, careful not to look him in the eyes. It gave him a surge of pleasure to see such a bulking creature, who could kill Wesley with little to no effort, give any submission. He knew it had to be a knife in this wolf's pride, and the others in his pack would never look at him the same way again.
Maybe one of them would get sick of his bullying. Maybe they'd always felt they could lead the pack better. And if a halfbreed coywolf could beat him in a fight, well, why not a true wolf?
“Leave these creatures alone,” Wesley said. “There are greener lands for you elsewhere. Survival in these parts is hard enough without such voracious predators.”
One of the other wolves said, “We've been banished from our homeland.”
Wesley shrugged. “Find another, then. Go North. Maybe you'll be better off.”
The alpha lunged at Wesley again, but this time it was desperate and full of force. He had underestimated the coywolf -he would not make the same mistake twice.
Just as he would make to rip the soft tissue out from Wesley's belly, a rock sailed through the air and hit him in the eye. He yipped and dodged away, only to be hit by another. Wesley turned to find an entire crowd of prairie dogs, come up through tunnels he hadn't seen before, all of them wearing tiny parcels filled with rocks. The wolves backed away, and the alpha kept trying to bark words of anger, but they were cut off. Finally, he turned tail and ran, and the others followed. He watched them disappear go for a long ways before they disappeared over a hill.
Wesley sighed and turned around.
Two dozen prairie dogs stood, rapt, behind him. The one he had failed to kill was at the forefront.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Wesley asked.
He heard commotion in the distance and looked to see one of the prairie dogs leading the raccoon up out of their den. He saw the crowd and once again revealed his knife.
“I told you to stay away!” he shouted. As he stomped forward, the dogs formed a barricade in front of Wesley. The raccoon stopped.
“What is this?” he asked of the dogs. They all looked up at Wesley, who was himself rather surprised at the proceedings.
“I suppose,” he said, his voice trailing off, “I saved them.”
The raccoon blinked. “What?”
“Well, actually, they saved me. But I protected one of them. Sort of.”
“What are you playing at?” the raccoon asked, his knife lowered slightly.
“I just want someplace warm to sleep, and perhaps a bite to eat.”
“I don't trust your kind,” he said. “Whatever game this is, I refuse to play. Thank you for your assistance, such as it was, but I refuse to let something like you into my den.”
The raccoon turned to walk away, but the dogs did not follow.
“Something?” Wesley asked. “I realize that hard living hasn't made you fond of predatory instinct, but I do still have a conscience. I don't kill and eat every breathing creature that crosses my path.”
He turned back to Wesley. “I don't know what spell you've cast on my companions, but it isn't going to work on me!” he shouted. “Dogs of the round peg, to me. Now!”
Still they did not budge, and the raccoon began trembling.
“He'd sooner devour all of you, don't you see?”
Wesley shook his head. “I can speak for myself, thank you very much-”
“Hush, I'm not done talking! He'd devour you and me, and piss on all that we've made for the use it has to him-”
“What? That's disgusting!”
“-and then go on and do the same wherever he ends up next.”
Wesley scoffed. “I do all of my pissing outside, thank you. Not every wolf is a murderous monstrosity out to cull the heard. Most are just trying to stay alive.”
The raccoon paused. “So... you're a wolf then?”
“Not exactly.”
The raccoon spoke, distracted somewhat from his tirade, “I'd actually been somewhat confused on the matter. I thought you a coyote at first, but now I can't tell.”
Wesley said, “Then perhaps I'll leave and spare you the inconsiderate conundrum.”
He turned to leave, but the prairie dog he'd saved ran out in front of him, waving his arms.
“I'm sorry,” Wesley said, “but if he doesn't want me here, then I might as well leave. If it's a debt you think you owe me, consider this stand payment.”
He pushed past the dog and continued out into the prairie. The raccoon watched him, conflicted as he looked back to the peg, and to the dogs, and to Wesley.
“Wait!” he shouted.
Wesley stopped.
“Yes?” he asked.
“If you, if you... gods, I'm going to regret this,” he muttered. “If you really need a place to stay, then I suppose I can spare a chamber. If the dogs trust you then, fine, I guess that should be enough.”
The coywolf turned around.
“No thank you,” he said, and continued on his way.
The raccoon looked baffled, and picked up his pace behind Wesley.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “You can never be too careful in this part of the world. How was I to know your quality from a distance? I've seen dozens like you pass by with only a thought for their own stomachs. You can't blame me, it's just, it's the world we live in!”
Wesley nodded. “I understand, and I don't blame you. But this is what I've been walking away from all my life. I've no interest in bearing any more passive aggressive torment.”
“Wait,” the raccoon said. “Wait, wait. You're a coywolf, aren't you?”
He stopped, but did not look back.
“Yes, that's it. I'd heard of your kind before, but never thought to see. I'd love to-” he paused, coughed. Wesley looked around, arcing a brow, and the raccoon continued, much slower. “I'd love to carve you.”
After a pause, “That would hurt.”
The raccoon blinked, then followed Wesley's gaze to the knife in his hand. He dropped it. “Oh, no, not like that! It's a wood carving knife. I use it to threaten vermin and such, but it's not a weapon, it's a tool. What I mean to say is that I'd like to carve your likeness. You have a peculiar quality about you-”
“Thanks.”
The raccoon stopped.
“When I say peculiar,” he said, measuring his words, “I don't mean bad. I mean, simply... different. Complicated. Worthy of note. You stand out, you, you, you have something about you that draws the eye. It'd be a challenge to capture that in wood.”
Wesley turned around. “You're a strange creature.”
“As are you,” the raccoon replied. “You ask me, I think it was meant to be.”
The coywolf blinked, staring at the raccoon, unsure. There came an annoying bite, and he spun around to the tick. Wesley bit at it, but only succeeded in rending his own skin.
“Gods! Blasted bloody worthless bag of-”
The raccoon made his way to Wesley's side and, without invitation, yanked the tick from his side. He gave out a yip in pain and turned back to the raccoon to yell at him. But he held out the tick in his hand, its back distended such that its tiny legs were stuck up in the air, wriggling for purchase.
“You,” he said to the tick. He glanced up at the raccoon. With a roll of his eyes, he nudged the insect onto the dirt with his nose. It fell with a plop, struggling on the ground for a moment before finding its legs and waddling out into the prairie.
The two watched it go, silent.
“Thank you,” Wesley said. He wanted to say more, but nothing came.
The raccoon faced him. “My name is Everest,” he said. “I'd like you to stay with us for a while.”
“I don't know,” Wesley said. “That eye creeps me out.”
Everest slumped. “I'm working on it,” he said in a long suffering voice.
Wesley laughed. “Ah, there, we aren't so different after all.”
They made their way to the round peg, Everest picking up his knife and rounding up the dogs, and they walked down the hill. Wesley felt strangely at home in this company, and more than welcomed the possibility of a decent meal.
They disappeared into the depths of the den at the round peg, and the scarred wolf watched from the distance, plotting his revenge.

The Question

THE QUESTION.


Chapter 1.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”
The old man held his arms crossed, pacing back and forth. His eyes moved between the floor and the canvas flap that led to the entrance of the cave. Turning his wrist to check the time, he saw his wedding ring and started to fiddle with it. He pulled a toothpick from his breast pocket and started to chew it. He looked to the kid in the suit.
“Yes, this is the right place,” he said.
“If this isn’t the right place-”
The kid turned on him and said, “I’ve put six million dollars of government funding into finding this bloody hole, you think I don’t know the consequences of being wrong? Setting off twenty tons of explosives three miles below sea level isn’t exactly something they take lightly at Homeland Security.”
“That isn’t what concerns me, and you know it.”
The kid looked away. Even the best predictions ended with a sizeable earthquake. The worst predictions?
Yeah. He knew.
A man in a hard hat pushed out from behind the canvas flap and said, “We’re almost ready, they just need the order.”
The kid looked at the old man. “This is it,” he said, following the worker down the tunnel.


As the two suited men marched through the hot, humid chamber, the worker spoke up hesitantly, “What is this thing about, anyway? It’s got to be big, right? I know I’m not supposed to ask questions, but I’d like to be able to tell my wife that I haven’t just been out sleeping around for the last seven months.”
“You signed away your right to know the details the minute you accepted this job. That’s why the federal government is paying you so much.” As they reached the end of the hall, the kid opened a door for the old man and turned to the worker. “If your wife really needs an explanation, buy her a Ferrari.”


They stepped into a control room filled with machines and flashing lights, men and women in headsets behind monitors in makeshift desks. The kid walked up to the center desk, where a woman in thick glasses sat reading a lab report. When he stood in her light, she looked up. She straightened when she recognized him.
“Sir,” she said.
“I hear we’re almost home.”
She looked up at a flat screen on one wall that showed a timer ticking down. It had only minutes yet to go. “I certainly hope so.”
The old man asked, “What kind of reaction are we expecting here?”
They both looked up at him, and the kid rubbed the bridge of his nose and walked away. She pointed him to a map on her desk.
“We’re seventy meters below the surface now,” she said, pointing to a small spot. She dragged her finger downward. “The explosion chamber is about forty-eight hundred meters down. As long as everything goes as planned, we’re just going to feel a little shake and maybe a dull thud, and then we’ll have results.”
The radio cracked, and she picked it up.
“Do we have the all clear?” the voice spoke. She looked to the kid, who nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “All clear for detonation.”
The old man walked to the kid and said, “I sure as fuck hope you’re right, Mikel.”
“I am.”
“Yeah,” he said, “because overconfidence never came back to bite anyone in the ass.”
Mikel turned on the old man. “Excuse me, Harold, but I’m not the one who blew my only chance at success on a hunch. Unlike you, I’ve actually spent time independently verifying my sources. If I am overly confident, it’s because I’ve spent years of my life making sure that this is the right location. So I would appreciate it if you would please stop with the attitude. I do in fact give a damn about the collateral.”
Harry turned away. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Mikel was about to say something, but then the ground fell out from under them, and they landed on their knees. A few moments later, a dense thud sounded through the room. Mikel stood up.
“Why wasn’t there a countdown?” he shouted.
They all looked up at the screen with the timer, showing nineteen more minutes still.
“What the hell…” Harry said as he stood up, shaking on his feet.
“Get them on the line, Amanda,” Mikel stated. “I need to know what the fuck just happened.”
She turned on the radio and started calling out codes, switching between channels, getting nothing in response.
“What could make them go off half an hour early?” Harry asked.
“I have no fucking clue, but it better be a good goddamn reason.”
Harry smiled. “You sure do curse a lot when you’re mad.”
Mikel turned on him, vicious. “Is this a fucking joke? I hope you realize just how tremendous a clusterfuck this could turn out to be if-”
“I’ve got someone!” Amanda shouted.
Without hesitation, Mikel jumped to the radio. “This is Mikel Aransky, what the hell is going on down there?”
A winded, raspy voice shouted out, “Something went wrong! The explosives went off early.”
“Yeah, I had gathered that much. Why did they go off early?”
There was a long pause. He could hear shouting in the background. “A lot of people are dead. Half the crew, at least.”
“Son of a bitch,” Harry said.
“Okay,” said Mikel. “We’ll get you help as soon as we can, just tell me why there was such an early detonation.”
Another pause. “It was… something.” He said this like he couldn’t quite find a word for it. “A big… thing, like a- a monster.”
Mikel looked at Harry, wide-eyed. He took off the headset and put his hand over the mic, turning towards Amanda. “Is this thing recording?”
“Yeah, we keep logs of everything-”
Mikel put the headset back on. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, Jim.” He sounded terrified.
“Alright Jim, listen to me. I need you to tell me everything you saw down to the smallest detail that you can remember, alright? This is very important.”
Jim said, “O- Okay.”
“What did you see?”
“Everything was fine, we had the uh- the dynamite and thermite all in place, magnesium charges, all the works. We were checking everything once over, making sure all the angles were good. At twenty minutes til, we were set to evacuate the zone of impact. About half the crew was already on its way out, we were in charge of the geological checkups, and I’d already had some of my men do overtime to make sure it was good. As we got in the tram car there was this… this noise, like some kind of scream. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like it. I looked back, and there it was, this giant… thing. Two or three heads taller than me, maybe, it was hard to tell. It came up out of a hole in the ground and it… it disappeared. I thought maybe it was just some kind of prank or, god, I don’t even know, but I didn’t say anything. But about five minutes later, it detonated, and the tram derailed. There was-”
“Okay Jim,” Mikel said, “is that where you are now?”
“Yes.”
“Just wait where you are. I can hear other people, do your best to help them alright? We’ll be down there just as soon as we can.”
“It’s so hot…”
“I know Jim. Try to keep it together.”
Mikel set down the headset. He rubbed his chin and his eyes, and fell back into a chair.
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“Amanda,” Mikel said, “do you have access to the ventilation systems from here?”
She said, “Yeah I do, but why-”
“Cut off the air supply, reverse the output, do whatever you have to, just get the oxygen out of there.”
“Excuse me?” Amanda asked.
Harry said, “Hold on, you’re nowhere near authorized to make that kind of decision-”
“I am, Harold, and it’s the decision I’m making.”
“But why? We can evacuate-”
“Evacuate? They’re three miles down, Harold. Should I call an ambulance? It’ll be days before we can get sufficient numbers of rescue officials down there. Do you know the kind of heat generated by an explosion of that magnitude? With the shielding open on all the tramways, all crews within a mile of the explosion chamber are going to die of burns anyway. What I’m doing is an act of mercy.”
“Or you want to drown the fire so you can get down there sooner.”
Mikel made no response. He just stared at Amanda.
“If you don’t do it, I will,” Mikel said. Finally, she started at it.
“There,” she said. “It’s done.”
The other techs looked at them with a mixture of disgust and fear.
“Now what?” Harry asked.
Mikel said, “We investigate.”

Chapter 2.

“Tell me a few things about yourself, mister Rondayle.”
“Sir?” The reporter with the messy blond hair looked up from his pen and paper. “Um,” he said, shuffling about, “My name is Arthur, I graduated from Colorado State a few years ago-”
“Not the talking points, kid. I want real information. Call it an exchange.”
Arthur looked away. “I’ve been writing for most of my life, I have, uh…”
“What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?”
He laughed. “I used to be the guy who collected grocery carts at Wal-Mart. I can’t tell you how many times I was nearly run over in that place.”
“And what got you from there to here?”
Arthur said, “Luck, I guess. Luck and a lot of patience.”
The general smiled. “That’s about what it always is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you want to hear about Project Windowsill.”
Arthur blinked. “Uh, yes. That’d be about right.”
“Well, ask away.”
He composed himself, consulting his notepad. “Where did the name “Windowsill” come from?”
“It was a highly classified operation, the kind of thing that sets off alarms with watchdog groups and the like. Movies give you this idea that the government is a shadowy, world conquering organization, but you’d be surprised at the level of incompetence. Nothing stays a secret for long. So we gave it a name that was so utterly uninteresting, only an idiot would think to look at it further.”
The general looked at Arthur over his glasses, as though he was implying something.
“And what exactly did you seek to accomplish with Project Windowsill?”
The general glanced away. “You may have heard the name Mikel Aransky tossed around once or twice in your research.”
“Yes.”
“Windowsill was his baby. He did the research, made the proposal, spearheaded all of the active engagements.”
“And what was Windowsill’s intended goal?”
“I’m afraid that is still classified.”
Arthur stared at him. “You’re going to tell me about Mikel Aransky, but you’re not going to say a word about why I’m actually here?”
“I want you to remember, son, that you’re here by my grace. We gave you this opportunity, you’ve got the list of untouchable subjects.”
“Sir, if I may be so bold, we are in a time of international tragedy. Don’t you think it’s time for a little transparency?”
The general watched him, tipping his head up. “Are you implying that Project Windowsill has some kind of correlation with the current state of affairs in South America and Europe?”
“You’re forgetting America.”
“I might be able to tell you a few things about Windowsill, Arthur. But that is one thing I can’t talk about.”
“No, I understand,” Arthur said. “Who would want to publicize what can only be called an underground civil war? It would be ridiculous to consider that one of the largest, most powerful organizations on the planet had anything to do with one of the most overwhelming insurrections in our history. Everyone knows about it, general, they’re just afraid to say anything.”
“It’s not a matter of what people know. They’ve known about aliens in this country since the sixties, that doesn’t make it true.”
Arthur watched him as the general lit up a cigarette.
“I was hoping you’d put up a fight,” said the general. “You haven’t disappointed so far.”
“Sir?”
“Politics and journalism in this country have been bullshit for decades. It’s nice to see someone who’s willing to roast the accountable ones.”
Arthur blinked. “Are you saying… that you are accountable?”
The general glanced at him.
“Project Windowsill was an excavation.”
“Wait, wait,” Arthur said, flipping through his notepad. “It says here that you employed more than twenty tons of explosives. Isn’t that a bit excessive for an excavation?”
The general smiled.



Chapter 3.

“What is that smell?”
Harry and Mikel sat in the back of a heavy duty rover vehicle, driving down the tram shaft that led to the explosion chamber. They were all wearing gas masks and climate controlled suits.
Mikel said, “Probably sulfur. Melted rock and steel. Maybe some cooked human flesh.”
Harry grimaced.
It had been six hours since they reflooded the chamber with oxygen, and they were almost to their destination. Every surface in the tunnel was blasted and morphed from the force of the explosion. It was pitch dark except for the headlights, and still unbearably hot.
The driver pulled to a stop.
“What is it?” Mikel shouted. “Are we there?”
“No,” the driver said, turning around, “but I can’t go further.”
“Why the hell..”
Mikel trailed off as he peered over the hood to see their obstruction.
Hundreds of bodies lined the ground, in some places piled two or three deep. Many of them were horribly burned and disfigured. They had all been trying to crawl away from the explosion chamber.
“Oh god,” Harry said.
Mikel pursed his lips and turned to the driver. “You can… drive over them, right?”
“It’s not a matter of can, sir. I won’t.”
Mikel sighed. “Then I’ll drive.”
The man in the front moved into the passenger’s seat and Mikel climbed behind the wheel. He pressed on the gas, and they moved forward over the bodies. Harry stared at the floor as the vehicle bobbed and jostled, and he squirmed at the chorus of cracking bones and soft, wet noises.
“Ohhhh,” Harry said, holding his stomach. “I swear to god Mikel, if we don’t die down here you are going to owe me so much beer.”
“Just try not to throw up in your suit, please,” Mikel said.
As the hill of bodies grew higher, the smell became worse and worse. And then, almost suddenly, they were on solid ground again, and the ceiling opened up. There were still bodies littered about, but these were blackened husks, barely identifiable as human.
They pulled to a stop and got out of the vehicle. As Harry looked around, trying to see something in the blackness, Mikel went to the back and found a heavy grey case. He opened it and removed a large gun that he rested on his shoulder. He flipped a few switches, aimed it up, and pulled the trigger.
A large cylinder shot out of the barrel forty feet into the air, then ignited like a rocket and shot up and up until it pinned itself in roof of the chasm. Mikel set the gun down and looked at his watch. The cylinder exploded, leaving in its place a giant white-orange globe that illuminated the entire chamber. Harry goggled at it, shielding his eyes with his hand, the toothpick nearly falling out of his mouth.
“What is that, magnesium? Phosphorous? Whatever it is, it can’t last too long, right?”
Mikel said, “About nine hours. It’s a chemical bulb, essentially.”
“Huh,” Harry said. “Neat.”
The driver shouted at them from the rim of the crater in front of them, and the two agents ran to him.
Before Mikel could ask what it was, he saw.
The crater went down an impossible distance. In some places, smoke still rose from charred spots of mineral deposits.
And at the very center of the crater, a massive, rough-hewn silver structure jutted out of the stone. Its surface was entirely unharmed.
Harry shook his head.
“Is that it?”
Mikel smiled like a madman.
“That’s it.”


Chapter 4.

“We found a natural cave system that went down about a mile, and dug the rest of the way. Eventually we reached an area of material so dense that none of our tools could get through it. So, we resorted to explosives.”
Arthur held his hands together, looking over his notes.
“And it never crossed your mind that you might do irreparable damage to whatever it was you were trying to excavate?”
The general took a long drag. “If you knew what it was, you’d understand.”
“So what was it?”
The general shrugged, and Arthur resisted the urge to scream.
“Alright then, sir. What can you tell me about Mikel Aransky?”
“You haven’t done the research yourself?” he asked.
Arthur shook his head. “I have, but that’s impartial. I want a biased point of view. I want your opinion.”
“Hm. Well, I’d say he was stuck up and a bit of an asshole,” said the general. “But he knew his stuff. And even with some initial setbacks, he was right on the money with Windowsill.”
“And did he-”
“You’re asking an awful lot about Mikel,” he said, “and yet you haven’t once brought up his assistant.”
Arthur flipped back through some pages. “That’d be… Harold Greman?”
The general nodded.
“What about him?” Arthur asked.
“Well, it was his research that allowed Mikel to get his start.”
Arthur blinked. “What?” He went frantically through his notes. “Why haven’t I heard about this?”
“Because Harry’s initial failure is one of the biggest mistakes the United States Government has made in recent history.”
Arthur looked up from his notepad and stared. “On what kind of scale?” he asked. “Of a piece with Vietnam?”
“There was something called the “Dotcom Boom” in the mid nineties, where everyone thought the future of business was on the internet.”
“Which it was,” Arthur added.
“Not yet,” he said. “Well, a lot of the resources that made that boom possible were a result of the networking research that Harry was involved in. Much of it had to do with a hypothetical supermaterial that would revolutionize manufacture, communication, distribution, everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Arthur said. “What does that have to do with the, uh… the dotcom boom?”
“Nothing. He was just a bigshot, had his fingers in too many pies, and it all came crashing down around him. He was disbarred for a long while, but when Mikel started kicking up some of his research, he asked to have him reinstated as an assistant.”
“I still don’t get how Harry was such an embarrassment.”
“Four billion dollars down the toilet with no result but that a revolutionary material might exist? That’s the kind of advice you pay psychics for.”
Arthur nodded. “Okay. So let me guess, whatever Mikel spent all that time researching… it was this hypothetical supermaterial, right?”
The general said, “I can neither confirm or deny-”
“Yeah, right, okay.” Arthur shook his head. “What can you tell me?”
“I can tell you that this material, if it really did exist, did not originate on earth. On this much, both Harry and Mikel agreed. And I can also tell you that…” he paused. “No. Nevermind.”
“What?” Arthur asked. He leaned forward. “What?”
“I’ve already said far more than I should”
The general stood up, and Arthur followed.
“Wait, this was just getting interesting, you can’t just-”
The general grabbed the front of Arthur’s suit and pulled him close.
“I’d be very careful how you word this article, Arthur.”
He let go and stormed out of the room, and Arthur slumped his shoulders. As he started to gather his things, he stopped.
Something was sticking out of his breast pocket.
Arthur removed the small piece of paper, sure that it hadn’t been there before. He unfolded it and it read, simply:
Mikel Aransky
1493 Sommers Dr.
Be careful.


Chapter 5.

“Do you know what this means?”
Harry looked at Mikel from the back of the vehicle. “Yes, I’ve been envisioning this moment all my life.”
“We’ve found it!” he shouted. “This is just the beginning-”
“And at the cost of only a few hundred lives,” Harry said.
Mikel sighed. “Grow up, Harold. More people are killed in pointless tribal conflicts every day. At least these men died for something.”
Harry didn’t comment.
The bodies had been cleared from the path, and several dozen men were at work clearing the debris and making a path down into the crater. They were on their way back to the control station.
“How old do you think it is?” Harry asked.
Mikel looked at him. “Well, obviously millions of years. We’ve done the math before, it would have to have crashed into the earth at some point early in its development-”
“I know we did the math, Mikel,” said Harry, “but that was before we actually found it. I’ve spent a long time preparing for this day, and now that it’s here… good god, I feel so unprepared.”
“You’re old, Harry,” Mikel said, laughing, “you shouldn’t worry so much. What’s the worst that could-”
There was a click over a radio, and Harry picked up the handset in the back. “Yeah?”
“We’ve made it down to the material,” a voice responded.
“That’s great!” Harry said.
“There’s something you need to see.”
Harry paused. “We’re a long ways from the explosion chamber. What is it?”
“It’s a, uhm… Well sir, I think it’s a symbol.”
The blood drained from his face, and his mouth hung open.
“What?”
Mikel shouted back, “What is it, Harold?”
Harry shh’d him. “What do you mean, symbol?”
Mikel slammed on the brakes and turned full way around.
“Symbol?” he asked urgently.
The man on the other end of the radio said, “Someone just found another one. It’s… covered with them, sir.”
“Are you sure it’s a symbol?” Harry asked. “Are you absolutely certain that it isn’t some kind of scarring or burn or-”
“It’s a perfect circle with three lines cutting through it, almost like a target. I don’t think this kind of thing occurs naturally, sir.”
Harry said, “Take lots and lots of pictures. Hurry up and get that thing out of the crater, please. This is progressively becoming the most important operation in the world, we need it to go as smoothly as possible from here on out.”
He hung up the hand set, and immediately Mikel said, “What the fuck was that?”
“It’s alien,” Harry said.
“We knew that.”
“No. It’s… alien alien.” He looked up. “It’s branded.”
Mikel stared at him. And then he broke out into a smile. “Today couldn’t get any better! This is-”
“Mikel,” Harry said, his tone infinitely less excited.
“What?”
“I think we’re ignoring a very vital piece of information. The explosion still went off thirty minutes early, and… there was Jim.”
Mikel blinked and turned away.
“I don’t think the substance is the only thing down there,” Harry said.
“Son of a bitch.”