My name is Sharon Baxter. To whoever finds this, please make sure this gets to Agent Sarah Redcloud of The Department of Homeland Security. If that department doesn't exist when you find this, hold on to it until it does. As of the writing of this, it is September of 1987. I have no doubt this will take several days to write out, so the exact date is inconsequential. I hesitated on mentioning the month as well. However, I do have every confidence my writing, like my life, will be done by October. They've gotten better at tracking me. I'll get to that later.
Where to begin? That's always the hard part. The mind boils with so much information to get out that finding the best place to start feels insurmountable. I guess I will fumble around a bit until I get my bearings straight.
I was born in a small town in Pennsylvania in 1937. I was 16 when Rock N Roll was born. The perfect age to embrace the new, exciting music. People forget how exciting the 50s were. Conservative propaganda and toxic nostalgia have turned the decade into a model of boring conformity and homogeneity. For those of us old enough to truly experience it; it was a decade of exciting change as the shakels of the old were cast of for a new, golden age. The beginning of the Civil Rights movement, the first nascent steps of the Women's Liberation Movement; a world of new possibilities was opening up before us. Except where I lived. My town, which I shall not divulge for fear that you might go there, is, was, and probably always will be, at least 30 years behind the times.
My town, like many small towns that litter the hinterlands of the Western world, is a mix of various Christian sects and something else. That something else being the true religion of the place; the one Christianity tried to paper over. It lies at the corners of everyone's mouths, in the shadows of their eyes. Hidden whispers under shouted words. It's in the strange instructions that grandmothers give to children about what to wear on certain days, words to never say around the sick, or places to never go, even well armed and in broad daylight. Secret, little mini-rituals that everyone does but nobody talks about or even acknowledges. It was at odds with our new, atomic age. It was at odds with me.
The first nuclear power plant in the United States went into operation on December 20, 1951 in Idaho. I was 14 at the time and throughly entranced by this new miracle of technology. It was so far from my close-minded, superstitious little town. The two felt like they existed in different universes. Even back when I was 8 and heard my parents talking about the atomic bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, science, specifically atomic science, seemed so much bigger and more powerful than the hidden, nameless one's that lurked around every corner and shadow in my backwards, little town. Of course, I know better now.
I'm getting ahead of myself. There's so much to cover, and so little time. For me, possibly for you and everyone. That's why I'm writing this. This is my testimony and warning. Not that
*The manuscript breaks here. When the author continues, it is in pencil instead of blue ink.*
Sorry. I had to run. I always have to run. Sarah gave me a weapon and spells to use, but they only go so far. So far, so good, so what? I feel like I'm wasting my time. What's that joke? Eat right, exercise, and die anyway? Yeah, that's how I feel. We're all going to die, no matter what I do or who I reach; and they're so much more powerful and stronger than we are. They can wait, too. Wait longer than we've had agriculture; wait longer than our species has been around. Still, I owe it to myself, to my friends, to Sarah, to the entire human race to try. I should have written this down a long time ago. Just another shoulda, coulda, woulda, I guess.
I'm getting sidetracked again. Alright, time to focus. Let me find a good place to start. The guidance counselor's office! Yes! That's a perfect place to start. As good as any other, at least. So, March of 1953. It was a Tuesday, four o'clock in the afternoon, I think. It was after school, I remember that much. My mother was with me. My father was still at work; not that it would have mattered. Children and their schooling was woman's work. The counselor had called my parents in due to my unreasonable desire to become a nuclear physicist instead of a good, God-fearing, housewife and mother (don't expect many descriptions of people or places; as I stated earlier, I don't want you to find the locations or people I'm talking about; only when it's either important to the narrative or I feel the description won't harm or compromise anything). The counselor, a serious man with a serious suit, and serious glasses, seriously told my mother that I had quite inappropriately asked for information regarding grants and scholarship programs to help me pay for college so I could get in the forbidden arts of science.
My mother, a sad, stupid woman married to an angry, stupid man, apologized profusely; wondering where she had gone wrong, and assuring him we were good, Christian people. I tried to explain that I wanted to be a nuclear physicist and that I had no intentions of becoming either a wife or a mother. It was then that my sad, stupid mother asked my very serious counselor if it would be best to pull me out of school entirely, completely ignoring everything I had just said. To my horror, my very serious counselor told my sad, stupid mother that wasn't a bad idea. Desperate, I asked how I was going to find a husband if I wasn't in school, and they both said church.
By the way, to any who might think I'm being too cruel or unkind to these people, please let me explain the soul crushing banality of small town life. Small towns are filled with empty people. Walking corpses devoid of any ambition other than staying pleasantly numb until death or the Second Coming, whichever comes first. Which, in the grand scheme of things is fine for them. Your life, live it however you wish as long as you're not hurting anyone. That's the thing though, they do hurt other people; namely their children. The suck all the curiosity and wonder out of them until they are nothing more than dried out husks, just like them, so they never leave. Population control by intellectual lobotomy. Anyway, back to the story.
I begged them not to take me out. I promised not to go to college; that I would only finish high school and that's it. They were rightfully skeptical. I was lying through my teeth. I didn't know how, but I was determined to get my degree, and finishing high-school was the only way to accomplish that. While they weren't entirely convinced, they were convinced enough to let me stay.
The walk home was tense. My mother constantly berated me with questions like who did I think I was, didn't I know what God's plan was for me, for all women? I want to say a vagina that cooks and cleans but didn't. One, I didn't think she was smart enough to know what a vagina was, and two, I didn't want slapped across. She then asked if I liked boys or if I had been seduced by unnatural spirits. I was shocked that she asked that. I failed to see how my sexuality fit into any of this. Not to mention it was a decidedly silly and old-fashioned way of asking if I was a lesbian. In hindsight, though, I doubt she had the vocabulary to ask me outright. I told her I had no interest in other girls, which was true. I just left out the part about not being into boys either.
As soon as we got home, we both started in on dinner. My father got mad if it wasn't hot and ready for him as soon as he got home. He wasn't exceptionally violent, not for a man of his time. Still, a butt whopping, even a minor one, was always worth avoiding. When he did get home, I stayed finishing up the dinner while my mother left to wash his face, hands and feet. It was a ritual most women did in my town. They would boil a kettle and pour it into a basin. Beside it would be a towel, washcloth, and a bar of soap. If the water hadn't sufficiently cooled enough, a little cold water would be added to reduce it to an acceptable temperature. The wife would tie the towel around her waist, throw the washcloth over her shoulder, and put the soap in the basin. She would then go out to wherever the husband was settling and wash his face, feet, and then his hands. Always in that order. There was never any variation. I'm so grateful I'm not attracted to men.
Dinner went as usual. My father complained about work, my mother did her best to placate him, and I kept my mouth shut. Afterward, he sat in his chair, reading the newspaper while we cleaned up. Finally, my father smoked while listening to the radio, my mother crocheted, and I did my homework in my bedroom.
As I did my homework, I couldn't help that feel I were being watched. With great trepidation and greater curiosity, I went to my one window and peered out into the early night. In the back of the yard, a figure of solid shadow was standing there. It didn't move. That's the thing that got me. Humans can't stand still. They fidget, shift their weight from foot to foot. This thing that so exhibited all the anatomical traits of a human male, stood as still as stone. I backed away until I couldn't see it anymore; refusing to turn my back to the window. Logically, I knew I was on the second floor, so, unless he had a ladder with him, he couldn't get to me. I didn't care about logic. I was terrified and that's all there was to it. Nothing happened, however. A few nightmares, but no stranger climbing through my window to do me serious harm.
I showed up at school the next day, ready to put whatever it was that happened last night behind me when I heard my very serious guidance counselor was now very seriously dead.
*Analysis shows this letter was written a few days after the first.*
I ran away when I was 18. I had convinced my parents to allow me to get a job. I said the extra income could help us out, which was true. While the 50s and 60s might have been the economic height of the country, it wasn't evenly distributed. The idea that you could support a family on a single income was always more myth than reality. Any extra income, even a paltry one, could go a long way to alleviate the economic stresses of life. I worked at a used bookstore after school for three hours a day, five days a week for ten cents an hour, straight cash. I gave half of my earnings to my Dad and I kept the rest. By the time I graduated, I had $75 saved up (roughly $310 in today's money). *Investigator's Note: That would be almost $900 in 2025 money.* More than enough for me to buy a bus ticket out of this backwoods nightmare.
My last day of school, I raided my piggy bank before school, dumping it all in my lunch bag. I had waited until my mother had to go to the bathroom, then snuck my lunch bag upstairs, emptied it out, and put my money in. I then put the food (cheese sandwich and apple in case youwere wondering) back in, hurried back downstairs, said bye, and left. At lunchtime, I snuck out, made my way to the bus terminal, bought a ticket to Pittsburgh, and off I went with no plans, only dreams. Years later, I would go back to see how they were doing. The town was deserted when I arrived. Homes were overgrown with weeds, some in the early stages of collapse. All the stores had been boarded up at one point, but vandals and transients had pryed most of them open. The bookstore I used to work at was in remarkably good shape. I thought about trying to find a way in. I decided that wouldn't be a good idea, however. The town was a cemetery and it wasn't nice to disturb the dead. My parents never found out what happened to me, and I, them. That feels like a fair trade.
When I arrived, I began to realize I might have not thought things out as throughly as I had previously thought. I wanted to go to the University of Pittsburgh. I had considered Temple in Philadelphia. It was a good school to say the least. My heart belonged to Pittsburgh, though. It wasn't until I arrived there that I realized I had no where to stay, no way to pay, and I hadn't even applied yet. I was a homeless stranger, essentially. I strolled around with my little brown paper bag purse. I was forbidden to have a real purse. Purses, my mother had told me, were for married women, elderly women, and harlots and I wasn't any of those things. I eventually became one of those things; elderly, not married or a hooker. It was then I realized how foolish I had been. I planned so long on how to leave, I never really planned on what I would do once I left.
Night eventually began to creep in and consume the day. As it did, I came to the realization that I hadn't eaten anything since 11:30 and it was now getting close to 8. Once my mind had made that discovery, my stomach began to roar in protest. I had no clue what to do. Sure, I had some money left, and back home it would have been enough to secure a room for at least the night (that's if we had hotels/motels). Certainly it would have been enough for a meal. This was the city, however, and I knew everything in the city was far more expensive. I needed a room, I needed food, and I didn't know if I had enough for one, let alone both. I eventually reasoned I was closer to affording something to eat than a room. If nothing else, I could swing an apple and a piece of toast.
I found a small café/dinner. It looked cheap enough for me to afford. As a bonus, everyone inside looked around my age; from the clientele to the wait staff. Even though they were all strangers to me, having them be peers or near peers felt comforting. I thought I could strike up a conversation with one and possibly get some good information and/or advice from them.
I studied them through the large, plate glass window. They all sat in groups. The majority were groups of two, followed by three and four. There was one group of seven. They had pushed two tables together to accommodate their number. Then there was a single boy sitting by himself. He was a peculiar one. His hair and clothing were of an older era; early 1920s I would say. Certainly not the 50s. His hair was brown and looked to be on the oily side. He was thin, just this side of guant. Pale, too. He was reading something; the book was laying flat on the table and he was perched over it, seemingly oblivious to the others around him. He fascinated me in a way no one had previously. Not in a sexual or romantic way, certainly! It was more that the sum of his peculiarities drew me in and I wanted to know more.
I entered the establishment and was warmly greeted by the welcoming smells of cooking and coffee. My stomach convulsed at the promise of substance. I gave my body a second to settle down, then made my way over to the strange young man who had captured my curiosity so. I stood over him, waiting for him to notice me. I might as well been invisible. He took absolutely no notice to me. Not wanting to draw unwanted attention from the others, I cleared my throat as loudly as I dared. He raised his head and regarded me with suspicion and a touch of annoyance. I extended him my hand and said as cheerfully as I could, "Hi, I'm Sharon Baxter. May I please join you?" He had big, sunken, raccoon eyes. He stared into mine for a few seconds, then at my hand. I held my smile despite my increasing annoyance with him. Shake my hand or shoo me off; don't leave me waiting I thought.
Finally, he took my hand and shook it. "Richard Bearse," he said in a nasally, high-pitched voice in an accent I could not place. It sort of reminded me of those fancy English accents I heard in the movies sometimes, yet not quite. "Please, sit," he said and motioned to the empty chair.
"What are you reading?" I asked as I sat down. It might have been an impolite question to ask. Certainly, you were supposed to ask some non-invasive personal questions first to try to establish a bond with the person, but I really was interested in what he was reading. It turned out that was a good question to start with as his face lit up a bit as relief flashed in his sunken eyes.
"'Quantum Theory' by David Bohms. I am a physics major. It's not assigned reading; It's purely for pleasure." He spoke with an obvious intentionality. You could tell he was searching for not just the right words but also the proper pronunciation.
"That's awesome," I said with legitimate enthusiasm. "I want to be a nuclear physicist. Nuclear power and energy simply fascinate me. I used to work for a bookstore and I would read any and every science book that came in; which wasn't that often. Unfortunately." This also seemed to be a "correct" answer as his face lit up even more.
"Really? Are you enrolled in the university?" His voice was much more conversational this time, although it still felt a little over practiced. My face must have soured since I saw a look of concern come over his. "Is something wrong?"
"Um, actually, yes, there is. I want to enroll, but I can't." I suddenly felt great shame and embarrassment. I had been stupid. I was stupid. I didn't think anything through, I was lost, homeless, hungry, and now I had bothered this nice young man during his studies. I was dumb, stupid, bother. I stood up hurriedly and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm going to go."
I started to leave when he said, "Please, don't go. Are you in some type of trouble? Do you need the police?"
It wasn't his questions that made me stop but the sincerity with which he asked them. I sat back down and explained my entire situation to him. He listened intently. Not once did the shadow of judgment ever cross his face. His face was earnest and concerned. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was actually being listened to.
"I see," he said once I was done. "Well, I am not unfamiliar with your situation. I would say that you and I share a certain kinship. I am from a little backwater in Mississippi. I suppose the whole infernal state is a backwater. My town was simply more so."
"Really?" I interrupted him."You don't have a southern accent."
"I should hope not," he replied with a small laugh. "I managed to do to my accent what my parents tried to do to my queerness, and beat it out of me. Metaphorically speaking, of course." He smiled at the end; however, his smile contained a deep sadness within it.
I learned forward. I needed clarification on what he said but I didn't want anyone else to hear my question. With a lowered voice, I asked, "Kwah, you mean 'homosexual'? You're a homosexual?" I must have sounded like such a naive child when I asked him that.
"Guilty as charged," he answered without hesitation. "Scared?" He asked as a joke.
"What? Uh, no. No. I just never met one before. It's not something we talked about much. Not in any good way, that is." I was at a loss for words. I wanted to sound accepting and worldly. Unfortunately, I couldn't hide how new this whole subject was to me.
"Honey, I'm from the deep south. Trust me, I know." His voice was much lighter now. It had an airy freeness to it that was missing before. It was much more natural now. I liked it.
"Is that why you're here? - to escape?"
"Escape? No. More like not wanting to die. People like me don't live that long down there. Not happily that is. I had three options: join the military, pretend to be straight, or get out. My father was determined to get me in the army. He said it it would 'man me up'. I studied my behind off and managed to get a full scholarship here. My father wasn't happy, but he tolerated it because it got me out of his house and town."
"I wish my parents wanted me to leave. My options were housewife or mother's helper. Women don't get to have lives. They're just shuffled from one owner to the other." I then sighed under the crushing weight of my situation. "I can't go back. I can't stay either. I didn't even get my diploma. Those are being handed out at graduation this Saturday. God, I didn't think this through!" I slapped the table in frustration; overwhelmed by everything.
"No, you didn't." His voice was blunt but kind. "That doesn't mean you don't have a way forward. I can help, if you want."
"How?" I asked with equal parts skepticism and hope.
"Well, I can order you something to eat for starters. I suggest the cheese burger with a side of potato chips, not the french fries. The fries tend to be overcooked and greasy. It's your choice, however."
"Thank you," I said eagerly, too hungry to fain reluctance. He called the waitress over and I placed my order. We passed the time by talking about science, physics mostly. When my food arrived, I completely zoned out; scarfing everything down at near light speed. I honestly couldn't tell you if the food was good or not. Hunger had blinded my palate. The sheer joy of eating overrode any deficiencies in flavor or texture.
"You are eighteen, correct?" Richard asked after I was scarfing down my burger.
I nodded. "Yes, last Tuesday."
"Good. Eighteen means you're an adult and adults can't run away. You don't have your parents or the law to worry about."
"Don't count on it. I'm a woman. Men get to be adults. Women just get to be property, remember," I responded still not convinced that the cops would round me up and take me back home. "They could try to get me committed. Men have their wives and daughters committed to insane asylums all the time. I could end up lobotomized."
"Your perception might be a bit skewed; however, your fears are not without warrant. There was a boy from my town who was institutionalized for being homosexual. He was beaten, electrocuted, or what they called 'electroshock therapy'. He was in for nearly a year. His mind was so mangled he ended up committing suicide a week after he came home. Still, I would not worry too much about that."
I appreciated his confidence. I wished I could feel it as well. "What about my diploma?" I asked.
"You passed, didn't you?"
"Yes. I left the last day, I already know my final grades, the only thing I hadn't done is the graduation ceremony."
"Then you are fine. Graduation is just that - a ceremony. The diploma is just a pretty picture, or in times of need; toilet paper. Your records will show you passed. Once again, I wouldn't worry about it."
"You almost have me convinced," I said half jokingly. "What about all the rest? Applying, paying, where am I going to live in the meantime?"
"I can help with applying and possibly qualifying for a scholarship like mine. There's an absolutely beautiful law student with a rather prodigious cock I've been fucking. He can help with any legal issues. As for where to live, you may stay with me. I promise, I have no ill intent towards your person."
I just looked at him; stunned by his kindness. "Thank you, and please don't take this the wrong way, but why are you helping me so much? We've only just met. You don't know me from Eve."
"It's like I told you; you and I share many commonalities. From escaping small, backwards towns to our love of science. Not to mention, you are the first person to ever strike up a conversation by asking me what I was reading. I've gotten: what's your name, where are you from, do you swallow; you know, all the standard ones; never what I was reading. I appreciate that."
"Maybe we were meant to be together," I said, grinning happily, and allowing myself to feel just a little bit hopeful. The tragic irony is we were meant to be together, but it was for nothing good. Nothing good at all.
*This portion was written on a yellow, legal pad in pencil; suggesting another another time jump.*
Over the course of my collegiate career, Richie (as I had come to call him) and I had become great friends. Besides taking me in and helping me enroll, he introduced me to the gay scene. The upscale part, that is. Jazz clubs, poetry readings, and underground plays; it was so vibrant and alive. I felt in the clubs the way may parents had in church - transcendent, like I was coming in contact with the divine. People would dance and sing with abandon on minute, then have hours long debates on philosophy and society and politics. It was the sacred mixing with the profane; the superficial mixing with the deep. One of the unfortunate things that I saw which surprised me greatly was how little gay men and women interacted. It was like once the mating desire had been removed, the two sides had just decided they wanted nothing to do with each other. It was a chore to find places where the two mixed.
From this, my friend circle greatly increased. There was Debby, a male to female transsexual. She was a former Marine who had fought in the Pacific during World War Two and did a tour in Korea before suffering a complete mental breakdown. According to her, she did two years in the nut house before they let her out. So far, the entirety of her change was growing her hair out, clothes, and makeup. Still, I found her to be quite beautiful. She taught those in the community self-defense. Bobby-Ross was another good friend I made. He was an excitable redhead kid who couldn't sit still to save his life. He was thin and lanky with brown eyes and skin so white that it would make a vampire look sun tanned by comparison. He was a philosophy major who couldn't shut-up about the ideas he was learning. He was fun in small doses but wore thin very quickly. Gina was a lesbian I dated for a bit. I had told Richie that I had never really been attracted to men, so he had introduced me to a few women who he thought might be my type. Most fizzled out on the first date. Gina and I, however, had hit it off royally the first time we had met. She was fun and funny, yet knew when to pull it back and be quiet. She was an art major whose specialty was impressionistic, watercolor, landscapes. She had short, curly blonde hair, green eyes, and a cute, little, upturned nose that hung between the most perfect cheekbones to ever grace a human face. She was about an inch shorter than me and around twenty pounds less, giving her a slight, petite appearance that made her look much younger than her actual age.
I cared for Gina immensely. She wasn't the first person I had sex with. She wasn't even the first woman I had sex with. She was and is the only person who I ever enjoyed having sex with. I wish I could have loved her. I wish I could have left with her and opened a bookstore somewhere in Erie (I loved Presque Island and lake Erie). My life certainly would have turned out a lot better. I wish, but the truth of the matter is I wasn't attracted to anyone, really. Not men (thankfully), not women (although I probably could have forced myself to tolerate a relationship with one), not sexually nor romantically. I wanted friends and that was it. I also wanted my career which had progressed from mere nuclear power to quantum physics as a whole. Studying quantum physics was like discovering the secret language of the universe. I wanted to know everything; every hidden nook and cranny. That was my biggest mistake.
As I said, my college years were the best years of my life. I had never felt so free, so alive. Magic flowed through the air like music and poetry and the near endless laughter of all of us which is why knowing what I do now makes that time and those feelings especially cruel. We, I, were all being manipulated. Mindless pawns being moved across a chessboard we had no idea existed by powers we could not begin to comprehend. DAMN IT!
It was 1959 when the first step into the abyss took place. We were seated in the dinning hall enjoying lunch. Richie had graduated the year prior but had immediately rolled over to a graduate program. He wanted to earn a PhD in quantum mechanics. I was glad. I loved him like the big brother I never had. I didn't know how I would get by without him. He had a tuna sandwich, potato chips, a cinnamon roll, and a glass of lemonade. Gina and Bobby-Ross were with us as well. Bobby had his typical lunch of 1 red apple, 1 cup chocolate milk, and 1 slice of bread with peanut butter. Gina had a garden salad. She had decided to become a vegetarian a few months back; having decided she couldn't morally justify the murder of other animals. I had a Ceasar salad and a slice of garlic bread. I had no problems with eating meat; I just wanted to respect Gina's feelings. A few other miscellaneous friends were with us as well. That sounds cruel, doesn't it? I make them sound like meaningless extras. They were good people whose company I enjoyed greatly. The omissions of their names are strictly for expediency's sake as they do not play an important part in this specific narrative.
Anyway, Richie and Bobby-Ross were debating some philosophical musing of Neitzsche, as they were want to do. Richie more for fun than anything serious. The others watched with varying levels of interest. Gina and I sat at the end of the table talking about more important things like what we were going to do over summer break. Intellectual dick measuring contests didn't appeal to us. As we were talking, I saw Dean Jones came in with an odd looking man.
The man was on the taller side but slightly less than truly tall. He was slightly overweight, wore a gray suit with a black tie. What was left of his hair was mostly iron gray with a few streaks of black hear and there. In all things, he was remarkably unremarkable. It was frightening, honestly. He was so bland, so unnoticeable, it felt like a disguise. A person suit, as it were. Besides him was a boy who looked somewhere between 8 and 11. They boy looked remarkably sad; not in an active way like from the recent loss of a loved one; more like all the joy of life had been sucked out of him.
Gina leaned over the table and quietly said, "What do you think?" She subtly nodded to the man.
"He gives me the creeps," I answered her honesty and with a high degree of anger as well. I had no idea who this man was, yet part of me wanted to run away while the other half of me wanted to stab him in the head.
"Same," she whispered back.
Dean Jones looked around the room. I could tell he was searching for someone in particular. I hope it's not me, I had just finished thinking to myself when, as if on cue, he locked eyes with me, smiled, and pointed me out to the man who looked at me with a grin that, I assume, was the same as Jack the Ripper made when he had met his current victim.
As they made their way over to our table, I began to feel sick; like I was going to throw up. Seeing him approach, I was taken back to the night I had seen the "shadow man" outside my window. It was that same sense of dread. The closer he got, the more I realized how "off" his eyes were. They were a crystal sky blue that appeared to glow. I hated them. I hated him.
A slight tap on my right hand brought me out of my head. Gina staring at me, confused. "Um, you want to tell me why you're holding your fork that way?" She asked while pointing to my right hand.
I looked down and saw I was holding my fork like a knife. My hand was white from how hard I was holding it. Subconsciously, I must have been preparing myself to stab him. Shocked, and a little bit frightened, I drop the fork and rubbed my hand on my thigh to get the circulation going again.
Dean Jones arrived on Gina's side of the table with the off-putting man and (I assumed) his son. "Ah, students," Dean Jones greeted us with forced, formal niceties. "I want you to meet Mister Maxwell Richardson and his son, Jeremiah. Mister Richardson is one of our biggest donors and has flown in from California to meet some of our best science students." Richardson smiled that hateful, soul slicing smile. I wanted to lunge across the table and rip his face off just so he wouldn't be able to smile anymore.
Dean Jones continued. "Mister Richardson, this is Richard Bearse; he's currently enrolled in our PhD program for quantum physics." Richie, who was on the same side as Richardson, stood up and shook his hand. Dean Jones then turned towards me and said, "And this is Sandra Baxter. She's a senior and our best student." I half stood up, forced a smile, and did a half assed curtsey. His smiled held although I swear I saw some skepticism flash across his face.
"It's nice to meet you both," said Richardson. His voice was smooth and highly practiced. It was the voice of an actor who became a used car salesman. He didn't spend much time on me; choosing to focus in on Richie; looking him up and down with amused curiosity.
"Well, young man, I see you're dressed in a style more befitting my own youth." He gave a quick laugh after he was done; I guess to denote he was joking. It felt weird, wrong, and off. It felt more like an imitation of a human interaction rather than actual, normal conversation.
Richie looked up at Richardson with a big, mischievous grin and said, "I would have preferred Edwardian dandy, but the clothes are so hard to come by outside of Renaissance Fare season," in a faux British accent.
I could see Richardson furrow his brow, his lips sharply turning downward in a disgusted frown. "You're not a sodomite, are you?"
Whatever effect he had been hoping for, it was not how Richie actually responded. "Oh? 'Sodomite'! Well, well. Not even the more polite, Victorian 'sod'. How positively quaint. I should have dressed as a dandy then. Quick, ladies, mayest thou shareth thine makeup? Robert, fetch me a powdered wig with due haste."
A red storm of anger burned across Richardson's face, the eyes sinking into dark pools of contempt as the others around the table started laughing. I didn't like it. It felt like we were pouring lighter fluid over smoldering coals. I looked away to avoid any accidental eye contact. In doing so, I got a good look at Richardson's son. I would have said he looked sad, depressed even, but that would not be right, though. He looked empty, hallow. He looked dead.
"For future reference," Richie continued taunting Richardson, "we prefer the term ho-mo-sex-u-al these days."
A fresh round of laughter made it's way across the table. I laughed too; not because I thought it was funny, but to keep the growing sense of dread at bay. Dean Jones tried his best to quiet us down, threatening all sorts of over the top punishments to no avail. The rebellion was fully underway now, consequences be damned.
"All of you then?" Richardson asked contemptuously as he looked around at each of us. I felt like he was trying to commit all our faces to memory for some future retribution. "You are all homosexual?" He then looked at me directly; making my heart stop cold for a second. "Even you, young lady?"
"This is my ex-girlfriend," I said, pointing at Gina. Everyone laughed again; I couldn't. I tried, I really tried. I couldn't; I was too terrified.
Richardson looked at Dean Jones (who appeared almost as terrified as I was), and asked, "Dean Jones, are you running an institution of higher learning for tomorrow's leaders, or a house of degenerates?" Without waiting for an answer, he stormed off, his son by his side. Flabbergasted, Dean Jones took off after them, begging for forgiveness and continued donations.
"I think we made a mistake," I said as soon as I was sure they weren't in hearing distance; emotionally shaken.
"Piss on him," Richie replied dismissively. "I'm tired of bigots like him. It's a new age, Sandy! Black people are standing up for their rights. More and more women are starting to stand up against the patriarchy. Why shouldn't we do the same? Ay? Aren't you, isn't everyone here, tired of living in closets? It's nineteen fifty-nine, Share. It's time to demand our rights."
Bobby-Ross raised his hand and sheepishly said, "I'm not gay."
"It's ok. You'll be happy someday," Richie quickly retorted.
"No, I like girls, ladies," Bobby-Ross responded; sincerely believing Richie didn't understand what he meant.
"And maybe one day they'll like you," Richie continued to tease Bobby-Ross.
I looked over at Gina and my heart sank to my stomach. "Hey, sorry I mentioned that we dated," I told her. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had somehow put her life in jeopardy.
She was surprised by my apology. "Why," she asked. She had no idea what I was feeling and to be frank, I couldn't have explained if I tried. "I'm proud of having dated you. You know, it's not like we're going to see him ever again anyhow." I forced myself to smile, reached over the table, and took her hand.
Over the course of the next year, everyone who was at our table that day, except Richie and I, would die. Drowning, car accident, disease, and various other miscellaneous mishaps. Gina was stabbed by a mugger. I wept for an entire week after that happened. Bobby-Ross committed suicide. He had grown increasingly withdrawn and silen;. his once near manic energy had completely drained from him. I had seen him the day before he did it. He was so pale and sweaty; having lost almost twenty pounds. When I asked him what was wrong, he only said he was tired of the blue lights. I couldn't help but feel it was all connected to Richardson; I didn't know how, though. I was scared, terrified that something was hunting us down; some unseen animal preying on us until we were all dead. Yet, after Bobby-Ross, it all seemed to stop. Richie and I continued on. I graduated in 60 and earned my PhD in 67, one year after Richie. We rented an apartment together. Our plan was to find a laboratory where we could work together.
*The l text ends abruptly here. It's picks back up but in pen*
I forget my time is limited. Time. It's so bizarre. My relationship to it has completely changed. It's both the absolute sovereign and yet, completely meaningless. It's hard to parse out the important parts because they're all important to me. Everything flowed into another. It's all wrapped up together; making it impossible to pick out the most important threads, but I'm going to have to try. Each time I escape, they get closer and closer. I know, eventually, I won't be able to escape and that's when I'll put this bullet in my brain, so I know I have to try and write faster.
It was 1967, two months after I graduated. Richie and I were still looking for a job in our field where we could work together. We had taken various part-time jobs to pay the rent and buy groceries. I have to say, having a doctorate in experimental physics and checking people out at our local grocery store was a bit weird. The store manager asked me about ten times if I really wanted this job during my interview because I was so overqualified. I told him bluntly that my feelings didn't matter as much as having a roof over my head and food on the table. Living in a city, having the friends I did, had boosted my confidence beyond anything I had thought was possible. Certainly more than it ever would have been back home. I would occasionally wonder who I would be if I had stayed. No life, no goals, all my being poured into taking care of my parents; I would be nothing, no one. Thinking about that made whatever trials and tribulations I was facing seem manageable and worth it.
Anyway, I had come home after my shift, tired, drained, and miserable. I never knew which was worse: getting yelled at by a customer or hit on. Young guys were crude and vulgar while older men were creepy. More than one middle-aged man made me grateful I knew how to fight. Married men were the worst. They would start off by saying how bad their marriage was or how the wished their wives were more like me. I just wanted to grab them by the throat and say, "Dude, I rang up your Corn Flakes and Bril Cream; give me a break!"
Sorry, I got distracted again.
It was Friday, August 18th, 5:36 pm. I'll remember that forever. I came home and went to go to the bathroom when Richie jumped up in my face, nearly causing me to pee myself. I gave a quick, sharp shriek, and slapped him on the shoulder. I loved him dearly, but, god, he could be such an asshole. I miss him.
"What the hell, dude! You damn near caused me to pee myself! I've been holding it in for the last two hours," I snapped.
He looked at me, surprised. I wasn't sure if it was from me scolding him or that I held it so long. He answered my question when he said, "Why didn't you use the bathroom at work?"
"A pipe burst so it was shut down. Now can I please go? Seriously, I swear my back teeth are floating."
"Um, yeah, sure. I have good, no, great news. It will be best if you take care of business first."
"Thanks," I replied, a little snippy, I have to admit. I was still kind of pissed, though. That's my defense, at least.
I thought about what "great news" he had for me. He could be quite the wildcard. It could be a job offer, a new boyfriend, or he found a dollar on the sidewalk. All were equally possible. I finished, wiped, flushed, and pulled my shorts up. I had taken to wearing shorts under my skirt. It kept my thighs from rubbing together and it made me feel safer like an extra layer of protection. As I was washing my hands, I glance at the mirror. For a moment, a millisecond, really, I thought I saw the shadow man. I experienced a rapid, full body, convulsion and nearly screamed. I probably would have if I it had been there longer. I should have been relieved. I should have chalked it up to a visual hallucination. My eyes playing tricks on me and all that, but I couldn't. I was terrified, shaking, and grateful it happened after I had went and not before. I opened the bathroom door without even drying my hands. I just wanted out and to be around another, living, solid person.
I must have looked pretty grim because as soon as Richie saw me, he looked worried and asked, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. A surprise cramp, that's all. I guess my friend is coming early this month," I lied. I didn't want to tell the truth; not when I wasn't even sure what the truth was.
"Uh! Keep your lady business to yourself. Anyway, are you ready to hear the good news?"
"Lay it on me," I said, trying to sound upbeat.
"We got a job offer!"
"What? No way!" I took his hands and we started jumping up and down with excitement while giggling like a couple children who were about to commit the perfect prank.
Richie let go of my hands and added the qualifier, "Sort of."
I stopped dead and stared at him, my mouth hanging open in shock. "What do you mean, 'sort of'? Did we get a job offer or not?"
"We got an invitation to a job fair with a nuclear power company. They're going to build a plant in Pennsylvania and they're looking for people."
I just looked at him in disbelief for a moment. I then put my hand over my face in frustration. "A job fair? A. Richie, ok, for one, we're experimental physicists."
"No, our doctorates are in experimental physics. I am a dishwasher and stock boy. You are a check-out girl and waitress. Come on, Share-bear! We're wasting our potential and our intelligence here. It might not be the jobs we want, but they're a hell of a lot better than the ones we have. Give it a shot, at least? Besides, if I remember correctly, you originally wanted to be a nuclear physicist, hmm?"
He was right. I couldn't argue otherwise. We had our student loans, rent, food, clothing, utilities, and all the other financial drains of being alive while working two, dead-end jobs a piece that we could have gotten straight out of high school. The fact that it was in the nuclear energy industry felt wrong to me. The fact that's what I originally wanted to do which is exactly why it felt so off. It felt like I was being funneled into something I didn't want, something wrong. Still, I felt that I owed him the benefit of the doubt. That was the biggest mistake of our lives.
I sighed. "Alright. Keep going."
He gave me the biggest, most excited smile I had ever seen on him. "Ok! They're called Sinway Energy. They're having a job fair tomorrow, noon to two, invitation only. Their letter here," he took a folded letter out from his back pocket and handed it to me, "says they asked the university who their top students were and they gave them our names. And the names of others, I assume. Who cares. They don't matter. What do think?"
"It says there's a mandatory seminar we have to attend first. What do you think that's about?"
"Eh, it's probably the same corporate nonsense you always get at these type of things: a company history, mission statement, blah-blah, you know the rest."
I shook my headm "I'd have to call off at the restaurant, that's a day's pay right there. It's also last minute. I might not get it."
"Share-bear," he said like a tired parent trying to tell their child for the umpteenth time why they can't have a cookie. "We are doctors. You're thirty and I'm thirty-two. We're working jobs for teenagers. What's more important? Pursuing a challenging, rewarding career that could benefit our entire state, or getting groped up by a bunch of horny old guys during the lunch rush?"
"Handsy men are more your thing," I retorted. Unfortunately, I didn't have his linguistic flare. "I just don't know. That's a guaranteed paycheck. This is just a potential. If I lose the restaurant, we're screwed until I can find another job."
"They want us specifically. I think it's a little more than just a potential. I'm going, with or without you. I'd prefer with you. You're my best friend. It's your choice, though. Either way, I'm going."
I looked at the letter again. My stomach swirled and I wanted to throw up. Still, Richie was my brother from another mother. Sure, him getting that job wouldn't necessarily mean we couldn't live together or hang out anymore. I wondered how long that would last, however. As his fortunes improved, how much longer would he be willing to tolerate me, this living situation, for? Obviously it wasn't like he would ever get married and have a family. I could still see him wanting his own place where he could have his "roommates" for as long as he could tolerate them. Where would I fit in then?
I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. "I didn't runaway from home to wait tables or ring up cans of soup. Fine! I'll go. I'll call the restaurant now. If I get fired and we get evicted,"
"We'll be the two most fabulous hobos in all of Pittsburgh!"
I sighed, rolled my eyes, and went to call my boss.
The job fair was being held in the special occasions room of a nearby hotel. It had been built in 1916 and carried all the architectural sensibilities of its time. Trendy and fashionable for a time, hopelessly outdated there after. If the building (or clothing or car or anything else inexorably tied to a specific time period) was lucky, it could become retro-chic. The place was taken care of, so it stood a chance.
The room had a small stage and several small tables with round tabletops. Each table had a white table cloth and two chairs. We were met at the entrance by a tall, muscular, black man who handed us our name badges and led us to our seats. We tried to have some small talk with him but he ignored us and walked off. I couldn't blame him. If I was black, I wouldn't want to talk to white people either.
There weren't that many other people in attendance. Eight by my count. I didn't recognize anybody which struck me as odd. I felt I should recognize at least somebody. I couldn't help feeling like I was in a play for an unknown audience. Richie was unbothered as usual. I used to admired that about him and wished I could be the same. Now I wish he had been more like me.
At the exact strike of noon, a man of about 53, by my estimation, came out on stage. He was bald with wire-rimmed glasses that hung low on his nose. He wore a grayish brown suit with a black tie and polished shoes. His ears stuck out making his head resemble a tea cup with two handles. A sippy-tea cup. To this day I don't know how I stopped myself from laughing.
"Greetings, gentlemen and lady," the man said in a voice that sounded like Fred Rutherford from Leave It To Beaver. "My name Gordon Carter, president of Sinway Energy. I would like to welcome you all here today. Before I tell you about Sinway, I want to talk to you about something you probably haven't heard about before - global warming.
"The earth has been heating up for a while now. First proposed by French mathematician and physicist Joseph Fourier in the 1820s and later by Swedish scientist Svante Arrhenius, amature British scientist Guy Stewart Callendar, and currently by Charles David Keeling, global warming is the process by which greenhouse emissions from burning fossil fuels accumulate in the atmosphere, trap heat, and raising the temperature of the planet; much like a greenhouse, hence the name of 'greenhouse gasses'. As I am sure that most of you are able to infer the potential severity of a warming planet, I won't go into too much detail; only that as the planet becomes warmer, crops, gulf streams, weather, and animal migration and breeding habits could all be adversely impacted. If left unchecked, it could lead to an extinction event on par with that of the dinosaurs. Um, you will all be provided with a packet at the end of the presentation containing all the information regarding global warming as we know it now.
"In conjunction with global warming, we also have a population bomb. We currently have three and a half billion people, roughly, on Earth. By the year 2000, that number could be doubled or perhaps tripled. All those people will need energy. Energy to power their homes, stores, factories, offices, warehouses, and such. The demand for reliable, safe energy will be nearly insatiable. How are we to meet those needs?
"Even if it were not for global warming, fossil fuels would still be a miserable choice. They're finite, non-renewable, increasingly hard to find and extract, not to mention they are an environmental nightmare besides from heating the globe up. If we stay with fossil fuels, we only have two possible outcomes: environmental destruction, or depletion; at which point we shall be forced to return to a pre-industrial lifestyle. Can you imagine three, four, eight, sixteen billion people returning to an eighteenth century, medieval, or even stone age existence? And that isn't even taking into account all the potential wars that would break out as nations rushed to hoard the last reserves of fossil fuels for themselves.
"What, then, is the solution? Well, hopefully to no one's surprise, we, at Sinway, believe the answer is nuclear energy. Nuclear energy is clean, in that it produces no greenhouse gasses. It is reliable. It's not dependent on sunshine as solar is or the wind or creating more dams for hydroelectric. Nuclear has the unique ability to provide clean, steady, reliable energy without the environmental deficiencies of the other methods, specifically fossil fuels.
"That is not to say that nuclear doesn't come with its own issues. Nuclear waste storage and management, for one. While unlikely, potential meltdowns. Of course, obtaining fissionable materials. And that brings us to you assembled here.
"We are going to need bright, hardworking, dedicated people who can address and find solutions for all the problems facing the nuclear industry. Perhaps one of you could find a way to create sustainable nuclear fusion? Or, maybe, come up with new ways of producing energy we haven't even dreamt of yet. To that end, we are planning something very special.
"As I'm sure most of you have heard, we are planning on building a power plant outside of your fair city. What you do not know is this plant will also come with a massive research and development facility. I know we have some experimental physicists amongst you, so in case you were wondering why you are here; that is why. We need people who can not only dream of the future but who also have the strength and intelligence to make it happen.
"Well, hopefully I have piqued your interest enough to talk to one of our recruiters who will be joining us shortly. They'll be calling each of you back one by one for an interview. In the meantime, we will be passing out those information packets on global warming for you to go over. Thank you for time, and hopefully I'll be working with you all very soon."
Richie tapped me on the shoulder. I looked around at him and he was absolutely beaming with excitement. "Well? What do you think?" He asked me like a child asking his mother if Santa Clause was bringing him the present he asked for.
"It's definitely interesting," I said. I was trying to sound non-commital but interested. Anything other than the terrified I actually felt.
I'm tired. I'm going to end this entry here. I hope you don't mind, Sarah. Then again, why would you? You never said you did before. I'm so tired. I've been running for so long. Too long. I want to rest but I can't. Night Sarah, I'll see you again for the first time.
In case you're wondering, I'm feeling much better. Well, better. It's surprising how a couple days peace can almost make you forget you're being hunted like a wounded animal. I digress.
The research part was something else. It was bigger than the actual reactor. It had four levels, three of which were underground. The surface level was offices and not much else. It was the administrative and meet-and-greet level. Level 2 contained staff lockers, the cafeteria, and meeting rooms. Level 3 was a series of laboratories dedicated to different sciences: physics, chemistry, and (what was surprising at the time) biology. The 4th level was a particle accelerator. Yeah, we were surprised as well. A nuclear power plant doubling as a research facility was strange enough; but a particle accelerator? Why? Only a few, highly selected staff were allowed to go down to the 4th level. If we needed anything, a certain experiment run, they would go down, conduct it, then give us the results. Once again, strange, but not entirely off-putting. PAs are major pieces of equipment and priced accordingly. We figured they were only protecting their investment.
Richie, myself, and two others: Doctor Isaiah Jones, a forty year old quantum physists who had moved here from Utah, and Doctor Melissa McAfee, a 24 year old prodigy, were led into a double room. The first half was painted mustard yellow with white trim. The walls were lined with computers and monitors. I hated the way they looked. It wasn't their aesthetic, per se. It was that they looked 10 years out of place. I don't mean 10 years in the past. They looked like something that came from 10 years in the future. Not sci-fi, Star Trek advanced; just more advanced than what they should be. The second half of the room was sectioned off by a glass wall. Seriously, the entire wall was one piece of 3 inch thick, leaded glass. On the other side was a bright, shiny, silver looking disk surrounded by various measuring devices. It sat on a wooden table with a white marble top. It reminded me of a strange dinner plate waiting for its food to be placed on it.
"What's this?" Dr. Jones asked. He wore thick, black rimmed glasses. He had a nose sharp nose, like a perfect right triangle, thin lips, thick, salt and pepper eyebrows, and a drastically receding, curly hair. He was exceptionally thin which made his face seem sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were a pale bluish gray made even more striking by his dark tan skin. He was the eldest amongst us and looked the part.
"This, is what we call the disc," our guide, Dr. Franklin Craig, said. Craig had the most confusing visage I've ever seen. He was fat and thin, cheerful and stern looking all at the same time. Looking at him gave me a headache.
"How original," Richie whispered to me.
"It was found on a beach in Australia three years ago. Apparently, it was exposed after a rather large thunderstorm," Dr. Craig continued to explain. "The military was called to get it; the initial fear being that it might be a landmine planted by the Soviets, possibly even the Japanese during the war."
"It wasn't; was it?" Dr. McAfee asked. She was pretty; delicate like a porcelain doll. Her thick auburn hair was tied back in the tightest ponytail I ever saw. She was so thin and small; making her look a good 10 years younger than she was. Her face was stern, bordering severe, giving off major "don't fuck with me" energy.
"No. What it is is an anomaly. For one, it's circumference isn't based on pi." Craig stopped to let that sink in.
"That's impossible," I said, deciding to jump into the conversation. "The circumference of every circle is pi times diameter."
"Or two pi times radius," McAfee stated. This annoyed the crap out of me. It felt like she was playing teacher's pet or looking for a gold star or some other petty bullcrap.
"Yes," I said in a short, clipped voice; showing my annoyance.
"Correct," Craig answered, nodding his head. "You're right. The circumference of every circle is based on pi - except this one. It's been measured over a thousand times in both imperial and metric, with multiple different measuring tapes, string, you name it. Each time, it comes to thirty-one inches or seventy-eight centimeters. Exactly. With a diameter of ten inches or twenty-five centimeters."
"You mean, twenty-five point four centimeters," McAfee said.
"No. I mean twenty-five centimeters, dead. Every measurement taken of the disc comes out to a whole number. No exceptions. It has impossible proportions to say the least."
"You will let us measure it verify what you're saying?" Jones asked.
"You'll be taking multiple measurements of it to be sure; in full radiation gear. You see, shortly after its discovery, it started emitting an exotic form of radiation we had never encountered before. scientists who initially studied it all died within a day or two."
"And it's here, why?" Richie asked. For the first time, I could see he was truly worried about something.
"Because, we think this might be the future of energy production. If we can harness and use its radiation for energy, it would be a game changer. That is why you four are here. You are the cream of intellectual crop. If anyone can figure this thing out, it's you."
I noticed Jones looking at Craig with a bizarrely annoyed expression. It was skepticism, exasperation, and mild amusement all rolled into one, "I've had enough" expression. "I see," he said with heavy skepticism. "And tell me, after this, are we then going to examine a undersea city with non-euclidian architecture? Perhaps we'll all dance in a circle, chanting 'In R'lyeh, great Cthulhu lies dreaming'?"
Richie shook his head and stared at Jones as if he had said he had just shit his pants. "I'm sorry; WHAT?"
"The Call of Cthulhu, a short story by HP Lovecraft," McAfee explained. "He's a rather obscure author."
"With good reason," Jones stated. "The man couldn't write to save his life. He had a middle school education and tried to write like an Oxford English professor."
"He was also incredibly racist and misogynistic," McAfee added quietly; sounding almost embarrassed.
"So he's your standard white guy author," Richie responded with a shrug. "What does that have to do with anything?"
Craig stepped forward into the center of our little group. "Lovecraft wrote about cosmic horrors. Things that exist above human comprehension. In essence, Doctor Jones here is insinuating that the disc is a fantasy or a trick, am I right?"
"Exceedingly," Jones confirmed.
They continued to argue behind me. I paid them no mind. I was too busy staring into the section that held the disc. On either side of the table stood two of the shadow creatures, four in total. They were faceless, as usual, but I couldn't help feel they were staring at me, specifically. Behind the table was a faint outline, a mere memory, of a door. It wanted to be opened. They wanted it to be opened. They wanted me to open it.
"Get rid of it," I said as I spun around, unable to look at it anymore.
"Excuse me?" Jones indignantly asked. Apparently, I interrupted him.
Craig, which should have been another red flag, smiled with a quiet excitement. He came up to me and it took all I had not to jump away from him. "Is there something bothering you?" The way he asked, it sounded sleazy. No, I've had guys being sleazy to me before. This was worse. So, so much worse. My soul felt defiled.
"If it's emitting enough radiation to kill highly trained and capable people, then it's far too dangerous to use." I wasn't lying. Not entirely. It was dangerous to be sure, just not from its radiation (entirely).
His smile broadened. Jesus, it felt like I was being raped. It was beyond predatory. It was, fuck, I can see it now. Get out of my head! Get out of my fucking head! Sorry. I can't describe how truly awful his smile was. Anyway, he asked, "Oh? Do you feel that way about uranium or plutonium?"She
Richie, to his undying credit, must have seen how unnerved I was. He stood beside me and held my left hand. "Easy there, boss," he said and for the first time, I heard a ghost of his former accent. It was so weird hearing this man who had been so polished in his speech suddenly shift into a backwoods accent (even if it was more of a suggestion of one rather than full on). "You mind backing up a bit? Personal space. Personal space."
Craig backed up, but that smile, that god damned look, never left his face.
"No, of course not," I said, regaining my courage. "I just don't think we know enough about this to mess with it."
"And that's why you're here," Craig replied with all the smoothness of a practiced used car salesman.
Thankfully, McAfee butted in. "How did it get here? If this was in the hands of the Australian government, how did Sinway, a private, US based company, come to possess it?"
Craig's smile faded a little. Just enough so he seemed human again. "Sinway has dealings and connections with governments throughout the free world. The government of Australia decided, much as Doctor Baxter has, that the disc was not worth studying. They considered trying to destroy it. However, one of their MPs had dealt with Sinway in the past and decided to see if we'd be interested in studying it with the implicited caveat being that any information learned would be shared with them."
He was lying. I knew it and from the look on her face, so did McAfee. I immediately dropped all negative opinions I had about her. She nodded and didn't press further. Maybe Craig thought she bought it. I knew she didn't. From the quick look she gave me, I knew she knew I didn't, either. Well, that's what I thought at the time. Turns out, I was a shit judge of character.
"Listen," Craig said in an artificial, take-it-or-leave-it voice, "you four were specifically hire, to study the disc and find a way to use it for good. If you feel this is some sort of elaborate hoax or joke," he motioned to Jones, "or if you don't feel it's safe," he motioned to me, "then you are free to leave, but your employment with Sinway will be terminated."
Jones smirked. He was way too arrogant for his own good. "I'm not buying this; however, I am curious as to what the purpose is. I will stay."
Richie whispered in my ear, "Please, Share-bear. You and me together, huh?"
"Doctor Baxter?" Craig asked, looking me dead in the eyes.
"Alright," I answered flatly. "If I don't get cancer, maybe I'll get a Nobel."
For the next hour, Craig went over everything that had already been learned about the disc. He showed us lab reports, research notes, pictures, and printouts. Everything about the disc was described in full with as much detail as possible. After he had gone over everything, he thanked us, bowed, and left; leaving the four of us to get to work.
"What do you think?" Richie asked the group.
"I think he's full of excrement," Jones said as he put one of the reports down.
"He's a creep," I said, rubbing my arms to combat a sudden chill I got.
"These's documents aren't Australian," McAfee said. "The spellings and grammar are all wrong. Australians use British English. It's sentence structure and spellings differ from American English. These are all written using American English."
"Translation?" Richie said as a joke.
"Not needed," McAfee replied seriously. "Despite grammatical and spelling differences, both are still English; thus completely understandable."
"The plot thickens, then; doesn't it?" Richie replied.
McAfee looked at me and said, "I didn't mean to step on your toes back there. I saw you looked kind of cross when I gave the second diameter equation. There's not a lot of women in the sciences, especially at the elite levels. Whenever I meet one, I want to show her I want to be friends. I don't always get it right. In fact, I almost never do. I was only trying to build a bond with you, that's all."
"I understand. Sorry for jumping to conclusions," I stuck out my hand. "No harm, no foul."
She smiled and shook my hand with surprising enthusiasm.
The rest of the day we discussed possible theories on what was going on and the purpose behind it. Jones was of the opinion this was simply a test of our problem solving abilities. Richie and McAfee were less convinced, yet offered no counter possibility. I kept quiet during those discussions. This wasn't a test. It wasn't a game. This was real, serious, and most frightening, it felt inevitable; as though everything throughout time conspired to bring us to this exact point. After the more speculative portion of our discussions, we came to the practical. We talked about the various tests we wanted to perform, could perform, who would handle which tasks, and so on. By the end of our first day, we had come up with solid plans for how to proceed tomorrow.
Back at our apartment, Richie kept wanting to talk to me about the disc, my opinion on our coworkers, and Sinway. I told him over and over that I didn't want to talk about it. What was there to talk about? If I told him what I really thought (there's something wrong, possibly evil, going on and we should run far, far away), he'd only get upset and tell me I was being dramatic. That's one of the main drawbacks to knowing someone almost as well as you know yourself - you know exactly what they're going to say on just about everything so actually talking to them almost becomes redundant. After a while, I got so fed up with his constant questions, I abruptly stood up and said I was going for a walk.
The night felt disturbingly empty. Sure, it was a Monday night. People were broke from the weekend and tired from being back at work, but it was still a city. There should be far more people out and about. Maybe there was? Maybe I'm remembering the emotional truth of the moment and not the actual, physical one. Then again, isn't that all remembering is? I write down what everyone said as though I were a court stenographer, but can I say for sure that this is exactly what everyone said nearly twenty - thirty years ago? I don't know. Maybe I'm just going crazy.
I eventually made my way to the Smithfield Street Bridge. I stopped about halfway across, leaned against the side rail, and stared out over the black water below like some forlorn lover in a romantic melodrama. They say art imitates life. In this age of motion pictures, I wonder if life now imitates art. The movies and TV gave us troupes, archetypes to follow and now we imitate what this actor or that actress did when they played a part similar to what we're going through at the moment.
Focus, Sharon.
As I was looking out, over the river, I heard a woman's voice beside me. I should have been startled. I wasn't, though. Even though I had never heard the voice before, it felt familiar. I turned around and, shit, they're here
*The notes suddenly end here*
1
Sharon Baxter stood looking out on the river; her mind racing. She felt lost, crazy, confused, hopeless, and scared. Ever since the night her guidance councilor died and she saw that black shape out her bedroom window, it felt as though something else, something dark had been guiding her life. Most of the time she was able to forget about it. In the best of times, she could dismiss it outright. Now she couldn't. The darkness appeared to swirl around her, like an invisible hand that was slowly closing, about to crush her.
Why couldn't Richie see it? Why couldn't he feel it? It was so obvious. Wasn't it? What if he didn't see anything because there was nothing to see? Maybe she was crazy. What was it? Schizophrenia? That would be right, wouldn't it? She, who had so prized her intelligence and intellect, was now being betrayed by that very same brain. What did they always say? - the line between genius and madness was razor thin?
"Hello," a sharp, husky, feminine voice said beside her.
There was something about the voice that was oddly familiar. She had never heard it before (of that she was certain), yet it felt familiar, almost comforting. She turned and saw a brown skin woman looking at her. She looked to be in her late 30s to early 40s. She wore black leather, biker boots, blue jeans, a red shirt, and a blue jean jacket. Her long, black hair was done up in two braids that hung over a decorative headband.
"Hello," Sharon replied, looking the stranger up and down. "Do I know you?" She hoped she didn't sound mean or confrontational. She was sincerely trying to figure out why she felt so comfortable around this woman.
The woman gave a sly smile and said, "Not yet. I noticed you looked distressed. I only wanted to make sure you're not thinking about jumping."
Sandra smiled in return. A good Samaritan. That explained some of what she felt. She must have subconsciously picked up that this woman was only trying to help. This was good. This was really good.
"No, no, I'm fine. I'm just stressed from work. New job and all. Not to mention the fact that its over an hour drive to get there. More like an hour and a half. It's good money and all, but, I don't know. Thanks for asking, by the way. The milk of human kindness seems to be on short supply these days."
The woman smirked at Sharon's comment. "Always was. This used to be my people's land. Then the Europeans showed up and decided that they liked the land but not the people."
"You're Indian?" Sharon asked, surprised by how much she was surprised by the woman being an Indian. Maybe it was because she had only seen Indians in TV shows and movies. She hated to admit it, but meeting an Indian in real life felt like meeting a unicorn.
The woman scowled a bit at Sharon's question. "I'm Lakota. That's my nationality. Indian is what Columbus called us because he was a moron. A genocidal moron."
"Sorry," Sharon said feeling guilty for her carelessness. "I didn't mean to offend you. Please, forgive me."
The woman thankfully smiled. "It's fine. I've dealt with worse. At least you apologized. I'm Sarah, by the way. Sarah Redcloud."
Sharon smiled and nodded in return. "Sharon Baxter. Nice to meet you."
"Same. So what is this job that's got you so forlorn?"
"Oh. I work at the new, nuclear power plant that just opened up." Sharon hoped this would be enough to satisfy Sarah's inquiry. She didn't want or even knew how to go into more detail.
"You haven't started glowing yet, have you?" Sarah laughed as she asked.
"Not yet. Give me a day or two," Sharon joked back. "What about you? What do you do?"
"That's hard to explain. I used to be a cop - detective. I used to hunt human monsters. Now, I hunt monsters of a different sort. Kind of like those shadow creatures you keep seeing." Sarah turned her head and stared into Sharon's eyes, daring her to lie.
Sharon was shocked and quickly turned away. "How, how do you know that? How could you know that? Have you seen them too?" There was no need to deny anything with this woman. If she knew about the shadow men, then that meant she had answers Sharon desperately wanted.
"Seen them, fought them, killed a few," Sarah answered in the most nonchalant manner possible. "There's a technical name for them. We just call them Night-gaunts, after HP Lovecraft. The man was a piece of shit but he got things closer to right than wrong. On a cosmic scale, that is."
"I'm not crazy then?" Sharon asked with a renewed spirit of hopefulness.
"Maybe. Possibly. Not about this, though."
"Well, what do they want? Why me? And how the hell did you know I had seen them?" Sharon begged, desperate for answers.
"In order: they don't 'want' anything. They don't have the cognitive capacity to want anything. They simply serve greater powers than themselves. As for why you; my guess is your genetic mutation. The same one that gave you that super brain of yours also gave you the ability to see through the fog of reality, to a point. Unluck of the draw, as it were. As to how I know, that's a little more complicated. A lot more complicated, actually."
"I'm all ears! Tell me!"
Sarah turned her head and looked up at the night sky. "In less than a week, humans will land on the moon. For the first time, human feet will walk on soil not of this Earth."
"You not answering me," Sharon said, losing patience.
Sarah ignored her. "What do you think is going to happen afterwards? Mars? Venus? The ice moons of Jupiter and Saturn?"
Sharon wanted to yell at her but she couldn't. The tone of her voice; there was something so sad in it. It was like they were watching a movie that Sarah had seen before but she hadn't. Right now, they were at a particularly happy part but Sarah new that the ending was sad and didn't want to spoil the moment for Sharon.
"You ever hear the expression 'eat right, exercise, die anyway?" Sarah asked, still looking up at the sky.
"No, I can't say I have," Sharon answered, deciding to just go with it.
For some reason, that made Sarah smile. "Every day we eat, knowing we'll get hungry again. We drink knowing we'll get thirsty. We go to the doctor and take medicine when we're sick knowing even if we recover, we're just going to die later. We die, our species will die. Our solar system, our galaxy, even the universe itself will cease to be. There's no hope. There's no immortality. There's nothing but the void and being forgotten."
Sharon was now becoming worried. Sarah's voice was even, borderline unemotional, yet her words were those of deep, existential depression. She touched Sarah softly on her right, upper arm. "Hey, you're not planning on jumping, are you?"
Sarah laughed and shook her head. "No. Recognizing the futility of life doesn't negate its beauty." She then looked back at Sharon. "That's the point. We're all going to die but that doesn't mean it has to be today. Another day, even if it's only one, is another day."
Sarah turned her entire body towards Sharon and leaned on the railing with her left elbow. "That disc, they want to know it's properties in hopes of using it to create a machine. A very dangerous machine."
"What? How do you know about the disc?"
"The same way I knew about you seeing the Night-gaunts. Now, can I finish?"
Sharon had lost almost all of her patience but she knew Sarah was the one with all the answers, so she had to go along. "Proceed."
Sarah closed her eyes and nodded. "Ok, no more beating around the bush. I'm from the future. The year two thousand, twenty-five to be exact."
Sharon was shocked, speechless. This was crazy. The whole thing was crazy. Then again, was it really any crazier than everything else she's been experiencing? "You're telling me they have backward time travel in the future?" She said slowly and deliberately. "That's impossible. While in theory, backward time travel is possible; the energy and technology needed would be impossible! It would be easier to build a faster than light engine."
"Not they, Doctor. Baxter; Me. I told you it was complicated. In the line of work I do, you discover that there's a lot of things you thought were impossible but aren't. I'm trying not to create a temporal paradox here, so I need to choose my words precisely. While I can go back in time, I can't take any direct action in the past. The only thing I can do is guide and give others the means to take action."
"Isn't that still creating a temporal paradox, just indirectly?"
"More like insuring certain events happen as they're supposed to. The forces I'm fighting exist outside of our space-time. To them the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously. I'm only making sure the doors of the past remain shut."
It was Sharon who turned away this time. "I can't believe you. It's too impossible. However, for the sake of argument, if I did; what do you want me to do?"
Sarah reached inside her jacket and pulled out a brown leather necklace with a silver and obsidian charm attached. She handed it to Sharon, who took it with some confusion and a little bit of apprehension. "Put that on and keep it on. When the time is right, it will let you know what to do."
Sharon put the necklace on and stuffed it down her shirt. "I still think this is crazy, by the way." She paused, then asked, "How did you find me?"
Sarah gave her a quirky little smile. "I didn't. You found me. It's the only reason I went into as much detail as I did. Usually, I'm far more cryptic. Take care, Sharon. I look forward to meeting you again for the first time." With that, Sarah disappeared, leaving Sharon to question everything she had thought she'd known.
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