Here

By Stephany Brandt

Bill Carter thought he had a simple life: work his hay farm, love his wife, and care for his family.

Then his farm hand brings him unsettling news:

Something has blocked off one of his alfalfa fields, and there's no way to get in.

Bill and his friends try to figure out the mystery in the hay field, all the while not knowing they’re being watched by a family of alien refugees.

Who are just as nervous about Bill as he is of them.

But they need help to survive the destruction of their home planet, and Bill can offer them what they dearly need: safe shelter.

Across the globe in Botswana, Benie Kabelo learns of a diagnosis that threatens her ability to have a family. As she mourns her loss, she witnesses the murder of a group of aliens, and finds an orphaned alien baby who desperately needs her protection.

In Germany, Heinrich Fischer watches as an alien ship streaks across the Black Forest, then he decides to go hunting for the vehicle. What he sought was an alien - what he found was a new best friend.

And in Oregon's Willamette Valley, Aden Winslow finds an alien hiding in her basement. Aden decides to help her new alien friend as they search for the alien's lost spaceship, and work together to repair it.

All of these stories wind together as we experience first contact through the eyes of everyone involved - how they learn, love, and explore what it is to conquer your fears, and become friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephany Brandt
• Release date: Dec 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780998709369

Stephany Brandt

Stephany (Steph) Brandt is a speculative science fiction author based in Oregon, and their novels are set in the Pacific Northwest both in present and future times. They focus on tales in our near future that delve deeper into the nature of good and evil, discuss what it's like to be an outsider, and explore the nature of love during trying times.They are heavily influenced by writers like NK Jemisin, Martha Wells, Ursula K. LeGuin, Robert A. Heinlein, Stephen King, and Stephen Baxter.Their current titles include Here, Perfect, Darkness, and Wilderness, as well as numerous short stories. They received their creative writing training at the University of Oregon.Steph lives in Eugene, Oregon with a pug from another planet.They are also owned by their writing room and travel companion: the 1985 Volkswagen Van "Henry."

Book preview

1

Bill

Everyone's been asking me what I think about them—how it all happened. I get so many people stopping me, it’s just better to write it in one place—that way I can get some peace, and maybe get back to work again. It’s getting tiring, people stopping me in the feed store, at the diner, even on the road when I'm trying to move my tractors; you can only do so much when you're fifty-five.

You see, running any farm is a battle, much less a hay operation: out here in Fort Rock, you either run cattle, or grow hay for the cattle, or some crazy nutjobs do both. I got rid of my last herd of Angus three years ago, and I won't go back to it—at least I don't have to get up in the middle of the night and tend a heifer giving birth in a snowy field any more. Thank God for that.

The seasons rule life out here, and with my sore bones, I need all the time I can get to bring my hay in; most guys have a farm hand or two, and I've got Miguel to help run tractors in the summer. I drive one of the tractors too, and Miguel and I do a pretty decent job together—if we get a good water year I’ll do three turns on my fields, which fills up the hay barns. Most of my Valley business comes off of that—horse stables, and the like. I’ve had two fields of alfalfa, one of timothy grass, and one of triticale for the last ten years, and we’re known for the quality: certified weed-free. I used to run three fields of alfalfa until the neighbors moved in, but they took over that east field and made it their own; you can’t grow a crop in that pasture anymore, but it grows something else for us instead.

Miguel saw it first when they moved in; he tore back to the house on the quad, yelling about how there was something wrong in the east field. I couldn't see what he was talking about from the window, so we set out together in my work truck. Miguel babbled about how he couldn't go further; I didn't totally understand what he was talking about, but I usually don’t. Even after ten years here, his English still isn't that amazing, and my deaf left ear doesn't help. We got out there and I almost wanted to smack him: there was nothing I could see but my growing hay, and Miguel kept repeating No more, over and over like he was stuck on a loop. I told him, Show me, and he got out of the truck.

We went out to the corner of the east field, then in the gate. Miguel put his hand out flat in the air, and I thought he was fooling me; imitating one of those mimes in the whiteface makeup. No more, he said, feeling up his imaginary wall. I thought the years driving in circles had finally made my farm hand insane, and I was going to have to send him to the doctor up in Bend.

What's the problem? I walked into the field. I don't see ‘nuthin!

That's when I hit it—like walking into a brick wall—I smashed my nose and was lucky I didn't break the damned thing; dropped to the ground cussing, and saw Miguel trying hard not to laugh through the fog of my own tears. That bastard! He let me walk right into whatever it was. I've had my days where I wanted to let him go, and that day was one of them.

I couldn't see what I hit, but I felt it: the surface was smooth and cold, but as I ran my fingers along it, I felt the material get warmer. Soon it was as warm as my hand, and I had the strangest feeling like I was stroking a person—an invisible person. I pet it for a second, then I couldn't touch the odd invisible skin anymore.

Miguel pointed down the fence line. More, he whispered with his eyes open wide. I let my hands be my guide and felt my way down the fence, and that odd, warm feeling met me all the way—matching the curve of the line where my sprinkler pivot ended. I felt it going further, so I followed the invisible wall as far as it would take me: all the way around my field—pretty much following the line in the ground where my alfalfa met the sage brush. The strangest thing was: I couldn't get to my pivot. I could see the thing, even the blue light on top, but that skin-feeling invisible wall blocked it completely.

I spent all day with Miguel fussing around with that wall. Mary even came out and brought us lunch in the field, and she touched the wall too. It made her shudder and she jumped back after only a few seconds. That's just weird, she hissed. Then she shook her head and took her lunch trays back to the house. The dogs wouldn't even get off the work truck; they sat and whined, pacing around the back with their heads down. After an hour or so tracing the wall, I made it all the way around and back to the gate: the wall blocked off the entire pivot in my east field.

It was, for all purposes, useless.

The next day I sent Miguel to work the triticale field while I went back to the east alfalfa pasture. I brought a ladder with me this time, hoping to find a way over the invisible wall so I could inspect my alfalfa's growth. I leaned the ladder up against the wall and started climbing; made it all the way up to the twenty-foot top, but I still felt more wall extending up above my reach. By then I was so pissed off—I couldn't get into my field at all—that damned invisible shell covered the whole thing.

I came back and tried the ladder trick for the next three days, with no luck. On the fourth day we had a hay delivery, so I spent the whole day loading bales onto semi flatbeds bound for the Valley. That felt good, making a little money; the leftovers from last year were in the small barn by now, and I had only a little left to sell. The bank accounts were full, and that felt good too. If I lost that whole field all summer, though, I worried how it would affect business.

That night I re-ran my numbers and came up with an idea of what we'd lose if we couldn't access the east field.

I couldn't eat my dinner.

2

Benie

Positive.

My eyes blurred in and out and my ears rang as I tried focusing on the doctor’s mouth. I couldn’t believe the words coming out of it.

Are you sure? I felt my heartbeat racing, my fingers twitched like someone was running an electrical current through them.

Yes, Ms. Kabelo. I’m sorry.

Now I wanted to pass out. My vision closed to dark, and I just stood there, shaking. The sight slowly returned, but when I could see again, the only thing filling my vision was that doctor with his horrible news, something I’d hoped to never hear but for that one night I gave in, and let Oba do it without a rubber.

Fucking Oba. Always begging and begging, harassing me about how I was such a prude. He told me it was manly to not use a rubber, and I was insulting his manhood by making him put the confernal device on. All I’d wanted to was to avoid a day like this. A diagnosis like this:

HIV positive.

My mind raced over all the worries that suddenly flooded my neurons; would I lose my job? If I lost my job, how would I be able to afford my portion of the flat with Lesedi? Would Mama take me back home, even though I was a grown woman? The downfall of my career flashed before my eyes, and I saw my very descent into the gutter—a fate I’d tried so hard to strive above.

Success had always been my friend: in primary school, I got top grades and was the star of my classes, and in college, I headed off to the University of Botswana and got my business education. All along, I knew what I wanted in life: to work in the safari industry, connecting with the foreigners who came to the parks. It was the closest thing to traveling—something much too expensive for a simple girl from Botswana; instead, I experienced the amazing cultures of the world as they came to my doorstep to see the elephants, lions, hippos, wild dogs, and other creatures inside Chobe National Park. I worked at a variety of lodges, finally settling on Chobe Wildlife Lodge, where I headed up their hospitality: if you wanted to see the elephants at sunset, or chase the giraffes, I was your girl. I knew the most respectable tour operations in town, by land or water, and I made sure my guests had the experiences of their lives—my own life was lived vicariously, through the smiles and stories they brought back to my desk in the corner of the lobby.

And now I had thrown it all away. On that Oba. He’d broken up with me last week, leaving me nothing but a pair of his old socks and a cigarette tray full of ashes and old stubs, plus half a beer in the fridge.

Why were all the pretty ones such monsters? I got captured by his beautiful face, his tall stature, the way he held the small of my back; he was such a smooth criminal, and he knew it. I dated him for two years, and I don’t know why it took me that long before I got out of it, and even then I still don’t totally know if I broke up with him, or he broke up with me. All I know is the last time we did it, I let him take the condom off. Fool of me.

I think I secretly hoped for a pretty baby from him, a little one I could keep for my own and just let that male escape off to bother another woman. I’d keep the child, because at thirty-five, I was ready to start a family and quit hearing it from my Mama. I hated the word: spinster. I knew I took a different path than most girls, and that was okay, but that famed ‘biological clock’ was real, and I felt it gnawing inside of me like a like a rat in a cage.

That was no more, now. I couldn’t bring a baby into this world with my new condition, and the thought of being with another man was now abhorrent; how could I do this to someone else? I’d be giving out death sentences, and my own seemed suddenly a lot nearer. I stared at the doctor’s mouth moving, not hearing anything but the ringing in my own ears.

I couldn’t feel my limbs the whole bus ride home, and hardly noticed the people jostling to get on and off around me. I walked away after my stop on legs that felt hardly there, like they’d turned to clouds, and I was just hovering above the pavement. I didn’t even realize my body had walked me all the way home on rote memory, up to my front door, and inside, before I blinked and saw my couch. My roommate Lesedi and I shared a small bungalow adjacent to a neighboring resort, where we could enjoy a few more luxuries like our guests. We each actually had our own room, and shared a small kitchen and bath; it cost a pretty penny, but was a wonderful way to feel like a modern woman.

Now I had a modern curse: that diagnosis hung around my neck and I wondered if Les would even want to room with me anymore, knowing her roommate now had HIV. She’d hated Oba, and nagged me to no end about my stupidity with him; now I had this to remember him by, and it might just push Les over the edge. She’d been a wonderful roommate, and it was a tragedy to bring this kind of sadness into our household.

I opened the door and set down my stuff, walked over to our little fridge, and opened the Coke I’d bought a day ago. I sat down at the table, taking small sips off the bottle and tasting the explosion of sweetness as it danced across my tongue: it’d always been my vice, that soda, and now I wanted one more than ever—to forget the day.

I sat at the table and turned a matchbook over and over in my fingers as thoughts of death and destitution drowned me in their waves.

Hallo, hallo! I heard the front door close and the inevitable stomping and clanking that accompanied Lesedi wherever she went. The girl was like the proverbial elephant, just shrunk down to human form—but still as clumsy and destructive.

In here. I called out from my bedroom, where I sat on the bed, my legs crushed against my chest as my arms hugged them tight.

Lesedi poked her head around the corner of my door frame. There you are! She sighed, setting down her bag. Do I have a treat for you…you’ll never guess!

My weariness must have traveled to my face, because Lesedi looked me in the eye and her countenance changed. She knit her brows. You look like shit! Lesedi ignored her bag and sat down next to me on the bed. Everything okay? Did Mr. Ambayo make you sweep the lobby again?

I only wished my bad day could be excused on that oaf of a man, who got his kicks making the educated girl clean the lobby after housekeeping had gone home for the day. No, I sighed. Worse.

God. How could anything be worse than Mr. Ambayo?

Oba.

Lesedi’s face changed yet again, this time her brow wrinkled and her eyes gained a fierce look like that of a mother lion just before the kill. That asshole! I told you he’d be the death of you…why did you talk to him?

Now I couldn’t hide it, and the tears started dripping down my face. You’re right. He is the death of me. My tears gave way to full-blown sobbing. He gave me HIV. I spoke these last words as the breath hitched in my chest.

Oh, Benie. Lesedi reached out and embraced me, holding the back of my head as I buried my face in her shoulder. Oh, God. I’m so sorry. She spoke no more and just held me as I cried, my tears quickly darkening a spot on her floral blouse.

I honestly don’t know how long I cried on Lesedi’s shoulder, but after a certain point my heart closed up, and the tears hardened into a numb spot that sunk deep inside my chest. I stared at Lesedi. Do you want me to leave? I wiped my cheek and sniffled.

Heavens, no! Les shook her head vigorously. My cousin Kagiso has it—doesn’t have to be a death sentence, you know. Her eyes stared deep into mine, and I had to look away and blink.

That’s what they all say. I sighed. But how will I tell the hotel? What will Mr. Ambayo do? That started me crying all over again. If I can’t keep my job, how will I afford the medicine? How will I afford here? I gestured to our apartment.

You just don’t tell him. Lesedi looked firm. Mr. Ambayo doesn’t need to know, as long as you’re careful.

How? I thought about how strange I’d look wearing gloves and long clothing all the time. My paranoia drove me to catalogue the ways I could keep my clients safe from my deathly condition, but all I could remember were the old wives’ tales about how I was now impure.

Lesedi looked me up and down. How often do you touch your clients?

I thought about the normal goings-on during any given workday, rifling through memories of tours booked and guides called, customers waiting on the other side of the hospitality counter. Honestly…not much.

Good. Lesedi breathed. That’ll make it a lot easier to hide. Do you ever deal with blood?

Yes, I countered, but only with gloves on.

See? Lesedi spread her hands wide. How will any of them know that you are sick? If you need to wear gloves to handle blood anyway, you’ll be just like any of them.

I nodded and stared down at my hands. But what if Mr. Ambayo finds out?

You gonna tell him? Lesedi gave me the matter-of-fact look she saved for her brother Mothupi when he’d been particularly annoying.

No. I shook my head, feeling like my heart was taking an adventure somewhere through my bowels.

Good. Les stood up and brushed her hands on her skirt. Now I will make you some dinner…nothing like some of my mama’s seswaa and pap to put a smile on that face!

I had to admit, her mother’s seswaa was the best, and I could smell it wafting from Les’ carry-bag. My stomach growled.

Les laughed. See? Your stomach agrees with me! She nodded her head firmly like a schoolmistress, then turned to our kitchen.

You have to understand. To you Americans, my kitchen probably looked like something you’d find in a small motel; but to me—it was heaven. We even had a nice refrigerator, the envy of all my relatives. Our apartment truly looked like something a European traveler might enjoy, and I took pride in my modern lifestyle. A quality refrigerator, and even a nice stove, were tokens of prestige; I had worked so hard for this.

And thrown it all away on Oba.

I ate Lesedi’s seswaa and felt the meat settle in my belly like a brick, entombed in the dry pap I crumbled in my fingers and chewed with the meat. I normally loved this meal so much—Les’ mama made the best seswaa: a delicious blend of spices ground into that barbecued meat her father so dutifully pounded tender. The crumbly maize pap was just how I liked it: just firm enough to squish into a brick, but not mushy. Yet the food did not satisfy my appetite, and the hole in my stomach was not satiated.

Lesedi grew quiet and looked over at me, chewing her last bite thoughtfully like a zebra safe in the middle of the herd. Silence is not you, Benie.

A tear fell out of the corner of my eye, and I couldn’t catch it before it ran down my cheek. Will food ever taste again? I could tell my lips were quivering just like they used to when I was nine.

Nodding her head as she devolved into tears of her own, Lesedi reached across the table and took my shoulder. Yah, my love. You’ll taste again.

We cried together, as the refrigerator’s compressor softly hummed behind us.

3

Heinrich

Gott im Himmel.

The first thing I saw were the lights as they fell earthward; I’d grown up in a religious household so I knew my Bible, yet even as a lapsed Catholic, the only word that came to my mind in that instant was: heavenly.

The light was bright, like a comet come to Earth: I remembered wondering if the thing in the sky was some kind of ethereal guest from the heavens, as it roared and streaked off across the Black Forest.

UFO, they called it auf Englisch.

You see, a walk in the Schwartzwald was the centerpiece of any holy day…my Sunday. I knew many Germans felt Sunday was the day for Our Lord (like my Mütti always said,) but it was also my day for Our Mother Nature; getting outside cleansed my soul and washed me fresh, so I could survive a new week staring at a computer screen. The smell of trees always drew me in better than any woman’s perfume, and I couldn’t get enough of the forest’s warm embrace.

The trees in the Black Forest stand amazingly straight and true—the product of many years of good German forestry practices. When I walked amongst those trees I felt like I was inside some kind of magical wooden maze—extending into infinity in both directions. Not a scraggly bush or mound of uneven trail there: everything clean, orderly and beautiful, as it should be.

Man perfecting nature.

I chose this forest as my church. For fourteen years I went to the Freibürger Münster, confessed my sins, received the eucharist, felt myself to be a holy person; I do admit, the cathedral was still a sacred place for me—it even survived the war unscathed. Look up the pictures up online—the only thing standing after the Allied bombers came through. I guess I still believed there was something greater out there, and maybe it worked in strange ways, but the Münster wasn’t where I went on Sundays any more: hiking called me instead.

Before a good walk in the forest, I would stretch at my van and make sure to have all my camping necessities in my pack: water, food bars, a knife, warming supplies and rain jacket, among other things. The trail I used was next to a ski jumping hill, where the people jumped into water pits in the summer months. I would take that trail up to the summit, where I stopped at the mountain restaurant to get a nice beer and würst to go, then I enjoyed my snack as I walked through the paths on the way back down. The view atop the mountains in that spot was unlike any other: I should know, I’ve done the hike every week for twelve years—good for my joint health and overall fitness.

Plus, the routine comforts me.

The lights I saw lit up the summit of my favorite mountain, which shall remain unnamed for privacy. It was like the dawn light rising from the west instead of the east, and my eyes watered as I tried gazing into its powerful white-blue glow. I managed to glimpse a tiny bit of the ship’s shape when it traveled past my location—eastward in the direction of the Bodensee.

I watched Star Trek, The Next Generation reruns as a boy; I’ll admit it. My family took us abroad to America when I was ten, and I cut my teeth on the English language mirroring back Captain Picard’s commands to his crew. I especially liked saying the phrase: Number One with Patrick Stewart’s particular accent. My parents thought I’d gone completely nuts, and they made sure to enroll me in many good hiking programs when we returned to Freiburg the following year. The normalcy and beauty of German living helped return me from my American space madness—or so my parents had hoped.

But now the space madness had found me again. Not even all the years in the church could purge the love of outer space from my veins; I imagined somewhere Jesus might be perhaps preaching to another planet, which helped me rationalize the fascination in my mind. Seeing those blue lights blazing down across the Black Forest like a comet woke something deep in my soul.

It stirred.

I watched as the lights turned slightly and headed distinctly southeast, towards the Bodensee: the German equivalent of the American Great Lakes, sharing its shores between Germany, Austria and Switzerland. Long famed for the relatively mild climate, Germans flocked to the Bodensee if they couldn’t swing enough cash to head south to Spain or Greece.

The ship made a beeline for that very same lake.

Gagging on my heartbeat like a piece of bad food, I walked the rest of the way down in darkness, feeling like the world danced with light all around me. I left my headlamp unused, watching my footing on the trail—a route I knew like my own backside. The twilight illuminated my path through the trees, and I got back to my little van buzzing like I’d walked the whole way in a dream; I honestly couldn’t remember any of the steps from the summit to the valley road where my vehicle was parked. I rationalized, this was because I was so familiar with the trail—my mind craved some kind of sure thing that could hold me fast to sanity’s grasp. My brain asked the stubborn question: had I been mind-altered by the ship? Did I really just see that?

My van sat waiting, the culmination of a childhood obsession realized: I got the Volkswagen for my twenty-first birthday—a Vanagon Westfalia camper. It took a long time to save through all my youthful jobs and apprenticeships, but I finally had enough to buy one after my Oma passed away and left me a fairly large sum of money—more than enough funds to buy a van, and a home. The machine was a beauty; all perfect balance of thoughtful interior features and a clean, tough exterior that could travel any mountain pass—with a sensible kitchen and a pop-up tent I slept in during the summertime. Over the last few years I performed many customizations on him myself, and my Vanagon was my constant companion and best friend: there was no other vehicle in my life, and I don’t think I’d leave him behind, ever. I named him Fritz, and driving him made me smile—like my heart was galloping along side the mechanical horses in his engine.

I drove down to town in silence: no radio on or audiobook on the iPod—just the sound of the wind singing by my van’s flanks, and the hum of the tires on the pavement. My eyes blinked from the assault of streetlights as I neared the borders of the Freiburg suburbs; where neat rowhouses extended off tidy tram lines reaching back into the heart of the city proper. I turned before I got too far into town and headed to my home in the Herdern neighborhood: a clean, modern little place I just bought, with bright open spaces and the elegant lines that helped me feel calm throughout my day. Owning a home was a huge step for a young engineer, but the house was my other dream, complete with hiking trails nearby. Even though, I still felt the call of the trails of my boyhood; hence why my van took me on trips up into the heart of the Black Forest every weekend.

The lights came on automatically when I arrived home; I put them on a system that sensed when my cell phone was near, and it prepared my home the way I liked it before I entered the front door. I went to the cabinet and grabbed a small glass and the bottle of Brombeergeist I’d purchased in Hinterzarten the last time I went up into the forest: the stuff smelled like hairspray with a hint of blackberry, but the fire burning down my throat helped me forget the bright blue-white light in the forest for a moment.

I drank my glass of Brombeergeist and felt the world soften around me.

Heinrich. Was machst du denn?

I started out of my daze—I’d been staring at the same truss for over half an hour, only halfheartedly trying to work out the errors in the truss’s support system. The designer hadn’t put enough webs inside the top chords, and the truss was obviously failing the snow load test. I had to re-design the truss with a better support system, make a note of it, and send an email to the designer with notes on the error attached to his engineering-approved stamped set of drawings—which he would take to the inspectors and build team.

But my mind wasn’t there in that office: it was still up in the forest, watching those lights heading towards the Bodensee. I heard Stefan talking to me, but his words didn’t register—like he was speaking to me while I was underwater.

Heinrich? Stefan raised his eyebrows. You there? He snapped his fingers.

Sorry, yeah. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes, pretending to have a headache. Having a rough one today. Migraine, I think.

Stefan looked at the truss on my screen. After looking at that butchery, no wonder you have a migraine! Who was that designer, a hack?

I just do my job and fix it. I sighed. I have no comment on the designing abilities of this fellow. I waved my hand at the truss. I just want to make sure it doesn’t fall on the homeowner’s head.

Good man. Stefan smiled. No broken crowns for you.

And I keep my job. I took a sip of coffee and sat back from my desk. This isn’t helping. You think Weber would be okay if I head home for the day?

I don’t see why not. You’re all done for the week, right?

Yah. I think I finished my lineup with this beauty here. I clicked ‘send’ and hoped the designer wouldn’t try to call and berate me—I hated it when they did that.

Go. Stefan laughed. Escape now from the land of the lost! He used both hands to make a sweeping motion at me that was highly reminiscent of when my mother tried making me get out of her kitchen.

I grabbed my coat. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Night, man. Stefan waved at me. See ‘ya morgen.

Morgen.

The tram stopped right outside my office, and I hopped aboard. After a few stops and transfers, I was at the park-and-ride only a short drive from my home. Parked at the corner of the lot was Fritz.

I headed out to Fritz and got him warming up, a proper thing to always do with an antique vehicle; I was lucky—mine still passed the emissions tests, and was okay on the gas. My income was pretty good at the firm, and I had no family to spend it on, so I could afford to meticulously maintain the old camper. It was my hobby, and my obsession, but Fritz thanked me with our trips up to the forest; for all other travel in town, I used the tram that left from the park-and-ride. That kept Fritz in good shape, rested up for the longer miles.

He was a white van with a matching white top, and a tan interior with curtains, a sink, refrigerator, heater, stove, and a seat that turned down into a bed. I slept on the downstairs bed during the cold months, and opened up the pop-top to enjoy the warm summer months sleeping upstairs. Fritz and I spent most of our weekends heading to nearby campgrounds along the lakes, or at a spa, or enjoying the drive along the back roads far away from the Autobahn. I worried more about running into a herd of milk cows on the road, than I did getting passed by a Ferrari; it was the most peaceful way to travel—and good for forgetting work.

Fritz got me home and I went to my computer, logging in and searching the local news for any mention of the lights. Nothing. Nothing in any of the local papers, or the regionals in our area of Germany, France or in Switzerland. Was I the only one who had seen those lights that night? Were there really any lights at all?

Something in my head called inside me to go and see the lake anyway: I wanted to know for myself, that way I could calm the doubts trying to contradict what my eyes clearly saw. I could still see it—the thing was etched in my brain. You just can’t forget something like that, and now I knew how those people on the X-Files felt.

But this was reality, not some TV show. I had clearly seen the lights going towards the lake, and I had to find a way to go there. I sent an email into my boss: I can’t come in tomorrow. Need to beat this headache. All work for week in my queue done, all customers confirmed. You can check my emails if you need. Thx. H.F.

That was that. I had numerous vacation days saved up that I hardly ever used, so I now had a full weekend to go to the Bodensee: I booked a spot at one of the campgrounds ringing the lake, hopped in Fritz, and we were on our way. I always kept a travel bag packed with most of my camping clothing, so it was pretty much ready for everything: I had all the supplies in my toiletry kit, plus some clean underwear from the dresser too. Fritz was similarly packed with all the food and dishes and sundries I would need on any given camping trip; I even had his little locker up top stocked with games I could play with new friends I’d meet—bocce was one of my favorites.

We took off on the small highway heading up and over the crest of the Black Forest, heading east into the wide valley ringed with ruins of castles that led south towards the Bodensee. A fine rain pattered across Fritz’s windshield, and I watched the gray clouds inching closer to the ground, misty as they scraped the sides of the mountains.

As my mind remembered the blinding blue-white of the lights, we merged onto a freeway going south, and the road signs advertised my destination: KONSTANZ - 50 KM.

4

Aden

The crashes and screams sounded like they were coming from somewhere near my house. My room was silent for, like, a blessed second before another thump and the corresponding tinkling of breaking glass sang through my open window.

Part of me wanted to stay inside and ignore what might be happening just a block away from my house—I heard the mayhem going on, and my mind created an ample enough picture: cars hitting each other. People probably getting out of their cars to inspect the damage from their own ineptitude, maybe a cop was already there giving tickets and sorting out the damage. But the crashing noises kept going long past when I thought our brave municipal servants would have things under control.

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer: I had to look. I went out the downstairs garage, and walked down the alley leading from my house to eighteenth street. Mrs. Richards from next door had the same idea too, and she joined me halfway down the alley.

What in God's name is going on down there? Mrs. Richards scratched her hair and pointed towards the intersection.

Dunno, I answered her. Sounds like world war three!

Mrs. Richards wasn’t pleased. They woke up Rickie in the middle of his nap. Now I'll never get any sleep. She scowled and walked with me to the end of the alleyway. The noises continued, and when I turned the corner, I finally saw why:

From my vantage point, I watched as a minivan drove towards the intersection. It hit something at the edge of the crosswalk, then something picked it up and threw it like a child’s toy over the intersection, landing on the other side and rolling down eighteenth street past Café Yumm. The driver and passengers inside screamed as the vehicle rolled like a barrel.

Another car came, and it too got thrown like a giant had used it in a craps game. I saw a faint round outline in the ground where the vehicle debris ended: inside the circle there were no pieces of glass or shards of broken bumper—the area remained eerily clear.

A woman in her running clothes came and stared at the circle. There were other people starting to walk over and check out the intersection, all of them marveling over the strangely clean spot in the middle. A group tried touching the air around the circle, checking for some sort of force-field; at least, that’s what it looked like to me.

The woman stared at the circle and kicked her knees in the high-stepping motion I knew from the track runners at the U of O. She looked determined in her lycra and Nikes, taking a few steps back to give herself a running start, then sprinting at the invisible circle. I felt like screaming at her to stop, but my voice failed me—the idea of seeing a live human get thrown through the intersection or smashed into some invisible wall made my stomach jitter.

She ran. The woman was obviously some sort of sprinter—either from the school, or had been at one time. Right before she reached the edge of the debris field I heard a whooshing noise, then the woman ran right through the center of the intersection. She stubbed her toe on an errant piece of side-view mirror and cursed.

Dunno what that was all about. Mrs. Richardson sniffed petulantly and turned to go back down the alleyway.

I couldn't help myself and joined the crowd inspecting the intersection at Willamette and eighteenth, my cell phone waving in the air. The clear ring where the debris ended was getting a little rough as more people joined in kicking the bits of smashed car around, looking for clues and snapping selfies. At about ten thirty a police car finally showed up, followed closely by a fire engine and an ambulance. All of the emergency workers got to work on the people trapped in the crushed minivan, most of whom had been totally ignored by the curiously dazed people in the intersection.

I felt bad afterward that I hadn't helped those people in the van—I think we all were in shock, and something inside called me to that strange blank spot. I couldn't help it: the people in the van seemed unimportant next to my own primal curiosity. The emergency workers got them all out, and I figured the woman driving would be happy to get a replacement for her old Plymouth Voyager—the thing had clearly seen better days anyway.

It took about thirty minutes toodling around in the intersection before my curiosity was satisfied, and I decided to head back to my place.