Bush Craft

A short story by LR Forgues

The forest was old, the trees tall and stately…but not as old as the craggy mountain range the hundreds of miles of untouched foliage adorned. Fall had finally descended and a chilly mist had replaced the omnipresent haze of blue wildfire smoke that drifted among the tree trunks for most of the summer. Luckily, the vast swathes of flame had kept themselves confined to the Southwest, fighting against the determined bands of firefighters that waged war against the yearly infernos that threatened…well…everything.

But another wildfire season had mercifully come to an end and this stretch of woods had again escaped unmolested, as the first rains of the cooling season had descended several days ago. Now, the tree tops swayed in the newly moistened breeze while below, silky swathes of mist hugged the towering pillars of bark. Aside from the gentle hiss and creak of the maples, cedars and pines, save the odd, plaintive cry of a hunting bird in the distance, all was still and quiet in the forest.

Until…

The various animals hidden in the underbrush didn’t know what to make of the droning ruckus rising steadily in volume from down the wooded hillside. Had human ears been present, their owner would’ve wondered why would anyone attempt to maneuver a vehicle up what remained of the old abandoned track that some forgotten logging company had attempted to call a road almost three decades prior.

Unfortunately for them, their under-funded site survey conducted at the time hadn’t revealed the many areas boasting a weakened substrate. This oversight resulted in the collapse of a road section several miles west that sent one of the company’s flat-deck diesels tumbling into the valley below, the lone driver barely escaping death by leaping to safety as the bulky Kenworth vanished over the side. The loss of the $80 000 asset, and the driver’s two broken legs, had sealed the road’s fate and, for nearly thirty years, Nature had been doing her best to reclaim the packed-earth scar that wound and twisted among her trees and along her hills.

The beat-up 1983 Land Rover Defender, once United Nations white, now…not so much, lurched through the mud and errant plant-life that made up the rutted track as it came around the corner, a fallen branch snapping like a gunshot beneath a dirt-caked tire as it fought the incline. Behind the mud-spattered windshield, the lone male occupant angrily slapped the steering wheel for the dozenth time, accompanied by another growled “Fuck!” as the truck ground on. Nudging the wipers into motion and smearing fresh grime across the glass, he glared ahead, searching through the muck for…something…something that he saw as it was suddenly sliding past on the passenger side- a barely-there side-path on the cusp of being erased by time and vegetation. His hiking boot mashed the brake pedal and the Land Rover skidded to an unceremonious halt. Throwing an arm around the empty passenger seat, he scowled out the back window, past his pile of gear, and eased the rusty vehicle backwards. Cranking the over-sized steering wheel over, he shifted back into Drive, guiding the Defender off the main roadway. The softer ground, mostly a bed of vibrantly green moss, churned beneath the tires as they were carefully directed, leaves and branches scraping past on both sides as the narrow forest passage closed in behind, swaying about as though waving farewell, before falling still once again.

Another swipe of the wipers abruptly revealed a looming mess of twisted, heavy branches; a victim of the fall windstorms that pummel the area this time of year, the tangle of dead tree neatly bisecting his route. The boot came back down on the brake again, urgency guiding the motion, and the small truck slid to a halt, the heavy front bumper virtually kissing the dead-fall as forward momentum ceased.

After peering into the rear-view mirror and studiously glancing out each window, the driver appeared satisfied and shut the idling 4×4 down. The tick of the cooling engine faded steadily as a calm settled over the scene again.

Wynton Dobbs, self-styled product reviewer and host of the Youtube channel Worth Wynning, pushed the Land Rover’s door open with a hellish creak and climbed out, his boots sinking into the moss and mud. The anger and frustration that had accompanied him for most of his drive into the forested mountains subsided as he breathed in a deep lungful of cool, forest air. Relishing the sweetness of the dew-speckled vegetation surrounding him, he couldn’t help but to acknowledge the faint hint of wet rot wafting up from his chewed tire tracks.

He had arrived.

Let the games begin.

‘Wynn’, as his friends and family knew him, debated grabbing one of the three GoPro cameras he had tucked away, but lazily decided his iPhone would suffice. He’d already filmed this episode’s intro back at his modest home in town, detailing his plan to test out a new tent set-up shipped to him last week by his very first official sponsor – an up n coming ‘outdoor living and survival’ company located in southern Oregon called Bears Den Survival Systems. He’d informed his several hundred subscribers that he intended to brave two nights of absolute wilderness using a new single-person tent n tarp combo set-up that BDSS had cooked up. All would be filmed, all would be reviewed, and that review would be totally honest…well…mostly. Wynn had already decided that, should any issues or gripes arise, barring something seriously catastrophic, he’d deliberately soften the blow of his critique, pull the punches a little. BDSS was his first official sponsor after a full year of competing with the intimidating myriad of reviewers and influencers out there (most of whom he thought were hack dipshits, for the record), and he fully intended to keep the company hooked…even if just for the free gear.

Reaching back into Miss Defender ’83 (as he fondly labeled the old 4×4), Wynn grabbed his extendable ‘selfie stick’ from between the worn front seats and clicked his phone into place, activating the CAMERA function as he did so. Thumbing ROTATE, he saw himself blink onto the screen, a bearded but boyish man of 36 in a black toque and a mustard yellow hoodie under a dark green quilted jacket, a modest silver hoop in each ear. A couple quick shifts of his lean six feet yielded an attractive wilderness back-drop and decent lighting that highlighted the green hue of his eyes.

“That’ll do, Donkey.”

He pondered, inwardly satisfied, before instinctively clearing his throat and spitting an ugly blur of phlegm into the underbrush. As he held the phone-on-stick before him, framing his first take, he again wondered why it was that he did that virtually every time prior to hitting RECORD. He could almost feel the smack upside the head his mother would’ve delivered had she been presented when he’d horked into the bushes.

He shrugged – whatever, forced a smile, and hit RECORD…

“Hey hey, Ladies and Germs of the Worth Wynning Nation! I’ve just arrived in the beautiful hills that overlook my quaint lil town and will be prepping my gear for the next leg of what I hope will be a killer adventure for all of us. I’ll also be tucking in my dirty girl here…”

He patted the mud-sprayed side of the Land Rover…

“…and will be taking on the rest of this journey by foot…and I’ll be taking you beautiful people with me. Where we go one…we go all! I’ll check back in as we head out. See y’all then.”

With that, he hit STOP, already wondering if he should edit out the “Go one…go all” line that he was sure he’d unconsciously stolen from some tragic sailing movie that he couldn’t remember the name of. To hell with it – he concluded.

The Moment, and living in it, was what he was all about, baby!

 Plucking the phone off the stick and sliding it into a cargo pants pocket, Wynn got to work.

All of the Land Rover’s doors screeched, squealed and scraped, and the rear ones were no exception as he hauled them both open, spilling weak morning sunlight across the pile of gear that awaited him. Reaching for one of the large side-pouches of his main pack, he muttered…

“First things first, you sexy bastard.”

The scuffed tea tin emerged, clenched between two fingers and bearing a pealing Smiley Face decal. A zip-lock bag containing an 1/8th of Albino Teacher shrooms, sharing the same pouch, nearly fell to the ground, catching the tin’s lid as it was extracted, but Wynn grabbed it and shoved it back.

Those can come out to play later.

 The tin snapped open with a *click* and he inhaled deeply, nearly salivating as the alluring scent hit. It wasn’t very subtle.

Decision Time – was it to be a blast off the chrome ‘one-hitter’? Or should he spark one of the baseball bat-shaped pre-rolls also nestled within?

He deliberated for a three whole seconds…before snapping up one of the joints. The *click-snap* of his Zippo was loud in the quiet of the woods and he raised the dancing flame to the twisted end of the doob, inhaling the first toke of the day far into his seasoned lungs.

The lighter *click*d’d shut with a glint of morning sunlight before being tucked safely away.

There were two main things that Wynn made every effort to keep off The Record. One was his years-long predilection for the Devil’s Lettuce, regardless of the legal status.

The other was firearms.

Both could be triggering, and he didn’t want to put up with the bullshit in the COMMENTS section. Besides, he was trying to cultivate as many gawkers / subscribers as he could, so he tried to tread carefully…for his own self-serving professional purposes, of course. He wasn’t yet able to live off his internet footprint, and that was The Dream, a fantasy that could feasibly morph into a reality someday, if he watched his P’s and the Q’s, and worked his ass off. His hatred for his current job wasn’t his only motivation…but it sure helped.

The ganja aspect was simple…toke between takes, easy as that.

They need never know!

The firearm consideration was a bit trickier, especially with him traipsing around in bear and cougar territory this time of year, running the camera as he did so. Normally, if he wasn’t filming and was just camping for ‘shits n giggles’, he would do so with his pump-action Remington comfortably slung over a shoulder. But for this jaunt, he’d left the 12 gauge behind and instead opted to bring his brand new 9mm Glock pistol, and the two 10 round magazines it had come with. In a pinch, the vicious *Blam!* of a pistol shot would frighten most local fauna into a hasty retreat, whereas he could probably kill anything that chose to charge him. But that was Worst Case Scenario, and if he could avoid killing anything…that, was his preferred course of action.

As they say – better to have and not need…than to need and not have.

Feeling the pistol tucked safely into the side-pouch, opposite the pharmaceuticals, he gently set the pack down at the edge of the trail, on the driest patch he could find, before reaching back in for the tent. The tightly-wound nylon bag he secured with straps and clips to the underside of the pack. Next came the hard-shell carrying case housing all his electronic goodies, which he would wear slung across his torso, Indiana Jones-style.

He paused, reminding himself that there was no rush, and stole a glance at the pile of gear. A quick mental inventory told him that step was done.

Next up – tend to his baby.

Sluggishly working through the comfy THC fog bank that gently rolled over his mind, Wynn closed and locked Miss Defender ‘83’s rear doors, before climbing up onto the heavy, flaking bumper. Nestled in a neatly folded mound on the Land Rover’s skeletal roof rack was a large square of surplus-store camouflaged netting, which he unclipped, unfurled and spread out. The weighted green and brown grid covered the entirety of the small 4×4 and he jumped down to pull it into position, quickly hammering six aluminum stakes into the wet earth through the homemade loops he’d attached earlier in the year, all but erasing his precious ride from prying eyes.

Satisfied, Wynn came dangerously close to triumphantly cracking one of the tall boys he had tucked into his gear…but that little voice (sounding suspiciously like mom…again) reminded his inner rebel that it was only about 10 in the AM, and he needed to get a move on…so he opted for another hoot instead. The cherry glowed, the flower crackled, and he felt a sharp cough coming on. Choking it back, he stubbed the sticky half-joint out on the bumper and slipped it back into the tin for later. The container then vanished into a jacket pocket. Zipping it up, he turned back to the gear.

It was going to be a good day.

Wynn prided himself on having kept in much the shape he’d maintained through high school, all those years ago, shape which his mother had referred to as a ‘swimmer’s build’, long and lean, despite the fact that he hadn’t ever been much of a swimmer. He could swim…just chose not to (too many beasts lurking in the depths). He was wholly terrestrial and his frequent sojourns into the wilderness helped keep the love handles at bay. But he’d recently begun to fearfully wonder at what age would the solo struggle to haul the dozens of pounds of gear into the bush start to slow him down.

40’s?

Later?

Earlier?!

He shook the impending guess away, too depressing to contemplate, muttering…

“Sounds like a bullshit mid-life kinda problem to me…and we ain’t there yet, son.”

He shuddered at the thought, and shoved it into a dark recess in his mind.

With troublesome thoughts of personal mortality shunted aside, Wynn crouched to give his gear a final check before he lit out. His main pack, a dark green canvas number festooned with buckles, snaps and pouches, held spare clothes, his sealed food container, a small but stocked medical kit, rain gear, a small propane stove and fuel, and a light weight, tightly wound sleeping bag and accompanying ground mat. Scattered throughout were 500ml bottles of water, seven in total, which noticeably added to the weight. Joining those necessities was more weight…in beer, six tall boys of varying brands, rolled into articles of clothing. To cap off the liquid weight, a small bottle of a true camping staple – Fireball whiskey.

A truly necessary evil.

The pouches that weren’t occupied with guns or drugs held spare head gear (a grey Flex-fit cap and another toque – also unimaginatively grey), a collection of chocolate, granola and protein bars, and, most importantly, a couple rolls of two-ply shit-tickets in a large zip-lock bag (worth their weight in gold out here). Rounding out the gear, lashed to one side, was his extendable tripod, collapsed and unneeded, for now. Opposite this, lashed parallel for balance, was a compact and very sharp axe, the blade sheathed in black leather.

Moving on, Wynn’s heavy-lidded eyes fell on the water-proof shoulder case that held his three GoPro cameras and their spare batteries and cables. Included was a foldable solar panel and the accompanying lightweight 100W power block, fully charged.  Two small, but powerful photographer’s ring lights (which he never seemed to use) protruded from a side pocket, shrouded safely in form-fitting, nylon cases.

A big believer in ‘coverage’, Wynn also had a small, foldable quad-copter drone boasting a single 1080p camera on a simple gyroscope stabilizer, it’s remote-control and two fully charged batteries nestled away in its own hardened carrying case. Electronics present and accounted for, he grabbed his sheathed machete next, clipping it to his worn, leather belt in one practiced move. He repeated this action with his 8” serrated Gerber, fixed to the opposite hip.

Blades available…easy to reach, good to go.

He allowed a quick grin.

Wynn’s inner 10-year-old always loved the giddy sensation that rippled through whenever he strapped a blade on; a juvenile hold-over from his days as a D&D-loving nerd child, and this was no different, leaving him imagining any ghouls, goblins or gremlins lurking in the darkened corners of the forest around him…wondering – would he be ready?  If bladed weaponry didn’t vanquish his foe, imaginary or otherwise…up to twenty rounds of 9mm hollow-point were sure to make a persuasive argument in their stead.

The far-off cry of another large bird echoed through the trees, reminding him that it was miles and miles of empty wilderness that surrounded him, save for the various critters that usually, nine times out of ten, wanted nothing to do with him or his ilk.

Usually. Nine times out of ten.

Besides…childish shit like that simply…doesn’t…exist.

Amusing fantasies aside, he knew what was out there…and none of it scared him, as long as he treated it with some degree of intelligence, respect, and caution…or again, hot lead, if warranted.

His iPhone snapped back into the selfie-stick’s mount and he hit ROTATE, seeing himself flash back onto the small screen, looking ready to tear shit up…for the views, of course. Turning so the camouflaged bulk his ex-U.N. 4×4 acted as back drop, Wynn thumbed RECORD…

“Ok, party people. My old girl has been safely tucked in…”

He gestured at the bulky shape over his shoulder…

“…and it’s now time to get this freak-show on the road. I plan to head north for an hour or so on this path, and see what I find. The weather is looking good and there was nothing on my oh so trusty Weather app till tomorrow afternoon. Light rain advisory, I know that much. And that’s just fine. I also know that there’s a river cutting across my route a few miles from where I now stand, in that same direction, so that may be where we set up shop and test this new gear for the night. It’s going to be groovy either which way and…”

He pointed directly into the lens, an amused smirk twisting his bearded smile up…

“…and I’m taking you fine folks with. Let’s do it to it!”

With that, he made a quick adjustment to the machete’s angle at his side and marched forward, pushing through the overgrown foliage that threatened to choke the small side-path out of existence, selfie stick leading the way. The various branches and creepers quickly swept closed behind him and he was swallowed by the woods. The sounds of his footsteps swished and crunched…then…they too were gone. Birdsong, fleeting at first but quickly gathering a chorus, echoed among the trees, and the insects again cooed and chirped contently in the underbrush.

One hour later

The bushes split with a swipe of the machete, glittering dew drops scattering in the still-cool morning air, and Wynn strode through, careful to watch for any obstacles that may be lying in wait under foot. His breathing was laboured, as it had been mostly forested incline he’d been traversing up to this point, long but thankfully not too steep.

He was definitely getting his cardio today.

He was also on the verge of annoyance, as he noted the soggy fabric of his toque plastered across his sweat-slickened forehead, a sensation that always irked him, left him feeling close to ‘filthy’. The path, in the distance behind him and currently home to his treasured piece-of-shit Land Rover, had bottle-necked into untamed forest after about 20 minutes of trudging, prompting Wynn to pull a small, pressurized can from his pack. The bright orange marker paint had stood out starkly against the rich greens, greys and browns around him as he’d sprayed a distinct line on the tree trunk he’d mentally christened as the first / final marker leading from / to his baby.

Sliding the smeared machete back into its sheath, he pulled the can from a jacket pocket, leaned over a low bush and applied a matching slash of neon orange, his sixth, as a means to find his way back through the wilderness when he wrapped this little adventure up two mornings from now. He had his compass and knew the local terrain features, but every little bit helped.

Safety first, right?

He slipped the cap back on, careful to avoid the wet paint clinging to the valve cup, and tucked it away. He then shook the heavy pack from his shoulders and set it at the base of the marked tree, pulling a water bottle from its depths and cracking the lid. Taking a quick sip of the mercifully cool liquid, he mentally forced control over his breathing, urging calm over his taxed cardiovascular system by slowly and deliberately counting to 10…in Japanese, a technique he’d picked up from an ex-girlfriend several years ago after he was discovered to have a mild heart murmur that popped up from time to time.

 Like now.

“Ichi…ni…san…shi…go…”

The chick was gone…but the method stuck around. That occasional light flutter in the chest, with that hint of faintness, was something he’d learned to live with. As far as he, and his doctor, knew…it was benign (fingers crossed on that one).

But still, this was his meat pump, his ticker, we’re talking about, so…!

“…rok…shichi…hachi…kyuu…juu.”

A quick glance at the gun-metal grey Fitbit on his wrist confirmed the steady calming of his erratic heartbeat, which fell in line with the gentle ease that now defined the cadence of his breathing. As the adrenaline tapered off, Wynn sighed to himself, noting the first small pangs of weed burn-out creeping in behind his eyes. Fighting the urge to slide down the tree-trunk he’d just vandalized, to dip into a late-morning nap in the woods, he again put the question to himself…

Why the wake n bake?

He really had no answer that he could be happy with, knowing that someday, most likely in the very near future, like so many in the past, he was sure to be firing up the morning-hour ganja again, like it ain’t no thang.

Addict? Naaaww. Why do you ask?

At home, say, on a weekend, when he had jack-shit to do and there was a comfy couch, big-screen TV, and readily available snack foods nearby, no problem.

Weed Nap all you want, you sexy beast.

You’re single again.

You lucky bastard.

He and Maddie had split a few months back, and he had to admit…he was enjoying not having to answer to her feverishly self-righteous, judgmental bullshit anymore, despite how awesome the nocturnal gymnastics had been. This new freedom was a double-edged sword, however, and he knew it. On one hand, he was his own man again, and could do…basically…whatever the hell he wanted, including sparking spliffs in the morning hours, outside opinions be damned.

On the other hand, he could now spark spliffs in the morning hours, and there was no one to question it, leaving him, yet again, to his own worst instincts…and their inevitable consequences.

“Aw well, tough shit, wuss. Snap out of it and get back in the game, Maverick! You have video to shoot.”

Taking the mystery grab-bag approach, Wynn blindly plunged a hand into his snack pouch and, after a moment of rummaging, came back with a Snickers bar. Before he peeled the candy free, he also snagged the GoPro he kept stashed in his jacket, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Powering it up, he paused to wrench the wrapper open with his teeth and took a hearty bite. Savoring the milk chocolate, caramel and peanuts, he panned around, recording miscellaneous B-roll footage to help flesh out his edit when he got back home.

The forest around him was still, as it had been all morning, small curtains of wispy vapor rising where the mid-morning sun beams were penetrating the canopy, doing their best to evaporate everything they touched. He was able to capture a few sweet shots, already wondering if hard cuts or soft fades would work best when he stitched this footage together in a few days time.

Sighing, he let the question linger as he took another bite, which he washed down with more water. He could already feel the mild pep of the sugar nipping at his abrupt drowsiness, yanking at his eyelids, and he crumpled the now empty wrapper in his free hand, slipping it into the pocket holding the spray paint.

He grabbed a couple quick macro shots of dew hanging fat and gleaming in the sunlight, and then hit STOP, followed by POWER. The small digital camera, now dark, disappeared, its purpose served. Wynn gulped back another healthy swig of H2O and replaced the lid, before also stashing it away.

“ Keep moving, soldier.”

Before he hoisted his pack back on, Wynn went old school, and gave his small, clear plastic compass a glance, confirming that his northern heading was still holding true.

Through the forest hush around him, he strained his hearing, seeking out the far-off burble of the river that he knew lay somewhere ahead, the close proximity of which was to be his destination. But he was still too far out and the only sounds that reached him were the breeze sighing through the tree tops, and chittering and chirping of two unseen birds engrossed in some undoubtedly gossip-laden conversation somewhere among the swaying branches.

Wynn smiled, unable and unwilling to hide the flash of joy that swept over him unbridled. This…was where he belonged. This…was living. True living.

The blessed silence. The healing solitude. The ever-present embrace of Mother Nature herself.

He loved this shit!

If only he could bottle up this feeling for mass distribution to his growing posse of undoubtedly enraptured viewers, to put them here, to feel the peace and contentment…the oneness with the Powers That Be, that Almighty Cosmos, their minds spoon-fed from the micro circuits of their PC’s and smartphones.

But alas, reality conspired against poor Wynton Dobbs, and therefore this moment was his, and his alone.

He could accept that.

After a moment spent adjusting the pack’s balance, Wynn hauled it from the ground and back over his shoulders, where the weight settled heavily. Sensing a knot threatening to form along his collar bone on his right side, he shifted the load and walked forward a couple steps, gauging the center of gravity. A quick tug of a strap and a roll of his shoulder muted the blossoming discomfort. Besides, he figured another thirty or so minute hike and he would hit the plateau he knew ran along the upper south side of the ridge, where the foliage and trees were noticeably more sparse, due in large part to decades of increased rain run-off sweeping the more fertile soils toward the valley below. It would be up there that he would find the perfect camp spot to test the new gear out on.

It was with that thought in mind that he plucked his phone from his pocket, yet again. Not bothering with the selfie-stick, he held it at arm’s length, framing up a shot. Happy with how the light fell across the image, he unthinkingly cleared his throat and spat into the bushes, before hitting RECORD…

“Hey, hey, again, Ladies and Germs! Been humping it along this mountainside for the better part of an hour now and just paused for a break and, more importantly, to mark my passage so my ass can get home when the time comes.”

With that, he turned the camera and pushed in on the slowly dribbling slash of orange marring the grey bark of a tall maple tree, holding for a moment to let the future legions of viewing fans Oooo! and Aaaww! over his handiwork, before spinning the phone back…

“Out here in the sticks, it’s so easy to lose one’s bearings, trust me on that. Especially with cell service as spotty as it is…when there happens to be any at all. This…admittedly unglamorous technique…has served me well in the past, and I’m sure it will continue to do the same down the road. That being said, peeps, lets press on and find our site for the evening and get these new goodies tested. This is going to be sick! Let’s go for the Wynn!”

STOP

Satisfied, Wynn shut the app down with the swipe of a finger. The phone then disappeared and he turned away to take a leak, marveling at how much steam he was able to create in a patch of sunlight. He zipped up and absently wiped his un-pissed upon fingers on a wet leaf. Feeling refreshed, he took another large gulp of fresh mountain air and stepped forward, pushing aside an intruding branch and continuing up the mountain, both blades still safely sheathed at his side.

20 minutes later

When you know, you just know…and right now, Wynn knew. This…was The Spot.

Something about the spacing of the trees around the clearing, the seemingly level and inviting ground space, with its carpet of yellow and brown leaves, cast off with the arrival of fall. Something spoke to him, whispered in his bones, that this space, situated on this flattened ridge, surrounded by this open scatter of trees, would be his home for the next two nights. He’d broken through a cluster of dry bushes and stumbled into this small but near-perfect location and instantly felt the certainty, like an oh so gentle kick in the stomach, that he’d arrived, that this…this was it.

Glancing upward, Wynn could see the canopy was sparse here, and he would be afforded a sweet view of the stars through the spacious gaps, if the weather held. Several trees, having shed their protective coats, looked skeletal and ominous against the cloud-streaked blue of the afternoon sky. Better yet, he realized as he looked back down that he could smell the river now, the scent of running water on the breeze; a biproduct of years of camping and bush-craft around these hills. If he listened carefully, as he did now, he could hear the gentle burble of the river’s passage through the foliage, just a coin’s toss away, maybe a hundred or so yards ahead.

He’d get set up, and then check it out.

PHONE

CAMERA

ROTATE

RECORD

“Yo, yo, my Wynning peeps! We have arrived!”

An overcooked grin, a snappy thumbs up. A pan of the camera around the clearing.

“THIS…will be our Proving Ground, folks. This pretty little spot, not far from the river that I’ll show you momentarily, just opened up to me like Mother Nature spreading for the D, and we are going to plant our seed tonight.”

Inwardly, he groaned at his own douchebaggery, and could already feel the heat in the COMMENTS section (if he didn’t edit this questionable spiel down), but since he was feeling The Moment, he rocked on, glancing at his Fitbit as he did…

“It’s just past noon now and, I’m telling you, the weather is gorgeous up here. We’ve gotten crazy lucky, and I am digging it. We are supposed to get mildly pissed upon sometime tomorrow, but so far…so far, it’s clear sailing…which’ll be perfect for setting up Base Camp One. So, let’s get to the going, and git er done, hoss!”

A pause, then…

“And speaking of gittin er done, how about you fine folks out there in Interweb Land, repeats AND newbies, make sure you smash that Like button…and hit the bell for notifications, so that you’ll know whenever I’ve returned alive from one of these missions…”

He smirked, before continuing…

“…but seriously, friends, nailing those help the channel FAR more than you know. It’s a small move for you…but it allows big moves for me, that you WILL all get to share in, especially if you’re a subscriber, so, maybe take that extra step, that little leap of Faith, and consider diving in as a subscriber and become one with…”

He leaned into the lens dramatically…

“…the Worth Wynning Nation! For the very best in outdoor adventure, this should be your first, last, and only stop…so get on board with me and let’s do it!”

He flashed his very best used-car salesman grin, maximum cheese, holding it till he thumbed STOP. The forced expression vanished instantly, as though painful. The screen blinked back into darkness, replaced by the glossy reflection of his bearded Resting Bitch Face.

Goddamn, dude.

He hated self-promotion, as critical as it was in this savage online market. He’d always been taught the value of humility (there’s Mom again), and found that a critical (and, at odd times, profitable) side-effect of being a modest human being was the respect and affability it tended to garner among peers and coworkers. But even so, even after a year, the boosting of the product that was him, for all intents and purposes a product that was showing promising glimmers of growth, honest-to-Dog professional growth, still felt alien, still felt wrong to him. Uncouth even.

He wondered if that would ever stop.

*shrugs*

The phone, its power read now showing a half-charge, disappeared into a pocket, safe and sound, and he got down to business, slipping the pack off and dragging the sodden toque from his head. A few long sun-bleached strands fell limply across his face as the pack settled and he tucked them back while slipping his cap on. Happy to have his ears exposed to the breeze again, he continued.

After Wynn settled the gear and stretched out the stiffness in his limbs, he fished for that half bottle of water and polished it off in two formidable gulps. The empty bottle went on to live in a small garbage bag he kept on hand and, after tucking it away, he sidled over to his electronics case.

Two catches clicked, a zipper purred, and it was open.

Going entirely on gut instinct, in no way formally trained on the magic of cinema, Wynn set up two of the GoPros – one on the tripod, programmed for time-lapse, while the other he secured on a low branch nearby, for a well-lit ‘wide’ of his prep. Peaking out of a jacket pocket was his phone, the tiny lens capturing that precious first-person take as he carefully unpacked, the equally small microphone dutifully recording his ongoing verbal diarrhea walk-through of everything he was doing and all the gear he’d brought as he emptied the pack’s contents. Under these circumstances, he got into the meat of what was destined to become his next episode.

But first, before the camera’s rolled, he stole a nip of Fireball, grimacing as the cinnamon whiskey napalmed its way into his belly, followed by an epic pull off the half-joint from earlier.

This time…he did choke.

Feeling like he’d blown his brains out the back of his head, Wynn coughed, ragged and hoarse, and chuckled as he noted a gleaming string of drool heading groundward, realizing seconds later that the mouth slime had leaked from his own slackened jaw. Embarrassed, despite the lack of another human for literally miles, and now impressively stoned, he straightened up, shaking his head and adjusting the cap’s brim.

He had work to do.

Despite his baked potato status, Wynn delivered a solid reaction / review as he unfurled BDSS’s first contribution to his online legacy, spilling favorable details on the packaging, before commenting confidently on the patented inter-stitch nylon-meets-hemp weave design that made up both the tarp and the surprisingly spacious single-person tent, as well as noting the quality of the hemp fibre guy lines while securing them in place. Miraculously, not once did his THC addled brain send his train of thought, and the resulting dialogue, off the rails into destinations unknown – there one moment…gone the next.  He felt good, accomplished even, when he finally hit STOP thirty-six minutes later.

The finished product resembled a miniature Quonset hut, basically half a rounded tube cut along its length, 9 feet by 6 feet, the patented fabric formed in a light green and of an impressive quality. It sat secured on a blanket of picturesque but very dead leaves, lurking in the shadow of an equally green rectangle of the same material, 12 feet by 12 feet, connected at six points to the trees around the clearing. It swayed gently in the odd kiss of breeze that passed every few moments, but was never in danger of collapse, as competently secured and manufactured as it was.

Wynn was happy…his need to bullshit had been minimal. BDSS had cooked up a solid product, so far. But, knowing that this particular model had two years ago been rejected by the US Department of Defense for use by the infantry and Marines, he wondered just what had knocked it out of the running. Maybe, over the next two days, he’d figure it out.

As they say – Time’ll tell. 

Next up – see how well it serves through the night, especially if there’s a chance of precipitation due later.

And so went his afternoon, leading to what promised to be a beautiful evening. He set up everything in a configuration that both looked cool on film and efficiently served his needs by keeping everything in easy reach. His ground mat and sleeping bag were unfurled in the tent, folded open to air out the stale fabric before use after dark. A small electric lamp hung from a lanyard fixed to the roof’s stiff centre-line, glowing warmly. Just inside the door, he set up his electronics on a small towel, with the power block taking centre stage. The first thing he plugged in was his phone, power creeping toward 20%.

Still no service.

“Surprise, surprise.”

After plucking the GoPro out of the tree and shutting down the time-lapse on its tripod mounted twin, Wynn grabbed the axe and marched into the trees to score some firewood. The thud and crack of chopping echoed over the camp and soon Wynn was piling split dead-fall in a neat mound by the circle of mismatched stones that he’d set up as his fire pit, set only feet from the tent’s entrance. The door flaps were clipped back, yawning open invitingly.

The sun was noticeably lower, and the temperature in the shadows was dropping with it. Some crumpled packing paper, two starter cubes, and a teepee of small lengths of split wood yielded a fire that sputtered at first, but then enthusiastically caught, crackling as a column of blue smoke drifted skyward, the breeze pulling and tugging at the upper reaches, spreading and thinning it through the trees. Tossing a couple more pieces at the growing dance of flame, Wynn grabbed one of the free cameras, and the case containing the drone, before strolling out of the clearing, headed for the river.

The plateau ended at a shallow gully, appearing as a cliffside overlooking the river as the trees gave way to an open horizon defined by shallow mountains and lush forested valleys that spread out majestically in the distance before him. Standing at the edge, Wynn had to admit he was impressed, especially at this time of the day.

The sun’s western glare hinted at the reddish gold tinge of the approaching Magic Hour. Below was a wide but shallow river of near sapphire-blue water, boasting an expanse of flat river-rock that had been worn smooth by eons of water draining from the snow cap marking the mountain peaks many miles away. Some portions were submerged, while other patches showed above the surface, exposed and sun-dried. The currents swirled and dug at the rock, over time forming large round bowls along the river’s length, several of which he could plainly see now from his elevated vantage point.

A long straight length of the river extended into the distance, framed by trees on both banks, gently angling up toward the mountains before vanishing around a rocky corner nearly a mile up from where he stood. As the water’s passage angled downhill, the bowls increased in size, leading to a large, dark hole dug deep into the riverbed, easily a hundred feet in diameter and almost directly below.

Looking over the choppy surface, he could easily see that once upon a time, Mother Nature had attempted to slow the river’s passage with a formidable landslide here, but the water simply went around, over, and through the wash of boulders that had settled, undeterred. These same boulders, off to Wynn’s left, formed an entrance of sorts to the shallow falls into which the over-spill flowed, the frothing roar of the unseen turbulence hidden from view by the haphazard wall of fallen rocks on the bowl’s far side. He also estimated about fifty feet of height difference. For a second, he wondered how swimmable all this would be…but quickly dismissed any notion of taking a dip that might have crossed his mind. Maybe next summer. He may not be able to swim it right now, but he could sure film it.

After grabbing a healthy number of cinematic establishing shots and tantalizing close-ups with the GoPro, he unpacked the drone, clipped in a fresh battery and activated the remote before placing it at his feet. Pulling his phone back out and fixing it to the remote’s camera clip, he opened the interface and checked the Bluetooth connection. A couple of quick thumb-swipes later and the small quadcopter’s camera activated, showing onscreen a crisply detailed view of the forest floor. A small caterpillar crawled quickly past in the foreground. Wynn clicked the left control stick up, then down, calibrating the connection. The drone emitted a quick double beep, and it’s blinking red and green guide lights held steady. His thumb nudged the Take Off / Landing button, and the high-pitched whir instantly spun up. In a small puff of dead leaves, the lightweight platform abruptly rose several feet and held in a hover, awaiting instructions.

Wynn hit RECORD and for the next fifteen minutes (the lifespan of a single battery, give or take), flew up and down the river, catching all manner of cool shots. It was just as he was pondering when to recall the drone that the insistent double *beep* sounded.

The status light began blinking frantically, a tiny red beacon – Low Power Alert.

Worried about sending the pricey little robot plunging into the frigid waters, or dashing it apart on the rocks, he carefully eased it back up to his position, careful to avoid the various branches that jutted out over the side of the ravine. It obediently whined its way back, dutifully recording the whole time. As soon as it passed back into the woods, gliding in over the ledge, he hit Take Off / Landing, and it descended smoothly…till a prop blade caught a small creeper and whole drone abruptly flipped over as though shot. The shrill hum of the other motors suddenly choked off and all motion ceased. Wynn, after shutting down the controller, picked it up, shook the torn and twisted remains of the creeper away, and clicked the power OFF. Happy with what he’d managed to film (caught some ‘magic’, he was sure of it), he made his way back, using the hint of campfire smoke he could make out through the trees as his guide.

After he pushed back into the clearing and paused, scanning for any possible improvements to be made, he again grabbed the GoPros, all three this time, and took a few minutes to position a new tri-point camera set-up, to capitalize on the fading light. A reddish glare had fallen over the woods and the shadows were growing long and dark around him. The western sun was a cloud-smeared semi-circle disappearing behind the far mountains, barely visible through the trees. Once the trio of small devices were secure around his base of operations, he hit RECORD on each, taking a moment to address the glowing red LED of the last one activated, announcing that it was now dinner time.

On the menu – two bourbon and BBQ marinated chicken breast sandwiches on Portuguese rolls, with a side of fruit salad…and a beer.

“Yum, yum, folks”

He added more wood to the fire and pulled out his cookware and the propane stove, firing it up. The two breasts barely fit into his small frying pan, but he made it work and dinner was delicious (which he naturally played up for the cameras), the smell of perfectly seared and seasoned poultry hanging over the site for a pleasant while. Smacking his lips dramatically for his audience, he picked through the fruit salad before cracking his first beer…after safely stowing his bear-proofed garbage. Taking a sip, he chose a lens and…

“Well now, my sexy Wynners. It’s been one helluva day. Let’s see – made it up here with no issues, got a solid workout on the hike up, found this delicious little spot…”

He swept his arm up and around, gesturing clumsily at his clearing in the fading light, and spilling beer foam in the process…

“…choked back two camp-wiches that were so tasty they should be illegal, and am now closing out this evening with a tasty brew…”

He held the multi-colored can up, spinning the foreign label to face the viewers…

“…with you beautiful folks. Gonna call it after this and, unless something crazy comes up in the middle of the night, we’ll catch up over breakfast in the morning. G’night, y’all. Keep keeping it real!”

The sun vanished behind the horizon…and darkness fell.

Wynn sat back, letting the cameras roll for a possible dreamy montage sequence of him chilling with that brew, acting like he wasn’t aware of the pointed lenses, like a douchebag, lit in the flickering orange of the fire.

Maybe have one POV fading gently into another…with some public domain muzak laid over top? Too cliché’?

 He pushed the dilemma aside…that’s what his editing bay was for.

Later

He took his time and finished the beer, noting the inky darkness that was erasing the scenery around him, before rising to shut down two of the GoPros, retrieving them from their perches and placing them safely in the tent. The third, still tripod mounted, was again set for time-lapse, to run all night or until the battery shit the bed, whichever came first.

After gently laying the camera’s protective shroud over its small boxy body, a flexible plastic cover that lashed to the legs of the tripod below in case of unexpected high winds, and giving the framing a final look, he straightened up, stretching while also stifling a yawn.

Now that the world’s eyes were off him, the real fun could begin.

The camera, recording one frame per minute, caught one clear shot of Wynn as he clambered into the tent, weed tin in one hand, fresh beer in the other. The next frame merely showed the tent’s door flaps buttoned up tight.

It was an epic hot-box.

After smoking the entire contents of the pipe, he grabbed a fat new pre-roll and greedily puffed the entire motherfucker to his head, humming contently to himself as he did so, the dry scratchiness in his throat soothed by generous gulps of cold beer. Despite how the comfortable weight of his dinner was sitting, the exertions of the day and the two tall-boys joined the blast of THC to send Wynn’s head reeling, and he soon felt the siren song of fresh air calling to him. But before he moved, he retrieved the bag of shrooms and portioned out a little mound of dried fungus into the palm of his hand. He washed this down with a foaming swig of Slovakian lager.

The camera caught one frame of smoke pouring from the half-open door of the tent, one of Wynn’s hands visible through the fire-lit haze, holding the flap of fabric back.

He emerged, impressed by his handiwork as the pungent cloud wafted past, and stood before the fire, his hands open and extended, seeking the heat as the unnecessarily copious amounts of THC went to work on him.

He kicked lightly at one of the warm rocks holding the flames at bay and it gently rocked back and forth. Something in among the embers popped loudly, startling Wynn from his reverie as sparks drifted skyward. He grabbed another couple pieces of wood, mentally noting how many were left (though he forgot the count immediately upon turning around). The flames grew and he grabbed another beer from the depths of his pack, cracking the tab and spraying suds as he gulped happily. With an ale clamped in a fist, he trudged out of the warm glow of the flames and into the darkness of the forest to take a leak. A quick flash of his compact LED hand torch showed no threats, only the forest extending to where the light failed, swallowed by the night. He clicked the light back off, blinking the dancing spots away, his direction chosen.

Doing his thing at the base of a large tree, he allowed his head to loll back, the drugs and alcohol leaving it feeling heavy, but not unpleasantly so. As a dizzying rush threatened, the mushrooms rearing their head, he forced his eyes open and found himself staring at the vast, crystalline starfield that dominated the night beyond the swaying tops of the trees. A space nerd as a kid, he was still amazed by the celestial vista that was the night sky. As he stared, he instinctively found himself trying to pick out the various constellations from among the glittering star-light, a habit going back years. As he took stock of the Belt of Orion, tracers faded in on the pinpricks of light, dancing in the darkness, he noticed…

Was that…a satellite?

No…three. Three satellites?

It had to be.

A trio of bright lights, each boasting a faint, greenish hue, moved silently across the heavens from the north, wing abreast in perfect unison. There were no blinking lights, no far off rumble to suggest aircraft engines.

Had to be satellites.

Tracers shifted and weaved, drawing him to these mysterious sources of illumination.

He suddenly felt giddy, light-headed and drifting.

As he zipped up and spritzed his hand with a splash of beer, he had to admit that this…this was new. He’d never seen satellites travel across the sky like that before. One after another, single file, and on the same heading, sure.

That was nothing new.

But cutting gracefully overhead, side by side and in reasonably close proximity, was something never witnessed in days gone by.

Didn’t mean it didn’t or couldn’t happen…just that he’d never seen it himself.

But…were they actually there?

The Albino Teacher was digging in deep, threatening to take his psyche on a magic carpet ride, so trust in his own eyes was rapidly eroding.

Stepping away from the sodden tree trunk, he glanced up again, quickly locating the objects still holding their same positions and bearing as they approached the centre of his field of view, steadily trekking across the dark sky.

Tracers thickened, taking on new colors and texture, snaking along through the sky behind these…things.

Then…something abruptly happened and he blinked, trying to clear it away, immediately believing it a trick of the drugs. It had looked, for just a moment, like a series of quick flashes, strobing red, bursting silently among the three lights in rapid succession, and he quickly looked away, confused.

But that had to be his addled mind fucking with him, the shrooms making him see shit that wasn’t there.

Had to be.

He looked back up, but this time…the scene had changed. Dramatically. He could still make out the three objects but the formation had split, the tracers wavering against the night sky. The two outer points of light had suddenly shifted 90 degrees and were accelerating away in opposite directions, gone in moments.

“Wait a minute…satellites?! Really?!”

He wasn’t so sure anymore.

He found the centre object and forced his half-lidded eyes to zero in. No longer was the strange orb heading patiently across the night sky in a straight line south. There was now an odd warble to its movement that he thought he could just make out, which in itself was bizarre. Then…as he stared, it blinked out and vanished. The sky was still again. He could no longer see the other two objects and no matter his efforts, he couldn’t spot any trace of the one that had abruptly disappeared from view overhead.

That did it. All in his head.

Damn, he’d have to thank Big Chris, his ex-cop dealer, for this latest hook-up. These shrooms truly are the bomb, yo!

Welcome to Wonderland, Alice.

Shrugging, he put back another swig of beer, nearly stumbling over a fallen branch in the process, and retraced his trudging steps back to camp, feeling drunk, stoned and tired. Geometric patterns in neon were showing in the shadows and for the next hour he stared deep into his fire, pleasantly lost.

Somewhere along the trip, he knew sleep would claim him soon, he could feel its seductive approach slipping in beneath the psilocybin-fueled ebullience, gaining traction and gravity, pulling at him.

The fire was burning low, just embers now. Remembering that he might want a couple beer for tomorrow, he opted against cracking another and decided to crash out instead, the strange light show already dim in his fading consciousness, dismissed as hallucination as fatigue nipped at him, pushing him toward shelter. He clumsily shoved his pack and electronics bag into the tent and crawled in after them.

Pausing, he dragged his boots off and placed them at the door, under the cover of the swaying tarp, before pulling the flaps closed. The zipper took a couple tries, but he got it, noting, even through the chemical haze, the encroaching delusion of safety that comes from sealing one’s self into what could very well be an enlarged body bag, isolated in the wilderness.

Relishing that very delusion, he moved on to mentally patting himself on the back for having FINALLY scored an effective ground mat, the rigid name-branded memory foam comfortably holding his weight. It didn’t take long before he was sprawled out in his sleeping bag, hood up and tucked in, dancing shapes of light playing over the darkness behind his eyelids. His gentle snoring soon found rhythm with the soft chittering of the night bugs.

The wind sighed through the trees.

2:18 AM

“What the fuck was that?!”

Wynn heard those words a split second before he realized they were his. He sat bolt upright, narrowly missing the lamp hanging above and fought to open his eyes, which felt glued shut. When he finally knuckled them open, he found himself staring at the swaying shape of the darkened lamp.

Swaying? He hadn’t touched it. Shrooms still working their magic?

Clicking his phone’s light on and sweeping it around, he saw water gently sloshing back and forth in the open bottle at the head of his sleeping bag, also untouched.

Ok, so NOT tripping out then.

He cocked his head – what was that?!

Crackling into the distance was a report, a harsh echo.

Thunder…had to be.

Straining through the fog of sleep and the closed stage-curtain of the party favors, he couldn’t remember any storms forecast for tonight, just light rain sometime tomorrow. The sound, whatever it had been, was gone now, swallowed by distance. Green spots, tinged yellow, danced and bobbed in his sight, like flashbulb left-overs and he tried to blink them away.

What is this?

Pondering the intoxicated dream material that had swirled through his slumber, Wynn suddenly remembered a burst of light.

Surrounding him. Enveloping him.

Something had awakened him, a flash that turned night into day for the briefest of moments. What initially roused him was a sound…starting as a rising hum, low and far, quickly followed by a crack of what sounded like…no, had to be…thunder, close by…close enough for the suspected electrical discharge to blind out the area, cutting into the darkness of his stupor. The drunken haze softened the blow, but his heart was pounding, fight or flight response keyed up.

Carefully, Wynn removed himself from the sleeping bag and crept forward, listening as he reached for the zipper. He stopped it halfway, edging the flap open, and peered out into the darkness. Trees and bushes, mere shapes in the faint moonlight, gently swayed; a soothing hush and the low creak of shifting wood the only sounds. Beyond that, silence…the shadows black on black in the night.

Listening intently, nothing stood out. A breeze rustled the tarp. Wynn wrinkled his nose, the smell of ozone suddenly strong.

Um…?!

But then…it was gone, shifted by a change in the cool air currents, replaced by the tickle of smoke from the smouldering leftovers of the fire. He felt a sneeze coming…but successfully stifled it.

Slowly, the insects and their reedy calls returned, picking up the chorus like they’d never left. Craning his neck around, it struck him that he could clearly make out stars through the scattered tree tops. A few smears of cloud, but nothing suggesting thunder.

Weird.

As he stared, the singsong *chirp* and*cheep* of the bugs lulled him, tugged at his eyelids, dragged him back toward the blissful unconsciousness he’d been rudely yanked from. It wasn’t long before he relented, drunkenly satisfied that the ‘*Flash* And *Bang* Show’ had been some bizarre one-off.

With goddamn climate change edging us toward Oblivion…who the hell knows what the weather wants to do these days?!

He cocked his head, pondering…

But…Mother Nature herself can also be a weird bitch too, totally on her own.

Sighing wistfully, he drew the zipper closed and clambered back into the warmth of the sleeping bag. Smacking his lips contently and tasting resin, he snuggled in on himself, the warmth quickly fading him out. Sleep caught up and his eyes closed, soon darting about beneath the lids, chasing more swirling dream imagery that he would not remember come morning.

Daybreak

Despite his deep sleep, Wynn felt the rotor blades before he actually heard them, a soft rhythmic pulse in the air that quickly gave rise to a staccato thump that rudely cut into his slumber. Wynn shook himself awake as whatever the hell it was passed low overhead, the down-draft buffeting the tarp and the walls of the tent, sending them dancing. He could hear small branches snapping under the onslaught nearby, tumbling down through branches to the forest floor. When no large tree limb came crashing down upon him and the clattering roar had moved away, he groaned, feeling like his head was stuffed with cotton.

Just say No to drugs, kids.

The faint, diesel-like scent of engine exhaust wafted on the air, intrusive. He pulled the edge of his small pillow over his exposed ear, careful of the hoop and went back to trying to shut the world out. He could still feel the beat of the blades through the ground beneath him, but dimly reasoned that it’d fuck off soon.

Not his concern.

When it hadn’t fucked off several minutes later, Wynn cracked an eye, curiosity overcoming fatigue. The ruckus faded low…then returned. And again. And again. He frowned…

Was it circling? Over the river? And if so…why?

He hadn’t seen a helicopter in weeks, not since the fire brigades had claimed victory over the southwestern burn front, vanquishing the last wildfire of the season through sheer guts and determination.

The nearest military base was over three hundred miles away, so that also seemed like an unlikely explanation.

Just as Wynn was about to properly rouse himself, the chopper abruptly approached, beating at the air…before the racket quickly faded away.

“Leaving so soon?”

All fell quiet again. He lay still, eyes closed as he listened. It seemed to be gone.

When he forced his eyes open again, he could make out daylight projecting against the side of the tent, a pale grey luminescence that was in no way inviting and barely touched the surroundings. A half-lidded glance at the Fitbit confirmed his suspicions. It was early. His bladder was beginning to nudge him, but the warmth of the bag and his general state of unconsciousness held him down and before he realized, he’d fallen back asleep, the soothing sigh of the breeze his soundtrack.

The faint bass rumble of jet engines went unheard, the source lingering 28 000 feet above, unmarked wings gleaming for a moment as the first glaring rays of morning sunlight crested the eastern horizon. It continued its miles-wide orbit, onboard attention, human and digital, focused intently groundward.

Wynn didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it was noticeably brighter beyond the walls of the tent when his bladder’s gentle nudging became an insistent shove toward consciousness. He rolled over in a bid to stifle the discomfort, but at this point it was a losing battle. He opened his eyes. Lazily grabbing his phone, he fired the camera up, rotated the view and sleepily addressed his undoubtedly enraptured followers from where he lay…

“Good morning, Wynning Nation…rise and shine! A new day is upon us. Right off the bat, I can tell you fine folks that BDSS’s tarp n tent set-up was boss last night and definitely did what I needed it to do, which was keep me alive and in relative comfort, from dusk till dawn. But speaking of comfort, Nature calls…and I’m her captive audience. Gonna rouse these lazy bones, drain the lizard, and I’ll see you folks over breakfast. Chow for now, peeps!”

Shutting the camera down, he slipped the phone into his hoodie and clambered out of the sleeping bag, clumsily crawling toward the entrance while fighting the stiffness in his joints, the murk inside his head.

A touch of frost had settled and the zipper showed reluctance, but biological need forced Wynn’s hand and he yanked it open. He slipped his chilly boots on, knocked some ice crystals free and crawled out. Any hopes that the fire might still be going, even just some embers, were dashed immediately as he took stock of the icy coating that had settled, causing a whimsical glitter from every exposed surface touched by the morning sun, which was just announcing itself on the horizon, settled.

Noting his breath in the air, Wynn scampered across the clearing, unzipped, and pissed a long satisfying stream into the bushes. As he finished up, he stepped away, already pondering another unwise wake n bake.

Before he could land on a decision…

“The fuck was that?!”’

He couldn’t be sure…but whatever it was, it had been metallic, a quick scraping, the sound faintly echoing from the direction of the river. There had also been a murmur, the hint of a voice…but it was also far off, and could easily have been a mere trick of the breeze…or the river itself…or just his barely-awake mind. The noises, had they been real, didn’t repeat for confirmation, and he shrugged, already moving on, trying to plan his next few steps.

Making his way to the tripod, he noted with some disappointment that the time-lapse had shut down sometime during the hours of darkness, the battery pooched. With a bare hand, he gently brushed frost from the small camera’s protective shroud, glad that he’d opted to toss it on, and disconnected the GoPro from its mount. As he hefted the device’s weight in one hand, he was abruptly reminded that his sleep, while definitely comfortable enough, had not been without interruption.

He remembered that not one, but two nocturnal incidents had dragged him out from behind his curtain of slumber, the first being whatever that light or flash had been in the wee hours, if he was recalling the scene correctly. It only took a moment before he realized that he could answer a huge part of the mystery almost immediately and shuffled back to the tent. He only hoped that the camera’s battery had held out long enough to catch anything. Connecting the cord to the power block and activating the PLAYBACK, he rewound the footage, keeping it visible onscreen as he did so.

The lighting, or maybe it was his settings, weren’t the most favorable, but he could make out the outlines of the camp in the deep greens and greys of the night vision mode.

Looks like the battery shit the bed at 4:37 in the AM.

His eyes, still puffy from sleep, danced between the tiny clock onscreen and the murky image of his shelter, speeding past in REWIND. The displayed time, clocking backward, hit 2:20 AM…2:19 AM…2:18 AM…and everything lit up.

The one frame didn’t show the cause…but something offscreen, to the north, had flared brilliantly, illuminating the forest for that one shot before the intensity would’ve blinded the camera out, had he been recording at normal speed. He paused…hit PLAY…and paused again, the image located. He drew the screen toward him, taking in what he could see, which wasn’t much, given the near white-out quality of the image. There was no detail, just the shapes and lines of his camp half-swallowed by a powerful luminescence, frozen and time-stamped. 2:17 AM showed only the darkened campsite, quiet and peaceful…as did 2:19 AM. Whatever it had been, it had been fast. Here and done in less than a minute. Judging from the angle of the shadows on 2:18 AM…it had come from above.

Meteor maybe? That’d be sick!

But the intensity of the illumination pulled him back from that conclusion. A meteor was most frequently, in his humble experience, a seconds-long streak flaring through the night sky, burning up, here and gone. Not a brilliant, all-encompassing flash at damn near ground level…even though asteroid trivia about Russia in 2013 flickered through his mind. He shook it away. There was no way to tell or confirm from the snippet he’d captured, but could it have really been a freak lightning bolt, and its accompanying blast of thunder, despite the lack of meteorological evidence to back that theory up?

This could be good for the COMMENTS section. Get a debate going.

What would his legions of fans make of this footage?

He could build a whole online mystery around it, spice things up.

Make a Patreon poll out of it, or something. Get some traffic moving. Get those views rolling in.

Wynn grinned dopily, a narrative direction taking form in his foggy mind. Thumbing FAST FORWARD, he ran the footage back to the last Cut and hit STOP, before disconnecting the camera. Rummaging through his gear, he pulled a fresh battery and switched them out. Setting the camera aside, he stood, looming over the cold fire pit, a long, deep stretch inevitable. When it finally came, it came with a wide yawn. Grabbing one of the water bottles, he cracked the cap and generously splashed his hands with cold water. Before too much could escape, he slapped himself in the face, droplets glittering in the morning sun. The stuffy mask of sleep fractured and he felt clarity returning…

*snap*

He froze, his grin faltering. That was a dead branch – he would bet on it. If he had to guess, something with weight had settled on an errant piece of dead-fall somewhere downhill, toward the river. The morning breeze rustled overhead. The gentle creaking of the trunks settled something inside his mind and his sense of chill returned, now intent on turning his attention toward some caffeine.

As Wynn went through his unimaginative coffee routine (boil water, add granules, add hot chocolate, add creamer, stir, etc – woo woo, riveting stuff), he made an attempt to plot the next couple hours. What came to mind was – slapping the sippy lid on his mug, grabbing a camera and heading back to the cliff overlooking the river. From what he could see of the morning sun cresting the horizon, he could get some sweet establishing shots, lit in the crisp glare of morning.

After that – come back here, fire that fire back up, and throw a spell over some breakfast (spicy turkey sausages, skillet hash browns and a sliced apple were on the menu).

Then…smoke a bowl and dick around to see what he could come up with to fill out this episode.

After lacing up and throwing on his jacket, Wynn snatched up one of the charged GoPros. With it clenched in one hand and his sealed coffee mug in the other he carefully, but casually, retraced his steps from yesterday, noting that the frost was already beginning to melt, dripping off the various leaves and bushes around him, the soft pitter-patter soothing.

Seeing the cliffside approaching, he raised the camera as he walked, hitting RECORD and focusing on the small playback screen, struggling to keep his framing, while also keeping a keen eye his footing as he sauntered along.

The trees parted and the landscape opened up to him again, this time beautifully lit from the east. A morning mist hung silk-like in the valleys stretching away, destined to be erased from existence as the sun climbed. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance, low on the horizon.

It’s ok…they’re expected.

Wynn slowly panned left to right along the far horizon, taking his time, doing his best Tai Chi impression as he fought to keep the camera moving smoothly and with patience. The nearby mountains upriver slid into frame, and he tilted down, bringing the river below into focus and following it back toward his position.

“Um…?!”

There’s a helicopter in the river.

Not crashed, shattered and destroyed, but brought down and landed, with skill. All four sets of landing gear were submerged, the pilot having taken a ballsy chance on alighting in the shallows, and had pulled it off. Crystalline waters flowed over and around the thick rubber treads of the tires, comet tails of bubbles marking the currents.

Wynn instantly recognized it as a CH-47 Chinook, the double-rotor of the military workhorse distinct, the robust design going back to the Vietnam War. He knew that, to this day, numerous militaries also flew this chopper, but when he zoomed in, he saw no markings, no insignia, and no numbers on the matte-grey skin or the white underbelly. Featureless, save the expected Warning and Service Advisory labels dotted over the fuselage in sharp reds and yellows. Nothing to tie it to a particular branch or unit.

Fire services, maybe?

No, that didn’t track either. Their birds are always red and white, with large, clear markings identifying them to onlookers and fellow aircraft.

The last one seen out this way was over a month ago.

The rounded nose was positioned upriver, leaving the bulky tail facing the large ominous bowl into which the glacial waters flowed, before the falls claimed it. The chopper’s tail ramp was open, lowered to the exposed expanse of river-rock and as Wynn watched, someone abruptly stepped out of the shadows and strode into the light.

She wasn’t tall, but even from this distance, Wynn could see that the woman’s poise commanded attention and respect. There was a confidence and competence to her movements as she strode across the rocks, and for a moment, a monochrome image – a tall, powerful horse, perhaps an Arabian -flickered through Wynn’s mind – tough bunches of muscle poised beneath snare drum tight skin, twitching excitedly in an afternoon sun, the locale exotic.

From here, he couldn’t guess her age, but the high ponytail she wore her long brown hair in lent a girlishness to her appearance. The rest, however, was all business. A form-fitting blue coverall and, from what he could tell, a leather flight jacket complimented by a mic and ear-piece set-up. In one hand she carried what looked like a black, leather-bound dossier, while the other held a large steel hook attached to a braided cable, the length of which unspooled across the rocks from somewhere inside the Chinook.

Panning along, Wynn watched as Ponytail reached the water’s edge and stopped, surveying the surface and beyond, oblivious to the rest of her surroundings. Wynn stole a glance around the camera, curious about what had arrested this intriguing woman’s attention.

His heart skipped a beat and his mouth dropped open.

There’s a flying saucer in the water.

It’s the only way Wynn could describe the sight before him – a large curve of smoothly formed metal, metal that his mind couldn’t determine as either silver or blue, seemingly shifting without drawing his notice, despite direct scrutiny. It protruded above the dark water, many meters across, and rested at a harsh angle against the craggy natural barrier of rocks that kept it from tumbling over the falls. Resting may not be the correct term, he reminded himself as his eyes darted over the scene, trying to take it all in.

Smashed into seems a little more applicable.

This impression was reinforced by the scatter of silver or blue pieces littering the rocks on the bowl’s far side, shining weakly in the morning sun where they’d been thrown by what had to have been a terrific force. Quickly raising the camera again and hitting RECORD, he zoomed in on the scattered debris.

Still reeling from it all, Wynn felt no surprise, his reserves already exhausted, only a shocked numbness remaining as he realized that the pieces of this strange crippled craft wouldn’t hold their form. Focusing on one of the larger items, he couldn’t determine a relatable shape. Just when he calculated he was looking at a 3-sided triangle of this color-morphing material, a fourth…then a fifth side materialized before his eyes; the mass not growing, simply changing. Perplexed, he dragged his attention from the shape-shifting items and panned over to the strange craft itself. If the circumference of the saucer held true, the majority was hidden beneath the water, vanishing into whatever darkened depths the bowl reached. Peeking just above the waterline, on what would have been the craft’s underside, Wynn could make out a large rend in the metallic skin, the surface warped and cracked, ragged pieces missing. As the shadows claimed the finer details, he could discern a ribbed structure open to the elements, the darkness behind leading into the craft’s mysterious submerged interior.

He swung the camera back to Ponytail.

She had stopped at the edge and appeared to be addressing someone unseen, via her mic and ear piece. He could see her hair bobbing as she spoke. After a moment, she knelt down, holding the hook and cable before her expectedly, dangling them over the water. As Wynn zoomed in, there were bubbles and a gloved hand abruptly broke the surface, reaching. A full-face diving mask then emerged. Whoever the diver was, he or she stayed submerged as they accepted the hook. There was a quick exchange and Ponytail stood, gesturing to the water’s surface, indicating something Wynn could not make out. There was a nod from the mask and then it, and the hook, vanished back into the cold depths, the cable sliding across the rocks as it spooled out.

Satisfied, Ponytail turned, beckoning to someone, or something, unseen. Wynn tilted up as a tall black man in tactical gear emerged from the trees lining the river’s far side, answering Ponytail’s summons. Zooming in, Wynn noted what appeared to be civilian clothes beneath the dark vest and webbing that adorned this new arrival’s lean upper body.

Was that…was that a tie? And a collared shirt?! And those dress pants do not match the combat boots.

The black hair was close cropped and chopped mohawk style. This was all set off by the strikingly mirrored aviators that reflected Ponytail’s image back at her from the handsomely dark face.

A conversation ensued, the words lost in the rush of the river, discretely conveyed over microphone. At one point, she opened the dossier, revealing a narrow screen that flashed to life. A few touchscreen key strokes yielded the answer she sought and she gave a response, gesturing at the bowl’s debris-strewn far side. Mirrors nodded and turned, heading back into the woods.

A shot of adrenalin lanced through Wynn’s system as he saw the tricked-out assault rifle slung over Mirrors’ shoulder…then glimpsed the webbed holster strapped to the man’s thigh as he disappeared among the trees.

A moment later…Mirrors remerged from the brush on the far side of the bowl, followed in stride by two others, a man and a woman clad in what looked like forensic coveralls, the white variety you’d likely find at a violent crime scene. Industrial-grade respirators and goggles obscured features as they went to work.

 Forensic 1 and Forensic 2 each carried two large canvas sacks, dark green with yellow writing, and they each held what looked like beefier versions of your average trash picker. They deftly slipped past Mirrors, who’d stopped several yards back as rear guard, moving among the rocks and sand with practiced steps as they began gingerly collecting the scattered remnants.

Wynn lowered the camera, muttering…

“What the hell IS this shit?”

…the epic totality of what he was witnessing lost on him in the moment.

It just couldn’t be.

A thought occurred, a hopeful childlike giddiness accompanying it…

Could this be a movie in production? Like, an actual film set? Was he witnessing a take in progress?!

He hadn’t noticed anything resembling film equipment yet but then again, Hollywood was tricky these days…and, to be fair, he hadn’t been looking for it on his first pass.

Time to do so now, it would seem.

IF…IF this was some secret Hollywood venture of the hefty-budgeted variety, the flavor of this Worth Wynning episode could seriously turn (as if it hasn’t already!) in a cool new direction. Getting a close-up scoop like this would get those Likes and Subscribe numbers crushed!

Oh my god…this…this could go viral!

Raising the camera back up, he turned the lens toward the Chinook, his sights set on any lights, camera or action he could suss out that would lend credence to his sudden hopeful theory.

Instead, what he got was another individual rushing down the ramp and into the sunlight, purpose in his gait. A stocky Asian guy with spikey frosted tips, clad in a black coverall and his own tactical gear – armor, webbing, holster, etc. An MP-5 submachine gun was strapped across his chest, ready to dispense 9mm death in one easy move. His movements were all business as he sprang cat-like from rock to rock, halting on a large flat at the edge of the bowl. In his hand was a pair of mustard-yellow binoculars, which he quickly raised.

“Oh shit!”

Tips was looking directly at him. Wynn didn’t need to zoom in to see that. Both binocular lenses glinted sunlight as they were trained on his location.

This isn’t a movie set.

And he was pretty sure he was just spotted.

Wynn knew he wasn’t on private land and had camped all around these mountains and valleys without issue from any authorities or property owners. Ever. But this…this was different, and fear now forced adrenalin into his system, the sleepy fog abruptly erased from his mind. Whatever these mysterious people were up to, it did not appear to be any of his business.

This was reinforced a moment later when Tips quickly lowered the binoculars and turned, gesturing excitedly at Ponytail. She trotted over, her features hardened into a scowl. As she reached his side, Tips turned back and pointed, drawing her attention.

Pointed…at him.

Ponytail’s head snapped up and she followed the extended finger of her minion up the cliffside, cold eyes searching and studying. Unheard, she addressed somebody via her mic, head bobbing approvingly at the response in her ear.

Wynn ducked away and dropped prone, using the ferns and bushes for cover. For a moment, he lay still, chin ground into the cold wet earth as he pondered what to do, his heart racing.

“Ichi…ni…san…shi…go…rok…shichi…hachi…kyuu…juu.”

Somewhere behind him, in the woods beyond his camp…something twig-like snapped. The sound didn’t repeat.

This all was suddenly SO uncool.

In his gut, he knew that what he had just witnessed (and recorded!) was not something he should’ve been able to witness (and record!).

Back in the day, as a punk-ass kid, he and his crew of bored trouble-maker morons would periodically embark on epic scavenger hunts in the wee hours, stealing lawn ornaments and patio furniture from darkened homes under the cover of darkness.

Why? Just for the hell of it, really.

Every once in a while, someone would get wise to this juvenile brand of suburban larceny, and the cops would inevitably be summoned to scour the darkened hedges, cul-de-sacs, and fenced cat-walks for the wayward delinquents.

The kick-in-the-chest jolt of fear that struck every time they’d heard the sirens, or saw the lights, slammed into Wynn once again, taking him back to those adrenaline-laced moments of childish fight or flight, that inevitably saw the handful of young shit-heads scatter like billiard balls, bolting for freedom into the darkness, every man for himself. 

Wynn clumsily shimmied back from the edge of the cliff, GoPro clenched in hand, coffee mug left steaming among the ferns, forgotten.

How quickly and quietly could he break camp?

That would be the next test.

Looks like Night Two of this episode is a bust.

He had to get out of here!

What was happening down there was already FAR more drama than he signed on for. Besides, the footage he’d already scored was something sexy, he knew it, and he could certainly craft something golden with it.

A small voice in the back of his mind nagged plaintively about consequences of a vaguely legal nature, or worse…but he defiantly shoved it away, exhilaration and fear both competing for his attention.

What he had was PROOF.

Absolute proof of life beyond our pale blue dot of a world – highly intelligent life that is vastly technologically superior and clearly capable of arriving (or worse) whenever it suits them. The human species craves this information, has been hungry for this kingly knowledge for generations, even centuries, instinctively and en mass, and now he, lowly Wynton Dobbs, Youtube superstar wannabe, had the proof that could put the age-old question to rest, definitively.

 Worth Wynning.com is going to fucking explode!

He allowed himself a tense grin as the mental picture of cushy early retirement, maybe a little fame and fortune, flickered through his mind.

Then he remembered what he just witnessed…and the gravity began to settle in.

Holy. Shit.

Wynn hustled back to camp, stealthily hunched down and hurriedly glancing about. No threats showed among the trees.

The same couldn’t be said about the clearing.

As Wynn pushed back into the campsite, he froze, eyes wide, bushes half-parted…

There were two of them.

The big one, the white guy, who stood examining Wynn’s empty tripod, wore a black Navy peacoat and matching flat-cap. The coat was open and Wynn glimpsed of another set of armor and webbing, complete with thigh holster. A small mic lay alongside the unshaven salt and peppered lantern jaw from a discrete ear-piece. Clutched in one gloved hand was a matte-black Benelli M4.

Peacoat’s companion was smaller and definitely South American, dark and lean. He sported a pair of gold, wire-rimmed glasses beneath a peaked, sweat-stained work cap, originally in olive green. A dark hoodie showed beneath his own armoured vest and he too sported a thigh holster brandishing a handgun of some make. Thick cargo pants, and a P90 submachine gun, completed his look. Both men wore alpine combat boots.

It was Glasses, from where he was crouched looking studiously into Wynn’s tent, who looked up smirking…

“Well, well there, kitten…where have you been?”

Wynn tensed, ready to bolt but Glasses saw it and rose suddenly, the submachine gun snapping to his shoulder in one slick move. He glared along the sights, his next words a growl…

“Nope. Stick around, amigo. Get those dick skinners in the air. Like…now.”

*click*

Wynn’s panicked eyes flitted over to Peacoat as the larger man levelled the 12-gauge, safety off, the shotgun’s bore looking huge and dark as it met his gaze.

He was fucked.

A dark cloud of despair oozed down and Peacoat chuckled, reading the look, the sound low in his throat. He confirmed this notion in a deep rasp, a smoker’s rasp…

“You, my wayward little friend…ARE fucked. You know it…and we know you know it. Wrong place…wrong time, hoss, you know that story.”

Wynn’s heart was pounding as he raised his hands, the GoPro still in his grasp and he suddenly felt like the mouse the cat toys with…just prior to evisceration. There was something about these two that had his Spidey-senses snapping like a snare drum, and he was scared shitless. His mind flashed to the Glock nestled in his bag, so far undiscovered, mere feet from Glasses’ boots, but common sense dismissed any notions he had of going for it.

John McClane, he was not.

Plus, if they WERE government, just them finding it, with him not…exactly…in possession of an actual HANDGUN – CARRY permit, could double the shit piled on this situation alone.

Not that it wasn’t totally fucked already.

Glasses dark eyes flitted from Wynn’s wide gaze to the small camera in his grasp. Suddenly interested, he lowered the submachine gun and trotted forward, his smirk returning…

“Well now, kitten…whatcha you bring Daddy?”

Wynn didn’t resist as Glasses snatched the camera from him and quickly retreated, professionally keeping at least six feet distance. The P90 wasn’t pointed at Wynn anymore…but it wasn’t exactly pointed away either. His eyes glided fearfully back to Peacoat as the larger man lowered the shotgun, his attention suddenly elsewhere, large head cocking to the side. Someone was speaking in his ear and he turned away, sauntering off a few steps as he listened.

Wynn had a good idea who was on the other end.

The large goon turned back, his narrow eyes scanning over the small clearing, taking in the strewn camping gear. Wynn heard him quietly inquire…

“What about his gear? Do we want it found? Like the last one?”

Listened…then nodded.

“Ok, roger that. We’ll bring him down now.”

Wynn’s stomach began breakdancing and for a moment, vomit threatened as a new wave of frayed nerves coursed through him. There was an uneven beat in his chest and a light-headedness washed over, another murmur. The sensation passed quickly, leaving an icy ball of fear sitting heavily at Wynn’s centre.

Peacoat glanced questioningly at Glasses, who caught the look and nodded, signalling that he’d copied the instructions via his own ear piece. The larger man looked back, a hint of impatience invading his tone…

“Well, what are you waiting on there, fella? Get over here and turn around, hands high.”

Peacoat shifted the weight of the 12 gauge and that was all the motivation Wynn needed. He cautiously pushed through, hands aloft, and stopped, wide eyes darting from goon to goon.

Swallowing deeply, he croaked out…

“Uh, hi. What’s going on here? What’d I do? I’m not trespassing…am I?”

Peacoat shook his large head, visibly annoyed already…

“Pretty sure my instructions said nothing about fucking questions, guy…I know this cuz I was standing there when I gave em.”

Across the clearing, Glasses chuckled, saying…

“Yep, yep…it’s true…he WAS there. I saw it. Heard it even. Now get spinning, princess”

The sinking feeling in his gut sank lower, and Wynn turned, arms raised. Quick footsteps closed distance behind and suddenly rough hands were on him, quickly searching top to bottom, finding only his phone and taking it. As quickly as the search began, it was over, and Peacoat stepped back…

“He’s clean. Got a phone here. SIGINT is going to enjoy going through your dwarf porn, pal. Or is it livestock? Sheep maybe? Looking at you now…I can’t tell.”

He glanced over at his companion, the brim of his cap low, his tone sarcastic…

“Her Royal Highness is waiting, let’s get this meat down there.”

With a cruel sneer, Glasses added a terrible, and likely offensive, approximation of an Australian accent…

“Like the shrimp to the barbie.”

If Wynn hadn’t taken a leak earlier, he definitely would’ve pissed himself. His heart was pounding, brow and upper lip slick with sweat, as his mind raced over the dark possibilities that lay ahead.

No matter which direction this goes…he was a changed man. Life would never be the same after this. Just another camping trip / film journey, one of dozens, a relaxing hobby, a profitable endeavour, twisted into a shocking milestone, the final chapter of which had yet to be written.

Footsteps fast approached again, Glasses this time, and the short barrel of the P90 prodded Wynn’s spine, urging him on. He pushed back through the edge of the clearing, inwardly hoping that one of these assholes takes a swinging branch to the face as they pass through.

No such luck.

Wynn emerged back into the open forest, the two goons slipping quietly out behind him, weapons ready. Without speaking, they took up positions on either side. Peacoat gestured with the barrel of the shotgun – through the trees, down the hill. Without waiting to see if their prisoner understood, Glasses about-faced and moved off, deftly slipping among the various trunks and clumps of waving ferns on what Wynn came to notice was a path, virtually invisible, barely an animal trail, leading down the ridge, slanting along the forested hillside toward the running river below.

Even though he couldn’t see it, Wynn knew Peacoat’s weapon was on him as he followed Glasses at a brisk pace, the smaller man slipping quietly among the foliage with barely a sound. Peacoat clearly didn’t deem stealth a priority at this point, and Wynn could hear the larger man keeping pace to their rear via the *crack* and *crunch* that defined the goon’s bullish transit though the defenseless underbrush.

They reached an overgrown trail-head leading off the river, a short leap from a large flattened rock a couple feet into the icy waters that flowed past with an insistent gurgle. Glasses pushed through the loose bushes, abruptly revealing the riveted backdrop that was the bulky fuselage of the unmarked Chinook, the engines quiet, the blades still. Flattened rock showed across the surface, exposed to the morning air and leading to the large unmarked helicopter. The bespectacled goon paused and looked back, eyes narrowed studiously as he watched Wynn brush aside a fern as he closed distance.

Their prisoner’s boyish face was a frozen mask of misery and fear, the true lines of strain hidden by the beard. Glasses chuckled to himself, the same tone a cruel child torturing an insect might employ.

As Wynn paused, Glasses sneered…

“Don’t get your lil paws wet, kitten.”

…and turned, deftly hopping from the river bank to the rocks.

For a split second, annoyance cut through Wynn’s fear and hesitation…

What the hell was this ‘kitten’ shit?! Fucking douchebag!

His moment of caustic judgement was dashed aside by the shotgun prodding his back, Peacoat’s lurking tone carrying a quiet threat…

“Move. Now. I won’t tell you twice.”

Wynn believed him and followed, hopping to the large flat rock where Glasses’ muddy boot prints marked the dry grey surface. Looking ahead as he moved, while minding his own unsure footing, he heard Peacoat awkwardly make the jump, allowing a quick grin as the scuffle of slipping feet and a muttered curse reached him. He hoped for a loud splash…but it didn’t come. The goon had regained his footing.

Shit.

The terrified host of Worth Wynning barely sidestepped a slick patch of dark green algae as he moved into the shadow of the towering Chinook, his nose wrinkling at the pungent stink of aircraft exhaust and warm metal hanging heavily in the air, when a bark from Glasses pulled him up short…

“Stop there. Keep those hands seen.”

Wynn complied, halting on a patch of dry rock beside the open tail ramp, palms open at his sides. For a split second, he tried to remember if he knew any good lawyers, frantically sifting through his mental Rolodex for names and numbers that simply weren’t there. This panicked effort was dashed aside by sounds reaching him.

From inside the chopper, Wynn could make out voices…and movement…over the surrounding burble of the river, but it was mere murmurs, and the pitter-patter footfall of boots. For the briefest of moments, there was a distant burst of static-laced radio chatter, gone as quickly as it began. Pulling his attention from that which he could not see, he watched as Glasses strode up to Ponytail, who still stood staring intently into the dark depths of the bowl. The goon halted and leaned in, speaking low. After a moment, both heads craned around, two sets of eyes – one eerily light and one ominously dark, behind glasses – settled on him, scanning and studying. The target-like scrutiny sent a chill through Wynn that had nothing to do with the shadow of the large helicopter and he glanced around nervously. Peacoat, the Benelli held easily across his armoured torso, took a step forward as Wynn’s panicked gaze fell on him, growling…

“I know I’m a looker, but you best be getting those peepers realigned, fella. Straighten that shit out and find an interesting spot on that ground to stare at.”

Throat like parchment paper, Wynn had no response and, apparently, no choice. He glanced away. Looking ahead, Peacoat spoke again, a hint of cruel amusement coloring his tone…

“Oh, shit, boy. Here comes trouble. Your day is about to get just that…much…worse now, bud. Sorry bout that. Now drop to those knees and cross them ankles. Hands where we can see em and…pretty please…don’t think, just do.”

The flattened expanse of river rock sent small jolts of pain up his thighs as Wynn lowered to his knees and obediently crossed his ankles. Wincing, he glanced up to see Ponytail and Glasses making their way over, picking a dry path across the rocks. Behind them, Tips took up the woman’s position at the edge of the bowl, intently scanning the water’s surface.

As she approached, Wynn noted the light eyes (green? Maybe grey?) locked on him, scrutinizing, the shapely mouth tight, the jaw tensed. He also realized that she wasn’t as young as he’d first imagined. When she was close enough to make out the lines at the eyes, the tanned weathering of the skin, the impression settled in. Late 30’s, give or take, this woman was fit, her compact body clearly toned through the tough discipline and grim determination of the habitual athlete, and her poise suggested that she’d seen some shit, survived some shit and could very likely cause some very serious shit.

‘…probably has tattoos…’ – flashed sarcastically through his mind.

Ponytail stopped a few feet away, her studious gaze unshaken. Without a word, she reached into her flight jacket and slid a compact semi-automatic into view, the nickel-plate glinting as she lowered it to her side, held loose but ready, finger just caressing the trigger.

Wynn snapped his head down, expecting the very worst, any thoughts of lawyers instantly wiped away. He mashed his eyes closed as child-like wishes to be elsewhere desperately coursed through his mind. Those desperate wishes paused when nothing happened…only the sigh of the wind and the bubbling of the river filling his ears.

Wynn cracked an eye.

Ponytail stood before him, motionless, the downed craft her backdrop, the pistol’s short barrel pointed groundward. She was studying him, locked in place like a statue. Glasses held ground behind her, the P90 dangling from its sling at his side as his smirk began to creep back into place. Clearly Wynn’s predicament was amusing, the humor of it undoubtedly an unexpected bonus in the course of another deadly serious operation for these psychos, whoever they are.

Ponytail sighed, seemingly resigned to the unfolding events and took a step forward. One quick gesture held both goons at bay and she crouched, eyelines matching only a few feet apart, close enough for Wynn to note Springfield Armory stamped into the .45’s slide. Balancing the Workbook on a knee, she reached into a pocket and pulled a pair of sturdy black-rimmed glasses, slipping them up her pert nose and fixing her gaze back on his. She took a moment too long, causing a nervous tremor to ripple through his watery guts. Her chiselled features, locked in a solemn mask of intensity, were abruptly eclipsed as she raised the Workbook, his reflection distorted back at him across the gleaming curve of the tiny camera lens. Her voice was lower than he expected, Jodie Foster-ish, somehow both husky and feminine, riding on the hint of an Irish lilt…

“Hold still…look at me.”

…as she snapped a quick series of pictures; mugshots in natural lighting. Satisfied with the images, she closed the Workbook and lowered it before getting right to business…

“Let’s start with your name. And don’t lie. I’ll know. Now…what is it?”

Mustering up some saliva, he swallowed nervously, forcing tensed vocal cords into action…

“Um…ok…yeah…Dobbs…Wynn. Shit! Sorry. It’s…Wynn Dobbs, that’s my name. No bullshit.”

There was a low smirk from behind…

“’Wynn?!’ Seriously?”

He looked back, meeting Peacoat’s glare with questioning eyes. The thug continued…

“A handle like that…shit, that’s just amusing…I mean, tragically so…straight up failure bait, from Day Number One. Let’s not bullshit here…not exactly winning at the moment now, are ya. Kinda says something, don’t it.

Wynn looked away, grated nerves trickling through the fear, anger competing. Peacoat leaned in…

“Gee thanks, Ma n Pa.”

A stern glance from Ponytail stopped any more impending taunts, and she turned her attention back to their prisoner. The large goon stepped back quite pleased with himself, the cruel smirk audible.

Wynn quietly elaborated…

“It’s short for Wynton. Just an old family name.”

Ponytail nodded, her tone eerily neutral…

“I believe you. Now…why are you here? Who are you working for? Remember…lies won’t do you any good.”

Wynn shrugged, pausing a moment before answering…

“Youtube. I guess I work for Youtube. I have a channel, a camping channel…like survivalist and bushcraft living shit. Been getting some decent hits and subs, so I came out for new content.”

Without thinking, he waved up toward his site, continuing…

“Got a new tent that I was reviewing. That’s all. Seriously. Just a camping trip, just me.”

Glasses stepped around his boss, Wynn’s GoPro held before him. Ponytail looked over and took the camera from her henchman, examining it with interest. Her eyes found his again…

“Just you…just lil ole you…with a King’s ransom of recording gear, it would seem. Well, to say nothing else…I would certainly call that unfortunate timing.”

Wynn couldn’t help, but to quietly agree, muttering…

“So it would seem.”

Ponytail opened her mouth to speak again, but paused, abruptly distracted…

From inside the Chinook, Wynn suddenly heard another crackling stab of static birthing a tinny voice over a speaker. He couldn’t make out words. The woman’s head cocked over slightly as those same words spoke straight into her ear. The two thugs also shifted their focus, with Glasses readjusting his own earpiece with the press of a thumb for better reception. Ponytail stood, speaking into her mic as she did, her tone direct…

“Copy that, Dive One. Good job. 5 by 5 on EBE containment, and surfacing. Standing by.”

Pulling her glasses off, she addressed her two thugs…

“Gentlemen, we have a guest to greet. We’ll worry about this…

Without looking down, she waved her .45 dismissively in Wynn’s direction, her finger still lightly resting on the trigger…

“…later. Let’s get over there. Vessel’s inbound. Now. Go.”

As Ponytail holstered her weapon, Peacoat brushed past, roughly bumping Wynn, following Glasses across the exposed river-rock to the edge of the bowl, where Tips stood poised, sub-machine gun at ready, glaring into the depths for…something, as cold water flowed over his boots. The other two spread out, taking up covering positions.

 On the far side, Wynn could make out Forensic One and Two still bustling among the rocks, gloved hands busy, seemingly oblivious to whatever was about to transpire. Mirrors, on the other hand, had stepped up onto a flattened boulder, the AR-15 held ready to snap up and fire across the water at a moment’s notice. Wynn could make out the glint of the Ray Bans, noting something raptor-like in the black man’s bearing, an almost laser sharp focus, the mirrored sunglasses locked on his team across the water.

Ponytail stole a quick glance back at her prisoner, before turning her attention to the open ramp beside him…

“If this bunny bolts…do it quietly.”

With that, she marched away, striding over the rocks and flows of river water with what could only be interpreted as determination in her cadence.

Wynn glanced over, chilled by the neutrality of her tone…and was startled to see yet another goon, this one muscular, blond, and wearing what looked like a football jersey beneath his own set of armored webbing, crouched motionlessly only feet away on the open ramp, watching from around one of the greasy hydraulic lifts. A pair of black wrap-around shades were pushed up on his forehead, his straw-colored hair curly, near ringlets, and cropped tight at the sides and back. He was chewing gum and popped off a quick bubble as he nodded, a smile spreading, no humor behind it.

Jesus Christ! How fucking long had he been there?!

Jersey didn’t answer.

Instead, he slipped a large-frame semi-automatic (looked German) from a shoulder holster, and slipped the slide back, ensuring a round in the chamber. Then, with practiced hands, he pulled a dark metal tube from a chest pouch.

Holy fuck!

Wynn knew exactly what it was.

As Jersey screwed the suppressor onto the threaded barrel, he met Wynn’s eye…and winked.  With worryingly misplaced good-nature, he said…

“Just don’t, guy. Ok? Don’t even ponder it. Because…”

He casually held the handgun up, showing the final result of his tinkering. The hammer was cocked back, the suppressor spun on tight…

“…you heard the lady.”

Wynn swallowed, his throat like sandpaper, and simply nodded, grimly understanding.

Jersey snapped another pink bubble out of existence with his teeth and nodded, lowering the gun, saying…

“Cool, cool. Now just chill and enjoy the show, guy. I mean, shit…you’ve already seen too much, so…”

He left the sentence hanging, his jaw going back to work on the gum, but Wynn understood all over again.

He was still fucked.

 A whiff wafted past – strawberry. His nose wrinkled. The pleasing aroma was all wrong, like roses in an abattoir.

From the water’s edge, Ponytail turned, mouth moving, but too far away to make out over the river’s burbling roar. Jersey’s large tousled head bobbed at the voice in his ear-piece, glancing at the cable running from it’s compounding gear somewhere in the Chinook, continuing over the rocks and under the water out to the bowl, confirming…something. She barked a couple unintelligible orders to her men and they tactically fanned out along the water’s edge, silently and efficiently, weapons poised and ready.

Ponytail noted the positions of her exposed employees, then pulled a small object from a pocket, raising it toward the looming helicopter. As she activated the remote, Wynn could see her addressing her mic again, giving what looked like an order. Inside, something *Beep*’d, and a heavy-grade winch motor activated, drawing the cable in, the steel braids creaking under the pressure.

A chill shot through as she lowered the remote and her piercing glare found him…again…and held fast. Nothing in her features betrayed the cold, calculating mechanics behind those eyes.

The words – Springfield Armory, stamped in metal, flashed through his mind and Wynn broke off, yanking his own eyes away. Ponytail spun, striding back, her prisoner’s fate quietly decided in that moment as she tracked along the length of the braided steel line, a line that led her to her surfacing prize.

Jersey cracked off another strawberry-scented eruption, along with a sly grin…

“Hoo, doggy! Here it comes, guy.”

Wynn saw what it was moments later.

The hook reached the surface…and so did its cargo.

Attached to a pair of heavy steel D-rings was what appeared to be an armoured coffin, cast in white and festooned with stenciled advisories and warnings in vibrant crimsons and mustards. It breached, drawn steadily into the daylight by the retreating cable. Two clusters of bubbles broke surface and a pair of divers in full SCUBA emerged, gloved hands guiding its path. Ponytail stepped back, motioning to Glasses and Peacoat with a curt hand gesture. Both men slung their weapons and slipped forward, grabbing the molded hand-holds affixed to the tough outer skin, guiding it along. As the object left the water in full, Ponytail raised the remote. The unseen winch motor *Beep*’d again, and the cable stopped, going slack. Glasses and Peacoat eased the capsule-shape to the river-smoothened expanse of rock below their feet before stepping away. Ponytail slid between them, slipping her glasses back on and raising her Workbook as she approached.

Wynn craned his neck, fighting for a better view.

What the hell is that thing?!

Fixed into the ‘head’ of the ‘coffin’ were a series of recessed panels, all numbered and color-coded. Reaching for #1, Ponytail snapped open a pair of lock-catches and slid it open. Wynn couldn’t make out what held her attention, but he could see the faint blue glow of an active screen on her glasses. He watched as she raised the Workbook, consulting its display, before appearing to cross reference something on Panel #1’s readout.

Ponytail nodded approvingly, closing the laptop as she stood. Stepping over the cable, she made her way to Dive One, who was examining something unseen at the bottom of the cylindrical object, standing waist deep in the icy water. On the other side, Dive Two was helped out by Glasses, and Wynn could see that it was a hatchet-faced woman, mask marks tracing angry lines across pale skin.

As Dive Two walked upand leaned in to check the open panel and the data displayed within, Wynn’s gaze drifted back to where Ponytail crouched at the water’s edge, her prize at her side, listening as Dive One; a rugged-looking sort, white, unshaven, early 50’s, and looking hard as nails, as he described…something, using neoprene-enclosed hands to illustrate an observation made below, his full-face mask pushed up on his forehead.

There was another crack of gum, but the unnatural strawberry aroma didn’t reach him this time. He didn’t look over, but could feel Jersey’s eyes on him for an extra moment.

Glasses leaned in, whispering…something…conspiratorial to Dive Two. The woman’s dark eyes crept away from the coffin’s read-out…and over to him. Even from this distance, Wynn sensed a new robot-like scrutiny, that quick up-down appraisal. Unlike Ponytail’s icy studiousness, Dive Two simply started low, tilting up till her eyes locked on his.

This time he’d didn’t look away.

The fear that sat like a ball of dirty ice yielded, just for a moment, to a piercing burn of anger that arose suddenly, warming him.

He had been doing NOTHING! Just fucking around in the woods, man…minding his own business, grabbing fresh content. Chilling the fuck out!

And now…this…this is bullshit!

Dive Two glanced back, and a question was posed…Glasses stepped away, merely shrugging in response, his free hand gesturing absently toward Ponytail, still engrossed with Dive One at the water’s edge. Dive Two abruptly lost interest in the random prisoner crouched in the shadow of their transportation, a flash of hostility childishly narrowing his eyes, and turned her attention back to the open panel. Comparing some piece of displayed data to the small touch screen strapped to her forearm told her what she wanted to know. She slid the panel shut and locked the catches again. Sidling over, she reached for another panel, this one smaller and recessed further down, marked with #3in green, and opened it. From a lanyard around her wrist, she pulled a bulky key into the open and slid it into place somewhere out of sight. A 4-digit code followed next, followed by the flip of some switch. She then stood, stepping away, gaze locked on the curved white surface before her.

Something happened to the ‘coffin’, something mechanical, something just out of sight from Wynn’s shaded vantage point. Ponytail abruptly stood, leaving Dive One mid-sentence, and moved to the head of the object, where she stopped…and stared.

Peacoat and Glasses, not a word between them, also drifted in, seemingly drawn, weapons slack at their sides. Dive Two made a showy gesture at…something within, and Wynn clearly read the words – “Taa Daa!”, on her narrow lips.

The containment vessel was open. No one responded…merely stared. There were no wise-cracks, no words of any kind.

All fell still.

Wynn watched the moment of silence end as Ponytail raised the Workbook, clicking off a new series of pictures of whatever it was that was contained in that…thing. Satisfied, she stepped back, curtly saying something as she studied her screen. The others took up defensive positions again as Dive Two moved back in to activate a hidden switch. The coffin’s lid slid closed again and sealed shut.

Wynn noted the rising wind and, for just a moment, thought he could smell rain. Risking a look over his shoulder, he saw that the earlier smear of dark clouds on the horizon, beyond the mountains upriver, had snuck in faster than expected and now looked dark and bloated with cold rain as they eclipsed the craggy summit, spreading across the sky. It would be on them within the hour, he just knew it.

At least the rain will wash any blood away – sarcastically punched through his mind, gallows humor at the worst time.

It was an echoing yell that snapped his head back around…

“Contact!!! Dive One! On your six!”

Mirrors, still perched in his over-watch position across the bowl, followed this warning with action, snapping the AR up, pressing the butt into his shoulder and glaring into the scope, fighting for a clear shot, finger hovering over the trigger.

What the…?!

Dive One was moving to exit the water when the he abruptly unleashed a startled yell and was violently yanked backward by forces unseen. That yell was choked into a tortured gurgle as the diver vanished beneath the surface in a burst of river water.

A small rainbow showed itself in the sun-lit spray before fading out of existence.

Everybody around the vessel leaped away from the water’s edge, weapons snapping up, startled curses echoing through the air. Ponytail yanked her .45 out, levelling the barrel at the roiling ring of foam as her thugs sighted in, drawing back, sweeping their weapons back and forth, searching for Dive One…or the invisible threat that took him.

Nothing showed.

The bowl was dark beneath the waves, beyond the silvery shimmer of the crashed ship’s skin. The gleam of pale sunlight on the surface also hindered visibility, but that wasn’t stopping Dive Two. Regaining her composure, she yanked a dive-knife from a leg sheath and pushed past Glasses, eyes locked the spot that claimed her partner, fighting to get her regulator flowing, ready to yank her mask into place. Ponytail, pistol held rigidly before her, fought to reclaim her cool, to re-establish control, as she glared at the gloomy depths, fighting to see…anything. Dive One’s sudden cry echoed mercilessly through her mind. Her eyes darted about, and a new decision was abruptly made. Slipping back, the team leader hastily took up a position at the head of the containment vessel, crouching down for cover as she kept it between her and the threatening water.

Dive Two reached the bowl’s edge, frantic eyes still scanning, to no avail. Mask held before her, she paused, turning to catch Ponytail’s eye as the leader peered around the curved edge of the container. A quick hand sprang up, Ponytail’s finger raised – wait. Dive Two, eight inches of razor-sharp metal clenched in a gloved fist, fought the instinct to plunge into the shadowy depths after her dive partner, but froze in place, poised for action, following orders.

Ponytail wasted no time addressing her mic…

“Dive One! Come back! Do you copy?! Over!”

There was static. No reply.

“Dive One, Dive One! Do you read?! Give us a Sitrep?! Over!”

More static.

Ponytail stole a glimpse at the water and, with a sinking heart, saw Dive One’s mask bobbing listlessly on the surface, before suddenly sinking before her eyes, claimed by the same depths that had claimed her man.

Desperation colored her next transmission, the fact that Dive One can’t answer without the mask lost in the moment…

“Goddamn it, Dive One! We’re coming after you, hang on!”

Her finger released the TALK key and before she could signal Dive Two, the hiss of ‘dead air’ unleashed a crashing shriek of static…and the surface of the bowl exploded.

A flash, tinged a crisp blue, detonated in the depths.  A wide circle of foam punched the surface, sending disturbed water skyward. Half a breath later, a concussive *THUD* kicked at the rock beneath their feet.

Wynn leaped up, eyes wide, newly flavored fear stabbing at his insides.

Damn! He’d felt that!

He fearfully glanced over at Jersey, expecting to see the business end of a sound suppressor coming for him, but the large goon had sprung up when Dive One vanished, trotting down the ramp, pistol in hand, his prison guard duties apparently overridden.

Wynn’s mind raced as he rapid-fired through the possible explanations for the chaotic insanity roiling around him. Glancing about, he saw another flat rock showing itself above the water a few feet away, that would further open up his view of this unfolding chaos. Taking the chance, he jumped, landing inches from an uncomfortable splash-down in flowing water. Regaining his balance, he strained, trying to take in as many details as he could. He couldn’t be sure of what he was seeing, but taking the chance to move now afforded him a better view of the events unfolding yards aways. Looking past the poised forms of his captors, he could see a widening circle of foam marring the water, more impressive and stirred up than the preceding splash that marked the initial disappearance of Dive One.

The churning bubbles abruptly went crimson and what could only be blood quickly spread across the surface in a thick blot, distorted and flowed in wispy tendrils, pulled toward the falls. Dark stringy pieces bobbed to the surface, riding to the daylight on the storm of bubbles, unrecognizable as human before they were drawn away, pulled into the local eco-system by the relentless current.

Even at this distance, Wynn could hear Dive Two’s anguished wail and he watched with wide eyes as the diver stumbled back to the water, splashing to a stop knee-deep, perched on a submerged boulder before the sheer drop-off into the bowl’s darkness. A hand flew to her mask, gloved fingers digging at the rubber, ready to yank it down…but then…she froze, abruptly quiet.

Behind her, Glasses stepped forward, P90 pressed into a cheek, the ported barrel locked on the water’s surface. Ponytail snuck another glance around the vessel from where she crouched, pausing as she noted the sudden change in Dive Two’s behaviour. Gone was the panic and the blood-lust. Something had caught her attention, something below the surface.

Was it Dive One?!

Leaning in, Dive Two struggled to make out…something…through the distortions of water and light at the surface. Without looking back, she raised a clenched fist – HOLD, followed a moment later by a raised, then lowered, pointer finger – ONE MINUTE.

No one said a word.

Wynn could hear fresh breeze and a cold drop of rain settled on the back of his neck. The sunlight faded out then as the dark rainclouds continued their determined spread across the sky, lending further gloom to the situation as the world tinted grey.

He looked back.

Dive Two, without taking her eyes off her mysterious submerged target, slowly lowered her mask into place and slipped her head beneath the surface, dive knife still clenched as she sought a clearer view of what she thought had caught her eye.

Wynn was abruptly aware there was no one behind him, he wasn’t under guard, not since Peacoat had rushed over to help pull the container from the water and Jersey had trotted ahead when the diver had disappeared. He’d been too terrified to consider any kind of escape or evasion, but with all eyes raptly focused on the water, he stole a hasty glance back, seeing the path that had taken him across the exposed river rocks to the Chinook.

An idea was forming.

A cold drizzle began misting down, and Wynn thought he could make out thunder in the distance.

Suddenly, a frantic commotion at the water’s edge…

Dive Two lurched back, surfacing abruptly, stumbling toward the shore with a splash as she yanked desperately at her mask, a panicked yell piercing the air…

“Contact!!!”

Glasses yelled…

“What’s the position?!”

…as he bound forward, reaching for Dive Two with his free hand, ready to pull her away.

He never got the chance.

A geometrically perfect cylinder, a force unseen, punched its shape through the water, an explosive splash marking the lightning-like speed of the violent anomaly. It struck its target at the shore.

Struck it directly.

Dive Two opened her mouth to scream, but the sound coughed out of existence when the invisible force struck like a freight train, propelling her as though kicked by a giant. The neoprene dry-suit held her body together as she was blasted from the water, but only barely. A flailing arm flashed past, striking Glasses in the face, sending him tumbling, the P90 clattering across rock and splashing somewhere unseen. His glasses spun away, impacting among the rocks with the sharp chime of cracking glass.

Dive Two’s limp body cart-wheeled across the rocks and water flows, the air shimmering, before splashing heavily to a halt at Jersey’s feet. He stumbled back, his own eyes wide, mouth open, dumbfounded, not so tough anymore. The sound of a broken dive knife clanged from somewhere among the rocks, the blade snapped in two, then…nothing.

Dive Two’s body, half submerged and face down before him, twitched and flailed, dive boots kicking and twisting on the rocks as blood flowed from inside the hood, the pulped source thankfully out of sight. Jersey regained his composure and pounced at his companions broken form, hurriedly placing his handgun on the rocks and grabbing at the prone body, turning her toward him.

Wynn couldn’t make out the victim’s features, but Jersey’s body language said it all. Any words of comfort died in the thug’s throat and he jerked his hands away as though burned, lurching back to his feet. Dive Two’s body heavily flopped back down and the battered remains of the face disappeared into the river, limp head bobbing gently on the icy current.

Drizzle pitter-pattered on exposed neoprene.

Blood drooled from Glasses’ shattered jaw as he narrowed his eyes, struggling to see clearly from where he found himself sprawled, fighting to regain his grasp of time and balance. Alarmed, he glanced around, but neither his weapon or his glasses showed themselves anywhere nearby. Then, the pained fog in his mind cleared for that one second…and he looked over to where Dive Two’s body lay thrown and collapsed. Through the drizzle, the goon watched as his colleague, smashed and broken, kicked one last time and fell still, half submerged. His jersey-sporting companion had rushed over, knelt down but quickly pulled away, looking grim. He looked up and caught Jersey’s eye. Jersey merely shook his head as he grabbed the suppressed pistol and leaped back up.

There was no helping her.

What the hell had done that?!

Glasses, struggling against pain and waves of dizziness, fought to rise, one hand pressed to his already swelling jaw as the other yanked a Sig Saur handgun from his thigh holster. Dark blood ran in tendrils off his chin, mixing with rainwater. Stumbling, he splashed across a flow toward his two comrades before falling painfully to his knees on a exposed patch of rock. He turned back, groggy, the pistol’s barrel trained unsteadily on the bloody slick marring the surface of the bowl. He spat crimson and instantly regretted it as pain from the broken jaw shot through his skull like a baseball bat.

Ponytail, from where she crouched, pistol in hand, quietly lowered her Workbook to the rocks and snapped her fingers. As they turned to her, she redirected her men with quick hand signals.

Tips sprang back from the water’s edge in response, no words, running at a crouch across stone and through icy flows to a cluster of rocks near the shore. He threw himself behind, the cliff-face at his back and something solid between him and whatever the hell was raising some shit. As Tips raised his weapon again…he froze.

Something else was happening in the water…

Peacoat also lurched away, falling back, the Benelli sweeping left and right as he retreated toward the Chinook. Scurrying along, the larger man reached Glasses’ side and quickly helped the smaller man to his feet. With a grunt of pain, Glasses righted himself at his co-worker’s side, standing unsteadily but without assistance, and again raised the Sig, blinking frantically to bring his sight picture into focus. Peacoat noticed his companion pause suddenly, fresh alarm showing in the narrowed eyes. A breath hitched in his throat.

Thunder sounded in the distance, rumbling ominously.

Peacoat spun, shotgun rising, finger settling on the trigger as he sighted in on…

What the hell are THOSE?!

Dive One’s blood, the circle of which was now pulled and distorted across the surface by the insistent current of the falls, gave birth to five smooth pale domes that emerged in a loose cluster, rising.

Peacoat’s unimaginative mind pushed through the surprise, rapidly calculating the new threat, and he nudged his injured companion. Glasses, eyes glassy from shock, looked over, head feeling heavy. Straining to get back in the game, he saw his larger teammate’s quick open-palmed downward hand movement, a look of tension straining the larger man’s features. Glasses understood immediately and dropped to a knee, raising the pistol at the blur the things were in his vision.  Peacoat did likewise, raising the Benelli at the emerging forms, trying to draw a bead. His finger came to rest on the trigger, but fell short of squeezing. There was no kill shot yet, with the prized container, and his crouching boss, in the line of fire.

The bodies of these new beings were hidden from sight, still submerged, but rising steadily.

Wynn stole a glance back at the trailhead, calculating routes and speeds in a flash, an idea gaining traction, before he looked back, only then seeing the ‘One…no, three…holy shit…there’s five!’ creatures that rose silently into the daylight.

The beings rode along the rippling surface, the pale dome of their heads, the strange bony formations lurking below ghostly pale skin, giving way to large, almond-shaped eyes of the darkest black. Hard, bone-like protrusions formed intricate frames around the opaque eyes, continuing down toward what might be a jaw-line, forming a solid, triangular piece that eclipsed whatever may have served these creatures as mouths and nostrils…if any.

A lot of things happened very suddenly.

The crackle of rifle fire rang out from across the bowl as Mirrors squeezed the trigger, the first rounds stitching across the surface between the attackers and his companions on shore, a clear warning. The beings continued, their silence and focus eerie, features blurred by the light sheets of rain.

Wynn could see what looked, from this distance, like bone or plastic-like exo-skeletons rising into the light; a rib-like structure visible between shifting plates of some kind of thin, form-fitting armor plating that shared certain color and light-bending abilities with the skin of the crippled alien space-craft, worn over the creature’s true forms, the meat. They were bipedal, and taller than the average human…but not by much. Even though their movements suggested grace and calculation, Wynn could just sense a wiry strength, like sinews honed of steel beneath the taut skins.

Mirrors, hastily working the variables, re-aligned his barrel, sighting in on the creature showing the most above the water-line, the one leading the pack. The smacking line of splashes skipped at the being, the bullets impacting a split second later. It barely stumbled, the armor taking the punishment. It was then that the hands broke the surface.

They were not empty.

These ’hands’, assuming they were human-like in structure, beyond there simply being two of them, were clad in a dark, shifting mechanism, locked at the wrists and forming what looked like a shallow curve of dull metal hanging suspension bridge-like slightly below, the appendages parallel to one another. Suspended between was a perfect orb of some obsidian-black substance, hanging suspended… with no visible means to do so.

Mirrors, sensing imminent danger, yelled over his shoulder…

“Move! Fall back, now!”

Forensic One and Two didn’t need to be told twice, dashing among the rocks and bolting for the cover of the forest as the operative lined up a shot, finger slipping to the trigger, his form practiced as he covered their hasty retreat. The sight picture lined up and…

A sudden blur – the nearest creature spinning, raising the mechanism.

The black orb convulsed, abruptly birthing a cylinder shape that lanced toward the human poised aggressively across the water, locked in the shimmering space between the alien’s hands. The air beyond split with an angry shriek, shunted aside by another invisible blast of pure force. It showed itself for the briefest of glimpses, punching through the sheets of drizzle and carving a splashing half-pipe across the surface of the water.  

The creature’s black eyes watched coldly as…

The blast caught Mirrors leaping from his perch, ejecting the empty magazine, eyes locked on cover several yards away.

His boots never hit the ground.

The directed pressure wave struck the operative’s vacated perch head-on, smashing the large rock back in a burst of grit. The force’s edge slammed the henchman’s airborne form, rocketing him toward the treeline in a violent spin. Breath knocked from his lungs, he rag-dolled through the rain, all sound lost in the violent crack of collapsing air in the blast’s wake.

The AR-15 was flung free, cart-wheeling over a fallen trunk in a burst of dead bark, vanishing into the underbrush.

Mirrors crashed down with the shocking agony of a shattered pelvis. His legs didn’t feel right either. The spinning motion had pirouetted his tall form into the ground with a bone-crunching impact, and he came to rest at the base of a tall gnarled tree marking the edge of the woods, settling heavily on a thick bed of wet moss.

Rain drizzled down through the branches, soaking the broken human below as it fought for breath around fractured ribs and searing pain, coughing red onto the wine-colored tie now lying flaccidly across chest pouches, knocked free by the impact. One side of the mirrored shades was a shattered mess of sharp edges, framing a broken orbital socket and the brown, unseeing eyeball within, weeping crimson.

The creature smoothly shifted its course, breaking away from its surfacing companions to follow the blast wake thinning across the water, gliding toward the horribly damaged human collapsed at the tree-line.

But Mirrors wasn’t done yet.

With a wet, choking cough, he yanked the nickel-plated .45 from his thigh holster, leveling it as he struggled to rise. Realization hit that his injuries weren’t going to allow for a stand-up clash as the creature rose into his line of sight, the dark shifting mass held before it.

With a furious howl, Mirrors opened fire.

The creature’s strange shifting armour absorbed the first round, the impact causing it to stumble for the briefest of moments, recovering almost immediately…the black eyes narrowing a touch, calculating. The human quickly fired again and the being dodged away in a blurred side-step left, then right and down, in among the clusters of large beach rocks at the bowl’s edge.

Another squeeze…another round whining skyward, harmlessly snapping off a craggy rock behind the…thing. Mirrors depressed the Kimber’s hot barrel, lining it up, ready to put his last two bullets into the creature where it froze, the body contorted down among the rocks, extremities bending in ways that terrestrial limbs shouldn’t. It filled his sight picture, the eyes still locked on him.

Like its weapon.

The last two rounds in the 1911 never went off, the alien proving quicker on the draw. The sphere again strobed cylindrical, stabbing at the stubborn human.

This time, the blast hit directly.

Mirrors abruptly disappeared in a cloud of shredded wood as the tree exploded, a perfect cylinder kicked through the trunk, taking the abruptly deceased goon with it. The rest of the maple keeled over in a symphony of strained cracks and pops…crashing down into the forest, branches snapping like firecrackers on the way down. There was suddenly a woman’s pained shriek from somewhere along the unseen length of collapsed tree, followed immediately by a guttural male curse….and a plaintive moan.   

Forensic One and Two.

Wynn stumbled back, the crack of the shockwave battering his eardrums, and slipped from his rock, plunging to the knee in icy river water. The shock of the cold didn’t faze him, nor did the groping current, enraptured as he was by the tree keeling over across the water, a pale cloud where the goon and most of the lower trunk had been. For a split second, he thought he heard faint cries from the woods that had claimed the ruined maple, but those were suddenly blotted from his hearing by what came next.

Ponytail gritted her teeth, pressed to the wet skin of the containment vessel, clenching the grip of her pistol. From where she crouched, she’d seen the fate that had befallen her point-man, startling her with the attack’s ferocity. As she unconsciously scooped the Workbook up, a flurry of emotions surged through, her stony demeanor betraying none…and then, there was a yell. She glanced over to where Peacoat and Glasses crouched side-by-side on the nearby expanse of porous river rock, weapons raised, jockeying for a target. Peacoat yelled again…

“Boss, run! Get the fuck outta there!”

The time for plotting was over. She acted.

Wynn dropped low, water splashing his thighs, as a volley of pistol fire rang out. Glancing up, he saw the pony-tailed leader of this group launch from her cover, shoving away from the grounded container and springing toward the chopper. With practiced footing she spun as she moved, her gun hand snapping up, firing again. As the pistol bucked in her hand, she barked a curt order into her radio.

The *pop!*…*pop!*…*pop!* of pistol fire echoed across the river, and was suddenly joined by the deep bark of Peacoat’s twelve gauge, running dry in seconds and showing no signs of stopping the attacking creatures.

Flipping the shotgun over, the goon fumbled to pull more shells from his coat pocket, several falling and rolling away across the wet rock. Beside him, Glasses strained to make out targets, his lost glasses showing their absence as he fought to line up the pistol’s iron sights on the strange, blurred figures.

With a strained groan, Wynn hauled himself back onto the exposed rock serving as his path, splashing water as he scrambled toward the trailhead locked in his vision. Over the faint hiss of the rain and the sigh of the wind, he could hear the sharp mechanical whine of a helicopter engine spooling up.

The beings moved, a frightening grace in the flash of motion, appendages a blur as they ducked and dodged, contorting their forms out of the path of the human weapons. Those shots that did land, bullets and buckshot, barely registered, the shock of the absorbed impacts rippling across the creatures’ impossibly thin armored plates.

The gunfire abruptly ended.

Water splashing as they sprang from the bowl, the four creatures took up protective positions around the container, with two of them closing in on the sides, running long, delicate fingers rapidly over the surface…searching…probing…testing.

The other two stepped forward in unison, their hands also encapsulated in mechanisms similar in design to that which took Mirrors out so effortlessly. There were differences in color and size, but from the quick panicked glance Wynn threw over his shoulder as he stumbled toward the river’s wooded edge, they may have well been the same as the one currently patrolling the far side of the bowl, clenched in the fist of an alien as it examined the death and damage it had caused.

The Chinook’s towering tail rotor loomed over Ponytail as she rushed into its shadow, her gun’s slide locked open, empty. Jersey, all business now, sprang forward as she approached, putting himself between her and the creatures as she passed, the silenced HK rising, sighting in. His first round went low, the shot robbed of any menace by the suppressor; a hollow pop, the metallic click of the action. The sound of the large bullet snapping off the metal skin of the container was louder than the gunshot, and so was the following reaction.

The being to the right suddenly slipped forward, placing itself between the attacking human and the containment vessel, the mechanism containing the hands a deep green, almost black, largely triangular in design but difficult to make out clearly. In the centre was a perfectly round circle of the purest black, the aperture fixed open like a dead pupil. A faint shimmer distorted the lines.

The Chinook’s engines rumbled to life, the high metallic whine of turbines underscoring, growing louder.

Ponytail slapped a fresh magazine in before dropping to a crouch at the edge of the open ramp, quickly laying the pistol at her side to fumble for something in a jacket pocket, Workbook still clutched in her opposite hand. As she pulled the remote back into the open, she yelled…

“Fall back! Everybody!”

…before hitting the button.

In the depths of the large helicopter, the winch whined to life again, unheard in the growing rumble of the engines, obediently drawing the cable back in.

The armored cylinder lurched forward, abruptly dragged toward the Chinook’s innards, slowly but steadily shunting aside rocks and splashing through the watery veins and arteries. Seemingly startled, the beings slipped back, crouching low, their dark eyes scanning, calculating.

Seeing the creatures spring back like cats from a cucumber instantly emboldened Jersey and he strode forward into the light, confident of his next shot, coldly lining up the sights.

The green mechanism pulsed, a flare of yellow light exploding in the darkness of the aperture, the alien being frozen in a low braced crouch. What chopped a sudden line through the veil of drizzle could only be described as a darkened blur, like an oil drop in free fall, stretched and elongated.

As it struck, Wynn, glancing back, had a split-second distraction, a thought tainted by amazement as well as horror, marveling that’d he’d been able to glimpse the strange projectile streaking at the goon who’d threatened his life only minutes ago. Against his instinctive urgings, he skidded to another stop, attention drawn to the violent drama rapidly unfolding behind him.

What happened next would burn itself into Wynn’s mind forever.

The projectile struck, splashing like dark mercury across Jersey’s armor with a jolting impact that stumbled him. Panic contorted his features as he fought to keep his footing, glaring down at the dark splash of heavy alien liquid with wide eyes, it’s behaviour unknown.

In those next moments…nothing happened.

As fast as the shock set in, a glib smugness, an amused disbelief, took over.

Hopping back, Jersey capped off a quick burst, the *PopClick* of the suppressed rounds ineffective. He spun back, looking for the Boss. As he saw her crouched at the ramp, Workbook clutched in close, something stopped him…

A sensation, perhaps?

And there was a smell. Like a warm waft of polluted earth, a toxic sourness growing pungent.

Something…was creaking, tearing.                     

Something close.

Heart thumping, the goon looked down again.

His armor was tightening, constricting across his chest. He could feel something prodding and pushing at his armor…then, it was breaking through.

Ponytail watched her man spin back, suspiciously intact, and caught his eye. Jersey saw her andlaunched forward protectively, but then was stumbling…and stopping, halting several feet away. It was then that she saw the oily splatter adorning his armor. A look of confusion, then shock, clouded her employee’s features as he glared down at himself, hands held out from his sides, as though afraid to touch it on their own accord.

She followed his gaze, eyes darting down.

The splash mark was shrinking, rapidly drawing in on itself, vanishing from sight.

What the…?!

How was this…?!

Then…she understood.

Jersey shrieked as the substance burrowed through the Kevlar and armour plating…and into his muscled midsection. His agonized wail choked into wet coughing, then a hissing gurgle as he collapsed to his knees, blood streaming down his thighs in dark rivulets. The HK went off, his trigger finger spastic, the hushed shot lost in the growing roar of the engines above.

The dark splash vanished, disappearing into the pierced armor like the last arm of a retreating octopus, slipping deftly out of sight.

The rest of Jersey’s armor held together, keeping much of his torso contained when he abruptly exploded.  A loud *Blam!*, and he burst apart, a spastic heave of blood and viscera ejected on a scorching blast of steam that ruptured most of the upper body, leaving the legs intact to buckle, dropping the gory mass heavily onto its side, twitching. A crimson rain misted the area, quickly swallowed by the propwash and drizzle.

Wynn’s stomach heaved, already shaken by nerves, horror and revulsion washing over…

“Oh, hell no!”

Disbelief flavored his tone and he whirled around, aiming again for the river’s edge and the trailhead that was his salvation.

Could this shit get ANY worse?!

Ponytail didn’t yet know about Jersey’s errant bullet, staring in shock at the mess a man she’d personally hired had abruptly become before her very eyes. An ugly spray of red, some thicker pieces mixed in, now adorned the underside of the Chinook’s bulky tail-boom. She launched backward, the safety of the chopper beckoning, only to crash back down to the ramp, the wind knocked from her by the stab of pain at her side. With a breath hissing between gritted teeth, she pulled her jacket open, fingers noting the new hole in the leather, annoyance flaring beneath the shock and pain. The dark patch looked black in the tactical lighting, soaking through the coverall’s dark fabric, widening across her flat lower belly. There was a hole punched in the centre of the sodden material. A thin tendril escaped, snaking past her outstretched leg, crawling down the riveted deck plating to join the crimson mess, now still and piled wetly near the bottom, tattered remains of a sodden football jersey fluttering in the downdraft.

Glancing around, she saw the Workbook now lying several feet away, the shadow of the retreating steel cable slashing across its surface…

 How did…?!

Wiping the useless question aside and fighting a nauseating flash of dizziness, the stricken team-lead pushed over, the high-tension cable steadily withdrawing only inches away as she reached for the laptop, her dutiful need to secure its secrets overriding any fear or panic in the moment.

She felt the hole in the computer’s tough skin before she saw it, fresh rage erupting as her eyes found the damage. The fat bullet, now residing somewhere in her liver, had struck a killing blow; a near centre shot punching a crater in one side and smashing a crevasse out the other, the impact having launched the computer from her grip before striking as a clumped blast of hot metal shards that dug into her torso.

Pounding footsteps closed from behind and the helicopter’s co-pilot, clad in a grey flight-suit and light-blue helmet, grabbed her, slipping gloved hands under her arms to bodily drag her away. Blood smeared the deck below her as he got her moving. Pain shot through like lightning, and she winced, staring at the destroyed Workbook clenched in her fist, her sense of professional pride sharing the same damage as the crippled device.

Rage flared.

The destroyed laptop clattered away, cart-wheeling over the cable to bounced off the ramp, breaking in two as she hurled it away with a yell of frustration, startling the struggling co-pilot into stopping his rough dragging. Seeing her gun lying just out reach, she lurched forward, spurting blood and dragging the sweaty co-pilot off balance, undoing his efforts. Feeling the gun’s comforting weight in her grip, Ponytail snarled…

“Close encounter THIS, you fucks!”

…and opened fire.

More shots rang out, and Wynn skidded to a stop, the welcoming trailhead tantalizingly close.

A mere slippery jump away.

He spun, dropping low, searching through the thinning drizzle.

Are they shooting this way?!

A wind gusted up, clearing the air, the rain petering out then. He could make out snapping muzzle flashes, betraying the woman’s collapsed form just inside the helicopter, the booted feet of someone else visible behind her from this angle.

Overhead, the props began spinning, gaining speed, with only feet to spare on each side of the river.

More gunfire. Different direction.

Wynn’s eyes snapped over, seeing Tips’ distant shape lining up another burst from where he’d scurried for cover, using the boulder at the water’s edge, the cliff-side safely at his back. His first shot glanced off the other alien sentry, the one armed with the blue-tinted mechanism, something spherical in its design.

Muzzle flashes, more barking gunfire.

A spark shot off the being’s shifting shoulder armor, sending the destroyed round skyward with a whine. The opaque eyes found its attacker.

Tips cursed, and realigned his sights.

It deftly leaped forward, narrow arms raised, the hands spreading horizontally, expanding the brandished mechanism long and thin, the weapon’s material oddly pliable, the rounded edges forming something rectangular as the creature crouched low, bracing. An icy blue flash, a strobing rectangle shape left hanging before it like an after-thought, gone just as fast.

An electric *crack* punched the air like thunder.

Tips barely had time to register the torrent of dirt and rocks that crashed down with a roar, the alien’s weapon blasting a long rend in the cliff-side above, collapsing the age-old substrate in an earthen avalanche that abruptly wiped the stricken henchman from sight, swallowing his smashed body on impact.

“Holy shit!”

The words spilled out of Wynn as the tons of dirt and rock billowed down, slamming over the rifleman’s cover. The landslide’s choking cloud of dust rolled unrelentingly over the water, flying rock and shredded vegetation splashing across the choppy surface. A churned muddy cloud spread into the depths, soon to lap at the crippled spacecraft’s skin as the nearby waterfall’s current fought to pull the mess downriver.

The wash of dust billowed wide, pulled wispy at the edges by the cool breeze. The increasing propwash further pushed at the haze, the revolving blades above smeared by velocity, the heavy roar overtaking all other sound.

As the ramp trembled beneath her, Ponytail, faint from blood loss but seething inside, growled…

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, goddamn it!”

…her strained words edged with venom as she glared at the beings slipping across the rocks, quickly approaching as they pursued the withdrawing container at the end of her line. The sentinel-like creature baring the mechanism that claimed Jersey sprang forward, putting itself between her and her hooked prize.

The aperture flared, spitting another dark blur with a recoil that jolted the creature that triggered it. The viscous projectile impacted with a snapping *crack* somewhere above – the oil-like splash now marring the Chinook’s rear engine housing, having hit just below the spinning blades with an impact that dented the riveted surface.

The roar of the engine and the thump of the blades held steady.

The black splash burrowed, shrinking from view as it poured itself into the aircraft’s hot skin. In seconds, the last tendril slipped away, pulled into the darkness of the smooth-edged hole it left behind.

Wynn had seen what this weapon could do to a fellow human and his serviceable imagination fast-forwarded to what might come in the next precarious seconds. In a flash of calculation, he knew none of the possible outcomes could be good, fresh fear nipping coldly at his guts. He instinctively stepped back, afraid to turn away but knowing he must, buffeted by the thickening propwash that pushed and pulled at the nearby branches, snapping them back and forth.

Before he could spin back, his boot settled on an algae-slickened slope of river-rock…then he was slipping…falling again…plunging awkwardly back into the icy flow of water.

The Chinook’s rear engine housing ballooned, the aluminum skin straining and bulging as rivets popped free like firecrackers. As quickly, it shrank back, the metal unleashing a tortured scream as unearthly forces pulled at it.

A moment passed.

Then…

Even submerged for those few moments, Wynn heard the blast, felt the concussion slap at the churning surface looming just above.

*Boom!*

The twin Honeywell T55 engines blew apart as the tail boom burst, the bright blue flash spraying sparks, ragged chunks, and syrupy red and gold liquids in all directions, tendrils of smoke marking the twisting paths of the larger pieces through the forest air like the petals of a blooming flower. The aft blades blasted free, shattering at their base. One scythed forward into the frantic blur that was the idling forward engine, shattering one prop on impact with a sharp *Bang!, the resulting debris furiously batted aside by the remaining two blades with the speed of an artillery round, the glittering shards of shrapnel tearing through the upper foliage lining the river.

Glasses never saw it coming…but Peacoat did. The larger goon barely had time to register the whirling shape, snapping his head up from sliding a last shell into the Benelli when the engine blew up.

With no time to react, both henchmen were swatted away, savagely slashed through by the ragged length of mangled fibreglass…only then to be instantly lost in a violent geyser of river water that claimed them in the blink of an eye. The lifeless bodies would never surface, sunk in a thickening red haze, crushed down by the merciless weight of the severed helicopter blade.

What remained of the forward prop assembly wobbled dangerously in its mounts, the remaining blades screaming as they cut through the air, their inertia uncontrolled. A grinding metal shriek gained in intensity from somewhere inside, echoing away.

The fuel line ruptured then, buckled by the shockwave. A cloud of JP8 burst into the open and detonated in the bright shower of sparks.

Ponytail was dying. And furious.

She’d been beaten, and that pissed her off, even through the encroaching fog of blood loss. Never before had she been truly bested and, like the coppery flavour in her mouth now, she didn’t like the taste of it.

The CH-47 convulsed as the engine exploded above. The co-pilot fell away as the deck bucked beneath him, releasing the mortally wounded team-lead to crumple to the deck. He threw himself back, charging for the forward emergency exit with a yell. The pilot could be heard cursing as she struggled to unlatch from her seat, a hysterical tone rising as the five-point harness failed to release.

Flopping heavily onto her back, Ponytail unleashed a scream, more childish frustration than terror, as the chopper’s ceiling abruptly smashed in, a volcanic blast of flaming aviation fuel roaring as the shattered tail boom collapsed with a tortured groan, crashing down into the Chinook’s cargo bay.

Wynn broke the surface, gasping for air as the remains of the tail gave way in a towering mass of flames nearby. It hit with a punishing impact that exploded the side of the chopper from within, smashing the bulbous, side-mounted fuel tanks outward in a hellish blast.

A tapestry of billowing flames instantly filled his vision, the *boom* muting the clatter of debris skipping off the rocks around him. A blistering heat washed over and he shrank back, squinting. Hands, numbed by the cold and fuelled by pure instinct, launched from the water to shield his face as he spun away, abruptly convinced that this was the end of burgeoning Internet star Wynton Dobbs.

The fireball receded, pulling in on itself to punch at the heavens, dissolving into an oily black cloud that rose majestically skyward. A bright flaming rain of immolated aviation fuel silently drifted down like a lethal snowfall.

For a split second…old Wynn intruded, wishing he had one of his cameras, pondering the Likes this crazy footage would undoubtedly generate.

He lurched to his feet in the chest-deep water, eyes darting over the flames that were quickly swallowing the view. Burning fuel spilled into the river, spreading across the rocks around the destroyed aircraft.

The flaming drops settled on the bowl, mingling with the inferno spreading across the river’s surface. The rising column of acrid smoke was thickening and, at its base, Wynn could see the interior was ablaze, angry red flames showing through what remained of the fuselage-mounted windows.

The intense grinding yanked his eyes upward, toward another terrifying sight…

The remains of the forward engine dutifully continued on, its idle faltering badly, the wobbling spin of the remaining two blades more and more pronounced as the propellor assembly quickly began to collapse inside, the rotors threatening to strike the blazing body, the trees lining the river’s edge, or perhaps tear off in some random direction with uncontrolled destructive velocity.

High above, a fuselage-mounted sensor detected the sudden heat-bloom that eclipsed the twin-engine cargo bird far below. A camera lens focused. An alarm sounded. Other data feeds were hurriedly checked, the recorded intelligence cross-referenced with the current CODE: Black – EMERGENCY ACTION PLAN: Extraterrestrial – Contact Level 3 booklets pulled from a red safe behind the armed pilot’s seat. Several encrypted signals were then transmitted, beamed on specifically reserved frequencies to groups labeled with murky acronyms unlike any Average Joe Public have ever bore witness to. Or ever will, should certain shadowy forces have their way.

With alert statuses increasing and tactical preparations being set, the aircraft continued its wide orbit at 30 000 feet, its AI-guided surveillance continuing uninterrupted.

‘G.T.F.O.!’

The acronym speared through Wynn’s mind, hauling his attention away from the horrible spectacle.

“Yes, definitely time to get the fuck out of here!”

He sloshed through the water, awkwardly grabbing at a protruding tree branch to quickly haul himself ashore. With a shaky grip, he dragged through the thin brush lining the river…and collapsed to the leaf-carpeted ground, soaked through, the aroma of wet earth and wetter moss filled his senses.

The cool mountain wind pulled at the leaves and branches above, chilling him, the rustling hiss soothing, the effect tarnished by the dull roar of the spreading flames.

Struggling to catch his breath, Wynn’s tortured mind struck out at him –

No time to lose, man! No time! Move, you lazy asshole…MOVE!

On the river, the wild gyrations proved too much and the rest of the crippled forward engine collapsed, crashing down, the remaining fuel tanks rupturing under the crushing impact.

With punishing ferocity, the rounded nose and cockpit shattered apart in the second blast to tear through the CH-47’s carcass.

Wynn had just forced himself back to his feet when the remains detonated again, the spotty view of the river through the trees vanishing in another violent firestorm, the punch of the blast assaulting the forest…rapidly crackling off into the hills.

A ragged length of blade shot through the branches above on a comet’s tail of sparks, slicing into the earthen hillside in a spray of dirt and dead branches.

A gentle rain of leaves drifted down.

With eyes darting frantically over the length of aircraft debris mere feet away, Wynn found himself painfully rising from where he’d thrown himself as the long chunk flashed past, cart-wheeling into the forest floor like a knife blade.

There were abruptly new sounds on the breeze – the popping reports of bursting tires, the piercing shriek of tortured metal. Wynn watched enraptured as the fiery mass, visible through the porous foliage, abruptly shifted. The mangled remains keeled over as the stricken landing gear reached its limit and buckled, rolling heavily onto its side.

The burning fuel was spreading across the river, quickly marring the flat expanse of river rock with fierce tentacles of flame, threatening the bowl and everything near it.

Wynn ran, his heart pounding as he tore through the underbrush choking the incline, desperate to keep the hint-of-a-trail in sight. The large burning helicopter crashing over, the remains of which now lay poisoning the river behind him, ran through his mind, locked on a frantic replay.

Remembering fire filling the chopper’s windows, he tried to not think about…other things.

The incline was merciless and his lungs were heaving in his chest as he barreled up the mountainside, shoving away branches and creepers under foot with reckless abandon, watching frantically for the subtle trail-markers leading back to camp.

There!

He crested the brush-laden ridge and caught a familiar flash of color through the trees. He bolted at it, shoving through the brush, ignoring the bloody scratches to his hands and face as he went. A bald spot opened in the forest, seeming to beckon through the underbrush, showing the way. Wynn broke into a run, boots slamming down as he charged. As he noted the harsh dryness of his throat, thinking ahead to his pack and the water bottles it held, he left boot caught a root mass extending out from one of the trees around his camp site.

Wynn crashed through the bushes, slamming to the ground, the wind knocked from him. He let out a wheeze and struggled into a low crouch, his panting loud in his own ears. With deliberate effort, he went still, laboring to bring the cadence of his breath back to something resembling normal, straining to listen as he did so.

In short order, the sounds of the forest returned. Glancing around, he saw that he’d fallen into the centre of his site, his skull narrowly missing the ring of rocks that formed his modest fire pit. Nothing had changed since his abduction, but that gave him no comfort. His eyes fell on his pack, tucked just inside his open tent. With caution guiding his movements, he furtively edged forward…before leaping, grabbing.

The magazine slipped out of the Glock with a faint click, showing a full load of 9mm rounds, all hollow point, and he slapped it back in. He quickly racked the slide and flipped the safety on, before tucking it into his belt. His spare magazine disappeared into a pants pocket, ready when needed.

Helluva way to break it in, huh.

A water bottle slipped from the pack’s depths and he drank greedily, thoughts of Miss Defender ‘83 intruding. Remembering he may need more later, he stopped gulping, drops falling from his beard as he jammed it back a quarter full.

He shoved the pack outside, before glancing around the tent. For a split second, he decided he liked this new set-up from Bear’s Den Survival Systems, and wondered how quickly could he get it broken down and packed away, before common sense reared its ugly head…

“Fuck that noise! I’m outta here!”

A couple loose items caught his eye and he lunged for them, before backing hurriedly outside. Where to put the hunting knife was easy but for a second, he glanced down at the Go Pro clenched in his fist, pondering. Then…he wasn’t wondering about supplies and escape anymore.

He was pondering footage.

He stopped, listening. It was quiet.

Eerily so.

Even the sounds of the burning helicopter had subsided.

The low clouds thinned…milky shafts of morning light beaming down, glittering off the raindrops hanging plump and heavy from every surface.

Unconsciously weighing the small camera in his hand, a decision came.

*Many future academics and historians would come to question this chosen course of action when Humanity looked back on the early anomalies with a forensic eye.

The half-charge on the GoPro should be more than enough to score some sick footage of this weird Roswell shit, enough to set him up with, at least, a couple hundred more subs.

 For a split second, he felt a pang of shame…this was MUCH bigger than his little DIY Youtube channel.

People were dead! Alien creatures were on the prowl.

But…

‘He’ll be the one to let them all know.’

And…

Think of the ad revenue!

Shaking the dollar signs away, he placed the pack in the path of escape, should he need another hasty retreat. Ignoring the small panic-stricken voice in his mind that screamed – ‘Get the Fuck Out Now!’, Wynn blew grit from the lens and stole forward, again crouching among the ferns as he sidled stealthily back toward the cliff’s ledge.

He paused halfway to his previous vantage point, glancing back. The woods were still…and he could make out the tent’s shape through the tree trunks. Satisfied nothing was following, he turned back and continued on. Dropping, he crawled toward the break in the trees ahead, through which a curtain of dark smoke rose. Pushing aside a large fern, he saw – a coffee mug. His coffee mug.

Wynn now remembered he’d left it behind…but didn’t recall leaving it perched precariously at the edge of a cliff. He flashbacked to the crushing avalanche of billowing earth from 15 minutes ago that had erased that one goon. The alien sentinel’s energy weapon had completely refaced the earthen cliffside.

Lying flat on a blanket of dead leaves, Wynn inched forward in a clumsy commando crawl, GoPro held before him as he approached the ledge. He muttered a quiet prayer to whoever might be listening that the substrate wasn’t still in a fragile mood, threatening to send him crashing back into the murderous scene below.

The scene he was now driven to capture on video, for the world to see.

Well, his subs first…then the world.

That ponytailed bitch may have taken his camera…but she hadn’t taken his ONLY camera.

With a thumb hovering over RECORD, Wynn pushed the lens through a lop-sided fern clump, the exposed roots dangling from the carved earth below. Lining up a shot, he couldn’t help but to pull his gaze from the screen, to look with his own eyes…

It was a scene from Hell.

The burning aviation fuel spilling from the skeletal remains of the CH-47 had spread quickly on the veins and channels carved through the river rock, before spilling unchecked across the bowl’s surface in a wall of flames. The raging fire licked at the metallic skin of the alien craft, almost eclipsing its smooth lines and edges.

Pulling his gaze from the spectacle, Wynn hit RECORD, starting the shot on the inferno raging on the water, before panning up along the river toward the smoking shape of the stricken helicopter. The pan ended abruptly when the beings came into frame. They were all clustered on the river near the funeral pyre the destroyed Chinook had become, positioned defensively around Ponytail’s ill-gotten prize, which Wynn noticed was no longer in motion.

The aft engine had severed the cable when it exploded inside the chopper. The cylindrical shape had ground to a sudden stop, the braided steel snapping away like a whip, sparking off rocks. Aggressive flames flowed around its shoreline on rainbow-smeared slicks of aviation fuel, the stink heavy in the air. Poised and motionless around the container were the three Sentinels, their weapons held at ready as they silently scanned the area through the fire around them.

As Wynn zoomed in, the others, who he instinctively dubbed Attendants, were running a pair of small silver objects over the container’s curved outer skin. From either side, they reached with these instruments over the reinforced glass, tapping them together, the motion precise

Even from this distance, Wynn could make out a tuning fork-like tone that rose…and fell, suddenly. The Attendants drew back, the mysterious instruments vanishing from sight, and as they did, the container emitted a sharp *beep*…and a hiss.

Somewhere inside, a heavy locking mechanism released.

Something that was pressurized, was no longer.

The container opened, a bulky section making up most of the container’s upper portion rising and sliding down.

Wynn zoomed again, maxing it out. Fighting to steady the shot, he pushed closer to the screen, staring intently, his fear overwritten for a moment by a child-like sense of wonder and curiosity.

The image wavered in the pulses of rising heat.

A thick vapor poured out, crawling down the curving side of the containment vessel to seep across the rocky surface below. Through it, a pale form, inert and small, features obscured by distance, the waves of heat and washes of dark smoke polluting the area. In unison, the two Sentinels covering the flanks pulled…things, from their bulky torso’s, passing them to the Attendants. These beings both extended a rod-like device along the container’s side, lowering them into the fog.

The wind shifted and smoke wafted past, stinging Wynn’s eyes, obstructing his view. When it cleared, he saw…

The Pilot

Wynn caught himself instantly hanging the label on. But…that was the impression that landed when he saw the motionless body of this new creature below.

It was clearly of the same race as these others, but more…delicate, somehow. Smaller. Refined. And judging by the care the Attendants were demonstrating as they removed it from its cylindrical human prison, it held some rank or importance.

Wynn nodded, resigned to a new truth that hit like a fucking anvil –

So…’grays’, your classic Spielbergian small-bodied, big-eyed anal probers from all the super-market tabloid rags…and the fucking X-Files, ARE real.

Well…holy shit.

And that, was exactly what this creature appeared to be. Or had been? Wynn had no way to tell if it was alive or dead…and couldn’t decide which option he’d prefer at the moment.

It certainly looked dead.

Wynn fell on the idea that this one creature was the ship’s Pilot…and these five others were here to serve, and protect, for…whatever…mission they may have been on.

Maybe they’d been hiding somewhere in the submerged remains of the saucer craft? Or in stasis, activated when trouble arose? Maybe another craft arrived nearby that no one had seen yet?

It didn’t matter.

What did matter was the fact that he was watching hostile alien beings raise a prone companion clad in a tight reflective coverall, through means he couldn’t comprehend, from an armoured capsule on a river awash with flame and smoke.

The RECORD light burned red, his slow pan continuing as he kept them in frame.

The Attendants held the rod-like instruments waist-high and horizontal, a generated force guiding the small body between them. He could see the shadow of the elevated creature flowing over the capsule’s sloping surface and down along the rocks below, the group silently moving toward the deeper water, and the ship it contained.

A large green blur abruptly entered Frame Left, blocking the spectacle. The Auto-focus yanked back and forth, trying to zero in on the thick fern frond blocking the shot.

Under his breath, he hissed…

“Mother Nature…you unhelpful bitch.”

…raising his eyes from the screen as he reached forward, gently easing the thick blades aside.

The shaken substrate around the dangling roots decided to part ways with the cliff-side and the entire fern clump disappeared from before his face, tumbling away and bursting apart in a splash of dirt on the way down.

“Oh, fuck me!”

Wynn lurched back and went low, cheek pressed to the mat of dead leaves, knuckles white as he gripped the camera. A rattling scatter of earthen debris settled somewhere below, the echo loud.

Wynn held his breath.

Would they notice? Would they even care?

Hearing nothing, he cracked an eye and cautiously raised his head.

Five pairs of opaque black eyes stared back. The Attendant’s were half-submerged, and the body of the Pilot half-submerged with them, still guided by forces unseen, but now halted. The Sentinels stood in a curved defensive formation at the water’s edge, weapons at ready, heads turned, eyes locked.

He had their undivided attention.

Child-like terror gripped him, squeezing his chest. He felt his heart flutter rear up, that faltering in the pounding rhythm, matched by a familiar wave of nausea and a spell of dizziness. Jaw tense, he muttered…

“Aw shit. Naw, man…please, don’t pass out now.”

His head wanted to loll, feeling both heavy and light, a disconcerting sensation. His eyelids also began sinking and the desire to nap came on strong.

“Ichi…ni…san…shi…go…rok…shichi…hachi…kyuu…juu.”

The little voice inside screamed out in alarm as he reached 10 and Wynn snapped up, forcing himself through the mind fog that threatened. Blinking frantically, he turned his gaze back to the aliens.

As one, the five sets of eyes pivoted away, meeting in the middle. There was no sound, just a flurry of small hand gestures and head bobs. A decision made; a course of action chosen.

Wynn didn’t know which, but one of the Sentinels abruptly disengaged from the group, scampering gracefully across the rocks and river channels.

It was scampering in his direction, racing for the bottom of the cliff below, eyes still fixed.

The coffee mug was abandoned for the second time in one morning when Wynn shoved away from the ledge and charged back into the woods, racing for his camp. Beads of sweat slickened his brow and dotted his upper lip as he shoved through the ferns and past the trees. He’d already decided that whatever wasn’t already in that pack was being left to the elements.

Shoving through, he angrily berated himself under his panting breath…

“You idiot! Why?! Why the fuck did you HAVE to go for MORE content?! Jesus Christ! Use your head, Dobbs!”

He pounded into his campsite, pocketing the GoPro as he did. Pure habit, he wondered what he could still grab, but that train of thought was instantly derailed with the snap of a twig echoing among the trees.

Wynn dropped to a crouch, the Glock raised. He glared over the barrel, searching the bushes and pillars of bark. Nothing showed itself, and he quietly backed away, edging toward his waiting pack.  

And beyond that – the trail back to his lucky gal, Miss Defender ‘83, and the freedom and safety she brought.

As he moved, the bulk of the tent came between him and the cliff, eclipsing his view, his field of fire. The dim shadows of the trees showed through the thin but robust fabric, lit from behind like shadow puppets. There was suddenly movement among those shadows, and a shape rose into view; a bipedal shape, with something held menacingly before it. The silhouette was growing and distorting as the Sentinel silently approached, slipping among the trees.

G.T.F.O.!

This time…Wynn listened.

He lurched away, grabbing the straps and breaking into a run. The bulky pack banged at his side, the weight threatening to trip him up as he propelled through a bush and into the woods, following the scuffed footprints he’d left in the forest floor yesterday. With effort, he tossed the pack up, getting it over one shoulder before jamming his gun-hand through the other strap, shimmying into it as he ran. Slowing to a quick trot, he tucked the Glock’s muzzle into his armpit and clicked his belly strap into place. Readjusting his grip and racking the Austrian pistol’s slide, he accelerated again, fearing the open stretches among the trees, feeling like a target with time running out on every one. He hadn’t seen which creature was after him, but after what he’d witnessed, there was no preference when it came to their weaponry. All three were terrifyingly lethal…and at least one of them was lurking in these woods with him now. In pursuit.

Somewhere.

Out there.

He skidded to a quick stop beside the first of his paint marks, slipping in mud while fighting the frantic inner voice that urged him on, pushing him to run. Tucking in beside the tree baring the fluorescent slash of orange, he turned, covering the path behind him as he fought to catch his breath, trying to stifle a wet cough as he did so.

Damn weed!

“Ichi…ni…san…shi…go…rok…shichi…hachi…kyuu…juu.”

A breeze was picking up and new clouds were moving in above the swaying tree tops. The underbrush got in on the act, dancing back and forth, filling the forest with sound and movement.

Wynn didn’t like it.

Stepping cautiously into the open, he backed slowly away, pistol sweeping back and forth, the shaking barrel betraying his frayed nerves. Watching the comforting splash of color get swallowed by the rustling foliage was disconcerting but placed a simple but motivating plan into place – each of his trail markers will be the next waypoint, one at a time till he’s seated in his baby and on his way the hell out of…!

Then…a sound.

With the wind blowing and the forest swaying to and fro, Wynn couldn’t be sure…but maybe, a distant footfall crunching…something…on the forest floor, back that way.

He considered capping off a round or two skyward, to scare it off as he would a bear…but the sizzle reel of the mayhem these beings had only just unleashed tore through his mind again, and he realized that that would simply bring the creature running, led straight to him by his own stupidity.

And it was clearly NOT a bear he was facing.

Idiot.

His only shot, at this point, was the off-chance that he hadn’t been pin-pointed, and could maybe slip away before the Sentinel tracks him down. Lost in the confusion.

He was on the trail now.

He had to keep moving.

Just around the next corner was a straight stretch, leading to the next mark down the hill. Then…it was one down…and one to go! Wynn hustled around a large tree whose roots were infringing on the path and saw the avenue of brush leading through the trees open up to him. Through the swaying foliage, he thought maybe THAT tree…but he couldn’t make out any color on the trunk, not yet, not from this angle.

If that wasn’t his marker…he was screwed.

His careful trot morphed into a dead run, shoving branches aside and leaping over creeping roots. His eyes darted, trying to lock on a slash of color in the wall of green before him.

Where in the hell?! This is still the right path…right?

RIGHT?!

He felt fresh sweat on his upper lip, his moustache slick and cold, a sick feeling landing heavily inside. His footfall felt heavy.

Someone shoved him. Hard.

That was the immediate impression when the impact landed – slamming into his pack, violently slamming him forward on clumsy feet. He tumbled to the forest floor, splashing dirt and leaves, nose again filled with the smell of wet earth. There was a ringing in one ear and blood in his mouth. His probing tongue found a loose flap inside his cheek, speared by a tooth on impact. As he struggled to rise, stunned, he dimly wondered why he’d fallen.

It was a smell that alerted him, that yanked him back.

The sour metallic scent came on strong, striking like ammonia, snapping Wynn out of his stupor. His pack was moving, the straps tightening, constricting at the shoulders. Fearful realization rocked through him!

Wynn now knew which Sentinel his pursuer was, and also now knew that he’d just been hit with a dark splash of volatile alien weaponry that was now eating into his pack…before detonation.

Ignoring the pain, Wynn stumbled up with a guttural yell, wrenching at the straps, fighting with the belly clip. As he hurled the pack away, he caught a split-second glimpse of the shiny black splash as it was burrowing in.  His trusty camping pack, companion of many a backwoods adventure, tumbled end over end, landing heavily in the underbrush lining the path, it’s final resting place unseen. Wynn glanced around frantically. Across the trail stood the tree that been his target, an old maple half dead with dry rot.

He launched at it.

He was two steps from cover when the backpack exploded. The shockwave instantly tore the foliage behind him into a wall of mulch that rained down on the trail. The blast shook the air and Wynn found himself slammed to the ground again, fighting bruised ribs as he rolled over, taking in the new destruction with wide eyes.

The opposite side of the path was gone, a perfect circle of destruction carved from the vegetation. At it’s hazy centre a storm of glowing embers, all that remained of the pack, blowing about before fading away with the breeze. A swipe of fluorescent orange nearby grabbed his attention, his own graffiti marking the far-side of the maple’s trunk, inches from his face. The relief he felt was a mere hint, but at least, he still knew he was on the right track. Literally.

What he didn’t know…was where…it…was.

Any hopes he’d had of escaping undetected were dashed as he took stock of what was happening –

‘Somewhere among the ferns and trees, a deadly alien being had tracked and located him. It had attacked with lethal intent and through blind luck that ambush had been thwarted.’

It won’t go down like that twice.

…and Wynn knew it.

He got in close, sidling up the peeling bark of the dying maple, the smell of the day-old spray paint lingering. Pistol in hand, he eased around, glaring into the forest on either side of the trail.

Nothing.

Not a goddamn thing.

Then…something rustled up the hill, back along the trail. The pistol’s sights had only just fallen on the site of the furtive movement when the next attack came.

A dark blur streaked from the underbrush, the source unseen and Wynn ducked away. He heard a shrill buzz, like a large angered dragonfly, before the substance struck the trunk on the tree’s opposing side. Dried bark shot away, spraying off into the woods. Wynn shrank back, already hearing the tortured creaks, cracks and pops of the alien weapon going to work on the wood fibres.

Forced out, Wynn stumbled into the open, backing quickly away from the stricken tree. Movement up the trail caught his eye, and everything seemed to freeze.

The Sentinel silently emerged from among the trees, the dark eyes locked on him. Fully revealed, it stopped, falling still, poised gargoyle-like with its weapon aloft as the vegetation around it rustled in the breeze.

There was a faint gurgle, and the last of the dark substance vanished into the tree trunk.

Wynn could see the round aperture and it clearly wasn’t pointed away from him.

This…this could be it. The end of the road.

Damn.

Noting the 9mm’s weight in his grip, he wondered if he could put any of the ten hollow-points into this creature before it takes him down.

He decided, his finger coming to rest on the trigger.

There was no choice.

The tree came apart in a thunderous blast that shattered the trunk, splintered wood showering the area. The heavy mess of gnarled branches above came crashing down and the old, rotting maple tree collapsed, the remains teetering dangerously a moment…before keeling over in an ear-splitting symphony of snapping bark and branches.

Wynn watched in amazement as the trunk fell away, sunlight filling its space in the sky. It slammed down, erasing the path, the rickety branches shattering on impact as it toppled toward the creature that felled it.

Wynn thought he saw a blur of movement as the tree hit, but couldn’t be sure. Where the being had been poised as it assessed him only seconds before, was now blocked from view by a twisted cluster of branches, leaves still rocking from the fall. The way was blocked, and would not be easily cleared

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Wynn slipped back, pressing to the path’s edge as he moved away. Nothing showed through the twists and turns of bent and smashed branches and, for a moment, he hoped, really truly hoped, that this alien shithead had just scored itself a permanent Darwin Award, trapped under the tree it took down, cursing itself for being a fucking dumbass as it bleeds out.

Not that he was about to check.

He took off running, desperately craving water, but not enough to stop, licking his dry lips and tasting blood as he navigated the various twists and turns of this last leg, not convinced the fight is over.

OK…one more marker and out, baby!

His boots pounded the trail like punishment, slamming down, splashing mud and moss. Fending off a probing branch, he slapped his pocket, hearing the familiar jingle of keys as he moved.

There!

Orange.

He could see the first marker he’d placed, that first glowing slash across the bark, visible just ahead.

Then…he was there, a hand reaching for the faux comfort of the paint, fingers brushing the color staining the bark. If this is here, that means that, right beyond that mess of mixed vegetation ahead, was…but he dashed the hopeful ponder aside.

He wasn’t out of the woods yet

Looking back, forcing a new hush into his breathing, a new calm into his racing heart, Wynn saw nothing. Under his breath…

“Ichi…ni…san…shi…go…rok…shichi…hachi…kyuu…juu.”

The forest was still.

Had it lost the scent? Or could it have actually managed to trap itself or even better, crush itself to death?

Not wanting a possibly lethal answer, he shouldered through the brush, missing the comforting weight of his pack. Emerging on the other side, he was confronted by the twisted bulk of the deadfall that had stopped Miss Defender ’83 in her tracks. Seeing an opening, he pushed through.

There she was!

Wynn thudded to a muddy stop at his beloved vehicle’s front tire, the Land Rover just a bulky shape beneath the camouflage netting. His free hand took a moment to run appreciatively over the tattered fabric, feeling the familiar dents and lines beneath, his unlikely escape gaining tangibility.

Tucking the Glock into his jacket pocket, he hurriedly went to work, yanking spikes and dragging the netting away. Rushing to the passenger side, cold fear urging him along, he hauled it over the front bumper and up the hood, piling the mess of fabric against the windshield…when a snapping impact jolted the old SUV. Wynn spun, heart lurching as he saw the familiar silvery black splash now adorning his prized possession’s exposed hood only feet away, new dents in the metal tracing the shape.

Seconds later, a tortured squeal…and the substance began burrowing in.

Wynn staggered back, dropping the stake clenched in his fist as he raised his hands imploringly, sarcastic resignation flavouring his tone, angry eyes watching this tragedy unfold unchecked…

“Oh, c’mon…seriously?!”

There was no answer, only the faint gurgle of the last black tendril slipping defiantly into the Defender’s engine compartment.

Another sizzle reel of the Chinook’s explosion on the river lanced through his mind, and Wynn threw himself at a low moss-covered stump. Foliage snapped, crushed down under his weight, the fetal position instinctive as he pressed down, the mossy bark digging at his back.

Having seen the alien weapon’s effects on a heavy backpack, a human torso, and a helicopter…what came next held no surprise, despite the pain it caused his heart.

The Land Rover’s engine exploded, the force shaking the area. Shredded debris tore in all directions and the truck lurched backward, slammed by the blast. With the engine compartment peeled open and belching flames, Miss Defender ‘83 careened out of control down the narrow path, the tangled netting now a fiery shroud. Wynn stole a glance over the stump’s edge to see his vehicle, his baby of many joyous years, now awash in fire and missing a front end, hurl across the main trail and disappear over the edge, crashing loudly into the shallow overgrown valley below.

Wynn, with no plan of action, sprang up, launching from cover to plunge after his stricken vehicle, angrily yanking the gun out as he slipped forward. A fog of vile smoke marked the Defender’s last trip, hanging thickly in the forest air, the breeze plucking at its wispy edges. He rushed from the side-path onto the main trail, slipping in mud as he halted, glaring into the valley.

What remained of Miss Defender ‘83’s boxy body was enveloped in swathes of flaming camouflage, nestled in the heavy brush.

There was another faint *snap*, weight on dry twigs. Fear and fury competed for his attention.

Fury won.

He was SO done with this shit!

Wynn spun around to face the forested hill, defiant eyes sweeping over the long swathes of overgrown underbrush. The drifting smoke cleared for a moment and, among the bushes up the hill…what was that?! A hint of movement, maybe a peek of pale flesh?!

Wynn threw his arms wide, classic come-at-me-bro, yelling…

“Yeah?!”

He didn’t aim, simply swung the Glock up and capped off half his magazine in a frenzied eruption of gunfire, the 9mm rounds shredding into the underbrush where he thought he’d glimpsed…something… moving. Self preservation halted the sixth pull on the trigger and he lowered the smoking pistol, the shots crackling away.

“Motherfucker!”

From somewhere uphill…maybe…a quick piercing hiss.

If it had been something…it quickly faded away. Nothing showed itself.

Maybe…it was nothing.

Unimpressed, Wynn spat into the mud…

“Fuck all of you! I just wanted new content! This…is…bullshit!”

On the valley floor behind him, the contents of Miss Defender ‘83’s warped gas tank met the insistent licks of fire and the old SUV abruptly blew up again, a violent belch of flame rolling among the tree trunks, the shockwave jolting the foliage.

A hot reeking breeze shoved at Wynn’s back, washing over. His rage-fuelled bravado was suddenly pierced through by an awful moment of clarity, that glimpse of terrible things to come, and he acted with no thought or calculation, only instinct as he bolted away.

The beleaguered Youtuber charged down the rutted trail, pistol clenched in a fist and panic in his eyes, expecting the smashing impact of an alien weapon to take him down at any second, a child-like whimper tucked in.

He had to tell somebody.

Good God, he had to tell everybody!

The forest sounds returned as the human’s plodding footsteps sped off, disappearing down the hill. Dark smoke rose through the trees as the vehicle burned, hissing and crackling among the tall grass and bushes.

—

The Sentinel was dead, sprawled face-up at the base of a tree, hidden by underbrush, its weapon lying still and dark among the leaves. After several quiet minutes the other two, their weapons held at ready, silently emerged from the forest, quickly closing on where the suddenly silenced call of distress had led them. Their movements slowed, taking on a cautious gait, the lethal mechanisms lowering as they crouched to examine the inert remains of their companion.

*Wynn would never know how lucky he’d gotten…nor would he ever know how responsible he was for what was to come.

The small projectile had pierced the Sentinel’s exposed right eye, after ricocheting off the facial armour below. The large black lens was punched inward, looking deflated in the almond-shaped orbital socket, a warm maroon liquid leaking down the pale side of the skull in dark tendrils, soaking into the dirt below.

Their companion’s life-force was now over, taken from the harmonious collective. It had called out for help…called out in sudden agony…then it had called out no more.

In unison, the beings rose to full height, rapidly conferring in sonic frequencies undetectable to the human hearing apparatus. A decision reached, they both emitted a reedy throat-rattle of agreement, the body of their fallen comrade splayed motionless between them. One withdrew a hand from the concealed grips of its weapon and ran long fingers down what we would identify as a thigh. A shape formed through the dull material, a circle, and the Sentinel pulled it free. It opened its fingers, exposing the round shape of dark grey matter to the sunlight. There was a quick flicker in the black eyes, a slight bob of the smooth domed skull, and the small shape responded, springing away to alight on the bark of the nearest adult tree. The shape, effortlessly taking on the muted browns and greens of the vegetation it was scaling, pulled and stretched, slipping up the rough surface without a sound, crawling as though alive and eager.

The armed beings pushed forward, trusting their companion’s body to the others they could sense following, slinking off among the trees with lethal intent.

They could also sense the vulnerable human settlement in the distance.

Reaching the tree-top, the viscous device curved around the trunk, reaching cuff-like, its shape hardening as the two ends joined. A moment passed, the breeze whispered through the branches…and The Signal began, its pulse rippling over the smooth curved surface like jolted waves of mercury, heaving its desperate message skyward in twelve second intervals, beaming toward an ancient audience poised only 400 000 kilometers away.

—

*According to the few historic records that survived what followed, unconfirmed reports suggest a fragment of that first alien transmission was intercepted by a surveillance aircraft ‘on a routine training exercise’ in the area at the time.

That fragment was logged as ‘Declaration-01’.

The war began 86 hours later.

The End