Anthem's Fall (27 page)

“But I’m sure there will be some people who don’t think it’s dangerous at all,” Kristen scoffed angrily. “They’ll think it’s novel and fascinating. Harmless. Innovative.
Cool
.”

“Kristen, you’re smart on a scale most people can’t even imagine. If you of all people deem what you saw as dangerous, then it must be. They will listen.” Ryan placed a reassuring hand on hers. “Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to have faith in what you believe. Having faith in others is easy—it requires only surrender. All of your studies, all of your trials and struggles have existed for you to exercise the intellect you now possess. It would be a disservice to the very institutions and people who provided the road to your genius to not stand your ground and speak—no, shout—your opinion, even if it’s not what Professor Vatruvia and the Department of Defense want to hear. You have to find the courage to hold confidence in your own convict—”

Kristen’s lips silenced his words. She met his mouth with her own, and Ryan’s body stiffened as she pushed herself against him. He was right, and she knew it. It was clear to Kristen now. Her whole life spent in the pursuit of a prestigious education and career had been missing one crucial component. She had been blind to it for all these hectic years, but Ryan had just convinced her.

No one had ever taught her to be brave.

Ryan raised his hand from hers in surprise, but he then wrapped his arm around her midsection and pulled her closer to him.

“All this talk of courage,” Kristen murmured, her lips against his. “And I had to make the first move.”

N
ot unlike a small meteor, a metal object soared unseen through the cloudless morning skies of New England, traveling silently over expansive miles of vibrantly colored fields and woodlands before colliding into the broad side of a mountain with a faint thud. A barely perceptible concussion reverberated outward from the wilderness and through the small village below. From the far side of the mountain, a flock of white birds took to the sky, the only inhabitants to take notice of the disturbance in the otherwise pristine day.

A rather unimpressive white-and-green police cruiser—the only one on duty—drove across a long-neglected country road. Faded lettering on the side of the vehicle read,
Huntington Police Department
. The fenders were beginning to show peeling rust spots, and the tires needed replacing. In a large sense the outdated cruiser matched the pastoral outlandishness of the town. Situated a comfortable distance from the lone state highway that ran across Vermont, the only visitors to pass through Huntington, aside from the one or two thousand locals, were passing tourists from southern New England—most often sightseers looking to experience authentic Vermont foliage or hike Camel’s Hump, one of the region’s larger mountains. The Huntington village center consisted of little more than a gas station variety store and a family-owned hardware shop at the foot of the mountain.

To some Huntington would most aptly be described as comfortably quaint, to others, unsettlingly secluded.

Officer George Henderson, a twenty-year veteran of the force, drove the cruiser with his rookie partner Mike Fuller sitting next to him. The season’s foliage was in full bloom, and the maple trees that loomed over the wood fences on either side of the road shown brilliant red, yellow, and orange in the morning sun. Dryness unique to autumn hung pleasantly in the air, accentuated by the drifting note of a wood fireplace or burning pile of leaves smoking somewhere in the nearby hills.

“Dispatch to cruiser, dispatch to cruiser.” The radio on the dash awoke the two officers from their gentle reveries.

“What’s up, Beth?” George said, taking his attention away from the fields outside his open window as he leaned forward to the dashboard and spoke into the transceiver.

“We just got a trespassing call up on Baron Road,” said Beth, the third and only other officer on duty. Beth was back at the station, which consisted of an office, a few desks, and a holding cell. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically apprehensive.

George and Mike exchanged a confused glance and Mike doubtfully shook his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” George said into the transceiver. “Trespassing on Baron Road? That’s practically halfway up the mountain.”

“Yeah, I know,” Beth’s voice crackled from the outdated radio. “The call was really weird. Mrs. Janson was shouting something about men from the woods trying to get into her house.”

George brushed it off with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure it’s just some hunters or a group of hikers that wandered off the trail and need to use a phone.”

“I would think the Jansons are used to that kind of trespassing by now, George,” Beth’s voice paused with concern, and the static worsened as their cruiser passed between two hills. “I could barely make out what Mrs. Janson was saying. She was hysterical. They live on fifty-eight Baron Road. Get there quick, you guys. I’m sure it’s no big deal, but the call gave me the creeps. I’m pretty sure I heard her use the word
giant.
”

“I know where the Jansons live,” Mike said. He leaned forward and flipped on the sirens. “I used to deliver firewood up there every fall.”

“All right. We’ll head right over. Thanks Beth.” George turned the cruiser down an empty road leading to the mountain.

“Beth’s right you know,” Mike said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of someone on Baron Road calling the police over a trespasser. Think about it. None of the trails are on that side of the mountain, and the woods are too thick to pass. Last hunting season I tried to make it up there with some buddies, and we couldn’t get through the underbrush for the life of us.”

“Eh, who knows. It’s probably just some doped up kids who got too fried to follow the trail or some hunter who drank too much whiskey.”

Both officers laughed. Siren sounding, the cruiser sped along as it traversed wide fields and wooded hills, fallen leaves whirling in their wake. They drove by unmanned farm stands, shelves filled with squashes, pumpkins, and apples sitting on beds of hay; the cash registers nothing more than wicker baskets sitting by the produce. Their siren echoed across the land and traveled far in the dry air, joined only by a light breeze from the west. Outside their windshield, the lone mountain rose into the sky. It was blanketed with trees, a carpet of deep red and orange leading to a summit of bare granite a few thousand feet overhead.

“You hear Kalinoski’s youngest is getting recruited to play hockey at university?” George asked.

“Nah. Last I knew he was just making the high school team.” Mike was looking past the spots of old white sap streaked across the windshield to the fast approaching mountain. “Man time flies.”

“You got that right.”

They took a sharp left onto Baron Road and pulled off the smooth pavement onto a dirt path that vanished into the shelter of trees. The tree cover was so thick that the road could have passed for a hiking trail as it ascended in a narrow sinuous course up the eastern side of the mountain.

“Can’t imagine living out here,” Mike murmured as he rolled down his window, vacantly staring into the dense wilderness to each side.

“Different strokes for different folks, I guess. I just hope the suspension makes it through here.” George was squinting and gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled, as he carefully avoided the boulders and roots that lined their way. “You might as well turn off the sirens. It’s not like we’re going to run into any traffic.”

“Good point.” Mike leaned forward and shut off the blaring horns.

The moment the sirens subdued, a pall of absolute silence fell. The deep forest surrounding the cruiser seemed to swallow them whole. It felt as though their siren had been the last trace of their pleasant town and cloudless morning. Now they traversed through a narrow path of bright orange and yellow leaves that oddly contrasted with the near darkness caused by the tree cover. Dark tree trunks stood a mere foot away from both side mirrors, evoking an unsettling sentiment, which was left unmentioned by either officer, though each ran a hand across his holstered .38 revolver.

“Is that a house?” George asked, peering around a turn in the road as the car jostled.

Skeletal rays of sunlight filtered through a break in the trees and shone down onto a long overgrown lawn and a dingy log house. George slowly pulled the cruiser past the shack. Years of accumulated leaves lay wet and rotting on the roof, which in places was missing shingles and dilapidated. It was unimaginable that someone could or would live in this degree of squalor, yet there was a thin tendril of smoke rising from the mold-covered chimney, and on the overgrown grass a large stack of logs waited to be chopped.

“What number is that?” George moved his gaze uneasily across the neglected yard.

“I’m not sure on the numbers, but if I remember correctly, the Janson’s house is next.”

They rolled past a larger clearing of trees and another set back house. With a nod from Mike, George pulled into the Janson’s gravel driveway, coming to a stop behind a faded pickup truck. From the driveway nothing appeared out of the ordinary about the Janson’s property. The house had some wholesome character compared to the last. The front and back yards were fifty feet on either side, scattered with sun-worn plastic lawn furniture. On the front porch a rocking chair was unmoving in the still air. A partly rusted bicycle lay on the driveway, its front tire rotating slowly.

George and Mike stepped out of the cruiser and made their way to the front door. The air was stiff with silence, as though even the chirping of the birds and the rustling of squirrels in the underbrush had retreated farther into the surrounding woodlands. The crunch of their boots on the gravel was loud against the stillness.

George crossed the front porch with heavy steps, the wood sighing under his weight. He gave the door a firm knock. “Mrs. Janson! This is officer George Henderson of the Huntington police department. We are here in response to a nine-one-one call made from this address. Please open the door!”

There was no response.

“Mrs. Janson?” George called again. He turned to Mike and lowered his voice. “What do you think?”

“Let’s go around back,” Mike said.

George stepped off the porch and they rounded the house. As he walked past one of the windows, George heard a barely audible thump from inside the house. He hesitated and peered through a dusty window, but could not see anything. The curtains had been drawn. He shifted uneasily and turned away from the sill.

“Mike,” George hissed in a whisper, unable to justify the urgency of his tone to even himself. “I heard something inside.”

Mike did not respond, and instead turned the rear corner of the house into the backyard. George watched as Mike instantly recoiled, stumbling backward and tripping over a log in the grass. He landed hard, his butt crashing into the patchy grass. George instinctively unclipped his holster and ran to him. Mike remained on the ground, his back sinking into the wet grass as he stared at something in the backyard. As George hurried to help the rookie, he saw a horror in his partner’s eyes like he had never seen upon any man’s face. Almost reluctantly—knowing his reaction would surely be no different—George turned and looked.

A lightheaded fluttery sensation traveled through his extremities. “W-what the hell?” George sputtered, and stepped backward.

Standing in the backyard, beside an old charcoal grill and in front of a weathered picnic table, were two gargantuan beings.
Beings
. George felt his ability to rationalize blur; his mind could not process what his eyes were seeing. Were they human? The two
things
must have been well over eight feet tall and easily six hundred pounds each, if not closer to half a ton. Their heads practically reached the windows of the second floor, and standing side by side they were almost as wide as the entirety of the house. The exposed muscle of their legs and arms did not look real. It was as though they were made solely of muscle, like body builders, though less human and more distended and grotesque. They were wearing bizarre and intricate attire that looked supple and reinforced. In some animalistic and primal sense from within, George felt certain something was very wrong.

One of the behemoths turned and saw the two police partners: one standing and gawking, the other on the grass, both of their faces frozen in terror. One giant pointed at them, and the other turned to look. The officers and the giants stared at each other in equal disbelief for a moment. Then the enormous monsters did something that was altogether human, and all the more terrifying to George.

The two hulking masses began to laugh.

One of the giants suddenly spoke, its voice shockingly deep.
“Shingaz rakevis atool ha.”

George’s chin began to shake, and his body trembled. The voice could not have been a human. It sounded deranged and malicious.

“George, let’s go.” Mike’s voice sounded cold and detached from behind him. “George, I want to go right now.”

One of the giants leaned a head the size of a car engine forward and examined them closely. After a moment the giant shouted, its voice rumbling. It shook the ground as though his vocal cords were a subwoofer.
“Ashkalez beeshtas forgasis vengeliskah.”