Rhubarb (13 page)

“It’s a pleasure, Lee. As a longtime Waker, there’s no
greater honor.”

Martin would tell his story in a way that—despite its being
about rhubarb pie and alien truck drivers—made him sound perfectly reasonable.
It would start right here, with him waiting by the Herbert’s Corner propane
tank, and end with Cheryl at his side as the aliens declared a
civilization-wide holiday in his honor for solving the riddle of the pie.

After a break, Lee would take calls.

Ruth from Des Moines would ask, “Your story is fascinating,
but I’ve always wondered: How does a regular person get themselves abducted?”

“I wasn’t abducted per se,” Martin would answer. “I found an
alien willing to help me and arranged to travel with him.”

“But that’s not to say that abduction doesn’t take place,”
Lee would add.

“Absolutely,” Martin would reply, “and that’s an important
part of my upcoming book.”

“Which will be next month’s must-read recommendation at the
wakernation.com bookstore,” said Lee. “Now, Ruth, do you really want to be
abducted?”

“I do. I can’t explain it. I feel this pull, this calling.”

Martin’s tone would become sympathetic. “I understand what
you’re feeling, Ruth. Alien abduction is a serious personal choice. However,
the experience can leave lasting psychological and physiological scars. It may
be difficult for your family and friends to accept. So if you really want to,
you must understand the risks.”

“Ruth, have you had experiences before?” Lee would ask.

“When I was a little girl, I saw lights over the lake at my
aunt and uncle’s cabin. I remember them as vivid today as then.”

“Ruth,” Martin would ask, “what kind of aliens are you
hoping to get abducted by?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the little ones with big eyes.”

“It’s an important subject to consider, because there are
many different species. It sounds as if you’re familiar with the Grays, who are
responsible for the majority of reported abductions. They can alter time and
manipulate matter with light, which might provide interesting experiences. But
they are also infamous for, shall we say, sticking hilariously metal objects in
unmentionable places on your person. So consider: Reptoids, spirit beings,
angels, Annunaki, Men in Black, Log Cabin Republicans, to name a few. It’s
important to know what species of alien suits your lifestyle, to know who
they’re looking for in an abductee, and where they commonly are found. My book
provides a guide on making this choice.”

“And I suppose that this choice depends greatly on what you
hope to achieve.”

“It does, Lee. Many simply seek the thrill of the unknown.
But others have loftier ambitions, such as the search for proof.”

“Hasn’t it proved very difficult to do actual science in
abduction scenarios?” Lee would ask.

“It has proved notoriously difficult. Aliens resist
collection of evidence by carefully controlling the circumstances, leaving
abductees with nothing but vague memories. But far be it from me to discourage
anyone.”

“Ruth, are you searching for scientific proof of your
abduction?”

“I’m just looking for the truth.”

Martin would nod knowingly to Lee and say, “Ruth and others
may wish to communicate, and to become messengers. It’s a laudable goal.
Obviously we hope that any message will be one of universal peace. But, Ruth,
if you find yourself writing a cookbook, or articles of surrender for the
United Nations, please inform the authorities right away.”

“Excellent advice. Now, Martin, what would you say to people
who want to be abducted for fame or recognition?”

“It’s not a good idea. I can personally attest to the fact
that there are quicker, and much safer paths to fame. Ruth, if fame is your
goal, I might suggest picking up a video camera and getting a dolphin to whack
your husband in the balls…”

“Or drop angry squirrels on him in a hammock,” Lee would
add.

“Those are easily worth a couple million YouTube hits each.”

“Well, thank you both so much for your help. And Mr. Wells,
congratulations to you and Mrs. Wells. It’s such a beautiful story. Will you be
expecting soon?”

“As a matter of fact, we are. You heard it here first.”

“Break out the cigars, Waker Nation.” Lee would reach across
the console and shake Martin’s hand. “We’ll be back with more questions for the
indomitable Martin Wells. Our sponsor this hour is the Pajama-of-the-Month
Club. If you’re searching for a one-of-a-kind-gift for your pregnant wife, your
mom, or even your boss…”

~ * * * ~

Martin let the GRT Logistics truck go at the wind farm as
Lee Danvers wrapped up the last hour of the night’s broadcast. The taillights
faded away around the bend. By the dashboard clock, he had to be back in
Billings and heading to work in a few hours.

If any of the trucks had been alien, there was nothing to
distinguish them. Nothing floated or flew. None had strange lighting, or plasma
exhaust. Martin had sneaked through the parking lot, knocking on panels and
kicking tires. They all smelled like fossil fuels. They all had the license
plates, regulatory stickers, and debris in the cabs that one would expect. The
trailers all had the battle scars of the road: mud, scratches, dents, stains,
and missing rivets. Either all were alien or none were.

The drivers had ranged from heavy-set Bible readers in
coveralls and lined flannel shirts to lanky dudes with iPads in T-shirts and
shorts. This one chewed tobacco in little pouches, that one put Worcestershire
sauce on his scrambled eggs. That one had an eye twitch, this one kicked his
left shoe off under the table. Some kept to themselves, some knew the other
drivers or were simply sociable. They all spoke English—at least Eileen and
Lorie never had a problem getting their orders. Maybe the waitresses…? He
didn’t let himself finish that thought.

When Martin rolled back into Herbert’s Corner, Eileen
emerged from the diner and crossed to the pumps. “I’m getting gas, then going
home,” Martin called.

“You should,” said Eileen, and then handed him a cell phone
as she stepped up by the squeegee bucket.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking it cautiously. “Hello?”

“Martin? It’s Doris Solberg.”

“Hello, Doris. What can I do for you?” Martin asked, looking
at Eileen.

“Eileen tells me you been drivin’ around after trucks all
weekend.”

“I’m heading home now.”

“Well, I wish you’d talked to me. I could’ve saved you a
heap of trouble. Herbert always told right where they come from. Not that they
come ’round much since they took the pie off the menu.”

“What? Really?”

“Sure. Now, I never saw it myself, but Herbert said they
came from that bluff up from Deaver Creek. About seven miles south on 360.
Toward Billings. Where the highway got cut through the hill in ’52. You know
the place?”

“I think so. You come up that hill from the creek, the road
narrows. There’s rock on both sides?” He’d driven through that gap and back
eight or nine times in the past twenty-nine hours.

“That’s the place. He said they would appear in there and
roll right on up here to Brixton. Then when they’d leave, they’d roll right
back and go off.”

“They’d just leave? They didn’t have any other business on
Earth?” asked Martin.

“What other business would they have?” Doris asked.

“I don’t know. You tell me.” Martin gave her a moment to
respond, and in the silence could imagine her chewing her lips at him. “So if I
just go hang out down there, I’ll eventually see one come out?”

“You might be waitin’ till you’re as old as I am,” said
Doris. “But I ain’t gonna tell you not to ’cause I’d just be wastin’ my breath.
You be careful. Now I gotta go. It’s my bedtime.”

“Yes, ma’am. Goodnight,” said Martin. He handed the phone
back to Eileen. She listened for a moment, but Doris had hung up. “Did you know
about that place?” Martin asked her.

“I didn’t,” said Eileen. “But you should probably get on
home and think hard about what you’re doin’.”

“How can you say that? Cheryl’s in trouble. And some of your
customers are real-life extraterrestrials. Nothing else matters if that’s
true.”

“You’re wrong about that. Nothing changes. I still gotta
eat. Still gotta pay my bills. Gotta put gas in my car. Death and taxes and all
that. And you’re no different. You’ve got a job and a family somewhere, like
everyone else. There’s no getting around that.”

Martin topped off his Diet Mountain Dew. On the way out,
Eileen called to him. “I know it won’t do any good, but you should pass that
gap right on by.”

~ * * * ~

A knock startled Martin awake. He squinted into the
sunlight. A looming figure outside his car resolved itself into a roughly
humanoid shape. Martin scooted up in his seat, swore silently, and rolled down
the window.

“Good morning,” said the highway patrolman from under the
rim of his Smokey Bear hat. “Is something wrong with your vehicle, sir?”

“Uh, no. I got really tired. Needed to pull over,” said
Martin. The patrolman glanced up and down the highway. To his right it sloped
down around the corner to the Deaver Creek bridge. A hundred meters up the hill
yawned the gap. The Gap. “Well, you couldn’t have picked a worse place to do
it, sir. There’s very little shoulder and limited visibility for vehicles
coming up behind you.”

“Oh?” Martin asked, and glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry.
It looked better in the dark.”

“License and registration, please.”

As the patrolman returned to his cruiser, Martin checked the
time and swore to himself again. By the time he got back to Billings, got the
truck loaded, and cleaned himself up, he’d be lucky to get three accounts in
today. What was he thinking?

He took a sip of his flat and watery Diet Mountain Dew to
clear the goo out of his mouth. Then he took another sip; it might have to be
breakfast.

The patrolman returned a few minutes later and returned
Martin’s documents. “Mr. Wells. Next time, I suggest you find a rest area or a
motel.”

“Yes, sir. I will. Thank you,” said Martin. The patrolman
glanced up the hill to the Gap. But with no traffic coming, nothing to draw
attention that Martin could sense, part of him wanted to believe that the
patrolman was in on it, even as the man walked away. Martin head checked,
pulled out, and some more sensible part of him said, “Martin. Martin. Martin.
Martin.”

“Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. You’re Beyond Insomnia.”

“Great to be on, Lee. This is Benjamin. Been awake for a
long time. I used to listen to you back when you were on WXGR. Great show
tonight. Anyway, I have a question for Dr. Cunningham.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“If I could interrupt, Lee. I’m not a doctor. I appreciate
the respect, but I don’t have a Ph.D. I wish I did. But I’m plain old Dick
Cunningham.”

“Oh, sorry, sir.”

“Go ahead with your question, Benjamin.”

“Yeah, so NASA’s sending all these rovers up, and they
always claim to be searching for evidence of life. They’re scraping rocks,
putting sand in mass spectro-thingies, and sniffing for water. But they’ve got
the Cydonia complex right there. The Face, the pyramids, everything. If there
was a civilization on Mars, they’d need water, right? Wouldn’t the best place
to look for water be near the ruins?”

“Good question. Yes, Dick, why hasn’t NASA, or the Russian
Space Agency, for that matter, landed a rover or a probe at the Cydonia complex
to put the questions to rest?”

“Two possibilities. A—they don’t want to. Or B—they don’t
want to. Let me explain. A—They truly might not consider Cydonia a
scientifically viable site. Or it might be too logistically difficult to land
there with our current entry technology. Or it might have a surface geology
that they’ve already studied on another mission. Or B—they might not want to
because there may be answers there they aren’t allowed to find.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. Sorry. Can you hear me?”

“We hear you.”

“Great, my phone was a little…anyway. It makes no sense. I
understand the science and logistics and all. But NASA’s always crying about
their budget being slashed. If a rover discovered pyramids, man, they’d have
more money than they knew what to do with overnight. Everyone would be
demanding that we go and see what the aliens built.”

“Of course, part of Cydonia is the famous Face on Mars. I’m
sure all your listeners are familiar. NASA drug their heels, but finally
reimaged it in detail. The new images suggested that the Face might be only a
trick of light. But I agree, the delay itself is telling.”

“Thank you, Benjamin. Next up, Roseburg, Oregon. You’re
Beyond Insomnia.”

“Thanks, Lee. Quentin in Roseburg. Hi, Mr. Cunningham. Read
all your books. I listened to that last call, and I gotta say—NASA’s reimaging
of the Cydonia Face is not convincing at all. They had to say it isn’t real. We
can’t trust anything that NASA shows us. These are the same people that faked
the moon landings, and that was with sixties video technology. Hell, my nephew
could do a better job with these pictures on Photoshop.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. The data is there.
The satellites are in place. A new rover is almost ready to be launched. But
decisions have been made to avoid Cydonia. We need to ask harder questions and
hold them accountable to do the research and the science that we’re paying them
to do. Now, I’ve talked to scientists at NASA—I can’t give you their names;
their jobs would be in jeopardy. But they tell me, ‘Dick, we want to go to
Cydonia. We find the imagery as compelling as you do, but it’s not going to
happen.’”

“They’ve been told not to go to Cydonia?”

“That’s what I take away from that, Lee.”