Waiting for Company

You hear that? … No. Probably not. Been carrying on for the better part of an hour. Hard to describe. Sounds mechanical. Like somebody dragging a steel rake across concrete ten miles away. Only it seems to be everywhere at once.

Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III.

I won’t tell you where I am. You’ll have to track me if you really want to know. Hold on. Need another piece of wood. There.

Last night was the triple orbs. Everybody’s talking about them. Enough people I trust saw something, so I did what any sensible man would do. Driving into the desert. At night. To camp where they were seen. It was my idea. I tied a flag to a tree so Fred could find me. My brother. He’s driving out now. Or allegedly driving out now.

Phone. There he is.

— fred. — — where are you. — — that’s still an hour. — — marvelous. — — no no. — i’m not complaining. — — you remember where the trail starts. — — yes. — i tied the flag where i said i would. — — next to the tree. — — yes fred. — i realize that doesn’t narrow it down.

Fire’s burning alright. Not much moon. None, actually. Funny thing about the desert. People think it’s empty. Then darkness arrives and suddenly it feels crowded. Every bush has intentions. Every sound has an opinion. Hear that. There. That hum again. … More like bubbling machinery. Only distant. And near. At the same time.

— what. — — no. — nothing. — — just listening.

I stand. Walk a few feet beyond the fire. Gravel. Brush. The sound doesn’t get louder. Doesn’t get quieter either. That’s what’s bothering me. The fire’s over there now. Amazing how quickly a campfire becomes civilization. Five feet away and you’re negotiating with eternity. No thank you. Back to the fire. Much better.

— yes. — i’m aware that’s ridiculous. — — i know. — — alright.

Maybe twenty minutes pass. Hard to tell. Something cries out in the darkness. I freeze. Listen. There it is again.

— fred. — — hold on. — — i can’t tell if that’s an owl or a little girl. — — yes. — i agree. — probably owl. — — — hopefully owl.

There he is. Laughing. Good. Somebody should. I’ll be honest. I’m a little embarrassed. This whole expedition was my idea. Thought it’d be fun. Two brothers sitting in the desert where everybody saw strange things in the sky. Little campfire. Little conversation. Maybe see something ourselves. Instead Fred’s still an hour away and I’m zipped into a sleeping bag conducting threat assessments on wildlife. Hold on. Let me get situated here. [zip] There.

— no. — i’m serious. — — i am a little spooked. — — yes. — spooked. — — apparently that’s the word.

When I was younger I remember people saying if we ever discovered we weren’t alone it’d change everything. Religion. Government. Science. The whole arrangement. Catastrophic disclosure. That was the phrase. Like civilization might come apart.

— — what. — — no. — i know that’s dramatic. — — yes. — i hear myself.

Funny thing. Seems like we're closer to that conversation than we've ever been. Politicians talking about it. Scientists talking about it. Pilots talking about it. And somehow nobody seems particularly alarmed. Maybe we’ve become impossible to shock. Or maybe people have enough mysteries already. Children. Bills. Loneliness. Hard to get worked up about visitors from another world when your roof needs replacing.

— you actually brought binoculars? — — yes. — — for aliens? — — for birds. — — same thing after midnight. — — what.

Fred’s talking about directions again. The flag. The trail. Something practical. He’s been practical his whole life. I’m up here contemplating humanity’s relationship with the unknown. Fred’s trying not to scratch the truck. Maybe that’s why civilization keeps going. Somebody’s always worried about the truck. The hum’s still there. Been there the whole time. Funny. It stopped bothering me. Not because it changed. Because I stopped listening. Because I was talking. Maybe that’s what people do with the unknown. We tell stories. Build fires. Call our brothers. Wait for company.

— where are you now. — — alright. — — twenty minutes. — — remarkable. — — what. — — i’m discovering twenty minutes is a surprisingly long unit of time. — — yes. — i'll survive. — — probably.

Funny thing.

I came out here to see if there was anything in the desert.

Turns out I was waiting for Fred.

The hum's still out there.

...

I can hear wind moving through the brush now.

Fire settling.

The strange sound still carrying on beyond the light.

Hold on.

...

I see something.

...

No.

Not that.

...

Headlights.

...

Well.

There he is.