“Don’t talk to me that way,” Jason said as he returned his laptop to his backpack, hand trembling.
“You’re one to talk.” Olivia said, a quaver in her voice. “It was in the parenting plan that I would have them for July Fourth.” Her eyes were inscrutable behind her sunglasses.
“I would have appreciated better communication,” Jason rebutted.
“It’s in the parenting plan.” His wife said.
Jason stood there in the parking lot of his apartment complex, looking down at Olivia as she sat in her idling Subaru, her lips a neutral line. His jaw quivered and he clenched a fist. A crow squawked in the tree above them.
Jason had so many things he wanted to say to her: You were willing to wait three months to see them, you can wait twenty minutes. You are not the better parent. You make it hard to be kind to you. Instead of saying any of those, he said: “They’re at my parents right now because I work tonight. Wait here, I’ll get them.” And he walked away.
Jason got to his car and sped off down the road, back to his parents’ house where he had just dropped his sons off for the night, all he could hear was the beating of his heart. He was already late for work.
His sons were excited to see him so soon again, his parents were confused, “I misread the parenting plan,” was all he said to his mother as he shoved the kids’ clothes back into the leather luggage bag.
He buckled the kids up and drove them back to his apartment complex where his soon-to-be-ex-wife was glowering. Before he got them out, he turned around in his seat and looked at them. “I love you; I miss you when you’re gone.” He said.
His oldest son was staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. His youngest son smiled and said, “I love you daddy.”
Jason’s mouth twitched, “I love you too. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
Jason got out of the car and unbuckled his youngest while his oldest slammed his door shut. They rushed to their mother and hugged her, and she opened her car doors for the transfer. Jason held out the kids’ water bottles to hand them to his wife.
She glared at him and said, “You can put those on the ground.”
He clenched his fist. He wanted to scream at her. But he set the bottles down on the asphalt, got back in his car, and drove away. The sun was setting and he was already late for work. He gripped the steering wheel as he sped down the highway, barely slowing down as he took the exit towards Camp Hopi.
He pulled into the parking lot of the base’s security building and slammed the car door shut. He entered the building and quickly geared up. Kevlar vest, flashlight, TASER, pistol, pepper spray. All the tools he needed to keep the military base safe.
Jason grabbed the keys to the patrol car and drove to the Access Control Point, the car giving a soft “ding-ding,” warning him that his seatbelt was unbuckled. Despite all the technical acronyms and official names, the Access Control Point was a shack that had an internet connection and an air conditioner that didn’t work.
Jason got out of the car and entered the sweltering shack. Mason was already on desk, playing music on YouTube and fiddling with the desk journal. “Look who decided to show up,” the younger man said with a smile.
“Yeah,” Jason said, setting his backpack down.
“Everything all right?”
“Same old, same old,” Jason didn’t volunteer anything else.
At that moment there was a shrill screech as the computer monitor lit up with a red text box.
“Goddamnit,” Jason said, “I just got here, is it a nuisance alarm?”
Mason shook his head, “Nope. It’s a motion detection alarm.”
“Can it be a nuisance?” Jason asked, with a tired half-smile.
Mason laughed, “Fifteen minutes, go! Then tell me what’s bothering you when you get back.”
“All right,” Jason said with a shrug, “Where is it?” He said halfway out the door.
“Utah-719,”
Jason paused, “Utah?” He asked, more to himself. “I haven’t seen an alarm go off for the Utah bunkers. It’s usually X-rays or Yankees.”
Mason shrugged, “Do you need help finding it?”
Jason waved the question away, “I got it. There’s a map in the car.” Jason left the shack and got back into the patrol car. He pulled away from the shack and faced the main gate for the restricted area of the base. Jason keyed his radio and said “Open-says-a-me,” a moment later the gate started raising and he imagined his friend and co-worker laughing back in the shack.
The sun had set and the world had the light-blue tinge of twilight as he sped into the restricted area of the base. An area that required two forms of ID, a background check, an escort, and a damn good reason to be there for anyone to enter. For Jason, he drove in like he owned the place, because on nights and weekends he essentially did. He had good reason to believe that he was the only person out in the forty-square-mile complex of bunkers and ammunition dumps hidden amongst the ponderosa pines.
Camp Hopi was vaguely industrial. Rotting concrete and empty warehouses. Broken windows and decrepit roofs. Sunken bunkers and abandoned rail-houses. Most of the infrastructure had been built to defend against the Japanese, but when that need vanished, everything was left to rust and crumble. Only that which was needed was maintained. Jason zipped over the hills and streams past the rusting fences and train cars that dotted the pale green prairie. Aiming for the ever-darkening tree line at the edge of the prairie.
Jason’s father had worked here for years and assured him that “No, we don’t store nuclear warheads.” But Jason didn’t know that for himself. He had never been inside the concrete complexes that he protected. Never really cared to enter one.
When an alarm went off in one of the bunkers, night security had fifteen minutes to respond. This was made more difficult by the fact that Jason had to open and close three locked gates between the security shack and his destination. A few stars twinkled as the sky grew darker. The glow of the summer sun receding moment by moment as it hid beneath the world.
As he continued down the winding dirt road through the trees, Jason saw a herd of elk running through the forest—a group of cows and calves. He paid little attention to them, he had seen dozens of elk on the base over the last few months, they always got spooked and ran when the patrol car approached. So focused on his task of making it to the bunker on time, Jason didn’t notice that the elk were running towards and past his car, not away from it.
Jason pulled up to Utah-719, one of the newer bunkers. “Newer” meaning it had been constructed thirty years ago instead of eighty. It had a bright orange octagon emblazoned on the massive steel door. “1.1” it read, the highest explosive yield. Everyone on shift joked that it would be a hell of a Fourth of July if one of them went off.
Jason keyed his radio, “Station One, Sierra Four-Six, approaching Utah-719.”
“Copy, 20:11.” Mason radioed back with the timestamp.
Jason left the car running, the red and blue lights flashing, and stepped out of the vehicle. The dry forest smelled of warm sap, and the parched earth was dusty and radiated the heat of the day. As he closed the door and walked along the side of the bunker, he unlatched the hood of his holster and kept his hand on his sidearm. Jason walked around the perimeter of the silent bunker. “Base Security!” He shouted, his voice echoing far into the forest, “If there is anyone out here, come out now!” His voice lowered a few octaves, trying to channel a commanding and intimidating tone. Though he knew deep down that he was only intimidating rabbits. He knew no one would be out here, but the checks had become a routine like any other. Walking around the perimeter of the concrete edifice filled with explosives was going through the motions.
Even though he knew no one would be there, he kept his head on a swivel, looking to the top of the bunker, looking along the tree line, scanning for movement. He completed his circuit around the bunker and returned to the car. He latched the hood of his holster again and pulled out his radio. “Station One, Sierra Four-Six. Utah-719 is secure.”
“Copy, 20:13.” Mason’s voice crackled through the radio.
Jason gave a sigh and wondered where his life had gone wrong.
He clambered back into the car and pulled away from the bunker to head back to the station. Just as he approached a locked gate, the radio crackled to life once more. “Sierra Four-Six, Station One.” Mason radioed.
“Go ahead Station One.”
“Another motion detection alarm at Yankee-811.”
Jason grumbled, he could feel a headache coming on. “Copy. En route.”
Thankfully Yankee-811 wasn’t too far away. That alarm had been going off all week, so he knew exactly how to get to it. He sped through the forest, now fully dark. The canopy of pine needles blocked the stars, and the only light was from his brights. Camp Hopi’s roads were a tangled web that everyone complained about. Some of them were paved, most weren’t. There were no signs or directions. In a few places there were eight-way intersections, many of the routes looped back into one another and the maps that Chief Bronson gave them were sometimes incorrect.
Jason had driven these roads at night long enough that he knew his way around well enough for his mind to wander. He thought about his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Her implacable stare, her fake neutrality, the coldness of her sunglasses. He thought of the words he wanted to say to her most: You tried to abandon us! How he fantasized about screaming it, knowing he never would. His headache worsened as he drove deeper into the forest.
The sun had fully set, and it was dark when he arrived at Yankee-811. Once again, he radioed it in and stepped out of the car, red and blue lights flashing, casting deep shadows amongst the trees. Somewhere in the forest, coyotes yipped and howled. The sound sent prickles up the back of his neck. Jason unlatched the hood of his sidearm and felt comfort in resting his hand on the stock of his pistol. Once again, he shouted, “Base security! If anyone is out here, come out now!” The only response was his own echo.
Once again, he walked around the perimeter of the concrete structure, flashlight in his left hand, his right hand resting on the pistol grip. Once again, he made it back to his patrol vehicle and radioed the bunker secure. “Copy, 20:45.” Mason radioed back.
Jason turned his car around and headed back towards the security shack some three miles away, his thoughts still revolving around his anger. How she talked down to him, how she always pretended to be the calm one. How she refused to tell him what she was feeling or thinking. How he could sense her unhappiness, but she kept silent. I fought for every inch, he thought, tightening his grip on the steering wheel until his hands hurt. His headache was pounding.
“Sierra Four-Six, Station One,” Mason radioed. Garbled static threatened to swallow his voice.
Shitty comms, Jason thought as he strained to hear his friend. “Go ahead, Station One.” He said.
“Motion detection alarm, Zulu-827.”
Goddamnit, Jason thought. “Copy. En route.”
He turned around again and drove towards the Zulus. As he thought about it though, it seemed strange to him. They hardly ever checked the Zulus. Nothing was stored there. The roads back there were even worse, overgrown and underused, like most of the base they were left to deteriorate at their own pace. Left out to the elements. There were fallen branches blocking the path in some places and in one spot there was a baby tree sprouting in the middle of the crumbling red asphalt.
As he rounded a corner, his headlights fell upon brown fur low to the ground. A coyote, panting, loped out of the road and into the tree line, its black eyes glinting in the electric light. Jason slowed a bit to watch it stumble through the dense woods, the scavenger was yelping and whining.
Jason arrived at Zulu-827 and stepped out and clicked on his flashlight. The forest was silent. No bugs, no wind, no squeaking of bats or the flutter of owl wings. The hair on his neck stood up and a shiver went down his spine as he walked away from the headlights and into the dark perimeter of the bunker. His head felt heavy and his neck ached. “Base security! If there’s anyone out here, come out now!” He shouted, but his voice caught on a lump in his throat. Every step he took sounded too loud. He swung his flashlight around in the dark, but the little light seemed feeble. “Base security!” He shouted again, looking to the top of the bunker. “If there’s anyone out here, come out now!” The night was heavy, the air was cold, Jason found it hard to breathe. It felt as though something was pressing into his sternum. He recognized the feeling from the last months of his marriage: the onset of a panic attack. “Base Sec…Base Security! Come out!” His voice was quieter. He kept swiveling his head around to follow the arcs of his light, but anytime he turned his head he had the sensation that something was right behind him. His headache punished his sinuses.
As he rounded the corner of the perimeter, he quickened his pace and rushed back to his car, slamming the door behind him. There was a loud “clunk” as he hit the button and locked all of the doors. His heart hammered. Jason keyed his radio, “Station One, Sierra Four-Six.” He sat there in the dark, the brights glinting off the steel door of the bunker, the red and blue lights flashing.
There was no response.
“Station One, Sierra Four-Six.”
He heard nothing but his heartbeat in his ears.
“Garbage fucking comms,” Jason muttered to himself.
He put the patrol car in reverse and sped away from Zulu-827. As he drove down the lonely road in the forest, dodging tree branches and potholes, Jason tried a few more times to contact Station One. “Station One, Sierra Four-Six, comm check.”
No response.
Jason rounded a corner, obscured by thick brush and, to his surprise, the headlights fell upon brown fur close to the ground. A coyote sat on its haunches in the middle of the road, its black eyes glinting. Looking at the coyote, Jason had the sensation that his hands went numb for a moment and then regained sensation—pins and needles. His eyes felt dry, he stopped blinking for a few moments, staring at the coyote sitting there in front of his car, not moving, its sharp ears perked up.
Jason came back to his senses and honked the horn.
The coyote didn’t flinch. It remained seated in the middle of the road, staring at him with its glinting eyes.
Turn around, an unbidden thought popped into his mind.
He honked again.
The coyote stared.
Jason felt light-headed and reminded himself to take a breath.
He put the car in park and opened the door.
Don’t. The thought said.
He had done this before, shooed away a stubborn animal out of the path, but usually it was rabbits or turkeys or the occasional porcupine. Never a coyote.
Get back in and turn around. Jason realized that the thought was coming from the base of his spine and his conscious mind was translating the feeling into words. The spine didn’t have words, it only had numb hands, a weight on the sternum, dry eyes, and disassociated fugue.
He stepped out into the road, his breath coming out in a thin mist. He unlatched the hood on his pistol as he approached the coyote.
He was about to say something, but then the thought crossed his mind: What do you say to a coyote? He settled on “Get! Get out of here!”
The coyote was motionless.
“Get!” He motioned with his left hand, keeping his right hand gripping the pistol on his hip. His hand trembled.
The coyote slowly turned its head and stared.
“I…I said get!” Jason’s voice faltered.
The coyote did not break its gaze as it stood up on its hind legs, its forelegs dangled. The coyote was about as tall as Jason’s oldest son.
Run! His spine shouted.
Jason forgot how to draw his gun. The car door seemed far away.
RUN! His spine screamed.
His muscles froze.
The coyote opened its mouth, wider and wider, until he heard the cartilage and the bone pop. Ever wider the coyote opened its mouth. As he looked down its black throat, he had the immediate sense that the coyote was hollow.
His hands were numb, he couldn’t breathe, his eyes stung.
Then a voice rumbled from within the coyote, but Jason didn’t hear it with his ears. He heard the voice in his heart.
“It’s going to be okay.” The coyote whispered.
Jason blinked.
“Jason! Jason! Are you okay?” A hand jostled his shoulder. He opened his eyes and found he sat behind the wheel in his patrol car, red and blue lights flashing, driver door wide open. His heart hammered and it was hard to breathe, bleary-eyed he looked around. Mason was there, hand on Jason’s shoulder.
“Did you see it?” Jason said, jaw trembling, chills rushing through his body.
“What?” Mason said, “Are you okay?”
“Did you see the coyote?”
“What are you talking about?”
Jason hyperventilated, “What happened?” He asked, more to himself.
“You never called Utah-719 secure.” Mason said. Jason looked out the windshield, his brights illuminated the bunker, “Utah-719” emblazoned in white paint on the gray concrete. “You never responded and you’ve been out here for an hour!” Mason’s voice had a mixture of anger and worry. “I had to close the main gate to come and find you!”
“But…” Jason’s lips were dry and his throat was like sandpaper. “It spoke to me.”
“What are you talking about? What spoke to you?”
“The coyote.”
