Charismatic feature reporter Gideon Gale is a recent addition at KZMT Local. So why does everyone in Russet Lakes remember watching him as long as they’ve been alive? Well—maybe not everyone. For a select few, Gale’s reports appear only as static snow on the television. But something is interviewing these people, and Thorson intends to find out what it wants, before the whole town—and possibly the world beyond—falls under Gideon Gale’s spell.

Author’s note: apologies for my little Thanksgiving Hiatus, I was spending time with family. I’m now back and excited to share the rest of this story with you all. —C

I Watched one of the Tapes. This Changes Everything

Before I get too far into the details, I want to thank everyone who sent me thoughtful suggestions and ideas for the investigation. Many of you pointed out that it was probably very dangerous to watch the tapes alone. At your suggestion, I reached out to Robert Tailor, GM of KZMT Local. The man’s apparent immunity to Gideon Gale’s tricks has been an absolute Godsend.

Based on what we learned from Mallory White’s letters, I also didn’t know whether it was safe for Tailor to supervise me while I watch. For those of you who have not fully caught up on the investigation, Mrs. White reported that her long-time friend Doris became irate after watching the segment, and learning that Mrs. White could not see Mr. Gale. My hypothesis is that each Gale segment may be what is called a Cognitohazard. In layman’s terms: that’s something dangerous or harmful to anyone who perceives it. For Tailor’s safety, and mine, we decided that I should be restrained for the entire process.

We obviously couldn’t do that in his office. And I certainly didn’t want to do it anywhere near my brother. A motel seemed to be the best option. Unfortunately for us, most of the hotels in Russet Lakes are seasonal. Yes, our town is that small. Instead, we had to drive to “the big city,” which is really just a larger town a couple hours away.

There were a handful of cheap cabins for rent in some lakeside campground. It was the type of place a family on a budget might take their vacation. Pretty barebones, but the room still had a TV with a VCR,1 and that suited us just fine.

For our experiment, Tailor cuffed my hands behind a desk chair and set up a video camera. Our thinking was: the Gale report might have some kind of demeanor-altering effect that I wouldn’t remember. This would allow me to see my own reaction.

With our preparations in place, we began with the first tape. Over several repeat viewings, I put together the following transcript of what I observed and heard:

“Mysterious Richard”

The camera begins with a closeup on a pair of bony hands, shuffling a deck of cards. The cards look brand new, and still make that crisp snapping noise as they zip past his thumbs.

GALE (VOICEOVER)

This might not be magic—

One hand applies a little tension to the edges of the deck, and the cards seem to leap into the air and into the other waiting palm. The hands repeat this movement a few times.

GALE (VOICEOVER)

—but you’ve got to *hand* it to Mysterious Richard:

The hands, apparently belonging to a man called Mysterious Richard, come together with an unnaturally loud clap. He shows his palms to the camera. The cards are gone.

GALE (VOICEOVER)

He really makes you wonder… if your lying eyes can be believed.

Without cutting to a different shot, the camera zooms out and pans up to show Mysterious Richard in all his glory. This is a kid, maybe 19 years old, acne scars still fresh on his face. But he doesn’t carry himself like a teen. There’s a sly kind of confidence in his crooked little smile, as he reaches up and tips the front of his bucket hat.

He’s dressed like he’s coming back from a fishing trip, with a teal quilted vest and waders. He tugs the lapels, and cards rain down, apparently from within the garment.

GALE (VOICEOVER)

Coming from a long line of carpenters, Richard has always had nimble fingers.

We get an establishing shot of a local business called “Whittaker and Sons Carpentry.” It’s a well-maintained facade, made to look like some frontier stockade. Bookending the place on either side is a food store, simply labeled “Grocer,” and a dive bar called “The Gulpin’ Gull.”

After a slow zoom in, the piece cuts to Mysterious Richard performing sleight of hand tricks before a semi-circle of men wearing tool belts. I’m assuming these are his coworkers. Richard wiggles his knuckles and makes a framing nail dance back and forth over his fingers.

RICHARD (VOICEOVER)

I started young. My Godfather got me this neat trick for my birthday one year. There was a black dice, in a little container, and with a little magic, you could make it explode into a bunch of tiny white dice.

We cut to an interview setup, with Richard and Gale sitting opposite each other in chairs that looked hand made.

GALE

We’d love to see how it works. Could you show us?

RICHARD

Sorry Gideon, a magician never reveals his secrets!

Both men laugh. When Gale stops, the smile falls from his face a little too quickly to be natural.

GALE

But you *can* reveal how you discovered your talent.

A note here: something about this statement bothered me on each viewing. It’s an order, not a question. That much is obvious. But it’s not that his tone is imperious—it’s almost desperate. It’s like Gale can’t stand his interview subject sidestepping a question.

RICHARD

For sure; it was nothing special. My school had a talent show, and my dad told me I should do the little magic act I’d been putting together.

Richard continues talking in voiceover, as we’re shown old family photos. There’s a grainy, low quality home video of Mysterious Richard when he’s even younger—maybe 8 or 9.

His costume is different here. Instead of the fishing attire, he’s dressed in a conical hat and robe, with a loose-fitting long sleeved dress shirt. Something you’d buy a child who wanted to be a wizard for Halloween.

RICHARD (VOICEOVER)

I’d gotten tons of store bought tricks from the hobby shop, but there’s something special about inventing your own. Most of my early stuff was done with tools and nails. Work with what you’ve got, you know?

On stage, kid-Richard is hammering a row of nails into a board. After driving two nails straight to the head, the wooden handle of his hammer appears to turn to rubber, flopping around every which way.

We can hear applause from the old recording, tinny and far away.

Kid-Richard considers the hammer carefully, stroking an imaginary beard. Then he turns back to the board, feigning surprise, and holds it up for the audience. The nails he’d driven have all disappeared.

RICHARD (VOICEOVER)

I used to test out my new tricks on the guys who worked with my Dad, around the shop. I started working there as soon as I was old enough, and did little shows on our breaks.

We cut to a new face: a stocky bald guy with a big mustache. According to a banner at the bottom of the screen, his name is Vernon Long

VERNON

You hear a lot of horror stories about working with the boss’s kid. Richard’s nothing like that. Works as hard as anymore here, and loves making the team laugh.

Vernon and a few other men in work clothes are sitting at a rickety table in a dive bar, sipping beer and paying close attention to something off screen. The man beside Vernon holds a poker hand—black aces and eights—like the magic show had somehow interrupted a game of cards only he was involved in.

The camera pans to a small raised platform in the corner where Mysterious Richard pats himself down, searching. He holds up a finger in exclamation, like he’s had an epiphany. He takes off his bucket hat and holds it up for the audience. Everyone leans forward.

The camera zooms in. Among the lures tacked to the side of the hat was an enamel pin.

Black aces and eights.

The crowd realizes, not all at once, and starts cheering in sporadic bursts of awe and applause. The energy and excitement builds, and carries over underneath the next voiceover.

GALE (VOICEOVER)

With a little help from those coworkers, Mysterious Richard became the Gulpin’ Gull’s first and only magic act in residency. You can catch his performances there every Thursday night.

RICHARD

There’s so much magic in the world when you’re a kid. But it all dries up by the time you’re grown. If I get to help people catch that feeling again, even for a second, then I have a pretty good day.

A new establishing shot shows us the exterior of a place called Hornsby’s Hobbies. From the dirty window, it looks like the place sells modeling kits and games.

GALE

He’s not just a talented Magician: a teaching career may very well be *in the cards…* for this youngster.

RICHARD

The owners down at Hornsby’s know me pretty well. I come by a couple times a month to pick up stuff for my act. Eventually they offered to pay me a little to teach the basics.

As Richard continues in voiceover, the piece cuts to the inside of the shop. Someone has set up a few rows of folding chairs, ll full. At the front of the room, Richard demonstrates what amounts to fancy shuffling.

RICHARD (VOICEOVER)

Sleight of hand, trick shuffling… that sort of thing. Most of my tricks though, those are still a trade secret.

We crossfade back to the storefront. It’s clearly shot at a different time, and Gale is in frame once again, wearing his three piece suit and a flashy smile.

GALE (STANDUP)

Mysterious Richard is one heck of a teacher too—

Gale claps his empty hands together. When he pulls them apart, a full deck of cards has appeared, looking like an accordion as they waterfall from his top hand and into the other. The camera zooms out a little and reframes the on his face.

GALE (STANDUP)

—because I managed to pick up a trick or two out here in the West RL.

For KZMT Local, I’m your local guide, Gideon Gale. Back to you.

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I watched the whole thing a couple times to really absorb it. After that, I rewound the tape and watched it piece by piece. Already, I’ve noticed a few quirks that are worth mentioning.

Firstly—although this may be subjective—the quality of the reporting is phenomenal if you watch the entire piece uninterrupted. Viewed as a whole, it’s a masterpiece in story telling, from the narration and scripting, right down to the camera work. But taken piece by piece, there’s nothing really remarkable about it. It’s not bad. Probably better than average, but this is meant to be Gale’s best work.

Tailor and I did a bit of an unscientific test, having me watch a few seconds at a time while he watched the clock. We found that after about five seconds of uninterrupted viewing, this sort of enhanced appreciation kicks in. The effect gets stronger the longer you watch. What’s more: after five seconds, I began to feel irritable if my viewing was interrupted. Not murderous or violent, but I imagine that over weeks or months of routine consumption, I could be just like Doris.

My second conclusion isn’t subjective, and is a bit confusing to explain. When we paused the tape, the TV kept showing the exact moment we stopped on. As soon as I looked away, or even so much as blinked, the frozen image was replaced by a single frame of static snow.

The best way to clarify this, I think, is with a concept I’ve seen floating around online recently. It’s rooted in the whole “vision based on movement,” shtick from Jurassic Park. Someone created this illusion clip where you can see shapes and words in the static, but only while the video is rolling. Pause, and your brain remembers roughly where the shape should have been. But blink, and it vanishes entirely.

Take a look:

Gideon Gale’s pieces are like that, in a sense: scrub through them at the granular level, and I see each frame exactly as Tailor and Ms. White; static.

String a couple together, and I see a video.

String the whole thing together, and I see a compelling piece of journalism.

But there’s nothing really there. Put another way: it would be like taking apart a clock, only to find that each individual part vanishes when you try to look at it.

At this point, I can’t say for sure why a select few people can see straight through this effect.

While making my third observation,I developed our most promising theory yet.

“Who shoots these, eh?” I asked. “I imagine you have a fictitious photographer named Phineas Frank, or something?”

This got a dry laugh from Tailor. “No, everyone at KZMT seems to agree he shoots these himself. Sets up the camera, does his own lighting and audio, the works. We used to call it the ‘one man band,’ in the business. Now, they’re calling a multi-media journalist. MMJ. Makes it sound like you’re a specialist, not the victim of some deep budget cuts.

“Then who’s adjusting the camera?”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh! Duh, I’m sorry. I forgot you couldn’t see it.” I explained how the shot shifts, zooms and pans, all while Gale remains on camera himself. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see a microphone either.”

“Was it on his lapel?” Tailor asked. “We switched over to those a while back.”

“Let me check.” I reached for the remote and rewound. After the first few viewings, we determined whatever came over Doris must be a long-term effect of repeated viewership, and decided it would be easier if I had my hands free to transcribe the tape.

Rewinding the tape, by the way, similarly shows static.

I replayed the interview shots, paying close attention to the collars and lapels. Halfway through, there still didn’t seem to be any microphones.

Out of the corner of my eye, Tailor picked up my rough transcript and started reading through. “Fascinating to finally know what’s in these,” he said, turning the page. “Wonder if we have enough information here to track down and talk to this Mysterious Richard character.”

I hit the mute button so I could keep an eye on the piece, while still focusing on my conversation with Tailor; which was how I discovered my fourth and final observation.

“Gale mentioned he’s at the Gulpin’ Gull once a week. How old is this? Maybe he’s still performing, and if he’s not…” I trailed off.

“What?”

I’d turned away from the TV ever so slightly to look at Tailor. When I looked back at the special, it was just static snow. For a second, I thought I’d accidentally stopped the tape. But a quick double-tap of the pause button confirmed it was still rolling.

“Now I can’t see it either.”

“Wait, for serious?” Tailor asked.

“Yeah. Just static. Did something change, I wonder?” Even as the question came tumbling out of my mouth, my attention drifted to the mute icon stamped over the static in the corner of the screen.

Curious, I pointed the remote at the TV set, and flipped the sound back on. The instant the little mute indicator vanished, the news report snapped back to life. The volume was still low, barely audible even. But I could still see it, plain as day. This was the part in the recording where Gale and Richard had that sit-down interview.

Another tap of the mute button turned the report back to a sea of static.

“Interesting,” I said. “When I can’t hear the tape, I can’t see the tape.”

Tailor weighed this for a moment, then nodded his head in apparent agreement. “That makes sense, I suppose. I mean, I can’t ever hear the tape.”

Sometimes people throw around the phrase “jaw dropping,” and I’d never had a proper picture of what that meant until that moment. My mouth actually fell open, like a rusted bumper dropping off the back of some ancient farm truck. Tailor was deaf; he’d told me that he lost his hearing in an accident as a young adult. Hardly anyone out in Russet Lake knew a lick of sign language—Latin might’ve been more common, and that’s only because of the tiny Catholic church out by Heron Point. But that was no bother. Tailor spent enough of his younger years talking so as to speak without too much trouble. And the slow speech of our Minnesota neighbors, he assured me, made for easy lip-reading. He was so good at it, I hardly noticed, except in the moments where I got distracted and turned my head or obscured my mouth while I speaking.

“If you can’t hear them…” I said, trailing off as my thoughts drifted back to the letters he had let me look at. I’d read them enough times to recite them by heart.

Still, I’d glossed over so many details; phrases that seemed mundane and useless at the time, but stuck out as glaring signposts now:

This young gentleman assured me—through Doris—he’d never missed so much as a single report from Mr. Gale…

I had Doris ask them…

She’d never fib when interpreting…

“Ms. White can’t hear the tape either!” The revelation had me rocketing out of my chair, knocking the remote aside. “She’s deaf too. Sound, Tailor, Gideon Gale is in the sound!”

Thank You for Reading

If you have any insight into the Gale investigation, please consider sharing in the comment section. Again, this is an ongoing process, and I will do my best to respond to your comments.

Leave a comment

If you or a loved one has an encounter with Gideon Gale, or believe you have met a similar entity in your own locality, please reach out via email to calderthorson@gmail.com. Just throw SIGHTING in the subject line, so I know right away what you’re writing about.

Do make sure you’re subscribed to Cole’s Chapters. This is where you can expect updates on my little investigation. And remember, until we meet again: there is no such thing as Gideon Gale.

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A Strange Phenomenon has Overtaken the Airwaves in Calder Thorson’s Tiny Town

Charismatic feature reporter Gideon Gale is a recent addition at KZMT Local. So why does everyone in Russet Lakes remember watching him as long as they’ve been alive? Well—maybe not everyone. For a select few, Gale’s reports appear only as static snow on the television. But something is interviewing these people, and Thorson intends to find out what it wants, before the whole town—and possibly the world beyond—falls under Gideon Gale’s spell.

Part investigative journal, and part collection of evidence, this somewhat experimental story aims to unravel the mystery that could be lurking on every local news station.

Part 1 — [Transcribed Interview] KZMT General Manager Robert Tailor

Calder Thorson sits down with the man in charge of the TV station where Gideon Gale is allegedly employed, only to find the alleged local celebrity may not even exist. In fact, Tailor can’t seem to see him at all.

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Part 2 — [Archived Correspondence] Viewer Mallory White

Mallory White writes to GM Tailor, informing him of a problem with her signal. KZMT Local is her favorite news station. But lately, it’s been broadcasting exactly three minutes of static every night, in the middle of the news program. Somehow, Mallory is the only person to notice this. Stranger still: all of her neighbors suddenly swear they’ve been watching Gideon Gale—a name that seemed to crop up overnight—as long as they’ve been alive. And they’re displeased Mallory isn’t watching too.

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Part 3 — [Transcribed Tapes] Gideon Gale’s Greatest Hits [Upcoming]

Tailor agrees to help Thorson review the taped recordings of some of Gideon Gale’s award-winning feature reports. In doing so, the pair manages to uncover how the mysterious entity exerts its influence over the people of Russet Lakes.

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If you’re enjoying this series so far, make consider subscribing to Cole’s Chapters. A free subscription ensures you’re updated on each installment in the growing story. Paid users have access to the story archive, featuring dozens of short stories and serial installments for you to peruse.

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Charismatic feature reporter Gideon Gale is a recent addition at KZMT Local. So why does everyone in Russet Lakes remember watching him as long as they’ve been alive? Well—maybe not everyone. For a select few, Gale’s reports appear only as static snow on the television. But something is interviewing these people, and Thorson intends to find out what it wants, before the whole town—and possibly the world beyond—falls under Gideon Gale’s spell.

The following collection of letters from Mallory White, a retired resident of Russet Lakes, to Robert Tailor, the General Manager of KZMT Local. Apart from Tailor, the older woman appears to be the only other person who cannot perceive Gideon Gale.

After talking with Robert Tailor, he was nice enough to give me copies of the letters he received from Mrs. White, along with his best recollections of what he wrote back to the woman.

Mrs. White is a sweet lady, lived in the RL her whole life, and spent most of it watching KZMT Local. I haven’t been able to get a hold of her yet, but I’m still trying. Meantime, I’ve gone and typed up the letters so you can read them too, minus the personal details.

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Letter 1 (Verbatim)

To whom it may concern,

I have been watching KZMT Local since I was a little girl, and it makes me sad to see such a serious slip in the quality of your broadcasts. During yesterday’s evening news, your broadcast cut out to static for several minutes. Evidently I missed some kind of charming feature report from a gentleman named Gideon Gale. Normally, I am not the kind of person to make such a fuss, but this was the third day in a row this has happened.

My son came by to take a look at my television, and he told me there’s nothing wrong with it. I even called the cable company, and a lovely young man explained my account and signal should be working properly. He assured me the problem has to be with the broadcast, not my television.

Would you please take a look at your signal before I miss any more of your stories?

Sincerely,

Mallory White

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Letter 2 (Summarized)

In his first response to Mallory White, Robert Tailor tells me he was brief, professional, apologetic, and probing. He claimed there had been some kind of internal maintenance change around the same time Gale began working at the station, and wondered if this was the source of Mrs. White’s signal issue. He asked outright if she had seen any of Gale’s other stories.

Tailor tells me that his aim here was trying to figure out whether she was experiencing the same phenomenon he was, and if so, had it started at the same time.

He ended by promising to get to the bottom of the issue, and to remain in correspondence until they could reach a solution.

Letter 3 (Verbatim)

Mr. Tailor,

Thank you for your timely response to my letter. I’ve found most young people have forgotten the art of writing a good letter, wouldn’t you agree?

As to your question: no, I have never seen a story segment featuring Mr. Gale in any of your news programs. However, he has become quite the topic of conversation around here these past several weeks.

Just the other day, I went to Central Market with my dear friend Doris. She is about my age, but through a bit of good genetics and luck I suppose, she has managed to keep her hearing. She was telling me about a fascinating news report Mr. Gale did about a gifted local ventriloquist. Of course, that sort of skill is beyond my appreciation. But Doris assured me it was quite something to behold.

While we conversed, the boy at the meat counter chimed in to say that he had seen the piece too, and was equally impressed. I didn’t think this new generation cared much for local TV news, but this young gentleman assured me—through Doris—he’d never missed so much as a single report from Mr. Gale, except on holidays when he traveled to see family. That confused me, because I would wager I have watched KZMT Local longer than that boy’s been alive. In all that time, I have never heard of Mr. Gale. I told him as much, again with Doris interpreting for me, but he assured me that Mr. Gale had been a regular staple in your station’s programming as far back as he could remember.

To my shock, Doris agreed with him. She told me she had memories of Gideon Gale back when her family first got a television. I told her she must be mistaken; by conservative estimate, that would put your Mr. Gale somewhere in his late eighties. Only a handful of my friends have reached that age, and they are barely ambulatory. They certainly are not running around with a camera.

At this point, a bit of a line had formed behind us at the meat counter. Normally young people in a queue can get a bit impatient, but this group seemed quite eager to gather and discuss Mr. Gale. According to Doris, every single one of them agreed that Mr. Gale had been a staple part of our community for as long as they have.

I grew ever more curious, and so I had Doris ask them what they thought Mr. Gale looked like. They all seem aghast that I had never seen one of his specials, informing me that I simply must. I explained that I had been trying to watch, but could not due to the signal issue that you have been trying to resolve for me, Mr. Tailor. They seemed greatly distressed by this, but relented once I accepted an invitation to watch the news at Doris’s house this coming Friday.

Curiously, none of them could agree on the specifics of Mr. Gale’s description. All vaguely described him as a stately, silver-haired gentleman who looks to be in his fifties. His voice was the one thing they could all agree on: rich, friendly, and commanding.

After all of this, I thought Doris might be having a bit of fun with me, but I know her well enough that she’d never fib when interpreting.

To be honest, Mr. Tailor, I am no longer sure I want your signal to be fixed. The whole experience has left me rather shaken up. Has Mr. Gale really been on your air for decades? I cannot imagine this could have escaped my knowledge for so long, given the fervency of his fans. I shall know for sure after this Friday.

Thank you again for your time.

Sincerely,

Mallory White

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Letter 4 (Summarized)

Tailor told me he sent his second reply to Mrs. White via priority mail in an attempt to reach her before she went to watch the program.

In his letter, Tailor recalls candidly telling Mrs. White that there is no signal issue, and that he cannot perceive Gideon Gale’s reporting either. He explained what he told me during our interview: that even when viewed in broadcast control–which shows the feed exactly as it goes out to everyone’s television–he sees only static.

Furthermore, Tailor wrote to Mrs. White that video tapes of the segments in question also appear to him as static snow on other televisions when played back on VCR, but that all other observers can perceive the Gale reports just fine.

Next, Tailor explained that he had also taken notice of Gale’s growing fan base of self-identifying life-long viewers, which is seemingly at odds with the latest Nielsen ratings numbers. Tailor describes an upward hockey stick in viewership since the night he and Mallory White first observed the static. Logically inclined readers might have already spotted the problem here: the entire community cannot have been lifelong fans of this man’s work, if they only started watching in the last few weeks.

Finally, Tailor repeated his advice that Mrs. White keeps her head down and pretends that she too is a fan of Gideon Gale, until they can figure out what is happening.

Letter 5 (Verbatim)

Mr. Tailor,

Your advice arrived too late for me, despite your every effort. Doris called me shortly after my previous letter, anxiously asking that I come to watch Mr. Gale’s piece on Thursday, rather than Friday as previously agreed. She explained that in his most recent on-air appearance, Mr. Gale had promised to do a follow-up report that I simply couldn’t miss.

Immediately, it became apparent that the problem was not merely confined to my home. Doris’s television began blasting the same static, and though she was kind enough to put the subtitles on for me, they gave no indication of what might have been playing out in this elusive report.

More concerning still: Doris appeared completely captivated by the report for its duration–and unnaturally so. Her eyes appeared glassy, and she seemed to be looking beyond the static of the screen, if that makes sense. I do not think she blinked once until it was over. That was when she turned to me, and asked what I thought.

By this point, I was sure something unnatural had taken place. My feeling was the same as yours: that I should pretend to have seen the piece. I told Doris I thought it was delightful. She smiled at first, but pressed me for details, growing increasingly irritable as she realized I had been lying. Doris quickly went from irritable to irate, screaming at me and demanding to know why I had not paid proper attention. I tried to explain, once again, that I saw only static. But she would have none of it.

I had to excuse myself. When I did, she followed me the whole way out to the car, yelling the most unkind accusations. Doris said that I was jealous that I had grown old to be boring, without learning or mastering anything worth a feature by Mr. Gale.

I am still shaking as I write this. How could Doris, a lifelong friend of mine, do such a thing?

I may have to wait until my son’s next visit to mail you this reply, as I have lost my usual interpreter. I normally would just slip my reply in the mailbox and think no more of it. I am no longer sure that is wise. I have spied Doris’s car circling the block a few times, at inconsistent hours and days. I do not believe she wishes me harm, but to continue accosting me about my inability to see the news reports.

The others are another story. Perhaps I have grown paranoid after the incident with my old friend, but my neighborhood seems much more well trafficked than normal. I live on a rather out-of-the-way side street. I usually only see my neighbor Greg, walking his energetic little Collie. But as of late, I see all manner of people out for walks. They seem very ordinary, very normal. But I cannot help but feel they give my home a few too many casual glances.

While I am still not sure why you and I appear to be the only two who cannot perceive Mr. Gale’s news segments, I am beginning to believe this is a blessing. I have no idea what came over poor Doris, but I do not want the same to happen to me.

In the interest of safety, I wonder if you could write me back and furnish me with a few topics or memorable segments that Mr. Gale has put to broadcast? That way, I have something to discuss if confronted again. I am hoping this will be enough to feign knowledge, and draw away this unwanted attention.

Sincerely,

Mallory White

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Letter 6 (Summarized)

Under the pretense of gathering Gideon Gale stories to submit for awards, Tailor asked around the station and came up with a list of half a dozen memorable stories. He described them in detail in his reply.

Tailor also expressed concern about the people apparently watching the woman’s home. He suggested that it was safest for the time being to break off contact.

Mrs. White has not replied in the weeks since Tailor’s third and final letter. She remains the only person to contact the station about the static.

Based on the reaction that Mrs. White described, and the behavior I have observed in my neighbors, I assumed that there would be an abundance of fan mail sent to the station. But according to Tailor, if viewers are trying to get in touch with the reporter, they aren’t sending their letters to KZMT Local.

I asked Tailor for the tapes of those award-winning Gideon Gale segments he mentioned in our interview. He was happy to provide them, but didn’t seem convinced I would find any clues there. I admit: I’m a little nervous to watch. I’ve done my best to avoid watching any of Gale’s stories. After hearing what happened to Doris, I’m actually outright scared about what I could see.

There’s no chance of shying away now, though. If I have any chance of figuring out what this Gale-thing did to my brother, it’s in those tapes. Pray I don’t end up like him, or like our neighbors.

Thank You for Reading

If you have any insight into the Gale investigation, please consider sharing in the comment section. Again, this is an ongoing process, and I will do my best to respond to your comments.

Leave a comment

If you or a loved one has an encounter with Gideon Gale, or believe you have met a similar entity in your own locality, please reach out via email to calderthorson@gmail.com. Just throw SIGHTING in the subject line, so I know right away what you’re writing about.

Do make sure you’re subscribed to Cole’s Chapters. This is where you can expect updates on my little investigation. And remember, until we meet again: there is no such thing as Gideon Gale.

Subscribe now

I’m writing this post as a warning to anyone who is contacted by a feature news reporter named Gideon Gale. DO NOT, under any circumstances, agree to do an interview with this man. I don’t care what you think you’ll get out of it, fame, exposure for your business, attention on your creative works—whatever. It’s not worth it.

A bit of background: Gideon Gale is a local celebrity where I’m from. Or at least, the thing that calls itself Gideon Gale, is a local celebrity. Try not to humanize it. Remember, above all else: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS GIDEON GALE.

I have reason to believe that in different DMAs1, he—or some similar entity—may be using another name. Until I can be sure, for your safety, you should avoid doing any kind of media appearance where you’re asked to share personal details about yourself. From what I can tell so far, I think that creative-types, especially those with unusual or unique skillsets are at the greatest risk of being approached by Gideon Gale. That’s part of the reason I decided to share this warning, and catalogue my experiences here.

For reasons that will become clear, I’m extremely concerned about maintaining my anonymity. But I suppose I can’t go around asking you to call me, “That Guy,” “Dude,” or “Man.” Calder Thorson will do just as well as any name, I suppose.

has been kind enough to lend me his platform to share this story with you. Because of Gideon Gale’s apparent proclivity for preying on creatives, this seemed to be the most expedient way to warn the community. I will be cataloguing my research here. Please share any insights you have down in the comments section; this is an ongoing investigation, and its possible that your suggestions could lead to a break in the case.

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The following is a transcript from my interview with Robert Tailor, the General Manager of KZMT. This local TV station is based in Russet Lakes, Minnesota, which currently broadcasts the entity calling itself Gideon Gale.

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Thorson: Start from the beginning. How did the entity known as Gideon Gale first hit the airwaves on your station?

Tailor: He just appeared one day, So I’m told.

Thorson: You’re told?

Tailor: Yes. Well, I could tell you the exact night the phenomenon started, but I’ve never seen a single piece from this guy go to air.

Thorson: Okay then, walk me through the first time you noticed the phenomenon.

Tailor: Sure. So one night, during the 11 o’clock news, we just cut to static. Middle of the program. I paged our engineer to let him know we were having signal problems, but he messaged back saying it all looks normal on his end. So I poke my head into the studio and find the anchor, just sittin’ there, waiting. The tally light was on–ah, that means the camera’s running–so he should’ve been reading.

I sign over to him to ask him what he’s doing. He signs back that we’re in a live report. I ask from whom. He answers, Gideon Gale, our feature guy. Looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot he’s ever met.

Thorson: But you don’t have a Gideon Gale on payroll.

Tailor: Right. Except every single person I asked, told me I do. They’ll look me dead in the eye and tell me that the static I’m looking at is actually some fascinating puff piece on some local legend who spends his free time restoring antique marionettes.

Thorson: I don’t understand, you’re going to static every weeknight for three minutes. No one from the network ever called? You never ran it up the flag pole?

Tailor: Would you? I have an entire newsroom telling me Gideon Gale’s worked here longer than I have. The whole town raves about his reporting. I’m the odd man out. For a while, I thought I might be crazy. I mean, he’s won Emmys for cryin’ out loud.

Thorson: He has actually won awards? Like, physical awards?

Tailor: We’ve got the damn trophies in the lobby.

Thorsen: How does that work?

Tailor: A couple years back, our Executive Producer started submitting his pieces.

Thorson: I’m guessing you tried watching back the submission tapes, and—

Tailor: Nothin’ but static. I just kept playing along, thinking I was crazy until the letters started.

Thorson: For the record, you’re referring to the correspondence from Mallory White. Can you tell me the nature of these letters?

Tailor: Oh, for sure. She started writing a month or two ago, complaining that our signal was going dead. First she thought it was her antenna. Except it only ever happens during our 11 o’clock newscast. Never during another show, or commercial break. That’s when I knew that I at least wasn’t crazy. Or at least, I wasn’t the only crazy one in the DL.

We wrote back and forth a few times, before we decided it would be best to keep our heads down.

Thorson: Oh? And why’s that?

Tailor: I’m not superstitious or anything. At least, I wasn’t. But I’m not so sure we understand everything in the world. This is like that: I feel real uneasy when I look at the static, like it’s… hungry, almost? I dunno. Sorry, I’m probably not making much sense.

Thorson: Can you elaborate on that? The hunger feeling, I mean.

Tailor: Have you ever seen one of those nature documentaries on the Discovery channel, where some predator is slinking around.

Thorson: Sure.

Tailor: Well when I look at the static, and I feel like I’m staring right at one of those animals, only, it’s sizing me up like it wants to eat me. Sorry, mister, I know I probably sound a little looney.

Thorson: I do not consider you to be crazy, mister Tailor. Although I do believe it best if you keep our conversation to yourself.

Tailor: Who the heck would I tell?

Thorson: Fair point. Do you have any of these letters? I would be interested in taking a look.

Tailor: Of course. I expect you’d like to speak with her too?

Thorson: If at all possible, yes.

Tailor: I can put you in touch. I’ll send you her information, and a copy of the letters. What’s a good email address for ya?

Thorson: Here’s my card, thank you.

Tailor: Sir?

Thorson: Yes?

Tailor: What is he? Do you know?

Thorson: Only in theory. Do not look too long into the static, mister Tailor, or I fear you will learn his nature as well.

Thank You for Reading

If you have any insight into the Gale investigation, please consider sharing in the comment section. Again, this is an ongoing process, and I will do my best to respond to your comments.

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If you or a loved one has an encounter with Gideon Gale, or believe you have met a similar entity in your own locality, please reach out via email to calderthorson@gmail.com. Just throw SIGHTING in the subject line, so I know right away what you’re writing about.

Do make sure you’re subscribed to Cole’s Chapters. This is where you can expect updates on my little investigation. And remember, until we meet again: there is no such thing as Gideon Gale.

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Welcome to a piece of the shard. This is no single tale, but a thousand pieces of one. Each page is a shard, set beside others, until a world begins to take shape.

To piece together the Codex, see here.

Though a great many creatures have been fabled to walk that strange wood we call the Arboreal Sea, perhaps none are quite so mysterious as the Arboreus Ūnicornis — more commonly called “The Unicorn.” While a great deal of ink has been employed in the description of this creature, its accounts are all too oft’ the mere fanciful stuff of bedside stories.

One however, is widely upheld as true by a great many Arboreneers of the Casper Cape: the lost ballad of Ulrich Honeytongue, recounting his journey to the mythic Piney Deep.1 Titled, “The Cautionary Tail,” this was to be Ulrich’s magnum opus. However, the great bard perished immediately upon the completion of its inaugural performance. Now, the description lives only in the memories of those present that dreadful night in Nettlerund’s mead hall, and in the far-flung scraps of Ulrich’s poetry.

In the ruins of that great hall, I have come upon a number of these waterlogged pages, upon which we have our description of the Arboreus Ūnicornis:

The Unicorn was not a horse, but dragonlike in size,
Its equine head beset with glowing, globe-like, turquoise eyes.

The creature's horn was not of bone, but bark and moss of gold,
A tow’ring tree whose height rivals the steeples of Freehold.

Its fur was matted meadowgrass that glistened in the light
That shone from Ludolf’s lantern, that we may drink in the sight.

His smell was like the restless air before a springtime rain,
And all the place was sodden ‘neath his waterfall-like mane.

Imagine my surprise when wondrous silence then did break,
No not myself, nor Ludolf, but the beast itself did spake.

–Excerpt from “The Cautionary Tail,” by Ulrich of Ulderland

---

Unfortunately, several connecting verses have been ruined by water damage. From the few legible words, I believe this missing passage describes the moments in which Ulrich first addresses the Unicorn, and requests the creature grant his wish.2

“I might yet grant your wish dear bard, regardless what you ask,
If you should first regale me with a tale that suits this task:

“This forest was an ocean once, filled with my salted tears,
Spilled for the sin and suffering that spanned the untold years.

“I cried down here for aeons on the sunless seabed floor,
Until the dreadful day I learned that I could cry no more.

“My heart still aches, but lesser now; a phantom kind of pain,
A thorny, rigid, wooden thing which I cannot explain.

“Your struggles, though I see them still, with empathy removed;
From mothers’ cries to lovers’ lies, all leave me here unmoved.

“And over time, ‘neath blist’ring light, the sea began to dry,
Remaining unreplenished as I did my best to cry.

“Within the dying ocean then the forest here did grow,
A sunless canopy above where waves of yore did flow.

“I bid you now dear traveler, that I might cry again,
You take my tail within your hand and share with me your pain.

“Mayhap a special kind of woe from all your lives before
Could break my weary hardened heart, that I may feel once more?”

–Excerpt from “The Cautionary Tail,” by Ulrich of Ulderland

---

There is some disagreement about whether Ulrich Honeytongue embellished the details of his encounter; Ulrich is the sole Arboreneer to suggest the Verdant Doom may have been caused by a creature, and not some ghastly alchemical accident.

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Samuel and Jeffry raced across the hall, practically knocking one another over in their haste to run through the door to the Gene Lab.

“What the hell is going on?” Samuel demanded.

Marcus breathed heavily. He stood by the far side of the room, facing the wall. Shards of glass littered the ground by his feet, and a grayish black smear oozed down the wall where he had hurled the culture, the beakers, and the severed hand.

“It doesn’t work,” He struggled to keep his voice from cracking. “It—it doesn’t match. We were wrong. All our theories... There’s not enough in common to make a reliable vaccine.”

Samuel was dumbfounded. He stared blankly at the stain working its way down the wall.

“The research has to be good for something, right?” Jeffry asked. He sounded half encouraging, and half fearful.

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Sorry for the delay in rolling out the latest part of this story. I’ve been planning a cross-country move, which has occupied the bulk of my time recently.

As a brief editor’s note, as much as I hate to have to do this, I need to make a few retcons to the story.

• There is only one infected deer

• The deer does not lay waste to the facility; everyone becomes infected through an actual mistake

• The gene-sequence analysis can be performed with any donor’s marrow, provided they are infected

• Sam cuts off the staff member’s hand with the intention of using it for a sample to complete their tests

This was the original plan for my draft of the series. A lot of readers expressed a ton of interest in the mystery surrounding the deer in the earlier chapters. I made a misguided attempt to make some large rewrites to focus on it. Unfortunately, those changes somewhat blew up a lot of other important plot points.

All of these revisions necessarily needed to end with some kind of conflict between our little trio, and the monster in the laboratory. Based on what I had already alluded to this creature being capable of, I just couldn’t write my way out of that scenario in a way that made sense. If the group could kill it with just a simple gunshot, then the creature should’ve been easy for the rest of the team to dispatch.

I couldn’t kill Samuel because — sarcastic spoiler alert — he has to live so he can share his story with the in-universe author, Calvin. I couldn’t kill Marcus because he’s actually the protagonist in a Plum Island Sequel I’ve already written, which actually is bedrocked in the outcome of this story. I guess I could kill Jeffry, but the outcome still felt super cheap with the parameters I established for how OV-92 works.

For me, the horror in this virus was that it creates these perpetually bleeding creatures, dripping with an endless flow of infectious ichor. I should’ve stuck to my guns.

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Marcus, Samuel, and Jeffry pulled up camp chairs to a black trunk – their makeshift table – to begin preparing for a trip over to the research facility. Collins was lying down on his cot on the other side of the room, facing away from the others. Another guard sat beside him. Samuel guessed Collins would refrain from talking much for a while, and certainly wouldn’t be suitable company on the coming expedition.

Marcus tore a page from a blank notepad the trio had found, and began drawing a quick reference map.

“This is the facility,” he said, sketching out an upside down L-shaped building. “Pretty simple from the outside. It’s got two floors and a basement. But this is what we’re interested in, the bit that juts off from the long straight line.” He circled the portion of the drawing that would have made up the base of the letter “L.”

“What’s in there?” Jeffry asked.

“That’s the research lab. Completely airtight; all the oxygen inside is scrubbed, freshened up a bit, and pumped back in to avoid contamination,” he explains. “The rest of the building is all dormitories and offices, along with a common area and cafeteria. But you have to think of the entire facility like a straight line. To get to into this area, we have to go all the way up through the offices on the second floor. From there, we can make our way down to the labs.”

“And that’s where we need to go?” Samuel inquired.

Marcus shakes his head. “That’s just where we work on our crop-based problems. You know, parasites, blights – plant-only dangers that can’t infect humans. Beyond that is the way to the basement, and the ‘main event,’ so to speak. That’s where we keep the specimen, and the instruments.”

“So we grab the sample. And analyze it,” said Jeffrey.

“And if the sequence is a match, they can start work on a vaccine,” Samuel concluded.

“Exactly,” Marcus said.

“What about the people in the lab?” Samuel asked.

“Dead men walking.,” Marcus answered, gravely. “You’d need to be drained dry, have all your bone marrow swapped out to replace your platelets… hell, I’m not even sure that’d work. No; I think for now we should consider every host to be beyond saving.”

The three exchanged grave looks.

“Then we’re going there armed?” Samuel asked.

“Yes,” Marcus agreed, “and prepared to kill.”

Samuel checked himself over, making sure all the straps of his HAZMAT suit were appropriately cinched down and sealed off. Slung across his chest was a Heckler and Koch MP5. Guards only needed to pass firearms proficiency for one long, and one mid-to-short range gun. The MP5 was encouraged because of its abundance, and portability. Jeffry carried the same. The untrained Marcus brought a Kel-Tec shotgun.

“Point it in the general direction of the problem. Aim’s not really a factor,” Jeffry assured him.

There was some debate about bringing a medkit, but the group ultimately decided that if they needed patching up, it would probably wind up being too late.

While re-breathers were not necessary since OV-92 was not airborne, they each wore a face shield and a surgical mask. Samuel had reasoned that if a full suit was unnecessary, it would only serve to decrease their mobility and situational awareness. The others had agreed.

Samuel had also insisted on carrying the evidence files with him. If they were rescued directly from the laboratory, he had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t be allowed to go back to retrieve them. He also thought any military personnel who stopped him would likely try to confiscate them. For that reason, he had tucked them securely into his boot, beneath his socks.

The group all gave each other a once over, making sure there were no rips or tears in the suits.

“Everyone good?” Jeffry asked.

“Yeah the suits all look secure,” Marcus answered. He sounded slightly muffled through his surgical mask. “No obvious holes or anything. But the suit will only protect you if it fully covers you. I have limited experience dealing with human hosts. But with that much pressure build up in the brain anything is possible. The responses could vary.”

“What do you mean?” Samuel pressed.

“We don’t know how the other lab researchers will react to us. They could be docile. They might be extremely aggressive, or even violent. And it all really depends on the individual. We’re bringing guns for a reason. If you think one of them will rip off or damage your suit, shoot them,” Marcus said.

Jeffry nodded in understanding.

Samuel turned to look back through the glass door leading up the stairs. The other guards from the outposts dotting Plum Island had all returned safely, and undergone the designated OV-92 detection test.

“Gentlemen,” Samuel addressed the group. “As far as we know, the only healthy people on this island are in this building. If anyone approaches that is not wearing a suit, do not let them in. If we don’t come back…” He trailed off solemnly.

“If we don’t come back, you better pray the military is in a particularly giving mood,” Marcus finished. “God help us all.”

Collins nodded at the team through the glass door. His looked hollowed, his eyes were sunken, but he had managed to pull himself together somewhat. He threw the large handle on the clean side of the airlock to the upward position, opening the doors to the outside world.

When Samuel stepped down onto the front stoop of the old Coast Guard station, the wind almost floored him. Marcus and Jeffry staggered as well. In all the comings and goings, along with the night’s revelations, he had completely forgotten about the hurricane. Hurricane roared overhead, tearing leaves from their boughs. He steadied himself, and focused on the path ahead.

The facility was not far from the guard post. A narrow asphalt path connected the ferry station, research center, and Coast Guard station over the course of about a mile. Tall light posts dotted the sides of the walkway, flickering feebly as the passing gale tugged on the power cables and strained the old wiring.

“Do you think the power will hold up?” Samuel asked.

“Not sure,” Jeffry replied.

Though mostly self reliant – Plum Island did depend on the mainland for a few things, and power was one of them. Heavy-duty wires cased in conduit ran across the bottom of the Long Island Sound, and tapped into Southold’s electric grid. If the town lost power, so did the research facility, and Long Island wasn’t exactly known for having durable infrastructure.

The trio kept to the path, penned in by creaking locust trees that swayed wildly in the wind. This movement caused their shallow roots to partially lift the ground in places, making the ground look as if it were breathing in time with the wind. The rain had at least partially subsided, but was still strong enough to drastically reduce their visibility to about 100 feet. Each new light post seemed to emerge from the void as they pressed on. Because of this low field of vision, Samuel was actually able to hear the facility before he could see it.

As any witness of something terrible may attest to, the most common re-telling of a tragedy – after anecdotal account – is a visual recreation. Crime scene photos, amateurish cell phone recordings, and grainy security camera videos are abundantly found. But the sound of something horrible is a burden only the survivors have the misfortune of bearing. And while Samuel could just barely make out the lights of the lab, looming through a misty veil, he could plainly hear the screams of agony.

“God in heaven,” he whispered, “are those—”

“My fellow researchers, yes,” Marcus finished for him. “They were doing that when I left; though I admit not quite so loud. I can hardly blame them. OV-92 is worming its way into their bones.”

“There goes any hope we had of getting to the lab quietly,” Jeffry said.

The path diverged ahead of them. The left fork wound its way toward the water, and the ferry station. The right curved slightly uphill to the steps of the research lab, perched on a knoll. It had no windows. But the exterior was completely covered with floodlights, which faced in all directions, bathing the open space in harsh white light.

The three walked cautiously up the steps to the double-door entrance.

“Remember, lay low until we can get to the labs,” Marcus reminded the group one last time. “Ready?”

Samuel and Jeffry nodded, raising their guns as a precaution. Marcus pushed open the door. Even if they had wanted to speak, Samuel doubted they would have been able to hear each other. The screaming was so loud, he had a hard time concentrating on his own thoughts.

The entry area — mercifully empty — was about the size of a typical doctor’s office reception room. Off to the right side, there was a counter beneath a sign that said, CHECK PERSONAL AFFECTS HERE. Straight ahead was what looked like a small airport security checkpoint; there was a desk, and a single metal detector. Marcus advanced first, choosing to climb over the desk rather than trip the metal detector. Jeffry and Samuel followed close behind.

As he climbed over the industrial metal furniture, Samuel noticed a large splotch of dark blood, spread across a pile of upset paperwork. He pointed it out to the other two. In turning back, they saw something they had missed on the way in: a trail of ichor, smeared over the metal detector, and leading a back out the front door. Whoever was watching the desk had wandered off into the storm after contracting the virus.

Shit, Samuel thought.

Marcus jerked his head toward a sliding door off to the side of the room. He was right; there was no time to worry about where one person might have wandered. Marcus once again led the group, bringing them into a decontamination shower. He quickly walked to the far end, and hammered in the access code to unlock the way forward.

With one less sound-muffling barrier in their way, the screams grew louder.

The proper interior of the facility showed more signs something sinister had happened. Every doorknob and light switch in sight sported a fair amount of black blood, doubtless smeared by the hosts after dabbing at their leaking eyes.

The left-hand side of this seemingly endless hallway was completely bare. From Marcus’s sketches, Samuel knew the research on relatively innocuous viruses was done behind this wall.

Doors lined the opposite side, each assigned a specific room number. The bulk of the shrieking seemed to be coming from there. Samuel and Jeffry quickly darted after Marcus, as quietly as they could manage. After what felt like an hour of quietly creeping along the corridor, they reached the doors to the stairwell.

The trio slipped inside, taking care to close the doors quietly.

“Thank god no one was in the hall,” Jeffry whispered.

“We got lucky so far,” Marcus replied. “We’re about halfway to the lab, and eventually we’re going to have to find someone to sample. If you see anyone on their own, point them out.”

The group made its way to the top of the stairwell, treading quietly to prevent their footsteps from echoing endlessly off the bare cinderblock walls.

On the second floor landing, Samuel spotted a fire axe hanging next to the doorway. He considered the axe for a moment, before picking it up, and slinging his gun across his back. “Less noisy,” he said.

Jeffry gave a thumbs up.

“I’ll lead on then?” Samuel offered. “The offices are off to the left?”

“Yeah, as soon as we get out into the hallway, duck in,” Marcus confirmed. “Then make your way down to the end, there’s another stairwell.”

“Ready?” Samuel asked the others.

He took a few deep breaths, and placed his gloved hand on the door handle. Samuel pushed it open, and the group’s luck ran out.

A body lying on the floor nearby stopped the heavy metal door as it opened. From what Samuel could see through the opening, an infected host had lost consciousness on the opposite side of the door. But the impact had roused him. The man screamed as he clambered to his feet. His cries seemed to rouse a cacophony of animalistic screeching from a door to their right.

The lab.

While the man by the door was still only halfway to his feet, he took a swipe at Samuel with a dripping black hand. With all his strength, Samuel first pulled the door toward him to crush the former researcher’s fingers, then kicked it back open, knocking the man aside.

Fists pounded on the opposite side of a nearby door. The knob jiggled frantically.

“It hurts, oh God it hurts!” A voice screamed from the room beyond.

“Help us! Can anyone help us?” Another pleaded.

They were talking. Samuel didn’t think they would be talking.

The door burst open, and the screaming woman spilled out, as if propelled forward by the group behind her. She was drenched in what looked like tar, eyes streaming, hands outstretched. The woman lunged forward and latched onto Jeffry, who was closest to the door. She reached for his mask, and he shoved her away. Samuel stepped in and body checked her with the fire ax, knocking her back into the advancing hosts. Seeing an opportunity to clear the path, Jeffry sprayed a barrage of bullets into the doorway. Samuel’s ears rang as the sound echoed off the blood-soaked linoleum floor. Jeffry hip-fired an entire clip of his MP5 before realizing the gunfire was not killing the swarm of contagious lab staff. Rather, it seemed to be deterring them.

“They’re still people,” Marcus called out. “You can hurt them, but the virus makes new blood faster than you can spill it.”

“Go now!” Samuel urged. He used the head of the axe as a ram, jabbing it forward to knock the crowd back. Jeffry raised his gun threateningly – a message the group seemed to understand clearly, even in their infected state – while Marcus covered their rear with his shotgun. In this fashion, the trio’s tight protective triangle shuffled quickly toward the far end of the offices. They navigated the aisles between more of the waist-height industrial desks as the group of OV-92 hosts slowly shuffled after them, keeping a safe distance from Samuel’s axe.

“Door!” Marcus called out. They had reached the secondary stairwell down into the laboratory.

“Open it, check it,” Jeffry urged, not taking his eyes off the crowd. “Be sure it’s safe.”

The sound of the creaking hinges momentarily pulled Samuel’s attention. He half-turned his head to inspect the stairwell. By the time he snapped around to face forward, the same woman was now lunging at him. Seeing a gruesome opportunity, Samuel sidestepped and shoved the woman sideways, leaving her splayed out across a desk. He raised the fire axe above his head. In one fluid motion, Samuel brought the axe down on the host’s wrist, severing the hand. Ichor spewed from the open wound, and the woman began thrashing.

He kicked her away, and bolted.

Thank You for Reading!

This post is part of the Plum Island Novella, following journalist Calvin Noble’s attempts to uncover a lab leak at a controversial research facility.

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“Who are you?” Samuel asked.

“What the hell is going on?” Jeffry demanded, almost simultaneously.

The man on the other side of the glass gave a weary smile.

“Starting with the basics then – my name is Doctor Marcus Lockwood, and I believe you have my file,” he said. “I’m operating under the assumption that you read it, and understand what we were doing here.”

“You were studying an infected deer to find a cure for some super-virus that could wipe us all out,” Samuel replied.

Marcus shook his head, “That’s an oversimplification. When we started, the virus hadn’t gone cross species. We wore the suits as a precaution, but we didn’t know we were dealing with. Once we realized how it spread, and learned we could catch it, I voiced my concerns to the director of the project.”

“I take it he didn’t share your feelings then?” Jeffry asked.

“Understatement of the year,” Marcus laughed. “Although I don’t want to downplay the accomplishments we made, there were certain unnecessary risks. The OV-92 virus is truly fascinating. It works on such a macro-scale compared to anything else I’ve seen. The fastest strain in your body forces its way into your bones, commandeers your blood production. Your own platelets are disabled, converted into viral cluster-bombs for the next victim.”

“It looked like you were close to a cure,” Samuel prodded.

“We were, but the next step was a doozy.”

“Infecting another deer?” Jeffry asked.

“Having one specimen to manage already took ‘round the clock resources. Adding a second was inconceivable. When I told Doctor Blake this, he was displeased. He said that if I couldn’t find a way to safely manage the project, he’d find someone else who would.”

“So you went along with it?”

Lockwood shrugged. “What choice did I have? You know, for a few days, I thought I’d actually been overreacting. We had a reasonably safe enclosure in the lower lab; drains to handle the blood; secure doors; plenty of PPE…”

“Seems like a delivery that big would’ve been on our manifest,” Samuel said. “I don’t remember one.”

“For the experiment to work, we had to create the new specimen. It had to be infected directly by the deer we already had in captivity, so we could compare the strains.”

“I’m sure that went well.”

“Actually, the transmission itself went fine. But afterwards, our original specimen started behaving… aggressively.” He drew out the word. “At first we just thought it was agitated from the blood draw. Poor thing’s got to be in a constant state of suffering. I wasn’t in the lab when it escaped, but I saw the aftermath on the cameras. Chaos in minutes. Poor Hemlock; torn damn near in half.” He buried his face in his hands.

“Sounds like you were lucky to make it out of there at all,” Jeffrey said.

“A deer tore someone in half?” Samuel asked, incredulous.

Marcus shook his head. “That thing isn’t a deer. Not anymore. You didn’t see what it did to the place. Good God, I can’t unsee it.”

Samuel and Jeffry remain quiet as well, letting a few contemplative moments slip by. When it became clear that Marcus wouldn’t say anything further without prompting, Jeffry broke the silence.

“So where do we go from here, Marcus?” He asked. “Do you know why the National Guard stopped answering me on the radio?”

Marcus sighed. “Probably because the military told them to.”

“You think they’ve gotten here already?”

“Oh, absolutely. And I’m sorry you’re all caught up in this too – but I doubt very much they have any intention of letting us leave. Not until Blake gets what he wants.”

“Which is?” Samuel questioned.

“That bone marrow sample,” Marcus replied. “ Before we leave, we’re going to have to test his theory.”

“That’s madness,” Samuel shook his head.

“You want to go back outside with a hurricane bearing down on us, to track down a deer, that could infect us with some horrific, incurable virus?” Jeff asked incredulously.

“Maul us, more likely,” Marcus corrected. “And no. We already have the sample from the thing that escaped. We need to compare that sample against the second specimen; the deer still in the lab.”

“Is there anyone else at the lab who can help?” Samuel asked.

“They’re more likely to fight us than help us. Anyone left in there is probably infected with OV-92, and out of their minds. They can’t be reasoned with. That’s why I need your help,” he explained. “It’ll be a fight to get to the sub-basement, but we need that sample.”

“Why not just wait it out?”

Marcus sighed. “Listen, I don’t know how many different ways I can say this. If we do nothing, we will never get off this island. Right now, whoever’s in charge is getting antsy. I’ve been in that room before. Someone’s probably pointed out that it’s safer to burn the whole damn complex than risk letting the bug out. There will be some moral hand-wringing, sure, but in the end, they’ll press the button.”

“No way. There’s too many people,” Jeffrey said. “There would be too many questions.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Lost a dozen people to a lab accident back in ‘75. We burned the bodies on site, and wrote it up as a ferry accident. The only difference between killing all of us, and killing some of us is a the tally they put in some pre-written cover story.”

Samuel stared at the man from the lab through the glass. He reached over and grabbed the microphone from Jeffry, switching it off. Taking his fellow guard by the shoulder, he encouraged Jeffry to turn his back to the window.

“How do we know we can trust him?” Samuel asked.

“I get the feeling he’s telling the truth – I mean you saw the file, as much as I did. What we’re dealing with on the island, it’s very real.”

I’m not worried about the files; we need a way to make sure he’s not infected before we follow him back to the lab,” Samuel said.

“Hmm. Maybe there’s something in the research notes that can help us?”

Samuel nodded. “Blood, maybe? It seems like the specimen blood is black, and can’t clot.”

“Hey, now you’re talking. Let me go grab a clean knife from upstairs.” Jeffry left the microphone with Samuel, and retreated back to the living quarters.

Samuel switched the mic back on, and turned to Marcus. “We need to make sure we’re not putting ourselves at an even bigger risk by venturing back out with you. We need a test to make sure you’re really clean.”

Marcus shrugged. “I understand your concern. What would you like me to do?”

Ten minutes later, after showing his self-inflicted shoulder nick had already started to scab over, we welcomed Marcus to cross through the airlock.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, we have some planning to do.”

Thank You for Reading!

This post is part of the Plum Island Novella, following journalist Calvin Noble’s attempts to uncover a lab leak at a controversial research facility.

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Watching someone else pass through decontamination was unpleasant in its own right. There’s something incredibly demoralizing about being hosed down, stripped, and roughly scrubbed to the point of blistering, even if it is in your own interest – Samuel decided. He watched from the glass sealed door near the foot of the stairs. Against the rest of the house, the starkly modern barrier seemed ridiculous.

The object the man had been carrying was, he insisted, too important to incinerate. A HAZMAT guard had placed it through the UV scanner to kill off any living cells that may have hitchhiked in. As soon as the decontamination was finished, Jeffry opened a hatch near the door. This was the clean side of the pass through, for outside objects. Inside was a solitary yellow envelope, adequately sized to hold legal-sized papers without bending them. It was thick, and a bit discolored from this man’s apparent trek through the rain and mud.

Jeffry took it, and bent back the brass fasteners that were holding it closed. He slid out thick stack of papers within, and examined each one carefully. After inspecting about half the stack, he handed the documents to Samuel.

“I have no idea what I’m looking at, see if you can figure it out.”

Samuel eagerly took the papers and began to thumb through them. Most of the sheets were hand drawn notes and diagrams beyond his comprehension. But tucked between two pages of lazy cursive he found the first sheet he make sense of. It was a memo.

C

June 18th, 2011

Dr. Lockwood,

Thank you for your message regarding the OV-92 research project. I understand your team has never had to deal with this particular variety of live specimen before, but the nature of the virus precludes study of a culture sample. Previous observation indicates an unparalleled viral mutation rate. Observers in the field were initially unsure they were actually documenting the same virus.

It is with regret I inform you in the opinion of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the risk associated with housing an infected OV-92 animal is far outweighed by the necessity of vaccine development. I’m sure your team will be able to complete your research expediently and safely.

Sincerely,

Dr. Victor Blake

Samuel turned the page to find another memo, apparently in reply:

C

June 20th, 2011

Dr. Blake,

In accordance with your orders, we have continued careful study of the +OV-92 specimen. Similar to the other reports from the Omaha site – before the afflicted herd was immolated – this deer exhibits symptoms of severe cerebral hemorrhaging. This has resulted in bleeding about the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Although in the blood has putrefied into a viscous yet apparently never-clotting form.

Through careful study of blood samples we have discovered an unrelated phenomenon. We attempted to extract blood from a vein to see if it matched the consistency of the fluid surrounding the eyes and ears. On our second day of testing, a fellow researcher discovered that the small needle prick hole did not close, although it was bandaged tightly. I am currently exploring the theory this infected blood is incapable of clotting, or does so at a drastically reduced rate.

Meantime, our studies of the viral genetic material have proved frustrating. Each drawn sample has vastly different DNA. Comparing a day’s worth of OV-92 samples would be akin to a decade’s worth of Influenza mutations. We’re working to find a pattern, and will report back with news.

Sincerely,

Dr. Marcus Lockwood

Lockwood’s reply was unanswered. The next report was sent a week later – although it would be impossible to tell if some documents had been omitted.

C

June27th, 2011

Dr. Blake,

Further examination of the +OV-92 blood confirms my previous theory. Study of blood samples reveled an immeasurably low platelet count. We have also discovered significant numbers of new, anomalous cells in the blood. On a whim, Dr. Walters suggested introducing collagen to a sample of the unknown cells. Remarkably, the collagen seemed to have an activating effect, similar to platelets. Upon activation, the anomalous cells break apart into smaller viral cells, with greatly varying genetic sequences.

It appears this is the step during which the mutation occurs. I am inclined to pose a new hypothesis: the activation results in a deliberate partial scrambling of genetic material. The change acts to camouflage OV-92, making it nearly impossible to immunize against. In nature, this mechanism would also decrease the odds of natural immunity, and allow for repeat infections in surviving organisms.

However, this prediction is at odds with another finding: each sample taken from within the specimen’s body is identical. Yet if it were infected with multiple different strands, some variety would surely be present. Dr. Walters theorizes one dominant strain wins out, and causes the host to produce the anomalous cells in lieu of platelets. We will be taking a bone marrow sample to corroborate.

On a tangential note – we are attaching a requisition for additional hermetically seal-able containers. We understand the CDC has yet to draft protocol for disposal of infected blood. While these procedures are crafted, the +OV-92 specimen is producing blood at an alarming rate – and frankly we are running out of places to safely store it. We ask you address this matter with all deliberate haste.

Sincerely,

Dr. Marcus Lockwood

Samuel read the letter twice. His understanding of the subject matter was certainly limited, but he was able to grasp the bulk of the content. What kind of virus was complex enough to camouflage itself to increase the chance of infection? He read on, finally finding another reply from the apparent supervisor of the research project.

C

July 2nd, 2011

Dr. Lockwood,

I have received your requisition and will ensure more hermetically sealable containers are delivered to the island, post-haste. We have been able to replicate some of your results on a partial culture, taken from the original infected herd, before its immolation.

I am particularly interested in these anomalous cells present in +OV-92 blood, as they are absent in our samples. This is likely as a result of the activation effect you and Dr. Walters documented. If your hypothesis regarding the bone marrow is correct, we believe there is a new avenue toward creating a cure.

If – as you posed – the variation was a form of immunity-resistant cloaking, the base DNA responsible should be consistent between hosts. The CDC is convinced comparing marrow samples from at least two infected animals will allow you to isolate the critical segment of viral material, and lay the paving stones for a vaccine based on genetic editing and markers.

Pending the results of the marrow tests, I have made preparations to have another suitable specimen sent to Plum Island for infection and testing.

Sincerely,

Dr. Victor Blake

Samuel turned the page, and found another sheet of handwritten notes and calculations. He feverishly thumbed through, searching for more decipherable written correspondence. When he neared the final quarter of the file, he gasped.

“What is it?” Jeffry demanded.

“Pictures,” Samuel whispered.

He holds out the glossy print so his fellow guard can look too.

The first image showed an emaciated deer with matted fur, surrounded by men in HAZMAT suits. The animal was restrained. The creature’s eyes were black, glassy, and bordered by an unceasing trickle of ichor. A similar substance leaked from the deer’s twitching ears. One man was collecting the blood pooling at the base of the animal’s eyes, using what looked like a more scientific version of a common turkey baster.

Next in the pile was a photographic reproduction of the virus viewed under a microscope. There were a few similar images, featuring what Samuel could only guess was an aforementioned “anomalous cell.”

“We need to speak with this man,” Samuel urged.

Jeffry wrapped the glass with his knuckle, getting the attention of a HAZMAT worker. “Get him a microphone,” he mouthed, pointing at the freshly decontaminated, partially dressed scientist.

Obediently, one of the yellow-suited men retrieved a headset for the newcomer. The man nodded politely, took the headset, and walked over to the glass wall. He overturned one of the empty plastic bins in the decontamination shower, and made it into a stool. Finally the scientist connected the headset to a port along the wall, above the UV cleaning station.

“Hello, I’m guessing you have some questions.”

Thank You for Reading!

This post is part of the Plum Island Novella, following journalist Calvin Noble’s attempts to uncover a lab leak at a controversial research facility.

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The first hour in the Coast Guard station felt as though it dragged on for an eternity. Samuel spent the time completely engrossed in his thoughts. Although he had worked for years on the island, the death of his coworker came as a crippling shock. Despite all the orientation and training, an actual viral outbreak at the facility had been inconceivable. He tried with all his willpower to stop imagining what it would feel like for his brain to rupture and leak out his eyes and ears.

Though there were no windows on the second floor, Samuel and the other guards were able to see what was going on around the building through the security cameras that had been wired up outside. Some were mounted to the building, while others were attached to the various tree-stand outposts that dotted the island. There were a handful that offered a view of the laboratory, but none gave them a glimpse at the delivery entrance, or the facility’s interior.

Samuel had retreated to the makeshift kitchen – although he was not hungry – to pass a few of the creeping minutes. Since the real kitchen had been ripped out of the first floor, the few men stationed on the island had made do with a handful of plastic folding tables, a few Coleman camp stoves, and a microwave oven. Since none of them ever felt like cooking a proper meal after a long day on patrol, they prepared most food by boiling water, or heating up something in the microwave.

Usually one worker would bring a new supply of groceries when they rotate back onto Plum Island, from the mainland.

Samuel was wide awake, but craving coffee to soothe his splitting headache. He reached into a black trunk – which served as their dry pantry in absence of cabinets – and took out a coffee filter, and a can of Five O’clock grounds. As he tucks the filter into the top of their Mr. Coffee, Jeffry enters from the radio room.

“Putting a pot on?” He asked Samuel.

“It’s gonna be a long night.”

Jeffry laughed nervously. “I ah, talked to the field commander here.”

“Good news, I hope,” Samuel replied. He plopped a few scoops of grounds into the machine.

“They can see the deer on infrared, but they aren’t willing to come onto the island just yet,” Jeffry explained.

“What are they waiting for?”

“To hear back from the lab.”

“No one has radioed in yet?” Samuel asked. He looked at Jeffry, bemused.

“Absolutely zero contact. I thought they would have turned tail as soon as their deer escaped, but the National Guard says no one has left the island,” Jeffry answered.

“Didn’t you talk to someone there an hour or two ago?”

“Yeah, and we’ve heard nothing since.”

“This whole thing really bothers me. It seems impossible,” Samuel shook his head.

“Outbreaks happen. At least this facility is remote. We’re sealed somewhere safe,” Jeffry reasoned.

“No; the way it happened feels wrong. A live animal managed to get out of a secure laboratory? I could understand if contaminated water was spilled, a sample vial was dropped, but a living thing managed to escape without anyone noticing or stopping it? I don’t believe it.”

Jeffry pondered this for a moment. “You think someone let the deer out?”

“I don’t think this was an accident, no. But that doesn’t help us out much now, does it?” Samuel said. Then, deciding to change the subject: “How’s Collins?”

“Downstairs; HAZMAT’s keeping an eye on him. No symptoms yet, so we might have cleaned him up in time. But obviously we can’t risk our lives to bring him upstairs until we know for sure.”

“Why did you let me in so quickly then?”

“Because you never came in direct contact.”

“Collins touched the deer?”

“Collins touched Sanders’s blood.”

“I know it’s not safe to bring him in, but can we talk with Collins over the speaker?” Samuel asked thoughtfully. “I’m going crazy sitting in here, doing nothing.”

“What are you expecting to find out?” Jeffry mused. “The cure? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Samuel poured a pot of water into the machine, shut the lid, and quickly slid the empty pot beneath the spout, catching the first drop of coffee without spilling any. He reached over to a nearby tabletop and grabbed an empty paper cup from a towering stack. Incinerating trash was easier than washing dishes.

“It’s something to do,” he said simply. “I want to at least get an idea of what we’re dealing with out there.”

Jeffry shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Samuel poured himself a cup – hold the cream and sugar – and headed down the hall toward the radio room. He sat down in front of a sturdy wooden desk, which bore deep scratches from careless crew members, dragging heavy equipment across the surface.

Samuel set the coffee down near one of the dozens of rings left behind by previous beverages, and reached for a headset.

“Hello, this is Samuel Piper. I’d like to speak with Collins, if he’s able,” He said. He releases the talk button, and waits. After a few seconds of silence, the radio crackled.

“One second, Piper,” a voice answers from the set of speakers before him.

“Hello? This is Collins,” A second voice piped up. “What is it?”

“Collins, how are you holding up?”

“I’m pretty shook up, I’ll be honest. They told me I’m probably okay; they’re just being safe. But my God… whatever Sanders had we do not want,” he answered.

“The last thing you probably want to do is re-live it. But can you tell me what you saw?”

Silence.

After a few moments passed, Samuel heard Collins exhale deeply. “Alright. I was in my tower. My goggles were fogging up and I couldn’t see for shit. I just barely catch the outline of a buck walking through the trees. But it’s not walking right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever seen a dog run? They use their front feet to pull the ground toward them, then fling their back legs forward, push off the ground with both hind legs, and start the cycle over again. It’s like they use ‘em in pairs. I reckoned it was hurt already, so I lined up a shot with my tranq. I squeezed off a shot, and I know it hit.”

“How did you know?” Samuel asked.

“The buck flinched, looked around… and I know it sounds unbelievable, but it growled at me. Like a wolf, or bear,” Collins explained.

“The same thing happened to me,” Samuel remarked. “Thought I was hearing things.”

“You most definitely were not,” Collins answered gruffly. His coarse voice was scarcely louder than a whisper, but came through the radio with perfect clarity.

Samuel shuddered. “What happened after you hit the deer, and it growled at you?”

“Walked off the same way it walked over,” he offered. “Now, I figured I hit it. But I guessed the caps didn’t work or the plunger got stuck, maybe the serum was old. I was hoping it was just working slower than normal. I reloaded my tranq, but before I could line up another shot, the damn thing was out of range. Kept it in my sights as long as I could, in case it came back my way. Damn thing didn’t show any sign of dropping at that point.

“I was about to call it in when I saw something moving. Lined up another shot, only this wasn’t a deer; it was a person walkin’ a little slumped over.”

“Sanders,” Samuel breathed.

“Mhm. Couldn’t tell at the time, ‘course. But I could see he was looking in the ground, half crouched down. Think he was following tracks.”

“Jesus, he followed it all the way from his post?”

“Must’ve. He probably saw the way it was walking and thought it was already injured. I mean he’s not wrong – I don’t think this deer can run. But Piper, he caught it.”

“What?” Samuel demanded.

“I called out, he didn’t answer. Then he collapsed. I ran over and when I found him, he was carrying a hunting knife. The blade, his hands, and his front were covered in this black stuff – looked like watered-down tar. At that point his goggles had been knocked off and he was bleeding pretty bad. I bent down to see where it was coming from.

“So much had pooled around his eyes, I thought he cut his head, but…” Collins trailed off. “I’m sorry. H-he started groaning and flailing. He dropped the knife and started clawing at his eyes. Then he just-just shrieked at me.”

Collins fell silent. Samuel could just make out the sounds of muffled sobbing and shallow breathing. He gave the fellow guard a few minutes to collect his thoughts. Eventually, Collins steadied his breathing and continued recounting: “He was just thrashing around in the mud, bleeding out his nose and ears too. And he screamed, ‘Kill me, please fucking kill me! It burns,’ he yelled, ‘just fucking end it!’” Collins recalled. “I took out my sidearm and—” His voice shook as his breath rattled uncontrollably again.

“—I emptied a whole clip into him before he died. He was screeching and flailing until the end. I figured coming so close to him, there was a good chance I picked up whatever virus he got from the buck. But just in case, I took off my jacket and wrapped it around my hands. That’s how I dragged him back here. Hazmat took him and tossed his body in the incinerator. Then they hosed me down,” Collins finished.

“The body’s gone?” Samuel asked.

“Yeah,” Collins replied.

While the idea of further desecrating Sanders’ corpse didn’t particularly appeal to him, part of him had hoped to get some concrete proof of the symptoms they were faced with, perhaps even get a sample for the laboratory. But Jeffry was right: with rudimentary medical training only a step above a Boy Scout’s First Aid merit badge, his odds of learning anything helpful from Sanders’ corpse were slim. Besides, the inherent risk in keeping the cadaver around was astronomical.

As a few more minutes slipped by, Samuel recognized the guard was done talking.

“Thank you for your help, Collins. I’m sorry,” he offered.

Samuel signed off, removed his headset, and put his head in his hands.

At the very least, he had been able to confirm a few things. The symptoms, for example, matched perfectly with what the boys in the lab had said: severe hemorrhaging, and bleeding from the eyes, ears, and nose. Blood pooling in the skull and possible pressure on the brain could explain the mania. What troubled Samuel was that Collins had killed Sanders. He understood why; the act itself seemed completely justifiable if not merciful. But based on the buck still lumbering around the island, Samuel was willing to bet the mystery ailment didn’t cause death quickly. If left alone, would Sanders still be stumbling after the very deer that afflicted him?

Jeffry wrapped on the doorframe, shaking Samuel from his thoughts.

“What did I tell you?”

“You were right,” Samuel admitted. “But this was helpful. We still don’t know anything for certain but we can make a few safe assumptions.”

“Safe,” Jeffry chuckled.

Ignoring the retort, Samuel continued; “Cross-species transmission is possible.”

“Obviously.”

“Symptoms become obvious pretty quickly. It’s only about a ten-minute walk from post three to four. That means Sanders had shorter than that to catch up to the buck, and become infected. I know we have to be extra safe, but I’m pretty sure Collins is fine,” Samuel reasoned. His eyes darted upward as he contemplated this for a moment. “Physically speaking, of course,” he clarified.

“You don’t think it’s airborne then?”

“If it was we’d all be sick already. Collins says Sanders was covered in that thing’s blood.”

“You are making a few leaps here, Piper. We have no proof to back this up.”

“I don’t like the alternative, Pike,” Samuel snapped. “The national guard got pretty quiet out there didn’t they? I wonder why they haven’t come ashore yet to rescue us. I’m sure at least one person has suggested firebombing us.”

“That’s insane.”

“I imagine it would be preferable to this infecting the deer population on Long Island and spreading to seven million people. The idea is only going to sound more attractive the longer this drags on. I’d rather figure a way out of this without the National Guard – and certainly before the army shows up.”

Jeffry shook his head. “We stay put for now. We don’t have enough—”

“Stay back!” a voice from downstairs shouted, cutting off Jeffry. “I’m warning you!”

The two made a mad dash for the security feed room and start scanning the angles surrounding the building. Then they saw it: right in front of the building’s main entrance, about a hundred feet from the threshold, was a man in a filthy lab coat. Both his hands were raised above his head. In one fist, he clutched something thin and rectangular – the grainy quality of the camera made it impossible to tell precisely what.

“I won’t say it again,” the voice bellowed from the ground floor.

On the camera, Jeffry and Samuel saw a HAZMAT-protected man step forward into the frame. He leveled his pistol at the approaching intruder.

“Please, I’m clean,” the man begged. “We need to get this out.” He shakes the object in his hand.

The guard had already begun to apply pressure on the trigger when Samuel slammed his fist down on the intercom.

“Wait!” he barked. “Stand down!”

Thank You for Reading!

This post is part of the Plum Island Novella, following journalist Calvin Noble’s attempts to uncover a lab leak at a controversial research facility.

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After an investigative piece of mine inadvertently — though not unfairly — embarrassed the wrong person, my boss stuck me with the “Crazy Pile.” These were community story tips that sounded either implausible, or downright impossible. Of course, someone had to look through them, or else risk getting beat on a good scoop. The job was mostly a waste of time. But some of those stories that turned out to be true, were truly horrifying.

Such was the case with what Samuel Piper witnessed one chilly August evening back in 2011.

“Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me,” I said. I smile politely. One of my hands was wrapped around a chipped souvenir mug. The other held a pen eagerly over my notebook. I had another sip of coffee and looked across the table at Samuel.

“Of course,” he replied with a nod. “Thank you coming here. I don’t like diving into the details in public. What exactly do you know about Plum Island?”

“Bout as much as anyone else on the North Fork, I suppose. Been by it a few times on the Orient Point Ferry. I know DHS watches over it, and I know it’s damn near impossible for a journalist to get on shore.”

Samuel gave an approving nod. “Place is just secret enough to breed conspiracy theories. I’ve heard the local talk; theories about two-headed deer, gene experiments and such. If they knew the truth, they’d be rioting in the streets, demanding the military firebomb the whole place before it kills us all.”

I fidgeted in my seat. At this point, I hadn’t quite made up my mind about the man’s story, but I was leaning toward crazy, rather than plausible. “How do you know so much about the island?”

“I used to work there,” Samuel explained. “Security detail, back before Homeland took over.”

“What was it like working there?” I pried.

“Can’t say much,” he shrugged. “They made me sign a million ‘n a half nondisclosure agreements.”

“You can tell me,” I urged. “Legally speaking, I mean. There’s nothing a court could compel you to do to make me give you up as my source if you want to stay off the record.”

“Off the record then?” Samuel asked.

I nodded.

“Well like I said, I never worked in the laboratory. There’s a separate building just across the island; old Coast Guard Station, I think. We’d stay in three-day shifts, ‘stead of shuttling back and forth to the mainland every damn day.”

“And what did you actually do as a guard if you weren’t in the laboratory?” I inquired.

“Kept watch for loose animals. Wasn’t much we could do about birds, but land animals were absolutely forbidden. Not much lives out there except squirrels these days, I’d expect. But back then, there were plenty of deer.”

“And what would you do when you found them?”

“Shot ‘em dead, dragged ‘em back to the station, and burned them in the incinerator. Every last one,” He explained. Samuel tapped his fingers on the table and starred vacantly at the wall behind me for a moment. “Unless it was raining – or the animal was in or near the water. Sometimes deer try to swim out from the mainland.” He added.

I raised my eyebrow and asked, “Why is that? Seems like a lot of extra trouble.”

“The boys in the lab were paranoid about blood getting in the water. Matter of fact, they were paranoid about the water in general. Every damn drain in the place led to a boiler. Had to be purified before it left the facility.”

“Were they worried something from the lab would contaminate animals back on Long Island, or the mainland?” I asked.

Samuel nodded. “They seemed especially fixated on deer. You live on Long Island, so I don’t have to tell you what a pain they are. If something ever piggy backed off Plum Island, it’d be up and down the whole East Coast in a month. Probably jump to other animals too, maybe even humans.”

“Makes sense,” I replied. “Not to side track you here, but when you called, you said this was about Prop 12; the plan to let the city sell the island off.”

“I’m getting to that,” he waved his hand dismissively. “But to understand, you need to know what happened my last night on the job. It was my turn to pull an overnight shift in one of the tree stands, checking for animals. Hurricane Irene was set to make landfall, and it was raining so hard you’d think the sky was falling…”

I set down my coffee, took up my pen, and began to write.

Samuel pulled his coat zipper all the way up to his collar, and cinched down the elastic ties to pull his hood tight around his head. There were only two buildings on the island, and the dirt roads that ran between them and the docks were unlit. He supposed the boys in the lab – as he called them – didn’t want mainlanders getting a glimpse at what went on in the night. To ensure the patrolmen would actually be able to see, they were all equipped with night vision goggles, courtesy of the DHS.

Samuel’s tree stand swayed in the tropical storm-force winds, which had just reached Plum Island. He’d made doubly sure to secure it, adding a few extra lashings with some parachute cord from the outpost. Bored, soaked, and miserable, Samuel marked the grueling hours by pacing, scanning the horizon for glowing animal eyes, and cradling his tranquilizer rifle.

In his entire career on the island, he’d shot a few dozen deer and knocked out a handful more with his CapChur Special Issue. So, when he saw the familiar outline of a buck – colored a radioactive green by the glow of his night vision goggles – Samuel was surprised, but not alarmed. He pulled the butt of the gun into his shoulder, rested his cheek on the stock, peered through the scope, and waited.

Through streams of water trickling down over the lens, Samuel could tell the deer was by the water’s edge, about a football field’s length away. Out of range. He needed to wait for the animal to move closer before trying a take-down. Samuel worked hard to get his breathing under control, and stay silent. The absolute nightmare worst-case scenario was spooking the deer, causing it to run back into the water. If that happened, he would have to run back to the station, grab a few other guards, and chase after the animal in their zodiac. The prospect of a late-night search during the storm did not excite Samuel.

He continued to wait patiently as the deer milled around. After what felt like hours, the animal moved away from the beach, onto the grass by the edge of the forest where Samuel was perched. At 40 yards, the buck was just at the edge of the gun’s range. At about 20, he lined up his shot and squeezed the trigger.

The tranquilizer gun produced a crack about as loud as a firecracker, which was mostly lost in the wind. The deer flinched, picked his head up, and looked around at the trees. The animal growled fiercely at the darkness, and darted out of range. Samuel lowered the gun, perplexed.

He slung his weapon across his back, carefully climbed to the ground, and set off toward where the buck had been. He quickly found his neon-fletched tranq dart lying in the mud, and squatted down to examine it more closely. As far as he could tell, the plunger hadn’t been depressed. The capsule was still full of fast-acting sedative, but the delivery needle had shattered on impact.

Frustrated, Samuel unclipped his radio from his belt.“Tower five to base, come in… over.”

After a moment, the radio crackled. “I hear you. Report… over”

“Looks like a deer made it onshore. Looks like I got a bum dart, broke on impact. Just my luck… over.”

“Uh, 10-4 tower five. You catch where it was headed? – Over.”

Samuel paused to study the hoof prints stamped in the mud.

“Yeah, looks like it ran off toward tower seven… over.”

“10-4. Be advised, tower seven, there may be a deer approaching you from the south-east. A tracking team is 10-17. Tower five head back to base. It is imperative you leave the area immediately… over ‘n out.”

“10-4, over ‘n out,” acknowledged a third voice, presumably another guard.

Samuel signed off too. He stowed his radio, pocketed his flashlight, and put his night vision goggles back on before starting back toward the Coast Guard station.

The old outpost was a rather unassuming building. It was comprised of two boxy floors stacked neatly atop one another, followed by a sharply-gabbled third floor, and capped with an octagonal watchtower. Warm light glowed in the windows along the first floor, but the second level was completely dark. Samuel knew the inside of this floor was completely sealed off – every aperture boarded up and enclosed with weather-stripping and caulk.

The first floor housed the incinerator, and the decontamination showers that acted as an airlock to the hermetically sealed living space. An oxygen scrubber insured those upper floors were as isolated as the international space station.

On that particular evening, it seemed the ordinary precautions were not enough.

A HAZMAT team stood waiting to spray him with chemical foam, and prod him with long-bristled scrubbing brushes. After a preliminary wash — over his hollered protestations — the squadron dragged him inside and stuffed him into the decontamination shower. Here, he was ordered to strip naked, and place all clothing and equipment in a thick red plastic tub, which a pair of guards promptly sealed before scrubbing him down until his skin turned pink.

Next, he was offered clean clothes from a green tote container, and ordered to proceed upstairs. Once dressed, the interior airlock slid open with a mechanical hiss, and shut just soon after Samuel passed through.

Outside of the chemical shower, the laboratory feel of the building quickly faded back to the original décor of the aging Coast Guard outpost. The hallway leading to the staircase could have been plucked from a 1930’s home, and most of the upstairs quarters maintained the same feel.

Outpost commander Jeffry Pike stood waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

“Glad to see you’re alright, Mr. Piper,” Jeffry said.

“Thank you,” Samuel replied. He stepped gingerly up the stairs to prevent his irritated skin from rubbing against the rough cotton of his replacement clothes. “I’d have thought you might have mentioned the shower over the radio.”

“Too risky to have this kind of information over the airwaves. All the patrolmen have been ordered to hunker down. The governor has already called in the National Guard to set up a perimeter around the island in case there are any more,” Jeffry explained.

“Anymore what?”

“Deer.”

“Sir, I think we’re more than equipped to handle an animal,” Samuel scoffed.

Jeffry shakes his head. “You weren’t the first to see it Mr. Piper; watchmen at posts three and four both tried to take it down as well. Both reported broken darts. Thank God you had the sense not to chase the damn thing.”

“Collins and Sanders? They tried to chase it down?” Samuel asked. “What did they find?”

“Sanders is dead,” Jeffry says gravely. “And I’m not sure Collins will pull through. It looks like both picked up what the deer was carrying.”

“Christ,” Samuel whispered. “Is it that contagious?”

“We’re not sure. But we’re confident you haven’t contracted it. Sanders was symptomatic when discovered, and Collins started showing signs a few minutes after touching him.”

“And I suppose the boys in the lab have nothing to say about this?”

“Actually, they were surprisingly forthcoming,” Jeffry admitted. “When Collins found Sanders in the field, I called it in.”

“What did they say?”

“Burn the body, no hesitation,” Jeffry said coldly. “They said they were working to nail down a vaccine for an extremely unstable strain of some livestock disease. He called it OV-something. Gives animals lesions, and makes ‘em bleed from their eyes and ears. Apparently it’s even more aggressive in deer than cattle,” Jeffry explained.

Samuel bit his lip and looked at the floor. “I don’t get it. How the hell did this thing get outside?”

“Mistakes happen,” Jeffry said.

“No, not like this they don’t,” Samuel shook his head. “Something is off.”

“Think what you like, but we have new orders now.”

“Which are?”

“Quarantine. We have to wait this out until the National Guard can get in place and sweep for any infected animals,” He said. Then, he ominously added: “And people.”

Thank You for Reading!

This post is part of the Plum Island Novella, following journalist Calvin Noble’s attempts to uncover a lab leak at a controversial research facility.

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Happy Thanksgiving!

I wanted to take the opportunity today to express how grateful I am for your continued support as a storyteller. There are countless things you could be giving your attention to, and it means the world to me that you’ve chosen to spend time with my writing.

This week, I’m pleased to announce my latest serial for you to enjoy: The Plum Island Conspiracy. Read on below!

Calvin Noble (no relation) is trying to make a name for himself as a serious investigative journalist. But with his latest assignment, that’s easier said than done. After one of his pieces winds up embarrassing the wrong person, he’s saddled with the “Crazy Pile” — a collection of news tips too insane to be real.

But all of that changes when Cal gets his hands on a stolen file from an off-the-books research facility, whose experiments could threaten the world. Can Cal get the truth out before its too late — or would the public sleep better simply not knowing?

The Plum Island Conspiracy is a novella that will run through mid January, and will be available to all free and paid subscribers.

Chapters

1 — Outpost 5

2 — Survivor Stories

3 — An Email Exchange

4 — Doctor Lockwood

5 — Taking Samples

6 — Lab Results

7 — Proposition 12

Note to the reader: at the time of publishing this guide, The Plum Island Conspiracy is completely written, however some installments may not yet have been uploaded. Chapters highlighted in green will automatically publish on the specified day.

If you navigate to those pages in advance, you should be brought to a publication countdown clock!

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We slip out of the precinct under the pretense of grabbing some grub. No one objects. 'Far as they know, our perp is already under lock 'n key.

Craft and I park our cruiser down at Water Street to sell the ruse, then ride that tourist -trap street car down to the end of the line. Ybor's crowded. The base beat from a half dozen greasy nightclubs shakes the old brick streets. The crowd is a mish-mash of tourists, club goers, and teen gang bangers, weaving under iron balconies and arches.

We move off the main thoroughfare, away from the cigar bars and hangouts. Past an overgrown park, Craft's print-out directions bring us down an alleyway so tight, we have to step over a sleeping bum to get to the faded red door at the end.

Craft grabs the handle, and the damn thing groans as it swings open. “C’mon,” he says.

I hesitate at the threshold, heart racing. Why go through all that trouble to hide your tracks, then leave the damn door unlocked? No, something doesn’t smell right. But Craft’s disappeared into the dark building before I can object. Against my better judgement, I follow him inside.

Beyond the strip of streetlight from the alley, the place is blacker ‘n tar. The tight beam of my flashlight makes it hard to see more than a few square feet of the place at once. A dust cloth draped over some future here… a stack of wooden crates there.

A light shines in my face. “Hey, get a load of this.” It’s Craft, standing over an open box and shaking a wad of dough in my direction. Even from across the room, the glowing green indicator worms tip me off that it’s Future Cash.

“Bet it’s the same batch we found from the store,” I say. “We should start bagging—“ I froze mid sentence as my eyes fell on a familiar site: the gunmetal finish of a Jansten-model COOLR. The thing makes no noise whatsoever. I only know it’s on by the violet indicator light, blinking on the surface.

“Is that what I think it is?” Craft asks.

Before I can answer, he’s pulling open the lid. He frowns, clearly not sure what to make of what he’s looking at.

“Lemme see.”

I come around his shoulder to get a better look. Sitting on the bottom of the box is a single stun grenade, pin out, and trigger lever released. My brain recognizes the trap early enough to utter a single-syllable curse and squeeze my eyes shut; but too late to bring my hands up to cover my ears.

A deafening bang cuts the quiet like a thunderclap, leaving behind a high-pitch whine in my ears. I open my eyes to see Craft staggering, clearly disoriented and groping for support. The room isn't dark anymore: work lights blast the room with blinding white, and a familiar silhouette stands in the doorway. Was that a gun in his hand?

Unwilling to wait and find out, I turned back toward the entrance just in time to catch a glimpse of the bum from the alley, pulling the door shut and blocking my escape.

"Neither of you move," Mirkwood orders, pulling the butt of a pump action shotgun against the crux of his shoulder.

"Chief?" Craft asks, coming to his senses, "I don't understand."

"Shut up," Mirkwood snarls, "And sit down." He motions to a couch, draped in plastic.

Craft and I comply.

"I'm going to talk for a minute. Then I'm going to ask you a question. And depending on how you answer, I might not shoot you." Nod if you understand.

We nod.

"Excellent." Mirkwood crinkles the plastic covering as he sinks into the armchair opposite the sofa. He keeps the gun leveled at us across his lap. He swaps his slow, almost out-of-breath cadence for a biting tone. "Everyone at the Temporal Bureau of Investigation knows the lottery is the greatest honeypot scheme ever created. But did you ever stop and ask yourself who cooked it up in the first place?"

I blink.

"The government, right?" Craft asks, slowly.

"The government?" Mirkwood lets out a booming laugh. "Ah, that's rich. No, we've got Caliban Blake to thank for that. Yes, the same Caliban Blake who first discovered time travel. First to pop back to run the lottery scam, too. See, Blake was exceptionally cunning. He knew it was only a matter of time before others tried to profit off the past as well. And if everyone is rich, nobody is.

"He figured the only sensible thing was to pull the ladder up behind himself, so to speak... founding the TBI to catch and kill anyone trying to follow in his footsteps.”

“And that makes us what, exactly? Enforcers for some rich asshole?” I ask.

“That’s one perspective.”

“What’s yours?”

“Protecting the future. Just think of the harm thousands of time travelers could cause, mucking around in the past. We hold back chaos, Decklain; our mission is the same but someone has to foot the bill. Why not Blake?”

Craft scoffs. “Don’t buy it. Why not just tell the rest of the agents we’ve got a private benefactor? Why the secrecy?”

Mirkwood said nothing.

“Why set up guys like Gordon Gale?”

“Some people just get in the way, in ways a kid like you can’t understand.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a stack of coffin-sized COOLRs, and it clicks.

My partner gets to looking like he’s about to talk, and I shut him right up. “For your own good, can it Craft.”

“No, no it’s alright. Mister Blake appreciates the need for sharp young minds, capable of pulling the right threads. Unfortunately, he doesn’t need yours — at least not for a few decades.”

Mirkwood pulls the trigger. There’s a bang, then Craft slumps to the floor, howling and holding his gut. By the lack of blood, I make the leap Mirkwood’s slinging beanbag rounds. The chief turns the barrel on me before I can move a muscle. “You, you’re more of a day-to-day man. Small picture guy. I need you here and now, running down numbers with your head down. You do that for me?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer.

“Good. Now, if you’re gonna have a future here, you’re gonna have to prove your loyalty.”

Both our eyes flit to Craft, writhing on the floor.

“Sir, he’s my partner—“

“And he’s going in the box one way or another. Question is, are you gonna be joining him?”

Craft fights me the whole way to the open COOLR, begging and pleading like a damn coward. He manages to take a few swings, but it feels half-hearted, almost like a kid throwing a tantrum. I bring my knee up into his stomach, and he goes kinda limp. After that, getting him into the box is like dragging a big sack of potatoes. When I’m done, I slam the lid shut knowing full well the next time it opened, I and everyone Craft knew will be dead. To him, the time will pass in an instant.

“Off to a good start.” For the first time since he entered the room, Mirkwood lowers the gun. “Now for the real test.”

He tosses me a wad of cash, all wrapped up in a fat rubber band. I look it over, confused. “The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Spend it. At least some of it, down at the corner store down by the precinct. No masks. No hiding your face. You do it in full view of the cameras, so I know you’re not welching on me.”

Realization hits me: the ordinary looking money probably came from the same shell-company scheme Craft stumbled onto. By passing it, I’d be part of the conspiracy too.

“I do this, and we’re done?” I ask.

Mirkwood breaks out into a belly laugh. “No, Dick; you do this, and it’s only the beginning.”

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The air in the old briefing room feels like soup, and that oscillating fan in the corner is really just blowing around the stink of stale coffee. No chance of cracking a window to let in the breeze; damn things 've been stuck shut as long as I've worked here, and that's saying something.

Place is packed with about two dozen of Florida’s finest, all crinkled clothes and thousand-yard stares. All except the Rook nipping at my elbow, bouncing in his seat like a toddler on a sugar rush. Light hasn’t left his eyes yet; he still shows up clean shaven, clean-smelling, in a nice pressed suit. Still looks like the photo on his shiny new name badge: Tommy Craft.

He knows just enough of the ropes to hang himself, but he’s never seen field work.

Course, I’m the sad sack stuck with him the day of the big jackpot.

Kid’s about to say something. Before he can, Captain Mirkwood Waddles in and grabs the lectern like it’s the last tray left at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Even from the back row, I can count the fat marbles of sweat dripping down his shiny dome.

He says: “Alright, the fix is in. DragNet is flagging seven possible perps in our backyard."

"Seven winners in one precinct? What are the odds?" Quips Crowley, another prune of a detective sitting two rows from the front. "Sounds like we should buy a lotto ticket."

Dry laughter ripples through the briefing room.

"Enough cracking wise. Bureau Brass say there's one legitimate winner in the Timeline of Record. One. That's it. Boys in Denver think they have him. If they're right, every player in our precinct is guilty. 'Course, if Denver is wrong, a legitimate threat runs free, and our goose is cooked." He snaps his briefing binder shut, and points to a wall-mounted file holder beside the door. "Grab your assignments on the way out. I want this wrapped up before supper."

Crowley mutters a jab about the Captain's dinnertime habits on the way out. I stifle a tired smile, take a file, and drift out into the bullpen.

"What do we have?" Craft asks.

"Hmm." I lean against my coffee-stained, laminate desk, careful not to topple the growing mountain of past-due paperwork, and flip open the file. "Shit ton of legwork, by the look of it. Perp walks in to buy one ticket, picks their own numbers, and pays cash.”

“Where?”

“Gibsonton.” I shove the file against his chest. “Let’s go.”

The store in question is some off-brand gas station you'd probably never stop at past sundown. I drive past a row of out-of-order fuel pumps and park the unmarked sedan out of view of the front door. I lead the way across the cracked pavement, stepping over knee-high parking lot weeds before slipping in the front door.

An entry chime sounds. dee-dum.

The interior is filthy; fluorescents buzz like a hornet's nest, casting a warped glow over cracked, grimy tiles. No one stands behind the register. I ring the tarnished countertop bell and wait, arms folded, as the sound reverberates through the empty store.

Out shuffles a shriveled string bean of a man, wispy white hair like a frazzled q-tip, with bushy brows to match. "Can I help you?"

"Matter of fact, you can. Name's Dick Decklain. Secret Service. My partner and I are looking into a counterfeit ring. Guy we’re looking for would’ve bought a lotto ticket,” I lie. “Anyone pay for a ticket with cash?”

The clerk scoffs. “Yeah, everyone.” He taps a sloppily-written sign hanging from the register: Card Reader Broken! Cash Only.

I look around the empty store, then back at him with a cocked eyebrow. Awkward silences tend to get nervous people yapping.

Craft breaks the silence, leading the clerk a little: “We think he was in here this morning, if that helps.” I glare at him. From his face, I gather he thinks he’s being clever, but he’s ruining my line of questioning.”

“Now you mention, one fella who bought a ticket this morning was acting a bit strange."

"Strange, how?"

"Dunno. A little shaky while he's paying, I suppose."

“Did you get that on video?” Craft points at the camera above the wall of cigarette cartons.

"The quality isn't great. But I imagine you'll get a decent look at his face. If you gentlemen have an email, I can send you a copy."

"That will be very helpful." Craft has a business card ready in hand.

The clerk takes it. "While I get that for you—" He pops open the register drawer, fishes out a few singles, and slides them across the counter. "—I figured you might want to look at the cash I have from him. I don't bother checking singles. I mean, who would?"

As he shuffles off into the back room again, I study the bills more closely. They're perfectly ordinary, like they're fresh out of someone's back pocket after a few too many rides through the laundry. There's even a little bit of lint stuck to the cotton paper. Security threads slither beneath its surface like tiny, dim-glowing snakes, confirming to me that the money is real — it just won't be printed for another decade or so.

To my trained eye, the inconsistencies are glaring. For starters, the portrait on the bill is not of Washington, but of Harmony Comstock, the leader who oversaw the country's transition into Moderated Democracy. Just to the right of her face is a line of text reading, "Series 2035," the last year a United States Mint will print a currency note. Half a decade later, owning them will be criminalized.

"Contraband?" Craft asks.

"Ember in a haystack. You can't imagine the damage this would do..."

Craft snaps open an evidence bag, bringing me back from my ramblings. "Let me handle this, sir." He seals the bills in paradox-proof plastic, just as the clerk re-enters the room.

"You should have that file any second now."

Our phones buzz. Two new files in my inbox.

One's a video clip without a thumbnail. Other's a picture of an olive-skinned man with thick black hair. Grainy, but good enough for DragNet. I forward the picture to our forensic team and pocket my phone. "We'll be in touch."

The second our cruiser doors slam shut, I turn to Craft, struggling to keep a level tone. "Tell me something slick: why do we always use the present tense during interviews?"

"Several reasons," he said, as if reading from a flashcard. "But primarily for the purpose of tripping up suspects, and making them divulge asynchronous information."

"Correct. And yet I recall you having a difficult time avoiding the past tense in there." I jerk my head toward the building.

Realization flits across his face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, be better. The clerk is just a witness, but a slip up like that when talking to a suspect could break the case. Understand?"

He nods.

The rest of the morning bleeds together in a slow slog of plodding police work.

DragNet identifies the man as one Gordon Gale, who recently moved into an apartment up in Seminole Heights, and opened an account just days prior. A priority RED alert tells us that further information about the man existed, but was sealed. A bit more sleuthing confirms Gordon Gale had used his debit card at an ATM across the street from the gas station, just minutes before the ticket was sold.

Good enough for me.

We haul him in for questioning. The slippery sonofabitch denies it all, of course, but we’ve got him dead to rights.

The whole case falls into place easier ‘n Apple pie.

So hours later when Craft comes to me with what he calls “new information,” I’m a little annoyed.

“What the hell is it, kid?"

He casts a shifty-eyed glance in each direction. "Not here."

I roll my eyes, but follow him through the bullpen. He leads me past the floor-to-ceiling seal -- an eagle clutching an hourglass in one talon, and a lottery ball in the other, wreathed by the words, "Custodimus Numerum," — before yanking me by the tie into a utility closet.

"What in blazes—"

"Shh!" The rookie has the nerve, the sheer audacity to press a hand over my mouth. For an instant, I'm too shocked to respond. He takes advantage, and launches into his hushed explanation. "Gabriel Gale is being set up, and I think some of the other detectives know."

Now he has my attention. I must be showing my interest on my face, because he gives a little nod and lowers his hand.

"Time Jumpers all try to run pretty much the same scheme: pop back in time, win the lottery and convert the winnings into antiquities--something small and valuable they can fit in their COOLR, and stash it for a couple centuries.”

I nod. A COOLR — short for Chrono-Obstructing Object Receptacle — is a handy piece of 22nd century tech, and a nightmare for our bureau. Once you close the lid, time inside stops moving. Museums used to use them to preserve really fragile stuff. Once the cost came down, they started replacing fridges, since they can keep food fresh for however long you like.

They're also a massive pain in my ass: if a civvy gets their hands on one, it'll upend the entire future. It'd be like giving a nuke to some medieval warlord. Finding and impounding them is grueling and time-consuming work if you're slow to catch your perp.

"Yeah," I say. "Got no reason to suspect this guy's any different."

"I got to thinking, all of this is almost too convenient: no long-term history or known associates, sets up a fresh account with a major financial institution, and punches the lottery... DragNet can only show us one picture of him, ever...”

"Criminals can get careless."

"He's smart enough to crack time travel, but too dumb to cover his tracks?”

"He may not think he has to. Jumpers don't know the lotto is a trap. It wouldn't work if they did."

“But why pay for the ticket with future money? He had plenty of present-day cash.”

“Like I said, he may have gotten careless.”

Craft shakes his head, smiling. “You’re still not getting it. By the time it’s possible to pop back to the past, paper money is illegal.”

I smack my own forehead. “Gale would’ve had to make a separate time jump to pick up the money—and there’s no earthly reason to do that.”

“Exactly. Why stop to get money he isn’t going to need?”

An uncomfortable gnawing feeling eats at my stomach. "Shit."

“That got me thinking," he presses on: "the guy with the winning ticket isn’t the only one who walks away with money. If your store sells that lucky number, you pocket a cool commission.”

“How much are we talking?”

“Depends on the state. Usually a few hundred thousand."

"Pennies, compared to the jackpot."

"Only if you're thinking small-time," Craft counters. "Imagine an enterprise. Imagine raking in profit on every single draw, ever."

"Nice theory kid, 'cept I can't think of a single store that's sold more than one winning ticket."

"That's where you're wrong." A grin splits his face. "What if I told you the same company has bought out every single winning lottery store a week before it sells the winning ticket... then offloaded it a month later?"

"I'd say that's a helluva coincidence. Then I'd ask how it happened without someone noticing."

"About a dozen layers of shell corporations, tracing back to something called TITAN holdings. They have an address out in Ybor city. Think we should check it out."

"I think you're right."

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You probably never give a second thought to the work it takes to make your favorite films sound good, but if I yanked out the sound bed—all that ambience—you’d be walking out of the theater. No room is totally silent; you’ve got buzzing lights, squeaky fans, hissing radiators… all of that needs to be edited in. But first, it has to be collected.

Between gigs I travel to remote locations with my microphone, collecting unique sounds like some foodie chef sourcing exotic ingredients. This particular trip took me to a tiny mountain town in Idaho, where I rented an ancient A-frame smelling like cigarettes and mildew.

After settling in, I hit the trail with my microphone and no real plan. I pressed record, gathering chirping birds, creaking pine trees, and rushing water. 

When the creek I followed upstream arrived at a waterfall, the rush became a roar. I filled a few minutes of my memory card with the ambience, before exploring further. Behind the waterfall was a half-flooded cave, snaking deep into the rock.

I trudged through water shallower than my knees until the falls faded beyond me, leaving me with the sporadic drip-drop of developing stalactites. My phone flashlight lit the way until this sound faded as well.

For a moment, I just took it all in: the almost oppressive sound of the mountain vault. Like any space, it still wasn’t totally quiet. There was a deep, almost yawning hum. Unlike usual background noises that felt far off, this was oppressive; like a speaker blasting a base beat’s ghost just inches from my ears. I felt it in my teeth.

“Weird,” I muttered. My voice banished the sound, filling the cave with its own echo. When the space fell silent, the hum returned. 

I left unsettled, but ultimately excited for having stumbled upon a fantastic effect for a horror project. After a frustrating few hours in the studio however, I ran into a problem. Any track I added on top of the cave ambience muted it completely. 

Thinking the problem could’ve been my headphones, I repeated the process over my speakers. The result was the same bone-buzzing hum that set my teeth on edge. Paranoia crept over me, as my brain became increasingly suspicious someone or something was in the room with me.

I tried to put the feeling aside for the time being and focus on the task at hand.

Was there a problem with my entire system?

I sent the file to a buddy in the music biz, asking him to test it on his setup. He assured me he would, and I went for a walk to clear my head.

He called me an hour later, clearly shaken. “I can’t get rid of it, dude.” 

“Get rid of what?”

“The noise. I unplugged the board, cut the power—it’s not coming from the speakers. It’s like it’s burned into the background of the room.”

“Does it go away when you make other noise?”

“Yeah, but it always comes back.”

The full scale of the problem didn’t sink in until I returned to my own office to find that oppressive hum waiting for me. This isn’t a bug or software problem; the noise from that cave seems to permanently replace the ambience of whatever room it is played in.

I think I've discovered an invasive sound. Aside from the effect it could have on someone who listens for too long, I'm worried about how far it could spread.

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“Over here!” I pointed at a gap in the trees along the edge of the trail. I heard the scrape of Mark’s board behind me, cutting across the well-groomed snow. We zipped through the edge of the tree line, continuing up the gradual slope until powder bogged down our boards, forcing us to walk.

“Do you know the way?” I asked. “I’m a little fuzzy.”

“Sure do.” Mark smiled. He led us deeper into the pines, where the boughs and snow-pack swallowed almost all sound, save for our soft crunching footsteps.

“Glad I met you on the lift,” Mark said. “It’s tough finding people to ride in here. Most are scared. Someone vanishes every odd year since the blizzard. You’d never catch me here alone.”

“Can’t blame you,” I said. “Were you here when it happened?”

“Oh, yeah.” The crunching continued. “Part of the search party.”

Read more

Apologies for the absence — I’ve had a chaotic few weeks full of hurricanes, evacuations, and storm clean-up. Fret not; I’m back with plenty more stories to share!

We lost my dad on a warm summer evening, during one of our weekly trips to the video rental store, picking out something to watch for family movie night. Some drunk shitstain blew a red light on our way home and T-boned us. He was dead before the ambulance even got there.

I was with him, like I always was. Used to say I was his little buddy; his shadow. He’d pick the movie, I’d pick the snacks. That last trip always haunted me: maybe if I had been a little quicker grabbing the sour gummy worms… if the cashier had been a little slower ringing us up… we wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So, when a lifetime of obsessive research led me to the ChronoWalker — a device capable of navigating the currents of time — I had an obvious destination in mind.

I kept the cloaking fields on as I piloted the ChronoWalker's cramped, spherical JumpPod into the back section of Reel Cheap Rentals, checked the dinner plate-sized porthole to ensure the coast was clear, and opened the hatch. 

The place looked a little different than I'd remembered — perhaps my perspective as a full-grown adult made the shelves seem a bit shorter, and the aisles narrower — but the smell saturating the place matched my recollection exactly. A distinct odor of carpet shampoo and popcorn emanated from the galaxy-patterned floor.

I pretended to browse the horror section while straining my ears for footsteps or conversation. I grabbed one of the cheap clamshell cases from the horror section and gave it a shake. The plastic rattle of the VHS inside seemed to be the only sound in the store, aside from the hum of the fluorescents overhead.

From the moment I realized time jumping was possible, a single question dominated my waking hours: what would I do when I actually saw my father? After more sleepless nights than I can count, I decided that I couldn't save him. But I could see him one last time, and hear his voice. 

Maybe then I could find peace. 

First I'd have to find him. And after a full minute of waiting and listening, I started to wonder whether my Chronometer had been off. But the analogue clock above the door confirmed I'd arrived during business hours. I crept along the row of shelves and poked my head out, just far enough to get a look at the front desk. A big box of candy sat open, half-unpacked before a wire-frame shelf of partially stocked snacks. Two crinkled dollar bills sat on the counter. While the register appeared unmanned, its drawer hung open, waiting for payment to be deposited. It was as if both customer and cashier had vanished mid-transaction.

As I walked around the store to confirm the place was in fact empty, a new sound began to overpower the buzzing lights: an intermittent, howling wind. For all the details I’d misremembered, I was certain this evening had been clear and sunny. Something was very wrong here.

I peered through the window out to the dark strip mall parking lot. The place was still crowded with cars, all standing up to their doors in water. A few idled in the right of way, headlights flickering against the torrential rain. It was as if their drivers had simply vanished, partway through the process of leaving the lot.

"I wouldn't go out there if I were you."

I leapt back from the door, spinning around on the spot to find the shop was no longer empty. Standing beside the register was a lanky man sporting a black chevron mustache, green coveralls, and a matching painter's cap. He leaned on the handle of a beat-up vacuum cleaner, cord trailing out of sight down the aisle I'd come from.

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Every town has its local legends. Few, I expect, are as deadly as the specter haunting the false summit of Pinetale Peak. But the seductive stories from the rare survivors kept a steady stream of pilgrims attempting to follow in their footsteps.

When the local rescue team could no longer keep up with the broken bodies piling up in the couloir, the Sheriff’s office posted a deputy at the trailhead to search hikers for the contraband needed to perform the ritual. 

On that particular morning, it was deputy Gloria Riggs standing by the footbridge. Even in the pale blue pre dawn light, I could spot her camera-ready hair and makeup; more politician than peace officer.

She held a chunky flashlight in one hand, the other beckoned, expectant. I slipped my pack off my shoulders and passed it to her. 

“Any whiskey in here?” She asked as she rummaged through the bag.

“No ma’am.” 

“Ouch. Thought I’d be a ‘miss’ for at least another few years.” 

I chuckled.

“You’re not trying to see him, are you Max?” She knew me. Town was like that back then. 

“No, miss,” I lied.

“Wouldn’t blame you, being curious,” she zipped one pocket shut and moved on to another. “My cousin got some advice from good ‘ole Ray. ‘Bout ten years back. Professor down valley at the college.”

“I take it he wound up on the rocks?” 

Gloria shook her head. “Worse. He got exactly what he was looking for. Headed west with his girlfriend with a crazy dream about a catamaran. Not so much as a postcard.”

“Sounds like Wrong Way Ray told him exactly what he needed to hear.”

“He died at sea, shipwrecked somewhere near the Philippines.“ She thrust the bag into my chest with more force than necessary. “If you do see him—take his advice with a grain of salt. He’s not called Right Path Paul, ya dig?” 

The skin of my stomach was starting to sweat against the cheap plastic flask I’d tucked behind my belt buckle. “Thanks for the warning. But really, I’m just looking to see the sunrise.”

“Uh huh. Safe hike, Max.”

The hike was safe — by Summit County standards anyway — so long as you had sure footing and a good idea where you were going. Raymond Paulson had neither of those things the day he scampered onto a traverse to nowhere, falling 500 feet to his death.

According to the local weatherman, the pre-dawn fog would’ve kept Ray from seeing more than a foot in front of his face. But the toxicology report, combined with an empty liquor bottle found unbroken in the man’s pack, led the coroner to a different, non-weather related conclusion.

All of this probably would’ve been written off as an accident, if hikers from Kerristead didn't believe in ghost stories. Turns out Ray wasn't blind, dumb, or suicidal; and he'll tell anybody who will listen.

I whistled my way up the meandering switchback, bordered by the gabions that the trail crew used to halt the progress of erosion. Trees became bushes, then wildflowers before yielding to clumps of petrified hay, poking out between chunks of scree.

Someone had stacked a pile of bigger rocks into a semi-circular windbreak, wrapping around the summit survey marker. Shadowy suggestions of the surrounding peaks loomed in the limited lighting, breaking the cloud layer like islands in the sea. Sunrise would come soon.

I dropped my pack, sank into the sheltered alcove, and closed my eyes.

"Hey brother. Got anything to drink?" Asked a gruff voice.

My lids flew open. Sitting beside me was a stranger wearing a faded flannel shirt, tucked into a well-worn pair of baby blue jeans. The mullet poking out beneath his ball cap looked a little like the fat, fluffy tail of some enormous squirrel. 

Wrong Way Ray, in the flesh.

His question was the first step in a loosely choreographed dance, deduced through dozens of failed interactions.

"Hope you like bourbon." I passed him the tiny flask, from which he took a greedy swig. Only bourbon worked. Blake tried with Gin and said the apparition spat it out before vanishing.

"Thanks, friend." He passed the flask back, now significantly lighter. "What brings you up here?

I shrugged. "Looking to get some clarity, you know?"

"Couldn't have picked a better place. Nature does that." Ray leaned back against the rock, folding his hands behind his head. "What's on your mind?"

I spoke slowly, feeling every syllable. "I have an opportunity that's eating me alive. A big new job. Fancy one, out East in New York City. Pay is great. It'd be huge for my career; chance to make a name for myself, ya know?"

He gave a polite nod. "So what's the problem?"

"Problem is, I'd have no friends, no family... living in some shoebox a hundred miles from the nearest real mountain."

"I see. You're worried you'll miss it. This." He gestured to the world around us.

"Nah, it's more than that. Sometimes I think this is who I am... and wonder who I'd be If I leave."

Ray folded his arms and pondered this for a moment. "Can I ask, what's so great about the New York job? I mean, are you unhappy where you are?"

"No, it's fine. I can get by. I just wonder if this would offer me more..." I held out my hand like I was reaching out for a word not quite within my reach.

"More Money? Status?" Ray hawked and spat a wad of phlegm. "It's okay to not give a shit about stuff like that. I sure didn't. We all got different priorities. Then again, I'm just a dirtbag adrenaline junkie, living out of his car. At least I was, before—well, you know." He chucked a stone over the edge. It clattered once, twice, then was lost to the void.

Was? He couldn't possibly mean... "Do you know you're, well—"

"A ghost, yeah. Used to really rustle my jimmies."

"What?"

"Being dead. 'Specially when everyone thought I killed myself." He furrowed his brow. "You wanna know how I really died? Lemme show you."

He grabbed my arm with a firm hand, effortlessly pulling me to my feet and leading me toward the edge. Had I said something wrong? Would he throw me off? Was that what happened to the other hikers?

"Look out over there." He pointed out from our vantage point. I squinted, confused. In the blue-gray light, a knife's edge traverse rose and fell from below the cloud floor like a sea-serpent, ending in a pointed spire. It looked a little like a rattlesnake's tail. "That's Pinetale Peak. The real peak. Hard to find your way when the trail dips down into the clouds. Standing on the top is like looking down from Olympus. Partner told me it was stupid to do without ropes. We didn't have any. I didn't care; just had to see it.

"On the way back, I got turned around. Slipped right off the edge and... well, seems everyone in town knows the rest." Ray sniffed, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I remember how it felt. Whose name I screamed on the way down."

He cleared his throat. "Still an unbeatable view if you need to see the world from the top."

I was so focused on the feel of his hand at the small of my back, I didn't realize he was waiting for a response. I looked from Ray's expectant face, to the narrow path before me, leading to a spire backlit in gold. I raised one leg, about to step forward, then paused.

What was wrong with the peak I already stood on?

"Maybe..." I stammered, "Maybe I've climbed high enough. Maybe I'm okay right here."

The hand against my back pulled away, taking a profound weight with it.

Ray was gone, but I understood.

I understand what would've happened had I taken the next step, too. At least I think I do. What really keeps me up at night though, is what Deputy Riggs told me on my way up: "They don't call him Right Path Paulson."

What if Ray doesn't actually advise you on your best course of action, like the legends promise? What if instead, he helps you make peace with settling for the easier option?

Forget the bodies — I wonder how many dreams died on that mountain, too.

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The Montauk Project was what kept me sane during the COVID-19 Pandemic. If you’ve read the novella version I published here on Cole’s Chapters, you may find it hard to believe that real world events had a minimal influence on the story — although some of its twists and turns wound up becoming eerily prophetic.

My real goal was to explore the long term effects of loneliness on a society, and I thought this would be an interesting, intimate way to do that. If you’ve forgotten, or simply never read Montauk: this is the gist of the setup:

• The world has been plunged into chaos by a virus that makes face-to-face interaction highly lethal

• Everyone is confined to Isolation habitats, or IsoHabs

• The population’s phones have been confiscated, and internet activity regulated to prevent the spread of panic

• A former engineer called Prometheus sets up a kind of resistance radio show, sharing tapes that are delivered by a mysterious network of truckers

Each of these tapes is a little vignette, a slice of life from someone working to survive in this brutal world. The goal was to have a bunch of self contained stories, that also trickled background information about a broader conspiracy.

Houston was originally the first episode in the series, taking place aboard a clandestine, arc-like space station tasked with rebuilding society if Montauk couldn’t be contained. My plan was to offer a super-macro view of what was happening, passing along information that someone on the ground just couldn’t reasonably ascertain. As a result, you can tell this draft is a bit heavy on exposition.

Read "Houston" in Prose Format

I did a table read of this episode with some friends, built a sound bed, and made an actual episode from it. The plan was always to go back, fix, and update the recordings. I think you can tell from the voice acting that this is a draft.

But still, playing it back makes me wish I could’ve done the entire project like this. It really was meant to be heard, not read. My favorite detail is the oxygen alarm, which starts intermittently and gradually becomes more frequent as the story progresses.

Paid subscribers can listen to this full episode by scrolling a little bit further.

For my free readers, I’ve included some of the tech script so you can see just how different the Montauk Novella was.

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