The Officially Unofficial Files of Dr. Gordon B. Gray Read online

  He was tall for his eleven years, despite being malnourished since birth. Caden had made do with so little food that he sometimes chewed old pieces of shoe leather to fight off the hunger pangs. Grandma Boo Crimm often wondered if it was that “ol’ shoe that turned Caden blind.” He had lost his vision less than a year ago, and unbeknownst to him and his family, he was suffering from a plum-sized tumor crowding his optic nerve.

  But he had bigger problems at the moment. Two nights ago, every other Crimm in Dust had vanished into thin air.

  At first, he thought it was all a big joke orchestrated by Uncle Caleb or Cousin Colton. Uncle Caleb always got the biggest kick out of laying obstacles in Caden’s path and then watching him stumble over them. Rusty bikes, firewood, cinder blocks, old toilets -- you name it and he’d tripped over it.

  And Cousin Colton had his own unique game for Caleb that he called “blind and seek.” Basically, Cousin Colton would walk Caden out into the middle of the woods, leave him, and then wait and see how long it would take Caden to find his way home. What Cousin Colton didn’t realize was that when Caden lost his sight, his sense of spatial hearing became far more acute, and finding a Crimm trailer just meant listening for jawin’, shoutin’ and Grandpa C’s fiddle playin’. Caden would sit in the woods for hours absorbing the sounds of nature, before wandering back to the trailer. It was a chance for him to escape the chaos of being a Crimm.

  But this night was different. It started with him sitting on the couch listening to his Braille for Beginners cassette on his small portable player and following along in the accompanying book, both gifts from a social worker who never returned after an uncomfortable encounter with Uncle Caleb. He had picked up braille quickly. As Grandma Boo always said, “he be the only Crimm wit’ a lick a sense. The rest of y’all dumber than coal buckets.” He handily mastered the Braille for Beginners cassette and accompanying book and longed for more reading material, which sadly had about as much of a chance of arriving on his doorstep as a scholarship to Harvard. So, he sat on the couch every night and listened to and read the Braille for Beginners book and cassette over and over again.

  The night of the disappearance started with a special birthday dinner for fifty-sumthin’-year-old Cousin Cole, featuring Grandma Boo’s famous chitlins. After the meal, the Crimm men migrated to the overgrown backyard where they continued to drink their homemade white dog moonshine well into oblivion. They liked to play a modified version of horseshoes using an old rusty claw-footed tub as the target. Occasionally, a Crimm would end up in the tub trying to catch the horseshoes as they flew in, a game that typically ended in fisticuffs and bloodshed.

  With the men out of the trailer and the women busy stacking the dirty dishes on top of the dirty dishes from the previous evening, Caden had the opportunity to escape to the couch. He was right in the middle of his favorite chapter, Five: Whole-Word Contractions Part II, when a sound unlike anything he had ever heard thundered down from the heavens above. When asked to describe it later, he would say, “It done sounded like TV static turned full up, with a licka tornado on top.” The sound persisted for about a minute, and then everything fell silent, dead silent.

  He rose tentatively from the couch, imagining that the entire Crimm family was in on the joke. What would they trip him up with this time? One step, nothing; a second step, still nothing. Ah, they were probably all outside waiting to trip him up as he exited the trailer. He walked toward the door, taking comically high knee-steps in order to avoid any obstacles. He opened the front door, distrustfully continuing the high stepping as he descended the two cinderblock steps to the ground below.

  “Grandma?” Nothing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Departure

  Van Nuys, CA - Airport

  THE BLACK ESCALADE came to a stop outside a private hangar on the outer perimeter of Van Nuys Airport. A night owl by nature, Gordon was fully alert and primed for action.

  “Here we are, sir. You’ll find a jet waiting for you inside the hangar,” the driver said as he opened Gordon’s door.

  Dozens of high-powered T5 fluorescent lights snapped to life as Gordon entered the expansive fifty-six thousand square foot hangar, revealing an impossibly clean and polished white floor. Hanging from the rafters above was one of the largest American flags he had ever seen. Just the sight of it struck a patriotic chord within. He wished his father could see him now.

  The far back corner of the hangar housed a lone jet, a U.S. Air Force Gulfstream C-37A. The words The United States of America were proudly embossed in large black letters above the six circular windows that lined the polished white exterior of the one-hundred-foot-long, high speed twin-engine turbofan aircraft. An image of the American flag adorned the tail.

  Materializing from thin air, two handsome young pilots approached him, both dressed in khaki U.S. Air Force flight suits.

  “Dr. Gray?” one of the pilots asked with a puzzled expression.

  “The one and only.”

  “Sorry, sir, I was expecting someone a little older.”

  “Me too. You guys ever land one of these?” Gordon quipped, gesturing toward the jet.

  “Yes, sir.” The pilot smiled as he handed Gordon a manila envelope. “Lieutenant General Wilkinson requested that I pass this on to you, sir. Flight time is about two hours and forty minutes. After you, sir.” The pilot stepped aside, allowing for Gordon to board the aircraft first.

  The interior of the main cabin looked almost regal, with oversized royal blue leather seats complimented by the crisp white cabin upholstery and mahogany paneling. Gordon chose a seat, threw his things down next to him and pulled the single sheet of paper from the manila envelope; a handwritten note on official Department of the Army letterhead. It simply read: “I knew I could count on you. Your father would be proud. Welcome aboard. Get some sleep. See you at 0700. John”

  •••

  Dust, WV - Base Camp

  Six forty-five a.m. Gordon followed Pvt. Wilder Short through a maze of large dark green Army-issued TEMPER tents stationed in an expansive grassy field. A brief conversation revealed Wilder was nineteen, from Old Forge, Pennsylvania, and he had absolutely no clue what either he or the military was doing in Dust, West Virginia.

  “Far as I know, a bunch of rednecks were making anthrax and infected themselves, but then on CNN I saw a cell phone video of a blue light coming from this place, so I can’t really say for sure. That’s Lieutenant General Wilkinson’s tent there. He’s expecting you,” Wilder said, pointing to a nearby tent.

  Gordon proceeded on alone, oblivious to the fact that in just six small steps, his life was about to change. He paused inches from the entrance to the Lieutenant General’s tent, taking a moment to second-guess the decision that, by his own standards, had certainly been rash. Too late now. He pushed the tent flap aside to find Wilkinson at a large communal table, diligently typing away on his ballistic armored laptop. Spread out in front of him were carefully arranged and labeled papers and photos.

  “Lieutenant General.”

  Wilkinson looked up from his laptop and rose to greet Gordon.

  “It’s John to you. How was your flight?”

  “No excess baggage fees, no TSA pat-downs, can’t complain.”

  Gordon’s expectant smile was met by Wilkinson’s resolute stare. No room for humor in this tent.

  “Let’s get straight to it, shall we? Have a seat.”

  Gordon pulled up a chair next to the General, who was busy shuffling around photos atop the table. “On October thirtieth at approximately 1900 hours, twenty-two of the twenty-three Crimm family members of Dust, West Virginia, disappeared from their residences.” The General handed a photo of Caleb Crimm’s trailer to Gordon. “Our sole witness, eleven-year-old Caden Crimm, was sitting on the family couch listening to a cassette through his headphones, when he heard a loud sound he described as a cross between a tornado and TV static. The sound lasted for approximately one minute and by the time it ended, his entire famil
y had disappeared. He waited at the house for them to return until the next afternoon, and when they didn’t, he made the decision to walk the six miles to the nearest town, which is Crum, West Virginia. He ended up in the hands of the West Virginia state police, which is where we retrieved him, before bringing him back to camp. As far as the rest of the surrounding community and media are concerned, the Crimms were planning an anthrax attack which went horribly wrong and the entire town of Dust has been quarantined. We’ve got men in hazmats suits and decon tents set up around the perimeter to keep the press and UFO lookie-loos at bay.”

  Gordon picked up a photo of a boy he presumed to be Caden Crimm. He was tall for his age and his searching, bright blue eyes seemed to penetrate the camera’s lens. “What did the boy see?”

  “Well, here’s the kicker...he’s blind.” The General handed Gordon Caden’s medical file.

  “You’re kidding.” Gordon perused his charts, focusing on a brain MRI report, which detailed a large frontal lobe mass.

  “Wish I was. Docs found an optic glioma impacting his optic nerve in his medical work-up. Most likely operable, but the kid has never set foot in a hospital in his life. He was terrified during the exam; he thought the doctors wanted to kill him. Apparently, his uncle Caleb is a renowned militia-type wingnut. Hates the government, doctors, dentists, teachers, you name it.”

  “And that’s all you have?”

  “Not quite. A couple of teenagers, approximately six miles away in Crum, shot a cell phone video of a pulsing bright blue light, which corresponds to the exact coordinates of the Crimm trailer, as well as the exact time of the incident. Unfortunately for us, all of the national networks have been running the hell outta the thing. You put that out there with the anthrax cover story and it’s a damn media circus down in Crum. The good news is that every Crimm on the planet lives right here in Dust. In fact, they are the only inhabitants of Dust, so at least we don’t have any other family members to deal with. The poor kid’s going to be in isolation indefinitely.”

  “Can I see the video?”

  “Sorry, I assumed you were one of the three hundred and eight million who’d seen it already.”

  “I don’t own a TV.” Gordon felt embarrassed uttering that sentence. Certain types seemed to wear the self-righteous proclamation like a badge of honor, but he didn’t own a TV simply because he was never home to watch one.

  Wilkinson navigated to the video on YouTube. The camera work was predictably shaky, accented by a drug-fueled commentary from its less than scholarly videographers:

  “Dude, that is freakin’ me right outta my mind.” A perfectly geometric series of concentric rings radiated from within a pulsing blue light that rose in the sky above Dust.

  “That was some bangin’ O.G. Kush, bro. Are my feet touchin’ the ground?”

  “Maybe aliens are abductin’ the Crimms.”

  “ET phone home.”

  “Man, I wish I had me some Reese’s Pieces.”

  “Me too. Let’s hit up the Double Kwik.”

  The video came to an abrupt end.

  “Any thoughts?” Wilkinson asked.

  “Not really. I mean, I have a few ideas floating around, but every one of them would make me sound about as idiotic as those kids. I’m assuming you’ve checked the area for radiation, bio-agents, that sort of thing?”

  “Done it all. We’ve checked the soil, air, the well water, the moonshine, even the potatoes in the field behind the trailer. We’ve got nothing.” Wilkinson’s confident tone and perfect posture belied his true feelings of fatigue and disappointment.

  “Any other similar reports?”

  “You’re one step ahead of me. Two weeks ago an entire village went missing in the Qinling Mountains in the Shaanxi province. A rather vague AP story came out of China, but the reporter has since gone missing and China’s denying the whole thing. They’re claiming there was a small explosion at a nearby nuclear plant that caused the villagers to flee. I gotta tell you, Gordon, there’s a serious concern extending all the way to the top, that the Chinese are behind both incidents. It’s not news that they’re running low on resources and real estate, and that they’d love to acquire an additional continent or two.”

  “Wow. This is a lot to process, and I haven’t slept in almost twenty-four hours. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and marbles. Any chance I can grab some shuteye before I really dive in?”

  “Soldier up” was the first response that popped into Wilkinson’s head. After all, he had fought entire wars on less sleep and often made do with three or four hours a night, but instead he simply replied, “By all means. I’ll show you to your tent.” Choose your battles wisely.

  •••

  Dust, WV - Base Camp

  Gordon lay awake on his GI cot staring up at the roof of his spacious tent. At 16’ by 16’, it could easily sleep another nine or ten men, but this one had been set aside just for him. His name had been stenciled on the tent’s outer flap and his bag had been waiting for him atop a quick deployment footlocker at the base of his cot. A fully equipped spacious desk sat in the far back corner of the tent. It was homey, by Gordon’s standards.

  His mind was swimming with the information he had just been delivered. A wave of anxiety washed over him. Was he really their last hope? The thought overwhelmed him. Sleep seemed an impossibility.

  The feeling was not new to him. As a child burdened with a boundless brain, this level of stress would have thrown him into an incommunicative state. It was his way of coping. Shut out the world. He had his mother to thank for patiently teaching him self-awareness and for giving him the tools to not only survive the day, but to actively participate and positively influence the course of it. Her voice rose above the anxious din in his head, “One thing at a time, Gordon. One thing at a time.”

  Gordon pulled out one of his notebooks from his bag and jotted down some notes.

  Possibilities for dematerialization:

  1) Family left town - kid is lying - hoax a la balloon boy.

  2) Kid is a mass murderer. Buried all the bodies.

  3) Focused biological extinction event - where are the ashes, bodies, etc.?

  4) Dimensional fold/wormhole - powered by what?

  5) Experimental Particle Beam Weapon

  6) Aliens? Why choose atypical uneducated specimens? Why leave the boy?

  7) Biologically focused antimatter weapon. China?

  8) Dr. Dmitry Zolkin - Dusha studies. Energy experiments. Find him.

  Gordon set his pen down, and the weight immediately seemed to lift from his shoulders. He laid his head back down on the cot and succumbed to his heavy eyelids.

  One thing at a time.

  •••

  Dust, WV - Combat Support Hospital

  Caden Crimm could not have been any happier. He had hot showers, warm meals, his own bed (with sheets!), clean clothes, an indoor toilet, dozens of braille books and his first pair of socks...ever. If he had known about all of this stuff earlier he would have prayed for the disappearance of his family years ago... Well, maybe everyone except Grandma Boo.

  His uncle Caleb had been so wrong about nurses and doctors and hospitals. At first he felt sure they all wanted to kill him like Uncle Caleb said, but in real life, they were the nicest people he had ever met. Nurse Wilson had just introduced him to his first fresh pineapple for dessert, and he simply couldn’t believe anything could ever taste that good coming from such a weird spiky thing like that (she had let him feel the outside of the pineapple before cutting it up on his tray). And Dr. Bennett had told him the greatest news ever this morning...he might be able to see again soon.

  Caden rose from his bed and walked over to the bathroom, unassisted. Easy. Five steps toward the door and four to the left. Dr. Bennett said he had an excellent sense of space. It was easy to get around when there weren’t any cinder blocks and old toilets being thrown in his way all the time. Dr. Bennett said that wasn’t a normal way to treat someone with a visual imp
airment and that he wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. So that was good.

  Caden ran his hands under the hot water in the bathroom sink. He could spend hours at a time doing this. It just felt so good. The Crimms never had any hot water, but six times a year Grandma Boo boiled a dozen pots of well water and made a bath out in the old claw-foot tub in the yard. By the time it was Caden’s turn to bathe, the water had always gone lukewarm and smelled kind of weird from all the previous Crimms’ filth. And real soap! The smell was like a field of wildflowers, but even better. He felt sure he had died and gone to heaven, just like the good book preached.

  •••

  Dust, WV - Base Camp

  Wilkinson sat on the edge of his cot and slowly removed his boots. It had been a long day with disappointing results. Gordon had not re-emerged from his tent since their initial meeting. The kid was certainly lacking his father’s fortitude. All brains, no gumption.

  A vinyl purist, he walked over to his portable VV-50 Victor Victrola phonograph, lifted the tone arm and gently set it down on his favorite recording of Tchaikovsky’s final symphony, No.6 “Pathetique.” He poured himself two fingers of Macallan’s eighteen-year-old scotch and disappeared into the somber melodies.

  •••

  Crum, WV - Ynot Lounge

  Crum, West Virginia, sat right off Highway 52 less than a mile from the Kentucky border. Once a thriving coal town, Crum now begrudgingly accommodated a meager population of one hundred eighty-two souls, all of whom subsisted well below the poverty level. There was one gas station, the Double Kwik; one part-time police officer, Rocky Carter; one drinking establishment, the Ynot Lounge; and one motel, the Dewdrop Inn. When the cell phone video hit CNN and every other major news outlet around the world, the population of Crum suddenly exploded. The early-bird newshounds and UFO aficionados snagged all thirteen rooms at the Dewdrop for the bargain price of $27.35 each per night. Contrary to the standard economic model of supply and demand, Cooter Boone, the owner of the Dewdrop, decided that it would be a great time to run a sale; at the same time, some of the more business-minded town folk were charging up to $250 per night just to pitch a tent in their backyards.