Compartmentalization

Part I - The Discovery
Ben headed into the turn a little too fast and had to brake the tractor to prevent a possible roll-over. He seldom used the brakes and was a little pissed with himself for having to do it now, but his daydreaming had caused him to lose rhythm-control, and manual correction was needed immediately. Veering to the left, he heard the pull harvester hit the hill solidly and saw the dirt shoot fifteen to twenty feet into the air. Everything came to a grinding halt.
Swearing out loud, he jumped down from the tractor and ran over to see how the harvester had fared. It had disconnected from the tractor and sat on its side, in disarray. The whole right side was crumpled and exposed to the gray sky, pretty much totaled. What the hell could've done this ? Dirt ? A little dirt hill ? He didn't believe it . Walking over to the mound, he saw the huge gouge the harvester had made on impact. And below the top layer of freshly unearthed dirt he saw what looked like . . .metal.

It was the last thing Ben would ever see.


Part II - The Follow-up
The Ben Stocton farm underwent some extreme changes in the days that followed. A neighbor reported seeing Ben's body laying beside the
still running tractor, seemingly on fire, a continuous burning fire , unapproachable in appearance. The local fire department could not completely extinguish the flames so the government was called in. The road to the Stocton farm was closed, neighbors and curious travelers re-routed. Fences went up, 10-foot high fences sporting razor barbs, circling the entire property and limiting visibility. Ben's wife and two children left the farm and moved to another town to be closer to relatives. Three weeks later the farmhouse and barn mysteriously burned to the ground. Months later the land was somehow turned over to the BLM. It sat there, unvisited by the locals. The fences still shutting off access, the road remaining closed. Unvisited, but not forgotten.
(More to come)

Part III - The Usual Cup of Coffee
Charlie sat on his favorite stool and watched the trucks go by as they normally did about this time. It was 7:25 P.M. and they were as punctual as always. One at 7:00 P.M., and the other two at 7:25. Every night. Every night since the Stocton place burned down. Every night, seven days a week. He leaned back into the counter, picked up his coffee cup, and took a slow, long swig. Best coffee for miles around. A house blend of Taster's Choice and Folgers, but he knew that the fresh half-n-half stirred in didn't hurt either. Mighty good coffee. Another swig and he began to scribble another line into his new journal.
"Five riders always-first truck."
"Four riders always- in each of the second two trucks."

All three trucks always returned in the morning at 06:00. (Returned to where ?) (Should he follow them some time ?)
From the old Stocton farm . . .to where ?

Damn but this coffee is good !

Nellie Crawford steered the old Ford pick-up gently through the winding turns, making her way back from Las Cruces towards home, an early morning ritual she'd come to enjoy very much. Hardly any cars on the road at this early hour and she didn't have to worry about anybody gawking at her as she sang along with the music on the radio. Almost 06:30, and if everything continued to go as smoothly as it was going now, she'd be home a little past seven. She took a moment to gaze out at the
disappearing mist and as she once again adjusted to the rise and fall of the hilly terrain, a black truck rose up out of a deep dip headed right for her ! She hit the brakes and skidded off to the right side, screaming as loud as her vocal chords would let her.
The black truck reeled to the left, hit a dry sand bed, and came to a jarring stop. Nellie looked over to see if any damage had been done . .when another black truck swooped by, narrowly missing her. Then a black van screeched to a stop in front of her. All three vehicles suddenly shut off their engines. Nellie reached over and turned the radio off, then the ignition.
Everything became amazingly quiet.
Then the driver's side door of the van opened.

Charlie pulled into the Daybreak Diner's parking lot, making his way to the front entrance, where he parked beside an old Ford pick-up that had seen better years. He noticed that the white truck had a burn crease down the whole length of the
driver's side, making it appear more yellow than dull white. What the hell could've caused that, without leaving any dents or scratches ? The familiar smell of good coffee filled the air and he put it out of his head as he walked into the diner. His favorite stool was vacant and as he eased himself down and nodded to the waitress to bring his usual, a high-pitched scream echoed from the restroom area behind him. The ladies room specifically.
Two waitresses rushed past him, throwing the bathroom door open, and then disappearing inside. Moments later they emerged, carrying a very upset woman that was crying her eyes out and holding on to them for dear life. Sitting her gently down in a booth, the waitresses talked quietly to her, asking questions and suggesting she have a cup of hot tea. One of the girls left to get the tea, and on her way back to the booth she delivered Charlie's coffee to him. He stared at the lady in the booth. He listened. He took a swig of his coffee. He listened some more. When he heard her say something about the men in the black vans, he stood up and took his coffee over to her table. "Hi, may I talk to you Ma'am ?"

My name's Charlie Watson and I live just down the road from the old Stocton farm. I couldn't help but overhear you mention something about men in black vans. How many vans did you see ?
"Two." "Two vans and a pick-up." "All black." "Almost killed me."

"What happened Ma'am ?"

"They almost ran me off the road." "And they're strange."

"Strange . . .as in how, Ma'am ?"

"They, they don't talk . . .and they don't blink." "They just look at you . . .into you . . until you can't stand it anymore."

Charlie watched as she began to shiver. The shivers became the shakes, resembling an epileptic seizure. She began to cry.

Charlie watched the cop car pull into the parking lot and make its way from one vehicle to another, probably checking license numbers and registration tags on his way up to the front door to see if he could bust some poor bastard sitting in here and enjoying themselves. It wasn't crowded anymore, maybe fifteen or twenty people at the most. The waitresses were still hobnobbing over at the crazy lady's table, comforting her as best they could. The cop's car pulled in on the other side of the Ford pick-up and the officer got out, taking pictures of the truck as he circled it again and again. Apparently satisfied that he'd taken enough pictures, he put the camera back into his car and headed for the front door.
"Can I help you, Officer ?"
"Just coffee Ma'am, thank you."
A cup and saucer appeared magically and the waitress poured the coffee quickly. Cream and sugar on the side.
"Anyone know who's driving that old, white Ford pick-up outside ?"

Charlie couldn't help but look over at the crazy lady's table. She was down in the booth and the waitresses were hovering over her, frantic. Just as the Officer stood up, one of the girls hollered "She's dead ! " "She aint breathing. She's dead ! "

"She's not dead . . .she's . . .oh my God ! One of the waitresses pulled back her arm, screaming as she realized that she had been bitten, watching the blood spurt up and spray the booth and table. Nellie Crawford sat up stiffly and looked around the diner, her vacant gaze settling on the officer trying to get to his feet. She jumped up and rushed him head-on, finger-nails poised to rip his eyes out if possible.
Charlie hit her mid-stride with a hard shoulder tackle, knocking her down and away from the officer, who was pulling his gun from its holster and yelling at Nellie to stop.
She appeared not to hear him. Up and on her feet again, she stumbled at him with wringing hands, screaming with spittle.

The gunshot rang out, echoing throughout the diner, scaring the bejesus out of everybody. Nellie kept coming. Another shot and Nellie went down. Another shot, and she fell still, unmoving.

Charlie looked from Nellie to the officer, then back at Nellie. "What the hell just happened ?" "What the hell ?"

The old Ben Stocton farm no longer existed. . . .as a farm. The farmhouse itself, gone. The barn, gone. The high barbed fences now surrounded a colony of small, drab-colored trailers. And from one of these trailers, the one closest to the small hill in the northwest sector, ran a semi-transparent tube tunnel, extending in a straight line across the fields and up into the lower half of the mound itself. Electrical power cables attached to the sides of the tunnel snaked from a generator beside the trailer to the entrance to the mound. Dim light could be seen inside. Outside, a light rain began to fall. A slight breeze blew from the south.

The trailer lights, all of them, went out at the same time. And it was not just the lights. All power was lost.