Gravel

Bruce A. Martin
About ___ words

Gravel and dirt was spilled and scattered all over the road. Alan noticed this, as he slowed down to check the mailbox before turning into the driveway to the cabin. It obviously had come from the driveway. Maybe somebody did a fast U-turn in the driveway. Very fast. They must have turned around without slowing down at all, then headed back South to the main highway.

Oh, damn! The mailbox is gone. There it is, knocked down, half crushed, looking like some sort of robotic road-kill, gray and rusty. The idiot must have swung wide to the right, before U-turning to the left, using my driveway. How could anybody hit a mailbox, then keep on going fast enough to splash that much gravel? It's almost all the way across the road.

Wait a minute. There's no gravel at the foot of the drive; it starts further up. And the mailbox is knocked the wrong way.

Somebody was up at the cabin. They must've come roaring down the driveway, splattering gravel, then swung too wide and clipped the mailbox on the other side of the road. Had to be going damned fast. Stupid jerk!

Who was it? Could it have been that gray pickup I passed? He was racing the other way. Same color as the mailbox. But that has nothing to do with it. Hardly anybody knows I'm here, and nobody would come all the way up to visit.

Alan pulled the Jeep up the drive, after picking the mangled mailbox, finding it empty, tossing it into the woods, and futilely trying to kick some of the gravel back up the drive. Stopping at the porch steps, he had already hefted up the first of the grocery bags when he noticed the car.

It was parked around the side. A bright red Catera. Looks a lot like Jenny's. Couldn't be. She's over 200 miles away, probably teaching one of her classes. What would she possibly be doing way up here?

Grabbing the cold "suitcase" of Coors, he left the other three bags on the back seat and climbed onto the porch in one long step, completely ignoring the moldy stairs. He liked to do that, not because he feared the old wood would collapse, but just because there was something slightly repulsive about walking on a rug with shoes that had just touched the greenish mold.

What the Hell's going on? Better be Jenny. The door's is partly open. She's the only who knows which tree I hide the key in.

"Jenny?"

Alan pushed open the door, then reached through the kitchen archway to set the bag down on the counter,. "Hello? Jenny?" he yelled, a bit louder, as he opened to the small refrigerator and shoved the silver suitcase sideways into the bottom shelf.

Water was running somewhere. Is she taking a shower? That's just a little bit nervy. Well, maybe she thinks it's "romantic" for me to come in and find her in the shower/

Crossing the living room, Alan noticed that one of the fireplace pokers was laying on the floor, not in the stand. There was no fire in the grate, and the glass doors were closed. The poker seemed to have some mud on it, and there was some more mud leading to the main bedroom.

The bathroom door was open. Nobody was in there. Sure enough, the water was running. In the sink. He shut it off. The shower was empty.

More mud. No, it's more like blood. Or maybe sauce.

The bathroom had another door into the bedroom. It was a heavy, wooden door, like the other in this log cabin, and it had a black metal latch on the bathroom side. Alan lifted the latch and gently pushed open the door. It moved about four inches, but no further, and went back with a slam when he released it. Something heavy but soft was on the other side. Not a chair. More like a suitcase or duffle bag.

Annoyed, Alan walked around to the bedroom door, barely noticing the mud or blood on the rug as he crossed in front of the massive stone fireplace. "Jenny?" The bedroom door was open, swung fully to the left, and he had to pass by it before he could see what was leaning up against the connecting door to the bathroom. The bed was as rumpled as he had left it in the morning, but some of the dresser drawers were out, laying on the floor. What the heck?!

"Jenny? What are ..." he started to say, as he rounded the door. The words stuck in his throat with a click, as he suddenly breathed in when he saw the leg, and then the body on the floor.

She was lying on the floor, face down, in the corner where the wall met the bathroom door. Her right elbow and arm was propped up slightly, against the door. That must be what slammed it shut.

"Jenny, what are you doing?" No answer. "Are you OK?"

"Jenny?" The hair was all wrong. Not Jenny. Jenny with a black wig? No, the shape was not quite right.

"Hello." She seemed to be alright. He thought he saw breathing. The rug was very soft, but why would anyone lie down right there? Maybe she passed out. She didn't seem to be hurt.

Thoughts flew through Alan's head. Conflicting thoughts. Anger, fear, outrage, pity. The best he could muster was, "Hey!" No response.

Gingerly, he crouched and touched a calf. It was warm. He shook the other foot, by the shoe,

Awkwardly straddling her legs of the sleeping woman, he poked somewhat higher and harder, and wondered vaguely whether it was possible to be accused of attempted rape by a sleeping intruder. This is ridiculous. What do I do next?

The stockings were sheer white. Definitely not Jenny. Who the Hell could it be? What the Hell is she doing here? What the Hell is this about? Just to break the redundancy, he mumbled to himself, "What the fuck is going on?!"

The answer surprised him.

A deep but scratchy voice, with a distinct Slavic accent, said nastily but firmly, "don't turn around."

Catching his breath for the second time since entering the room, Alan heard the man say, "just get up very slowly. Keep your hands where they are, and don't turn around." Alan froze. he started to turn, but checked himself and di not move.

"Get up, I said." Still stunned, as Alan started to comply, the man said something completely uninteligible; it sounded like "Leh, leh, leh. .... +++++++++++++++++++++++++.A The sounds and cadences were definitely not European. They reminded him of the sound of Hebrew, but they were definitely something else. All Alan could get out was, "what?" Then, with a quick intake of breath, he managed to say, "what did you say?"

"I thought you spoke English," the other said. "Now stand up slowly and don't turn around."

Rising, Alan felt a strong, bony hand grip his left shoulder, and something he knew had to be a gun barrel pressing against the back of his neck. The pressure was greater on the bottom than the top.

Time stretches out in moments like these, as the mind wanders far and wide and races down many pathways, desperately seeking a solution. Alan distinctly remembered the charts from his anatomy textbooks in grad school, estimated the upward angle of the barrel from the difference in pressure, and correctly calculated that the bullet would sever the spinal cord and shatter the medulla oblongata, stopping the heart instantly, then either rattle around inside the cranium, carving new tunnels through the gray matter, or else exit by blowing a large hole in the top of his head.

He was very relieved to be distracted from this detailed analysis by the words, "we don't want to hurt [it sounded more like grrrert] you" Then, in a more comforting tone, "chust lie down on de bett, vile I make sure you cannot hurt us."

From the corner of his eye, Alan could make out a large shadow across the bed, made by the light that was spilling in from the living room. He thought of cheating a bit to the right, to catch a reflection in the dresser mirror, but then thought better of it. A more-gentle bony hand pushed him face-down onto the bed, and began expertly patting him down for weapons.

Suddenly, another undecipherable sound intruded. It sounded like "Ari, vak shemash? ++++++" it came from the living room, and he could hear the clanking of the fireplace poker being replaced in the stand. His guardian's voice replied rapidly in the same strange language. Then, in English, hoarsely, "don't move, yet." As the man's tension obviously decreased, his accent also became less obvious.

The restored grip was loosened from his shoulder, and he felt his wallet being picked cleanly from his back pocket. "It's him, alright. She's here, too. Dead."

Alan moved involuntarily, "but I didn't ..."

"We know. Don't move."

"But how did you ..."

"You're Alan Ross?"

Yeah."

"How much was your last check for?"

"Groceries. Seventy-five dollars."

"And fourteen cents. OK. I'm not sure exactly how we're going to handle this, but you and I have a lot of talking to do. Let's see if, maybe, we can start all over and do it in a more-civilized way. OK"

"Sure." What else could I say, Alan thought to himself.

"I don't want you doing something stupid or running off before you hear the whole story. I'm sorry. This is the best I can do for now, and it'll make things a lot easier for both of us. Put both hands behind your back."

Alan felt his arms being pulled, not brutally but not all that gently. Then, there was a clanking noise and he felt the handcuffs encircling one wrist.

"What the ..."

"Look, I'm sorry about the cuffs, but we can't stay like with you this all day and we can't take a chance on you running off half-cocked or trying something stupid."

Alan didn't reply.

"C'mon. We'll help you up. Let's talk, OK?'

"OK." What else could he say?

Alan felt the same bony hand on his left biceps, and another, tinier hand under his right elbow from the other side of the bed. First, they hoisted him onto his feet, then sat him down on the end of the bed. He watched helplessly as the other handcuff was snapped around the metal bed frame.

The gun was already pointing downward, but the man put it away with an embarrassed look after Alan pointedly looked at it. His face was much older than his body. He looked like a lean fullback [???], with a barrel chest and bowling-pin forearms But he was under five-foot-six, and his hair was a few wisps of gray on top, with bushy gray temples and eyebrows. His wrinkled skin looked as if it had started out as a red grape and was half-way toward becoming a raisin. On second thought, more like a green grape. The underlying complexion was more olive, but overriden by a reddish sunburn. The faded red lumberjack shirt, and the blue jeans with rope for a belt, did not quite fit with his brand new Adidas cross-trainers.

His companion (henchman) was a study in contrasts. Tall and thin, almost emaciated, Alan thought he might easily blow over with the next strong wind. He was dressed mostly in black, with a white dress shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck, but no tie. The skin of his face was almost as pale, and almost as yellowed, as the shirt, and his hands seemed even paler as they fluttered rapidly when he spoke. His English was perfect. Too perfect, with the merest hint of British accent. He had a neatly trimmed full beard, which matched the black of his dandruff-speckled suit jacket. Atop his head, two silver bobby pins firmly held knitted yarmulkeh to his curly black hair.

Seeing him, Alan recalled that this area was known as "the Borshch Belt" or "the Jewish Alps," because most of the surrounding towns had large hotels and resorts best known for their kosher kitchens, big-name entertainers, and ubiquitous "tummelers". The big places like Grossingers and the Concord are just a short distance over the mountains; Fleischmans down the highway, and Margaretville a few miles beyond.

Shendaken, where Alan's cabin was built, still boasted a Catskill resort, but now it was an inn owned by a Frenchman who used to run a four-star French restaurant in Manhattan, before retreating to the more-scenic countryside. Nowadays, the tourists are more likely to be skiiers or fishermen; they come from all over the world to sample the cuisine, and the fruit de mare and escargot can hardly be called kosher.

Yet, the younger man could have passed for a new rabbi inspecting Fleischman's kitchen, or maybe an ultra-orthodox Yeshiva-bucher from Kings Highway, Broooklyn. As he man stepped over to the body and turned it over, Alan thought he could hear the sounds of a foreign language again, and was certain he saw the man's his lips moving.

The calm, peaceful picture of the woman sleeping peacefully on a clean carpet was suddenly replaced by a horrible sight. A nasty gash on the forehead was leaking the same color of mud or sauce that Alan had seen on the poker and carpet, and there was a much-brighter red stain surround a large bullet hole in her chest.

The dead woman was unmistakably Chinese.

"You are mistaken."

"What do you mean?" Alan asked.

"She is not Chinese. She is Japanese."

"How would you know that?"

"It is our business to know. She is a professional who conducts espionage assignments for a Japanese syndicate. We know that she was the one who hired the people who broke in here. They stole your papers."

"And broke my mailbox."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"They found your papers, using information she gave them. Then they apparently decided to keep the information for themselves. They killed her, probably when she tried to take the papers from them. We think they questioned her for quite a while before killing her. We heard the gunshot just before they drove away.

"How do you know all this?"

"We were following them. We got here just after they arrived, and watched them break into the house. They stayed a very long time; we're not sure why."

"Why did you just watch them? What were they doing here? Why did they leave in a hurry?"

"Whoah, one question at a time. It's a long story, very complicated very strange.

"What does all this have to do with me?"

"You are at the center of it.'

"Me?"

"I'm afraid so. We'll explain it all, but let me answer your questions first. First of all, we didn't want them to know we were on to them. We wanted to see how much they knew, and what they were after. Our suspicions were right: they wanted your records of the genome patterns. Where did you keep them?"

"In that drawer."

"It's empty."

"Why would they want that stuff. It has no value."

"You'd be surprised."

"Alan waited for an explanation but there was none." "Why did they leave in a hurry.

"Well, first they seemed to have been taken by surprise when the red car pulled up. As soon as the woman approached the door, they grabbed her and pulled her in."

"Oh, my God," Alan shrieked. "He jumped up, but the handcuff held him down, hurting his wrist. That was Jenny! That's not your car, outside?"

"No. We came down the side road, and cut across just above Esopus Creek."

"Then Jenny did come up here. Where is she? What happened to her?

"She seemed OK. They took her with them.

"Oh, no.

"We heard a shot. At first, we thought it was her. Then we saw them forcing her into the pickup, and realized that must have been them shooting Michiko."

"Who."

"Ari merely pointed, then went on. "They jumped into the pickup, with - Jenny, you said her name was -- and raced away, down the driveway."

"Splattering gravel."

"Yes."

"But where? And why Jenny? What do they want from her? What the Hell is going on?"

"Wanna cold beer?"

"You know, I would really appreciate one right now."

Alan stood up from the kitchen chair, and crossed over to the refrigerator. The silver suitcase did not come out as easily as it had gone in, and his hands had difficulty ripping open the cardboard. Finally, with three open cans on the table, after three appreciative "Aaaahs," Ari said, "I'm really sorry about the cuffs, but we couldn't take the chance that ..."

"I said don't worry about it. No harm done."

"Thanks for the beer. No hard feelings?"

"None."

The silent ritual of male bonding continued for a moment, accompanied only by gurgles, aaahs, and stoic eye contact. Then, Ari continued the explanation. "So that's about all we know. Michiko's client was only interested in stealing the technology. Also, they were very much afraid of anyone identifying them as being behind the theft, so they told her to use agents who could not be connected to them. They also told her not to worry about other "consequences", like necessary murders and so forth. She was very clever in hiring the "Sword" organization."

"The Islamic terrorists you mentioned?"

"Yes," Ari replied, but quickly amended it. "Well, you see, they are not exactly terrorists. They don't blow up people for a political cause, like Hezbollah or Al Fatah [??]. They're more like fanatics. They know exactly what Allah wants, and they will happily kill anyone who stands in the way, and just as happily carry out a suicide mission -- because they know it will take them immediately into Heaven."

"Wow."

"I couldn't have put it better. But, Michiko's cleverness backfired."

"Why?"

"When the 'Sword' found out what it was asked to steal, they also found out about the 'Survivors,' and what their scheme would do to the world."

"Who."

"OK, you have a lot of catching up to do."

"But you said I was in the middle of all this. How come I don't know anything about it?"

"You are. It started a very long time ago. And I told you it's a long story."

"A long time ago? Before I was born?"

"Before man, the species, was born."

"So, this 'Sword' believes that the process started by the 'Survivors' will destroy all life on the planet?"

"Yes, they do. Not all life, just anything that lives on land and breathes oxygen. Remember that the 'Survivors' lived in a world almost entirely covered by water. They view the surface as a hostile place, exposed to toxic gasses."

"Like oxygen."

"After the process is completed, the planet will be 'terraformed' -- or maybe I should say 'hydroformed' -- back to the way it was before their species became extinct."

"The good old days."

"Yes."

Alan wanted to get another beer from the refrigerator, but somehow he felt pinned to his chair. Yossi caught Alan's wistful glance, and went to the refrigerator.

"There's not much more to say. The 'Sword' devoutly believes that this plan is God's will, and they will lay down their lives to make it happen."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"They interpret the Koran to say that the process of creation is incomplete. This is the end of the Seventh Day, and the beginning of the Eighth."

"But what the Hell does any of this have to do with me?!"

"You released the cloud into the atmosphere."

"But that was ..."

"I know, I know. I'm not blaming you. It was caused by the encoded sequences. I know all that. But the 'Sword' views you almost as a hero, and a necessary part of the process. They would never harm you. They want to use you to get the rest of the information. That's why they stole the genome codes."

"Those have nothing to do with terraforming or hydroforming or whatever you call it. They are just the genetic sequences that were hidden away in the unused portions of other creatures. And I also identified the modern, surviving species that could be used a a basis for reconstruction. "

The 'survivors' thought they could eventually reconstruct their own genetic patterns, when conditions were right and they could survive again."

"When conditions were right? Oh, I see."

"On the Eight Day, the Peeps shall rise and reclaim their due. And all the wicked species of the land shall be thrown down into Hell for their sins."

"Huh? What's that?"

"Just a quote from the New Koran. Habib is Allah's prophet, and the 'Sword' is His vengeance."

"What can we do? What can I do?"

"I was waiting for you to say that."