(The following is a short-story I wrote for a class. Eventually I hope to develop this into a full length novel)
“The closest analog I can think of is synesthesia. I look, and they just make sense. I didn’t learn to do this, I didn’t read a book, or take a class, I look over the field, and they make sense.”
The room was cold, and the walls were off white, stained with oxidation, the patterns of the concrete brick emerging. The hum of the florescent bulbs above punctuated the silence a third voice in a tenuous dialogue.
The agent asked more confused now than at the beginning of the interview, “You have predicted tornadoes and forest fires. You have saved lives. Why not work with us we can give you the resources to help more people?”
Pensively Mark looked up from his hands, “It’s not mine to sell.”
The agent adjusted his glasses and tapped the table in an off-kilter rhythm, and his voice returned to a dispassionate monotone, “So you don’t know how you do it, or why?”
The hum once again prevails as Mark stares blankly at the space between his middle and ring finger.
“Well, you are not being charged with anything, so you are free to go when you please. But do me a favor, if the nature of the messages changes or if you perceive yourself to be in any danger, please call me.”
The Agent slid his business card across the table, before their meeting he had written his personal contact information on the back in blue ink. Mark nodded without making eye contact and placed the card into his palm. He slid the chair from the desk and stood then made his way to the door closing it behind him. The Agent was left only with his thoughts and the hum.
Mark emerged slowly into the night, clad in his flannel button up shirt and tattered jeans; he walked toward his home, but at the halfway point encountered an obstruction. A line of people clad in white linen and hooded stretched across his path, when Mark began to speak they broke formation, and their leader emerged, "Hello, Mark we have much to discuss."
Her long gray hair framed her slender face; she was friendly and calm.
Mark spoke hesitantly, "I'm sorry do I know you?"
He pulled his hands from his pockets and readied them at his side anticipating a physical confrontation. The leader introduced herself as simply Beta; she continued to speak, but Mark noticed beyond the group their mode of transportation, a repurposed school bus adorned with the symbols that Mark had documented and analyzed in his previous work.
Beta realized Mark has disengaged from their conversation and approached him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke into his eyes.
"You have been given a gift; no one else is able to do what you do. You are the Alpha, and we are here to help," the rest of the collected followers looked at Mark in adoration and seemed to nod at him in unison.
Mark staggered back a few steps as if struck in the chest, he looked across the faces of those gathered before him and struggled to speak, "I think...I should go," Mark attempted to walk past the group, but two large men advanced toward him.
Beta interjected and said, "Let him go. Mark, we mean you no harm. We only want to help."
Mark nodded cautiously and continued on his way. Mark was frustrated and confused, it was a cool spring night, and he was nearly home. There was more work to be done in the morning.
Mark wakes at 9:32 a.m. the sun penetrating between the space in his blinds provides enough light to reveal the dishevelment of his present circumstance. Newspapers, fast-food wrappers, coffee cups, and empty packs of cigarettes line the floor. Mark kicks away debris as he makes his way to the front door. His story had become a fixture of his hometown’s newspaper, today's headline read, " World’s Only Crop-circle Analyst Mediocre Student."
Mark's high school principal had been interviewed and remarked on how he knew Mark was meant for "great things."
Mark had regularly been the subject of the newspaper’s headline; his town had never had a celebrity before. He was ill at ease with the sudden attention, but understood that he was in a position to help others; he thought surely this was worth the loss of his anonymity.
Mark readied himself for the day and shortly after that Jeremy arrived. Mark had been without transportation since his Geo Prism quit working four months ago. Jeremy and Mark had grown up together and remained friends throughout high school and into adulthood. They both worked at the same plastics factory after high school and carpooled to work regularly. When Mark’s transportation failed him, Jeremy volunteered to drive him to the sites of the different events. Mark, was happy for the companionship, but worried that he was placing his friend in the path of danger.
Today they would drive from the rural northern Ohio home to Mishawaka, Indiana, where a soybean field had been imprinted with a horizontal line of overlapping circles, intersected by two parallel lines. Prior to these trips Mark and Jeremy had only left their hometown on a few occasions for family events. Mark was unable to remotely analyze the markings, he had to be present and walk around them to decipher their message. He had developed a ritual of sorts whereby he would walk the perimeter of the marking and then sit at its center point and begin to write his transcription.
As they crossed the border between Ohio and Indiana, Mark took notice of two cars, which had been slightly behind them for the duration of their journey. He explained to Jeremy that he believed they were being followed and that he understood if Jeremy wanted to stop driving him, "This is becoming a dangerous situation."
Mark then explained to Jeremy the events of the night before, Jeremy made eye contact with Mark and shook his head they preceded to the site and said nothing else. Mark was provided an overhead photograph of the design and continued on foot to the field. Jeremy waited in the car and read the newspaper from home. Mark emerged from the field five hours later and spoke briefly to the property owner. From the car, Jeremy could tell the man was angry and unsatisfied with Mark's conclusion.
Mark returned to the car, and Jeremy turned it on. Jeremy asked, "What did it say?" Mark replied, "December 5th, 2016. Valediction".
Jeremy looked at Mark as if he had begun to speak in Latin. Mark sighed and explained, "It means to say goodbye."
The look of confusion continued on Jeremy's face and Mark merely shrugged his shoulders to suggest that he was just as confused. This message was more specific and more oblique at the same time as the fields Mark had deciphered in the past.
When Jeremy pulled into Mark's driveway, he turned to his friend and stated: "it sounds like a threat," with that, Mark nodded and walked into his home.
The following months would find Jeremy and Mark traversing the mid-west as the occurrence of crop circles had become suddenly much more rapid, and they had become uniform in their message “December 5th, 2016”. Valediction. Each time the same design appeared. The national media had taken notice of this uniformity and had begun to wildly speculate upon the implied meaning of the message. Mark had refused any appearance in the major media before and continued to do so even though the frequency of such offers had increased exponentially in the wake of this newest development. Mark issued statements to the media through his attorney and explained again that he was only able to read the designs; he was unable to analyze them.
Mathematicians, engineers, anthropologists, all wishing to establish a foothold in fame claimed to also understand the messages and worked to impugn Mark's interpretations. In time Mark began to decline into obscurity and was discredited in the public eye. His refusal to be a public persona had rendered him uninteresting to the media and they had embraced more fringe theories and interpretations of the designs. Mark explained to Jeremy that he should return to his job at the plastics factory, as they would no longer have to travel. The two lost touch over the interceding weeks and Mark sunk into a depression. He did not ask for his ability, but now that it had effectively been taken from him he felt wholly insignificant.
In the midst of a September evening, Mark's doorbell rang for the first time in months. As he had returned to his former life, Mark had expected a neighbor or even Jeremy to be on the other side of the door, but to his surprise, the agent awaited him.
The agent extended his hand, and Mark asked, "What are you doing here?"
The agent barged into Mark's home and surveyed his modest living situation. "You know, you could have been fabulously wealthy with this whole thing," the agent condescended but in a manner that invited a courtesy laugh from Mark.
Silence filled Mark's home, and the agent sensing that Mark was not interested in small talk begins, "I'll be brief, the agency has lost interest in you, but I have not. I want you to remain in contact if anything of note should happen."
The agent placed his business card with his personal contact information on Mark's table. He wrote his personal information on the back, looked at Mark and said, "Anything."
The agent left through Mark's front door, Mark picked up his card and placed it in his right rear pocket. The sound of the agent's car starting pierced the silence and was followed by a loud bang. Mark emerged from his home slowly and made his way to the front of the agent's car.
The dark red of the agent's blood and the reflection of the broken glass adorned the dashboard of the sedan, his lifeless body leaning against the steering wheel. Mark stood at the front of the car, knowing that he was suddenly in a most dangerous circumstance.
A hand gripped his shoulder, "Hello Mark, we have much to discuss," Mark turned to find Beta and the rest of her followers.
Mark attempted to run, but was pursued, captured, and subdued by two cloaked attackers. Before losing consciousness, Mark recognized a familiar symbol tattooed on the foreheads of both of his attackers, a horizontal line of overlapping circles, intersected by two parallel lines. December 5th, 2016. Valediction. The world faded.
Mark awoke in an unfamiliar place, the walls were bare, and the room was empty with the exception of the bed that Mark was laying on. He rose to his feet and took stock of his condition, he had bruises and contusions on his limbs from defending himself, furthermore the back of his head throbbed from the site of the strike that rendered him unconscious. The lighting in the room was fluorescent, the ceiling was high, and the room was without windows. Mark was unable to gauge what time of day it was. Left with no information about his surroundings, and no possible means of escape.
Mark walked to the door and spoke cautiously, "Hello?"
Suddenly the light in his room intensified, and a voice came over a loudspeaker that said,"Please, wait on the other side of the room".
In a confused state, Mark retreated to the opposite side of the room and placed his back and palms against the wall.
A key entered the lock on his door and through the door emerged Beta, "How, are you feeling Mark?"
Mark did not react or move, he locked eyes with Beta and watched as she placed a tray of food and change of clothes on the floor.
Beta encouraged Mark to eat, but he remained stationary against the wall, "I understand your anger and confusion, but you must understand we are here to help. We know that yours is the one true interpretation of the signs."
Mark again remained stationary.
Beta turned and walked toward the door, she turned back to Mark in the doorway and said, "We will be back to check on you soon."
Mark approached the food and eventually gave into his desires and indulged in the meal. The clothing left behind was a dark blue jumpsuit, a design of a deer in the wild emblazoned on the pocket. Mark put on the jumpsuit, and returned to bed, his vision was obscured and he felt dizzy. He fell asleep again, unsure of where he was, and what his captors wanted from him.
Periodically, the lights in Mark's room would brighten, and he would be instructed to move to the wall opposite the door. A different cloaked individual would bring a meal and change of clothes to him each day. Their faces were obscured, but their body types were varied, so Mark was able to realize that these individuals were being rotated, he referred to them in his inner monologue as cloaks. Mark deduced that this rotation was intended to keep his captors from identifying with his circumstance. He determined the best way to disrupt the plan of his captors was to place his own health in jeopardy. If he were their deity, surely his self-harm would disrupt the very fabric of their organization. When his next delivery of rations came, Mark refused to eat or drink anything he also refused to change his clothes. He would not speak or make eye contact with the cloaks.
The cloaks delivered meals and fresh clothes to Mark at odd intervals; he was unable to surmise the passage of time as a result. After what Mark assumed was a week he began to hear arguing in the hallways of the building. The deliveries became more frequent, and the cloaks began to speak to Mark encouraging him to eat, and insisting on his importance. Eventually, Beta herself started to bring Mark's meals and attempting to engage him in conversation.
Usually stoic during these exchanges, Mark lashed out at the leader of the group and asked, "What do you want from me!"
Beta replied, "We want you to be the Alpha, we want you to use your gift, and to save us.”
Mark began to laugh for the first time in months.
The arguments around the building intensified in the coming days, long silences were punctuated by shouting. Mark heard what seemed to be a scuffle, and was not visited by anyone for the longest period of his imprisonment.
Mark awoke to find a cloak standing over his bed, "Beta is gone."
Mark asked if he could leave the person turned and left the room without a word. The meal deliveries resumed, and Mark still refused to eat. He realized that if he were to escape he would need to do so soon, he had now grown a full beard and could tell that he had lost a significant amount of weight. His continued refusal to eat had disrupted the organization even further an uneasy air permeated the halls of the building.
A unity had begun to emerge in the body shape of the individual delivering Mark's meals; he attempted to engage the cloak in discussion but was met with silence. Eventually upon one of his meal deliveries the cloak had left the tray laying in a fashion unlike any other day, facing perpendicular to the wall rather than parallel. Mark walked over to examine the tray and noticed a hair thin beam of light emerging from a small crack in the door. The cloak had left the door unlocked and partially open. Mark crawled toward the door and listened intently. The building was quiet so Mark emerged from this room for the first time in what must have been months. He made his way down the hall and crawled through an unlocked window.
Disheveled, Mark sprinted from the building into the surrounding wilderness trying to obtain his bearings. He made his way through the woods and into a nearby town. He was dressed in tatters and heavily bearded. He stayed at the edge of the woods and surveyed the small town; a bar was the only establishment open, despite his appearance Mark decided to enter it. He opened the door to find a myriad of heavily bearded individuals drinking and shouting, he was less out of place than he had assumed. He approached the bartender and asked to use the phone, he punched in the only number he had committed to memory, Jeremy's. The phone rang four times, and Mark pulled the receiver away from his ear. In the distance, he could hear Jeremy's voicemail greeting, which was Jeremy’s voice. In all the time Mark had known Jeremy he had never recorded an outgoing message.
He dialed the number again and waited, “836 Monroe Street, the key is beneath the third brick on the leftmost row.”
Mark looked at the bartender and asked, "Do you know how to get to Monroe Street?" Following the hand-drawn map provided by the bartender, Mark made his way to the address given by Jeremy's voicemail. It was a simple one-floor blue house, with a brick walkway leading to the front door. Mark walked to the leftmost row and began to count, at the third brick he dropped to his knees and began to lift. Once the brick was extracted from its surroundings Mark found a small box in the dirt underneath. It contained a key, he walked to the front door and after a quarter turn the key allowed him access to the house.
The fridge was stocked with Mark's favorite foods and a note attached to it said, "If I am not here in the morning leave."
It was Jeremy's handwriting. Mark realized that Jeremy had infiltrated the cloaks to free him. Jeremy's car was in the garage behind the house, it contained a computer printout that listed the directions back to their hometown in the glove compartment. Mark wished to go back for his friend but knew he must rest before he did anything else. He did not know how Jeremy had found the cloaks, but he was going to liberate his friend from their grasp.
At the end of his slumber, Mark showered shaved and put on the clothes he found in the closet closest to his size. Since he had lost a significant amount of weight during his hunger strike the flannel shirt and jeans were loose to a nearly absurd degree. Jeremy had not returned, but Mark refused to abandon him. Mark opened the garage and sat behind the wheel of Jeremy's car trying to recall the path he took from the compound to the bar. He searched throughout the small town and eventually began to find familiar landmarks.
The compound was at the end of a long driveway, Mark sped past and left the car at a nearby abandoned farm, he continued on foot using the wilderness to obscure his approach. He made his way to the window he had used to escape, which curiously was still open. He searched the perimeter of the house and found that it appeared to be abandoned. Mark walked to the front door turned the handle to find that the house had been vacated. He cautiously made his way throughout the house and eventually returned to the room he was held captive in. From the doorway it was apparent that someone was in the bed, he approached it and pulled back the cover to find Jeremy, lifeless with the familiar symbol carved into his forehead. December 5, 2016. Valediction. Mark wept and knew he had precious little time before the cloaks returned.
Returning to the truck, Mark drove North on interstate seventy-five as the directions had indicated. As the miles and hours past Mark took stock of his situation, he was being pursued by the cloaks and was likely wanted by law enforcement for the murder of the agent. He did not have the resources to run long. Mark resolved to surrender himself to the authorities. He pulled into the next small town along the highway walked into the police department; he explained who he was and who would be looking for him. He was placed in a holding cell, and after ten hours was visited by three men in suits who identified themselves as FBI agents. Mark was freed from the holding cell and preceded with the agents to their vehicle. They drove to a nondescript building in a rural area; Mark was placed in another holding cell and then eventually led to living quarters. It was nearly the size of his house. One of the agents advised him to get some rest, as tomorrow would be an extraordinarily long day. Mark ate almost all of the food in the refrigerator provided to him, he was uneasy about becoming a prisoner once more but felt safer with the FBI than in the open with the cloaks ready to kill or abduct him at any moment. He collapsed into the bed and dreamt of calm, open water, floating just above its surface feeling some sense of safety for the first time in what must have been months.
When he awoke, Mark found a note that had been slid under his door, it read "Shower and dress, use the intercom when you are ready."
Mark took his time and enjoyed what he believed would be his last moments of freedom. After finishing the last of the food in the refrigerator, Mark made his way to the intercom and pressed the call button. Shortly after that, the door opened, and an agent asked Mark to come with him. They walked down a large hallway devoid of any art, merely gray brick and off-white mortar. He was led into an interrogation room and provided a cup of coffee. The hum of the fluorescent light offered Mark some sense of comfort and normalcy. Eventually, an agent emerges from the door, his arms full of folders and documents he begins to spread them across the table Mark is sat at. The agent’s physical makeup was vastly different than the first agent Mark had come to know, but their demeanor was similar. One by one the photographs reveal a different field with the same design imprinted in its crops. The agent sits opposite Mark and gestures toward the table as if he expects an explanation.
Mark in a confused state asks, "Shouldn't you be asking me about the agent you found dead on my property? Or what about where I've been."
The agent reaches into his pocket and extracts his phone he slides over to Mark, who opens the phone to find its calendar application staring back at him. It was December 5th 2016. A blue light begins to emerge from the window. The agent rose to his feet and made his way toward it. The light increased in intensity and brilliance, and warmth filled the cold room. The details of the walls, table, and photographs began to vanish slowly. The whole of the world was enveloped in blue light. Mark slowly rose from his chair and left his feet, he had begun to float. The world fades. Only the light and the hum remain.
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