Another frustrating thing was, after he declined to speak to Dr. Davidian about his emotional state, and after the inquest exonerated him and the others, someone decided to shuffle the rotation.
Again, he could see the reasoning: let’s make sure these six men aren’t all guarding the spaceship at around the same time, just in case we have this wrong. He would have made the same call.
It didn’t mean he liked the outcome. His new team was A: on a nighttime rotation with the spaceship, and B: filled with men who’d come in with Vogel.
Sam had been in Sorrow Falls for fourteen months, which was longer than most of the men assigned to the base, but not as long as Vogel and his guys. They called themselves ‘lifers’, and they’d been there for a little over two years. There were only ten of them—nine now—five of whom made up Sam’s new team.
Two years didn’t seem like a long time to be at a base that saw no combat, but as far as lifers were concerned they were owed some sort of special respect, which was annoying since they all carried the same rank as Sam and two were younger than he was. It was all very high school, but Sam could learn to deal with it.
Much more disconcerting was the extremely cavalier attitude they all seemed to have about their assignment. They collectively developed a disturbingly nihilistic perspective on the ship and the importance of their duties in regards to it.
Sam could understand this too. It was easy to fall into a late-night security guard sort of mentality around a thing that was supposed to be the most dangerous object on the planet but which continued to refuse to fulfill that responsibility.
On the other hand, nobody wants to hear it won’t matter, we’ll all die anyway from the soldier sharing his foxhole, whether or not it was true.
This was Sam’s second night shift with this team, and the second night they told him to cover the front (street side) of the perimeter and to not worry about checking in unless he saw something important happen or had to take a leak. The first hour of the first night, he thought they were being generous in giving him the gate, because there were fewer bugs out front, and a few more things to look at. The back of the perimeter was nothing but a lot of trees and a squirrel or two, in contrast. But then Sam tried to check in at the hour—they were supposed to have hourly checks—and half the team didn’t answer. He was about to escalate it (which would have meant a backup team driving down the hill from the base) when he was told the three guys in back were napping and to leave them alone.
So that was the first night, which was dry. On this, the second, it had already rained a ton and the ground was muddy, so Sam didn’t see any way for a nap to be feasible without there being immediate and obvious evidence of said nap.
Just the same, when he tried to check in he was told to mind his own business.
He wondered if maybe they had hammocks hidden in the trees.
It was at exactly twenty-two-seventeen that the end of the world began. Sam always expected to have a front-row seat to it, but knew every other soldier at the base felt the same way. Even the lifers felt that way, although their expression of this sentiment was more tied up in concepts relating to fate and inevitability and passiveness, whereas everyone else tended to game-plan the scenario with a mixture of excitement and dread.
Either way, it was Sam who was at the gate at the beginning of the end. And the beginning of the end was startling indeed.
First, there was the heavy thump of a shock wave that traveled along the ground and knocked Sam over. He ended up on his butt. Across the street, the trailers rocked. He heard exclamations of surprise.
Sam scrambled to his feet and reached for his radio—still clipped to his belt—and his rifle, which he’d dropped. He opened a channel.
“SS1 to Base, we have something happening down here. Felt like an earthquake, but I think the ship did it, over.”
Static.
Did they hear me?
The radios were susceptible to atmospheric interference from time to time, and this was the kind of night where such a thing was possible. That was why they kept a field phone attached to a landline near the gate. (This was, if nothing else, ironic, as field phones were designed to be portable communicators in an age before cell phones. Now, it was a hardwired alternative to wireless.) Sam oriented himself, located the phone and started running for it.
“Hey!” someone shouted from the trailer. “Something’s happening, huh?”
Sam knew the guy—it was the weird nerdy guy Annie knew. Dobie or something. It wasn’t a great time for a chat, so Sam just waved and continued for the phone.
Then he saw the light, out of the corner of his eye, and he stopped moving to stare at it.
The light was Bunsen burner blue, and it was being emitted from a part of the spaceship most people likened to an antenna array. It was only glowing faintly, but glowing nonetheless, which was more life than the ship had shown at any point in the past three years, excluding thirty seconds ago.
“Holy crap!” the guy on the trailer shouted.
Go back inside, Sam was supposed to be saying. Protect yourself, drive for the hills, get behind me. You want me on that wall.
He didn’t say any of that; he didn’t have time. The light brightened and then there was… something like an explosion.
The sound it made was a lot more like an implosion, or maybe just the noise an explosion would make if played backwards. It happened in time with a tremendous wave of melancholy. When it passed through Sam his knees buckled and he gasped and nearly began to cry. It was weaponized depression; there was no other way to describe it. Mercifully, it lasted less than a second, or he might have put a gun in his mouth.
The light on the top of the ship glowed brighter still, and then a thin beam shot out of the top, visible only because of the mist still in the air from the earlier precipitation. It went straight up into the lower atmosphere until reaching something like a wall or an upper bound, at which point it spread out in in all directions, like the cascade at the top of a geyser.
Sam fingered the channel on his radio again and only heard more static. Behind him, the trailers nutsos were collectively springing to life. Doors were opening and people were coming out. If any of them tried to rush the gate, Sam was going to have a tough decision to make.
But first, the phone. He reached the field phone and clicked open the line, which was all that was required to dial up the base as the phone had no other purpose and wasn’t tied to any public lines. It ran along the same underground cable as the instruments surrounding the ship.
“SS1 to Base, this is Corning, over.”
Silence. Sam thought about those instruments on the ground inside the fence. They were calibrated to detect the tiniest of changes, so what just happened probably caused every sensor to wet itself. There was undoubtedly a packet of exciting information being uploaded to the science team at this very moment, which meant even if Sam didn’t get through there were people in the world—far away from Sorrow Falls—who were aware that this was happening. Whatever it was.
Not getting through to the base wasn’t an expected outcome, yet nobody was responding. He didn’t know where the phone terminated, but assumed a human being was in charge of anticipating a call. Perhaps that human was sleeping, like the men sharing his perimeter detail.
Then someone picked up the phone.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Corning, at the ship. We’ve got something going on down here, I need…”
“Hold position, soldier, we’re locking down.”
“Yes… yes sir, it’s just…”
“Conserve ammo, shoot to wound if possible, and hold position!”
The line went dead.
Sam stared at the phone for a few seconds, not sure if he was ready to believe what he’d just heard. There were the orders, which were alarming enough, but that wasn’t all.
On the other end of the line, in the background, he could swear he heard screaming.