Lights in the Night E-Book

Greg Alldredge

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Ostinato Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 257

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Live life on the edge of sanity.

Trevor, an orphan at thirteen, bounced around the Far-east searching for something, trouble was he didn’t understand what. Wracked with insomnia and tired of traveling the world, he’d returned home to be more “normal” and took a job from his older brother, he failed at normal. When world events reignite his pursuit of the inexplicable to a sleepy West Texas town, his world took a turn to the bizarre and unimaginable.

Caught between fantasy and reality, Trevor must face his greatest fears and admit some things can’t be explained. Unseen forces drive him to his destiny. Will Trevor be able to discover what created the Lights in the Night and get the girl, or lose his grip on sanity?

Don’t miss Lights in the Night, the first of the Ostinato series by Greg Alldredge. If you like tales with quirky characters and a metaphysical search for hard to answer questions, then this Speculative Fiction will have you turning the pages! Come check it out!

Leseprobe

Lights in the Night

Book One

The Ostinato Series.

By Greg Alldredge

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781521060735

Contact the author at

[email protected] or

@G.Alldredge on FaceBook

© 2017 Greg Alldredge

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Art by Ryn Katryn Digital Art.

For Connie, my wife, my best friend, my editor.

And

Courtney and Nicole, whose road trip to their wedding sparked this idea in my feverish little brain.

Ostinato: a constantly recurring melodic fragment.

In the Beginning.

Marysfield.

Barney and Trevor.

Fright Flight.

A Chance Encounter.

The Next British Evasion.

Words to the Wise.

The Morning After

Breakfast.

Crystal Night’s.

A Place to Work From.

Into the Wasteland.

Home is Where the Heart is.

Tripping Balls.

Back to Reality.

Tipping point.

Getting Down to Work.

A Little Night Music.

The Men in Black...SUVs.

An Affair to Remember.

Barney Comes to Town.

‘Big’ Jim.

Los Federales.

When You're Strange.

Puzzling the Pieces.

At a Town Meeting.

Fear and Loathing.

All Hell Breaks Loose.

A Final Countdown.

Epilogue.

In the Beginning.

Everyone in town called ‘Old Sits’ the crazy old hermit. One of those men that by choice decided to live a life of solitude in the open desert.

Yet, this particular night, he was on a mission. Like a forward observer, equipped with surveillance equipment more suitable to the NSA or catching cheating spouses. Dressed in a ghillie suit, camouflage netting covering his entrenched position: Armed with a high-power camera, hyperbolic microphone and a four-inch tripod-mounted telescope all targeted at the distance southern mountain range under observation.

Any rational observer would recognize someone who was spying on someone or something. He chose to position himself here, in this very location watching the same chunk of real-estate for the last four months. Every night from before moonrise to first light, eating cold spam sandwiches and drinking vodka, waiting for anything to happen.

Imagine his surprise when something finally did happen. Not what he had expected and more importantly not from the direction he anticipated.

While the hermit watched the mountain, the mountain watched ‘Old Sits’. In truth, two Air Force security guards sat in a room several miles off, checking everything on twenty-five computer screens. They even had a dossier on the old man up on a screen, waiting for him to cross an imaginary line.

His movements tracked from when he left his thirty-seven Ford pickup parked in a ravine several hours ago and miles away, to where he now camped. ‘Old Sits’, couldn’t be blamed for losing the surveillance war. The U.S. Government came to the table with a massive budget and could afford better spook gear.

As secret bases went, this one was not that secret. The Federal government would rather not take the time and energy explaining its real purpose.

“Target one maintaining distance,” one guard reported to the other who sat there, reading a book.

“If he comes too close, we will let the field units handle him. Think he is smart enough to know where the line is?”

Chuckling, while continuing the monotonous sitting and waiting for something to happen, watching one lone surveillant.

Who watches the watchers that are watching the watched?

From the north, in his entrenched bunker, the hermit heard a faint high pitch buzzing slowly building. Attention and equipment being directed to the south; forced him to leave the position to search behind him. Scanning the sky, he viewed the beautiful Milky Way blazing overhead. He could discern the noise getting louder, a piercing whine.

The two security guards had a different experience. First, the ground vibrations sensors started tripping off, like something walking all over the desert.

“What is that? Earthquake?” Shaken, they scrambled to adjust instruments hoping for a better observation.

“Adjust the volume will ya that noise is deafening.”

The old man had no way to lower the decibels. The buzzing, at a frequency resembling a dentist drill, bored into his skull. He covered his ears, trying to block the sound but with no luck. The pain was almost unbearable causing his thrashing about, trying to escape the pain.

In the bunker, the two muted the sound, but even on the other side of the mountain, the noise penetrated enough to hurt.

“Make sure this is recording!”

“What the hell is that?”

“Jump on the phone, we need the field units out there,” they were talking to one another trying to complete everything at once.

“Maybe we should help him, he looks like he’s dying!”

“Not sure we can reach him.”

Silence.

‘Old Sits,’ unable to hear, blood running down both sides of his face, and into his scruffy white beard, he stood next to his spider hole, resembling a wraith. The ghillie suit hung like shreds of flesh from his body.

Abruptly a light so brilliant it illuminated the desert valley glided overhead, strafing to the south as if on an attack run, the underground bunker holding the two guards the suggested primary target.

The light flew towards the primary camera, filling the largest monitor. In response, the guard’s natural reaction caused them to duck, as it filled the screen.

The view on the display was impressive, but the sheer size of the object caused ‘Old Sits’ to stumble backward and fall into the trench. He tore off his hood, scrambled up and ran for his truck.

Silent now, other objects joined the vanguard light. The lights chased the running man. He felt his heavy breathing in his bones. Over the broken terrain, scrambling the best he could. The adrenaline helped to overcome the effects of the alcohol, he thought, I hope I can make it to the truck, without having a heart attack.

The pair of airmen, were on the phones, trying to reach anybody. It is not every day you must report a UFO. Those they contacted thought they had lost it.

“You think we should send the field unit after him?”

The senior guard thought for a second, “Not in our procedure. He is outside our perimeter. We let him go. Send it up the chain, they can decide how to deal with him. He never crossed the boundary.”

The guards continually recorded the series of lights, too many to count. All undulating in brilliance, flashing patterns in unison, as if they were communicating, while they chased the old man out of the valley.

At the onset of the event, they had recorded the time, 2300 hours, in the duty log.

Making it to his truck, gasping for breath,finally, he thought. Luck holding out, the old crate started first try. Slamming it into reverse, he backed out of the ravine and began careening down the dirt road, bouncing off the raised dirt sides. The lights continued to chase the old man down the nameless track in the desert. About that time, he soiled himself.

In the bunker, the guards were fairing a little better. The distance offered some protection. Not witnessing it in person but via closed-circuit television; however, they were both extremely shaken.

The chain of command notified, the duty of the two airmen complete. Nothing registered on the radar, the only record of the event, stored on the hard drives which recorded everything the two airmen witnessed.

“What the hell were those things?”

The other sentry silently shook his head.

The Government would handle the event as efficiently as most Governmental agencies handled these things. Think of the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Marysfield.

West Texas can be such a beautiful place, that is, if you like the desert, no people, and wind, never forget the wind. Don’t misinterpret me, there are some lovely places in the Big Bend. Regrettably, this story doesn’t take place in one of those. If you can think of the end of the earth, go about five more miles, and you will be getting close to where this story takes place.

At one time the area held more promise; people could always run a ranch. Of course, not everyone thinks of ranching as a glamorous way to make a living. Something about ‘castrating’ season tends to make the whole cattle business a little too unsophisticated for most people. Although it paid for many families to send their kids to college; unfortunately, those students would never come back. Cattle made some little towns almost a comfortable place to live if you like small. Remember, it takes a lot of dirt to grow hamburger in its original packaging. A person might love to drive an hour and a half on Friday to head into town; if this sounds appealing, this would be a place for you.

That was then, this is now. Most of the small towns west of the Pecos were persevering despite hard times. The banks hadn’t taken over all the spreads, some were surviving, scraping a living out of the Texas grit and brush. The price of beef is always fickle. The prices for everything else seem to always be going up. It didn’t take much for the little hole-in-the-wall places to begin to resemble ghost towns.

Marysfield was one such place. Some might compare it to an inflamed cyst on the backside of a longhorn. To others, a little piece of heaven. Some might even call it quaint. The major problem is not enough people are in the latter category. Past few years, Marysfield found itself on hard times.

Some would confess that out in the brush country there was a certain kind of peacefulness. The problem is; most days, you would experience more going on, out in the wilderness, than you would see in the downtown area of Marysfield.

Of course, calling it downtown might be a little generous. Roughly sixteen commercial buildings spread over four sides of a crossroad with a blinking light to manage traffic. The major metropolitan establishments still available were the Texas Savings and Loan and the Eddington General Store slash Hotel, both multi-story buildings. Another corner housed the one and only gas station, with the obligatorily attached barbecue smokehouse.

For some unknown reason, most everyone in Texas understands the truly best barbecue must be somehow connected to a gas station. This eatery was also the only real social gathering place for about a three-hour drive in any direction.

It is another mystery, to people that are from away, the propensity for Americans to measure distance in time. In America, when one says three hours away, it is almost a challenge to make it in less time than stated. Speed limits are for suckers and should be viewed as mere suggestions. Hell, when you can leave a built-up area and not run into another person for an hour or so, what is the real difference? There isn’t much difference between going seventy-five miles per hour or a hundred and fifteen miles per hour. Who are you hurting? As long as no cattle wander out into the road, everything should be okay. Of course, that does happen from time to time. It never ended well for the two-thousand-pound cow or the people in the two-thousand-pound car. Instant hamburger.

Back to Marysfield, the last prime real estate, the last corner of the intersection, housed the sheriff’s office and town hall combination. All the other buildings in ‘Down-Town’ were boarded up or burnt out. Not that it exhibited all the signs of a war zone, more like a boxer that lost a fifteen-round fight, three times in a row, on the same day. You might say the place had fallen on hard times, but that would be derogatory to hard times. Little happened in the area.

Down the road, a bit, to the south stood a military base. People stationed there never left the base. The business about their goings-on considered most secret.

Thus, the stage set, one brisk fall Friday night not too long ago. Things were hopping at Juniors.

Another little-known fact about Texas: A person would be amazed by the number of businesses called ‘Juniors.’ Specifically, barbeque joints.

Three people drinking beer, represented a hopping Friday night at Juniors, throw in the occasional takeout BBQ to eat at home. It was nearing closing time. Tonight that appeared to be about one in the morning as things were rather lifeless in Juniors.

‘Old Sits’ burst into the place knocking the little bell on the door off the spring. With a hyperventilating thick Eastern European accent shouted, “You need to come out and see this, there is no way you will believe it, I think we are being invaded!”

Now, most nights you need a better story than that to drag hardcore drinkers away from their favorite pastime, drinking beer. Nonetheless, it was not the end of the little drama taking place. After the bell flew off the spring attachment, it proceeded to bounce around a bit before stopping under one of the bar stools.

In series, ‘Old Sits’ burst through the door, shouted his warning, proceeded to vomit his last three meals, projectile style, into the restaurant; finally dropping, like someone shot him in the ass with a tranquilizer gun. Even the hard-core drinkers took notice, one of them even rose long enough to kick the aforementioned body to check if it breathed.

Junior first to respond, “What the hells?” Waved his towel in front of his face. “What’s that god awful smell?”

A tall skeleton served as Juniors body. Miraculously untouched by the decades of consuming his own BBQ. He moved towards the rag covered, emaciated body now spread face down in a pool of the contents of his stomach.

Now time could be spent on describing the events as they unfolded inside Juniors, but the inciting incident of this tale happened outside. In the night sky over Marysfield, an awe-inspiring display of flashing lights took place. At the same time, a tall young man, his shaggy hair pulled back into a man bun, cappuccino complexion, and handsome face featuring an aquiline nose, stood pumping gas into his white F150. The Ford at once glowed as gold as the lights in the sky as if it had been infused with the energy the lights emitted.

All this would have gone completely unnoticed and undocumented if Billy and Ellie had not been out late cuddling. He needed to take the rather flushed faced Ellie home before they got caught and she got a beating. Teens, they were, of course, both out when they were supposed to be home. That is a side of this story for later.

Billy and Ellie were in a minor state of shock, but much better off than the fellow laying in his own vomit. Billy possessed the presence of mind to film the lights. Most can appreciate people, especially teens, are never without their smartphones, even in Podunk little towns in West Texas. Most of the hayseed towns were within cell coverage.

Now if you asked Ellie’s father, what he thought of Billy, you would have gotten a string of obscenities that would make a Marine proud. Ellie’s dad would be wrong about Billy. He enjoyed more foresight than many kids his age, not sending the film straight out over the internet and into everyone’s clutches free of charge. Billy emailed clips to a few news agencies, trying to sell the footage.

Rather than go into the list of fine outstanding media establishments that turned Billy down, we will jump to the semi-respectable, some might say rag, British media company that bought his video. Of course, they put his pictures up on their website, and in their newspaper on their front-page, bottom right corner. The story lost the headline to a pair of conjoined twins. The tabloid saved the video for some unknown reason.

A couple of other papers ran the story, but it was never headline news. No one was concerned about West Texas after all. Respectable news organizations never catered much to the UFO crowd.

Now, this is where the story gets interesting.

Barney and Trevor.

Half the world away from West Texas, an office building sat in downtown London (with a view of the Thames if you must know). On one of these floors held the suite of one Barnabas Pettymore Swindells, a real-estate developer. More to the point, Barnabas was for anything that made his family’s fortune grow.

Hair so black it radiated a blue sheen, slight gray at the temples, framed his square head. Short sideburns led to a clean shaved face. Built like a professional wrestler. A sizable man at six-five, most found him imposing, understandable given his personality.

He understood the need to be the one in charge. Never being afraid to use his size to intimidate anyone he thought he might be able to. Size and reputation lent him to being called, a tad rough around the edges. Sharp, coarse, and deadly were some of the polite words used to describe him.

Always looking to keep his families name safe and build his small but growing empire, he was prepared to use every means necessary to achieve his goals. He happened to be on the phone when his younger brother Trevor burst into the room.

Trevor, the Yin to Barnabas’s Yang; slender, and blonde with almost androgynous features. People called him soft, he attempted to look rugged, and conceal his weak jaw with a patchy unkempt beard.

At five-foot-ten, he was much shorter than his brother. With a reputation for being a little too forgiving when it came to business, and soft in the head as well. He was known for seeking a myriad of ways to find himself. Always chasing some dream over the horizon.

The interruption irritated Barnabas. For a moment, he thought how he would love to seize his younger brother’s neck, with a satisfying firm grip and twist a bit. Luckily his softer nature concerning him prevailed. Without missing a beat, Barnabas kept listening to the phone while motioning Trevor to be quiet and sit down. Of course, Trevor could not be contained by such niceties, needing a drink, he went for the bar.

Still engaged, Barnabas got to the point in his phone conversation when he found a burning desire to speak. His face at one moment flush with anger and blanched with uneasiness. Unable to control himself any longer, he spoke with a clear firm voice that held back all his genuine emotions.

“Listen you little prick! You uphold your end of the contract, or I will boil your bollocks and feed them to my dogs. You’ll be lucky if I remove them first!” slamming down the phone. A brief moment of anger and fear swept over his face.

Of course, his younger brother was too excited to keep his tongue any longer. He slapped his paper down on the table with a flourish, pointing to what he thought urgent, “Barney! Here look at this, this is outstanding!”

Barney, glanced at the headline, took the drink from Trevor’s hand and took a sip before answering, “Manchester United won again? Hardly enough for me to get a chubby over... How many times do I need to remind you not to call me Barney? You make me sound like a flippin brain-dead purple dinosaur.”

Barnabas had always been Barney to Trevor. There were enough years between them that Barney grew up being the older brother most young boys would kill for. Barnabas always wanted to be named after the saint, or something majestic.

Clearly, he was named after the vampire from the sixties soap opera. How can a kid grow up normal when his mates all realize he was named after a character on the television? Their mother, called one of those ‘Hippies’ throughout her life, up until her death in the early nineties, loved ‘Dark Shadows.' Parents can be so mean...

Naturally, Barney learned to fight and protect himself at an early age. So, he went by Barney... until the beginning of the nineties. About that time, someone came up with the bright idea to name a children’s show... Barney. This was of course before Barney earned more of his intimidating reputation for mayhem.

Some of his less couth co-workers started to sing the Barney song when he came around. This led to some, late-night confrontations where Barney made it very clear how much he hated that song. Typically, with some small amount of violence thrown in for keeping the lesson fresh in everyone’s mind.

Thus, Barney became Barnabas once again. A person first feared for size earned a reputation that he was willing to resort to violence to prove his point.

Exasperated, Trevor let out a long sigh and almost whined, “Barnabas...” flipping the paper to show the bottom of the page.

Searching way down at the bottom for a small picture and story; pointed again, “No here: at this!” Trevor happened to be pointing at the picture and story about the unexplainable lights in the night sky over a small town in the United States. With Billy’s pictures, sold for little more than beer money. Barney glanced a moment at the picture and read the storyline before blurting out.

“Trevor how in the flying nine hells is that going to do anything for us?”

Trevor took the drink from Barney’s hand and took a swig, facing him across the desk, before continuing.

“You are always telling me to take my head out of the clouds, well... Listen, all these old hippies are trying to find themselves. They search so hard to find anything they can believe in. Look at the new age places around the Southwest United States. Sedona, Taos, anywhere people think they can find spiritual meaning, they will migrate to. You know what happens when old people with money to spend, travel? They spend said money.”

Barney slowly shook his head, “You boil my piss... What do you know about... where is this?” The mention of money to be made grabbed Barney’s attention.

Trevor answered as if his life depended on it, “Texas.”

“Right, Texas. Isn’t there still problems with Indians or Mexicans or something,” Barney spewed.

“Not for about two hundred years... listen this might be a gold mine waiting to happen. We swoop in, buy up land around the area, hype the hell out of this UFO thing, who knows maybe even link in some other shite. This place is even near the lay lines,” Trevor prepared his phone to show off a map of questionable veracity.

Barney shook his head, “Trevor you need to pull your head out of your... the clouds...”

Trevor continued his sales pitch, “These numbers don’t lie. Over thirty percent of Americans believe in ghosts, for Christ’s sake. Forty-five percent of them think E bloody T has visited us. Even the people running to be their President are talking about flippin aliens. You can’t make this shite up. This is from the country that is supposed to be the world leader. They are all turning whack-a-doodle.”

Barney studied the map for a moment before continuing, “How much you think we can make?”

Trevor cocked his head, thinking he had an in, pausing a moment to make his sale, “Realistically, the sky is the limit. All I need is a couple of guys to go with me out to this little town. Buy up some of the property cheap, hype the whole thing and flip the lot of it.”

Barney finally grunted an agreement and let Trevor loose upon the world. May the gods have mercy on their souls.

With that, the fate of two countries an ocean apart was once again intertwined.

Fright Flight.

A thirteen-year-old boy rode his bike down a west London street. Not one of the fancy neighborhoods but welcoming and safe enough. His father died in an accident several months before. An accountant, he provided a safe environment for his wife and sons to grow up in, if not an exciting lifestyle.

For the first time since his father’s death in a train derailment, the boy was happy. He’d just asked his first girl out. Unlike his brother, he always found it difficult talking to girls. Today he got up enough nerve to walk right up to Betty Longenacher, and stand next to her until she asked him out. That was not how he remembered it, but at the time it didn’t matter.

On top of the world, he rode through the streets. A warm June day, it seemed things could not get better.

Arriving home, he jumped off his bike, as he skidded behind his mother’s car, bounded up the steps and through the front door.

“Mum,” he called out as he headed for the kitchen and the fridge. Snack time, unable to find what he wanted.

“Mum, there any milk?” still, no answer.

Bookbag dropped on the countertop, he searched the lower level of the house, calling, “Mum?” every so often.

Running into the small backyard, he checked the shed and the garden. Father’s favorite hideout, his little place he would go and escape from the stress of his job. Not finding her outside, he ran back into the house and started upstairs.

Not getting a reply, he became pensive, slowing as he climbed the stairs. His calls quieter in case she was asleep, knowing she cried herself to sleep most nights.

Now softer, “Mum?” Still, no answer. Cautiously he opened the door to her bedroom. He still smelt his father’s scent in the room. The bed made, freshly folded clothes laid out.

Moving to the bathroom door, he tapped and gave a quiet, “Mum?” After no answer, he cracked the door open and saw his mother laying naked in the tub. “Mum?”

She seemed peaceful, asleep. Eventually, he spotted the broken wine glass on the floor next to her hand.

The plane took a sudden drop from turbulence. Trevor jolted awake, grabbing the armrest of his business class seat. In a row alone, it took a moment for him to recover the awareness of his location.

He took a handkerchief from an inside coat pocket and wiped his eyes. That dream always made him emotional. Damned if his mother didn’t go and die on that day. Thinking, never did go out with Betty, I wonder where she is now?

Soon afterward, he moved in with Barney. Barney had always been the best older brother. Right out of college and twenty-three at the time. Just starting his life, but being damned sure not to let his little brother fall into the system. Barney did his best to finish raising Trevor.

The coroner’s inquest ruled her death an accidental overdose. A deadly combination of wine and sleeping pills. Trevor, always the romantic, told himself she died of a broken heart, she couldn’t cope with the death of her husband. Some people just aren’t meant to be alone.

Barney told himself she was weak, deciding to never let anyone so close to him again. It took all his strength to keep the pain hidden from Trevor. A lesser man would’ve started his own self-medication, but Barney needed to be strong, for Trevor’s sake.

Barney took the little piece of land, the life insurance and liquidated it all. Kept Trevor in school, and that was the beginning of their business.

The first ten years were hard. More than a few times, Barney played fast and loose with the law. Clever, he never let the crimes take place near him. Always keeping a safe distance between himself and the illegal acts. After twenty years, he went legit. He had his connections, and the police still questioned him from time to time, but for the most part, he stayed clean.

Never having gone as far as murder, Barney only claimed busted fingers and kneecaps in the day: Now his survival relied on his reputation and his associates. It was well known if he needed something done, while not in the racket, he had the ability to make a phone call. Putting him promptly in touch with several crime organizations.

Trevor knew nothing of this. The memory of his mother dead, nude, in the tub, walloped him. He worked hard to leave High School at the bottom of his class, tanking his A Levels. It was recommended he take some time off before college.

He headed off to find answers. The first few years he wandered the subcontinent of India. He found nothing in that brand of spirituality to help ease his pain. Drifting east, he skirted the more dangerous countries, but still found nothing to answer the questions plaguing him. Roaming through China, he spoke to every wise man available, until he found himself in Tibet. Still, no answers.

After exploring Asia, he came home to England where Barney kept the business running well and more important for their future, legal. Trevor cleaned himself up and started working with Barney learning the ropes. Even as he slipped on an air of respectability, he still searched for answers.

When not at work, Trevor was reading books and combing the internet, searching for any hint that there might be something to the supernatural. He was infatuated with ghosts and spirits. Any avenue he thought might lead him to his unanswered questions he would seek out and study. After seeing so many false stories, his research had turned him into a skeptic. Often debunking promising leads from the comfort of his flat.

The sad thing was, Trevor, didn’t even understand the questions he asked or how to put them into words. He just knew there was an empty hole his mother once filled. In one way or another, he searched for the last two and a half decades, since his mother’s death, not knowing what he was actually searching for.

On the plane, composing himself, he ordered a double scotch, never finding the urge to self-medicate with anything harder than alcohol and occasionally a little weed. His mother’s death showed him the dangers of prescription drugs, he took that to mean all drugs.

Thinking as he sipped his drink in silence. What the hell do I have to do to stop having this nightmare? Perhaps that’s what he was searching for. A restful night’s sleep. Currently walking through life in a constant state of exhaustion, staying up until he would drop off due to fatigue. Only to repeat the dream again, which would wake him up. He rarely got more than a few hours’ sleep a night.

Glancing at his wristwatch, he realized he’d dropped off for a few hours.