Nocturnal Emissions (12 page)

“We used to read about falls of frogs, and fish,” Jeremy recollected. “I remember reading about Charles Fort. He loved collecting stories about stuff like that. But I don’t know where UFOs would come into play, there. Probably just tornados sucking water out of ponds, animals and all, then dropping them again.”

Allen said, “Wait, this is it. Listen to this part.” He began to read directly from the book once more. “‘In
Oakville
,
Washington
, on six different occasions throughout August of 1994, a rain of small gelatinous blobs fell over an area of twenty square miles. Numerous people were left violently ill and a large number of animals died, all apparently as a result of the mysterious rain of slime. The theory that the material was human waste ejected by an airliner was ruled out. One microbiologist who studied the apparently toxic goo reported having identified a eukaryotic cell, which is a cell found in most animals.’”

“Animals?” Jeremy said.

“‘In 1997, a similar fall of a transparent gelatinous substance occurred during a storm in
Everett
,
Washington
.’”

“Could it be biological weapon?” Jeremy mused.

Allen moved to another passage. “‘From 1998 through 2001, I have collected nearly forty cases of mysterious falling slime, ranging from
Michigan
to
Pennsylvania
to
Utah
to
Canada
. In Lakeland, Florida, a brownish gel-like material fell from the sky, and in an earlier instance, apparently the same brownish goo washed ashore all the way from Pensacola, Florida to Mobile, Alabama…’”

“That sounds like the story about our
Lake
Pometacomet
,” Jeremy observed, leaning closer to read over his brother’s shoulder.

Allen read on. “‘Swimmers were the first to notice odd globules of a clear, gelatinous material floating in the water off Park Point, in
Lake Superior
.

Investigators from the Natural Resources Research Institute and the Minnesota Sea Grant were unable to identify the material, which appeared in great numbers covering large areas.’”

“Damn,” Jeremy said softly, taking it all in.

Allen flipped back to a previous page he had skimmed over. “In that case in Oakville, Washington, one theory was that the Air Force was responsible, because they’d been dropping bombs about fifteen miles off shore. People thought these little raining blobs might be the remains of jellyfish blown out of the water by the bombs. A local bar even came up with a drink called the Jellyfish, made with vodka, juice and gelatin, to cash in on the controversy.”

“Ha,” said Jeremy. “Sounds tastier than that falling venison.”

««—»»

The brothers had set the book
Cryptids
aside, and in its place, Jeremy had brought out his collection of sketches of the figures and faces he saw in his dreams. He watched with intensity, and embarrassment, as Allen shuffled through them in grim silence.

The figures were so stereotypical as to be a cliche. Jeremy was no great artist, and the sketches looked like drawings Allen’s own three-year-old son might make when prompted to draw his parents or himself. The barest essentials to suggest a body; little more than stick figures, with no hair, no clothing.

Likewise, the faces of the dream beings were what his son might draw for human faces. Mere pinholes for nostrils, and no ears, because noses and ears were hard to draw. A slit for a mouth but no lips. And rough black circles as a simplification of eyes. They were like gingerbread men, or blank snowmen with features of coal, or the figures in cave art. More like abstracted symbols than actual representations of living beings.

“And what are they doing to you in your dreams?” Allen asked his younger brother.

“The usual stuff,” he joked bitterly. “Poking me, prodding me, trying to find out about me.” After a hesitation, he added, “They seem to be trying to communicate with me, but we can’t understand each other.”

Nodding, Allen watched his brother’s face closely. He pointed to his marked forehead. “Seen a doctor about that yet?”

“No.”

“Why?” When Jeremy only shrugged, Allen persisted, “Look, that could be evidence. We should find out what caused it before it fades away altogether.”

“Evidence,” Jeremy echoed. He met Allen’s eyes. “Do you think I was abducted by a UFO, then? And they erased the experience from my mind?

And that’s why I lost a whole week of my memories?”

“I’m just saying…because you saw a UFO last night. Because other people in Eastborough have seen UFOs. And that stuff in the lake…”

“You believe I was abducted, don’t you?” Jeremy repeated.

In front of his chest, Allen held up one particular drawing of the classic alien face, now a pop culture icon. Once people had claimed visitations by angels. In the age of science, angels had evolved into aliens. “Well, what can we make of all this?”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Jeremy said. “I’m just making sure we’re on the same page, here.”

“We are,” Allen assured him.

“What does Laurie think of this?” Jeremy asked warily. “How much have you told her?”

“I don’t want to get into this with her. I can’t see her taking it very seriously.”

“
Shannon
wouldn’t have been into it, either,” Jeremy muttered. “She didn’t believe in anything that she couldn’t buy in a mall. Yeah, I’d rather the less people who know about any of this, the better. Even Mum.”

“Jeremy,” Allen began. He chewed his thoughts a moment longer before he resumed. “Your .38 and some shells were in your book bag, right? And you said you had a plastic bag full of soda bottles…”

“Soda cans,” Jeremy corrected.

“…soda cans in the kitchen. You were going shooting, you think.”

“Looks like it.”

“Out in the woods. Near the swamp, where we always used to go.”

“Probably. That would be the only place I would think to shoot.”

“Do you think that maybe you weren’t just planning to go? Do you think you might have actually gone, then come back here, but you just don’t remember it?”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t sound so far fetched. Relatively speaking.”

“I say we go out there, and look around.”

“What—
now?
In the dark? I don’t think so.”

“Tomorrow, as soon as I get out of work.”

“What will Laurie think of you coming over here two days in a row?”

“Laurie doesn’t dislike you, y’know.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Hey, if anything, I used to get the impression that
Shannon
wasn’t crazy about me. Let’s drop it. I’ll worry about Laurie. What do you think?”

“Okay,” Jeremy said. “But bring me back my gun tomorrow. I’m not going out in those woods unarmed.”

-FIVE-

“What’s the arsenal for?” Allen cried out to Jeremy, who was in the bathroom, as he peeked into Jeremy’s knapsack-like book bag. Besides the returned .38

and a box of cartridges, he had found his brother’s rusty old Army Surplus bayonet he hadn’t seen in years. In their teens they had both collected knives and pored over gun magazines, when they had both fancied themselves as angst-ridden and misunderstood Travis Bickle types. Now every teenage boy was Travis Bickle.

Jeremy returned from the bathroom, having tied his long dark hair into a ponytail. “In case we meet up with the things that abducted me…what do you think? They aren’t getting me again. You should have brought a weapon, too.

Take the bayonet.”

Allen ignored him, and gingerly held up a blister pack of three tubular, handheld marine signal flares, one of which was missing. “Where’d you get this?”

“I bought it off my coworker Gary, about five years ago. We shot one off on the Fourth of July. It’s in case we get lost in the woods.”

“Five years ago? It would probably go off in your face if it went off at all.”

“Hey, I’m not your three-year-old son, okay?” Jeremy took the flares out of his brother’s hand and replaced them into the backpack. “I’m ready.”

««—»»

They rode to
Pine
Grove
Cemetery
in Jeremy’s car, and on the way Allen had the book
Cryptids
by cryptozoologist and paranormal researcher Abraham Villa open in his lap. He had chanced upon an intriguing sub-chapter about a kind of phenomenon or manifestation referred to as “rods.”

Villa wrote: “Rods have appeared frequently in photographs, naturally not always of an unimpeachable character, flittering about in the sky or even amongst people like streaking swarms of gnats. These so-dubbed rods are cylindrical in shape, calling to mind the cigar-shapes of some reported UFOs, but are typically only a few inches to several feet (though some say hundred of feet!) in length. They have been sighted in both air and water, and are reportedly lined with membranes that allow them to swim through air (some witnesses describe centipede-like legs). These membranes can be seen in some photographs. The theory that the rods might be an unknown species of insect, or some other animal form—perhaps transdimensional—is not without merit.”

“Transdimensional,” Allen said aloud.

“What?” asked his brother.

“Nothing.”

««—»»

Pushing through the brush at the rear border of
Pine
Grove
Cemetery
, where it marked the attenuated edge of
Eastborough
Swamp
, Allen said,

“Your flares remind me of the brothers Giuseppe and Luigi.”

“Who are they?” asked Jeremy, close behind him.

“Well, they were these brothers who got lost in the woods while they were out hunting. So Giuseppe says to Luigi, ‘Hey, Luigi, shoot-a into the air so that-a someone will-a come and-a rescue us.’ So Luigi shoots into the air, and they wait for a while. No one comes, so Giuseppe says to Luigi, ‘Hey, Luigi, shoot-a into the air again, uh?’ So Luigi shoots into the air. No one comes.”

“Yeah?” Jeremy said.

“So this goes on for over an hour…every few minutes, Luigi tries shooting into the air to attract another hunter or someone who might live nearby. But no one comes, and it’s getting dark. So Giuseppe says, ‘Luigi, try-a shooting into the air again, uh?’ And Luigi says, ‘Hey, Giuseppe, I can’t-a shoot into the air again…I’m-a all outta arrows.’”

“Oh, man,” Jeremy groaned.

They crunched further along. In some places, their shoes sank in a muck of muddy earth and slick vegetation. “All the rain we’ve had,” Allen complained, hopping to a drier spot.

“Speaking of which.” Jeremy gestured with his snub-nosed .38 at the sky, as seen in patches through the latticework of foliage above them. It was an ash gray, edging toward slate, the forbidding color of a winter ocean. “It looks like another storm is rolling in. We might not want to be out here a long time, you know.”

Allen wasn’t looking at the sky. “Why the hell is that in your hand?”

Jeremy glanced at his pistol self-consciously, like a boy caught with a cookie stolen from the jar. “We’re getting to be out in the middle of wilderness, now. I told you, I’m not letting them take me again.”

“Why not wait until we actually find something worth shooting, okay? If you have that thing out and you trip over a root you’re going to shoot me in the back. You remember the time we were out here and you’d cocked the hammer back, and you were just carrying the gun around like that, and you accidentally pulled back just a teensy bit on the trigger and that was enough for it to fire? One of us could’ve lost a foot.”