Marilyn Peake - The Other

My thoughts stopped there, as I slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next day, I woke up early, found the community shower, then went into the main building to see if the place offered free coffee. A large, surly guy working the front desk pointed a thumb toward a hallway and said, “Right in there. Breakfast.”

There was indeed breakfast. Not much of one; but it would do, especially since it was complimentary. English muffins and bread next to a toaster and different kinds of cereal and doughnuts. For toppings: butter and jelly, peanut butter and honey. For drinks: juice and milk and coffee.

Realizing I should eat for strength, I toasted bread and slathered it with peanut butter and strawberry jelly. Then I poured myself two cups of coffee, added cream from a pitcher and carried them back to my yurt.

Sipping coffee, slowly waking up from the caffeine, I plugged in my laptop, wondering if I’d have good enough connection. There wasn’t any. I turned instead to my cell phone, scanning scientific websites to see if there was any chatter regarding the things I’d seen in the sky last night. Only a few local reports. Local scientists saying it might have been an asteroid; they’re presently analyzing photos. Quite a few townspeople claiming it was part of an invasion of flying saucers from outer space. One guy claiming he’d been abducted and experimented on. He showed a scar that ran down his left side. I zoomed in on his image. The scar looked old and healed.

A knock on the door. It was Nat, ready to head on out to the compound. We didn’t know if we were coming back. If we managed to gain admittance to the cult, we’d be staying there, so I gathered up my things.

When we arrived at The Astral Plane, we realized we’d also arrived at a crime scene. A chill ran up my spine as I took it all in. There were many resemblances to a war zone. Yellow police tape imprinted with the repeating message in bold black ink, POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, had been strung across the front gate. Armoured personnel carriers were parked on either end of it. Police walked around, carrying assault rifles and submachine guns.

A helicopter hovered overhead, its rotor blades whoooshing through the air. The name on the side announced it belonged to a news organization.

A police officer wearing a helmet and dark glasses approached our van. Pointing his submachine gun toward the ground, he rapped on the driver side window with his knuckles.

Nat pressed the button to roll it down. He said, “Yes, officer?” His usual lightheartedness had been wiped from his voice.

Bending down to study Nat as though he were some kind of insect specimen under a microscope, the officer said, “What are you doing here?”

Nat lied. “Just wanted to see what was happening. We’re tourists here in Roswell.”

The officer said, “This isn’t for you then. This is a crime scene, not a tourist attraction.” Raising his gun, he pointed down the street. “Go that way. If we see you back here again, you’re under arrest.”

Nat replied, “No problem, officer. Have a good day.”

His hands shaking, Nat pressed the button to roll the window back up. He headed on down the street, a cloud of dust rising up from our back wheels.

I turned the radio on. Local news reported a murder in the compound we’d just left. A woman had murdered her two children.

An anxiety attack overtook me. Images flooded my brain. My father grabbing my hand. Running, running, my lungs burning…

When we had driven a few miles, Nat pulled the van over to the side of the road. Turning to me, he said, “We’re not giving up, right? I feel we need to get inside the compound now . Something happened in there. We need to know if it was the result of pressure inside the cult, something bubbling up, becoming more intense, or if it was simply a mother gone mad.”

I couldn’t find my voice. I just shook my head yes .

Nat pressed a finger against the screen of his cell phone. I heard his end of the conversation. “Hello. This is Professor Nathan Moore. I have an appointment to interview Leader Razkazeel today. The police out front gave us some trouble, threatened to arrest us.” A pause. Then: “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Sure, I can do that. You’ll be waiting to let me in?” Another pause. “Oh, I see. Brother Zytavius. Thank you.”

Clicking off his phone, Nat turned to me. “I guess we should have expected this. There’s another entrance to the compound. It’s through a tunnel that starts about half a mile from the back entrance. I was told that someone named Brother Zytavius will meet us there. You game?”

I had brought Xanax along. The prescription bottle was tucked into a zippered pocket of my backpack. I reminded myself it was there if I needed it. I said, “Sure. If they’re letting us in, we should go.”

Nat typed GPS coordinates into his cell phone, then pulled onto the road, dust once again flying up into the air, enveloping the back of our vehicle. He said, “I have a hunch things are going to get interesting now.” He smiled.

He drove forward, turning right at the first intersection of two roads out in the middle of nowhere. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but desert, patches of scrubby brush dotting the landscape, and an endless expanse of blue sky. The GPS told us we were outside the city of Roswell now.

Nat’s cell phone announced, You’ve reached your destination , in front of one lone building, an old dilapidated barn. We pulled off the road, loose dirt crunching under the wheels. Nat jumped out. I waited in the van, wishing that time would slow down and delay the inevitable, while he looked around.

I jumped at the sound of my cell phone buzzing. I looked at the screen. It was her again. The message sounded more desperate this time. I deleted the message, looked back out the window. How had she found me?

A man dressed in an orange outfit that looked like an astronaut’s spacesuit came out of a door on the side of the barn. He and Nat spoke briefly. Then the man waved, turned around and went back inside.

When he returned, Nat said, “We’re supposed to park in the barn.”

As our van moved forward, the large front doors of the barn opened. We pulled inside; it swallowed us whole.

The man waved us over to a darkened corner. We parked, jumped out of the van and grabbed our stuff.

Turning to me, the man in the orange spacesuit extended his hand. He said, “I’m Brother Jaxon. I’m happy you’re interested in our way of life. The Truth is in The Astral Plane. You’ll see. Your life will be altered in ways you couldn’t possibly have imagined before now.” He smiled, revealing two broken front teeth. They looked sharp, like daggers.

I shook his hand, hoping mine wasn’t so covered in sweat it would reveal my trepidation. I thought about the effect of swallowing half a blue Xanax pill, the entire blue oval if needed. The panic receded into the back of my mind like a rat slinking into the shadows waiting for a chance to pounce at the jugular.

Nat and I followed Jaxon into the corner of the barn across from where we’d parked our vehicle.

Reaching his hand down through a pile of hay, the astronaut with fang-shaped teeth grabbed hold of something that turned out to be a metal handle. The hay was all one piece, the individual strands glued together to camouflage a door. Jaxon pointed to the opening. He said, “Go on, now.”

I looked into the hole. Cement stairs spiraled downward into near-darkness.

Panic claimed me for its own. My hands shook. My head felt so dizzy, I worried I’d fall down the stairs, hit my head, die of a concussion inside the compound.

Sitting on the barn floor, Nat placed his feet on the first step. He stood and descended a few more steps, then turned around and said, “You coming?”