Part 2: Night Moves

Part 2: Night Moves

“Tonight we’re going to start working with… automatic line numbering.” Dave Larson said as he wrote out the topic on the chalkboard. “If you recall our discussion on Wednesday, this is super important for use in law offices and school papers, referencing and citing information.”

Listening to her class instructor, Joyce began taking notes beside her class computer station, eager to begin the evening’s lessons. 

“If you recall, and you should,” Larson said, turning to face the class, “we can begin building some macros to assist with our numbering. You’ll thank me later.”

“Mr. Larson, my disk won’t load. Can you help me?” 

Joyce rolled her eyes at the sound of Sandra Myers voice. Her first, and then, “Mine won’t load either,” Kim Viola. Both just had to get him to come over and help them, and do their best to flirt the entire time. Joyce gritted her teeth, what was this, high school again?

She watched from the corner of her eye as Larson moved past her desk and over to assist first Sandra and then Kim. Sure he was okay looking, distinguished even with all the premature gray, and the crystal blue eyes, and the tan… how in the world did he stay so tan in the winter? Who cares?!

—Joyce snapped herself out of her distractive thought, this was class and it was just no time to be flirting—this was serious. 

“Okay, everyone set?” Larson asked as he finished up assisting his two not so subtle student admirers. “Great, then let's open our document from Wednesday.” 

This was really clicking, Joyce was pleased to note as she breezed through the processes in the lessons. She was really feeling more and more confident about her computer skills over the past couple of months; between learning word processing and financial datasheets, she’d be able to leave the supermarket for a good paying job, maybe at a law firm even. 

“Hey,” she jumped at the sound of the voice close to her. Dave Larson was standing behind her computer terminal looking amusedly back at her. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were so focused, Joyce.”

“Yeah, I’m just really getting into this, I think I’ve just really got a knack for it, you know? It’s like me and a computer really understand each other.”

“Really?” Larson smiled. “I don’t hear that a lot, most people are really intimidated by computers.”

Joyce blew her breath out, shrugging. “Just a machine, nothing intimidating about it once you understand it.” 

Larson was impressed, nodding at the truth he heard in her statement. “That’s great to hear. That makes me feel like I’m actually accomplishing something here in class.” 

“Oh you are, you’re a great teacher.”

“Well thank you,” he said looking almost bashful. He glanced around the room, avoiding looking at her. “But speaking of class, you know it’s over for the evening, right?”

Joyce looked around seeing that the room had all but emptied out with the exception of a couple of students headed out the door. 

“Oh wow, I must have really been focused.” Joyce said, and turned to begin gathering her things. 

“Hey, uh,” Larson began, rapping his fingers on the back of the CRT monitor. “There’s a group of us from class going over to the Howard Johnson’s tonight. Why don’t you, um, come along?”

“I—“ Joyce struggled to find words, awkwardly cramming things into her bag. “I should get home, kids, you know, they’ll wonder. And my son, he’s my ride home…”

“Right, your son, Jonathan, he’s a TA in Mrs. Amherst’s photography class, right?”

“Yeah,” she frowned, confused how Larson knew. “How’d--?”

“He’s picked you up from class before, I met him.”

“Oh, right,” she laughed. “Guess I forgot.” She stood and was ready to leave.

“You could let him know, I could give you a ride home after.”

“After?”

“After Howard Johnson’s.” He smiled, and she realized he really had perfect teeth. “It’s Friday. No school tomorrow.” 

~ ~ ~

Murray Bauman was in a second of two taxies this evening, speeding toward O’Hare International; Just one more leg of a clandestine connection. The more stops, the more random places and modes of transportation, the easier to lose anyone that could be following. An old friend Kurt Ford would be waiting in the parking lot at O’Hare with information he couldn’t speak about on the phone.

Kurt had been traveling overseas, a lot of finagling and high-roller sort of stuff in Europe, making deals and making lots of greenbacks doing it. But aside from all the wheeling and dealing, Kurt had played a hand in some exchanges more along the lines of the political. Kurt knew and heard a lot in the parties, the parlors, the gin joints and back alleys his business colleagues drug him through. 

Most recently, an investment opportunity had introduced him to someone working with the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences, Sergei Sirota, a man who liked to drink, and when he drank he liked to talk. He talked power plants generating so much excess power they could supply all of Mother Russia with enough energy for many hundreds of years. There was anticipation that Perestroika could bring foreign investors like Ford. The planet north of Kiev was a great achievement and an excellent opportunity, Sergei had told Ford, but even better would be the greatest scientific achievement of the Soviet Union yet.

The taxi driver kept prattling about the weather, trying to make small talk, and effectively interrupting Murray’s thoughts. And Murray could take no more, “Sir, please spare me from your desperate need for temporary companionship.”

“Whoa, buddy, kind of hostile there.” The taxi driver said. “Just trying to be cordial.”

“If my justifiable level of annoyance with your arm-chair meteorological analysis seems hostile, you are sadly mistaken.”

“So, you mean you can be more hostile?”

“Just tell me how much further?”

“Can do,” the driver said, “just about a half mile.” 

“Thank you!”

Approaching the parking garage, Murray instructed the driver to just let me him out at the lower level entrance. From there he began his assent through the upper levels, a keen eye on his surroundings as he exited the stairwell onto the fourth level, cold wind funneled through the concrete maze unforgivingly, and cut through his heavy parka like it was made of cheese cloth. 

“ORD.” 

Startled, Murray spun around in the direction of the voice, seeing Ford leaning against one of the garage pillars. In spite of the cold, Ford had the nonchalant appearance of a GQ model, tall and slender, dressed in a sharp suit and overcoat. 

“Mur, you know why this place has the code ORD?” 

Murray hurried across the garage to meet him. “Yes, yes, it was Orchard Field once,” Murray answered, exasperated. “I sincerely hope that isn’t what you had me come out here to talk about.” 

“It’s been a long time, Murray,” Ford grinned, “anything new in the world of conspiracy chasing?”

“From what I suspect, you’d know better than I would at the moment.”

Ford gave him a nod. “Think you’re right, but this may even be too left field for you.”

In striking contrast to its severe industrial exterior, the Polissya hotel lounge was cast in the amber glow of table lamps and hummed with soft chatter and tinkle of glasses. Ford and his companion sat in a secluded corner, each comfortably sunken into the luxury of leather lounge chairs, cigars languidly smoldering in a silver ashtray, ice in their drinks melting slowly.

“Your Ted Koppels and Voltar Cronkite will be speechless,” Sergei told Ford in a hushed voice, his English only slightly more mangled than without alcohol. He emphasized his next statement by poking a finger into Ford’s shoulder, “You will see. Geothermal power harnessed and it is many, many times greater than any so called peaceful atom plant.”

Ford nodded, and asked, “Geothermal, like geysers?”

Sergei shook his head, “No, no,” he moved closer to Ford, looking him in the eyes and grinned as he said, “Volcanoes.”

“You’re saying the power of a volcano will be harnessed?” Ford sat back and laughed. “Sounds like some kind of James Bond shit.”

“No, no James Bond shit, it is done.”

“Where?” Ford challenged, intrigued and skeptical of his inebriated colleague. 

Sergei shook his head and took a long draw on his bourbon, a brown liquor he was not as used to and enjoyed very much, a special gift from the hills of Kentucky as Ford had informed him. “Very secret place,” he answered, his voice strained by the alcohol. “Energy ministry and military place, a lot of power, much to be bought.” 

“And you’ve been there?” 

“Yes, but only officials, member of science and politburo, and no one other from outside goes in except the workers—the prisoners.”  

Ford ran his fingers back through his reddish hair out of frustration, investors would not want to be tangled up in any shit like that. “They use prison labor?”

“I think, yes.”

“What else would they use them for?” Ford chuckled. 

Sergei starred into his drink for a long moment, appearing disturbed by his thoughts before looking up at Ford. “I do not know.” Sergei’s entire demeanor had shifted, his expression growing distressed and voice breaking. “I saw things there, like from a bad dream.”

Ford shook his head, done now with any consideration of an investment deal. “Sorry, no, I really don’t want to hear anymore. If there’s some weird fucking torture shit involved, sorry, not interested.” He sat his glass down and started to stand.

Sergei grabbed his arm stopping him. “Things. Creatures.” He said in a desperate whisper. Ford was taken aback the level of desperation in the man’s voice. “Like weapons they do not know how to use. The energy—power produced there, it brought them and I think they will bring more.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes, but I remember very good.” Sergei tapped his forehead. He shrugged then, saying, “And I took photographs.”

Ford rested back into his seat. “Where is this place?”

Murray opened the manila folder and quickly began going through the photos it contained. There were several of machinery, what looked like drilling equipment, generators, and boring machines. 

“Coordinates are on the back of one of those,” Ford told him. “This guy could be full of shit for all I know—“

“He’s not full of shit.” Murray said, staring transfixed at one of the photos, in it a piece of machinery he’d seen before, the same as the ‘key’ deep below the Starcourt Mall. “Is this functioning?”

“Yes, as far as Sergei says, powered by a God damned volcano.” 

Murray shuffled through the rest of the photos, seeing blurred shapes beyond a fenced area. “That’s what he said were these creatures, aliens or something. Said they’re an accident, something that got released, and that the Russians want to use as weapons somehow.”

“They’ve done it.” Murray said to himself, overcome by the implications of the photos and what Ford had told him. “They have a working key.”

“Yeah, well they did with help apparently,” Ford motioned for Murray to keep going through the photos. Murray stopped when seeing the long shot of what looked like a courtyard, a large of group men standing in it, and armed guards posted around the area.  “Prison labor.”

“Did you drive here?” Murray shouted at Ford. 

“Y-Yes, what the—“

“Your car!” Murray exclaimed, and then commanding Ford, “Where is it? Get me to a phone!” 

~ ~ ~

“Mom, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Jonathan told her as he pulled into the Howard Johnson’s parking lot. 

“I know that.”

“But you should get out some.” He told her. “I don’t know if Howard Johnson’s is the place to start hanging out, but it’s a start.” He grinned back at her. “I don’t mind coming to pick you up, okay?”

“You sure?”

He nodded. “No problem.” 

Joyce agreed a bit reluctant and got out of the car to head into the restaurant. A million things on her mind, foremost whether or not Sandra and Kim would be inside, and already knew they likely were. How could they possibly not come if Dave Larson would be here? Gag. She thought and hesitated at the front door, turning back to watch Jonathan pulling away. She nearly flagged him back down, but realized he wouldn’t see. 

“Shit.” 

Joyce gathered herself, resigned to her fate, and walked into the restaurant. The bar was to the left, crowded and loud with music, laughter and talking. She searched the faces in the crowd, trying to pick out anyone she recognized from class. 

“Hey, Joyce, over here!” She turned to see Larson waving her over to a booth. 

“Hey, hi, wow it’s crowded in here.” She said once at the booth. 

He moved to help her take off her jacket. “Yeah, pretty popular with the locals.” 

Joyce looked around, noting that it was just her and him in the booth. “We the first to arrive?”

Larson looked at her, a sheepish slash of smile crossing his mouth. “Ah, yeah, you could say that.”

End: Part 2

Night Moves