Second in the series. Read after the break…
Insight
By Scott Lowther
Copyright 2019
1928, June: Arizona
“This is awful,” Agent Parker grumbled.
He was in one of the four guard towers overlooking the hastily assembled camp in the middle of the Arizona desert. It looked much like an Army camp, something from his days in basic training before he was sent to Cuba to fight the Spaniards. The Army had indeed built the camp a month earlier, but with some unusual features. The barracks section surrounded by multiple lrings of barbed wire, with active guard patrols and watch towers. The multitude of water towers fifty yards beyond the perimeter, small diameter pipes leading into most of the buildings within. Dogs. Lots of dogs. An airfield beyond, currently with a Fokker F.10 and a Ford Trimotor just taxiing in. And a smell.
Parker had to admit, the smell was unique. It smelled like the sea, but not in a good way. Scum and rotten fish, mixed with perspiration and despair. Of course, those latter two could be simply himself.
The fenced-in portion of the camp seemed deserted. This wasn’t true, of course; it was simply that none of the residents there wanted to be outside in the hot, dry sun. It would play hell with their gills.
“Hmm,” Agent Healy mumbled in response, stepping up next to Parker in the tower. The two made a contrast… Parker insisted on continuing to wear his suit, convinced that this nightmare would soon be over and he’d be on the train back to Boston any minute now. Healy had long since given in to the inevitable and was wearing attire that he thought fit in better. He looked like an easterner playing cowboy.
“You got me into this, you know,” Parker said. He took off has felt hat and ran his hand through his gray hair, then fanned himself with the hat. “Let’s go see Hoover, you said. Let’s dump this on the Bureau of Investigations, you said. We’ll be done with this and never have to worry about it again, you said.”
“Hmm,” Healy replied. A faint smiled appeared. He’d heard this complaint before. He’d hear it again.
“I have a brand-new granddaughter back in Boston I haven’t even seen yet. I was within spitting distance of retirement from the Service. And now you got me transferred out here to the back end of beyond and into some new division what ain’t even got a name yet.”
“You could’ve quit, you know,” Healy said, watching the Trimotor through binoculars. It ground to a stop outside the large tin structure that served as the airfields hangar, it’s motors coughing to a stop. “Or even just said ‘no’ to the transfer.”
Parker snorted. “And leave you all alone to deal with all this,” and here he swept his hand over the panorama of the scorching hot desert camp, “with the freaks and the eggheads?”
Healy was silent. The Trimotors propellers had stopped turning and the passenger door opened. Soon, a small number of men in suits, every bit as eastern and inappropriate as Parkers, exited the aircraft and started making their way to the nearest guard gate. The men moved unsteadily… maybe it was the long airplane ride all the way from Miskatonic University, maybe it was the heavy baggage they’d saddled themselves with. And maybe it was just themselves. Bookworms weren’t known as prime physical specimens.
“Remember,” Agent Healy said, “all we have to do is ride herd on the scientists and scholars. Let them figure these freaks out. Apparently they already knew something about them, showed up in ancient myths and legends and such. Hopefully our pet geniuses will have some insight into how to deal with them.” He lowered the binoculars, ready to head back down the ladder to meet the newest additions to the team.
“Great,” Parker grumbled, mopping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. “Maybe they’ll help us come up with a name for our creepy little secret club, too.” He had doubts about that, though. Chances were good that the whole exercise would end in a few weeks, given up as a bad idea. No chance that this could be extended much beyond that.
No chance at all.