Aliens 2035

Chapter 3-2

Nick headed for his retro-classic Toyota Tundra. The more tolerant locals in Marinette thought of him as eccentric for driving a vehicle made by a company that no longer existed because of their unwillingness to accept the dangers of social media. The hard-liners saw him as a dangerous outsider, trying to disrupt their American traditions, bringing West Coast influences into the town. Nick wasn’t bothered by either label. He had grown up in Granite Falls, Washington, a one-stoplight town northeast of Seattle located between the South fork of the Stillaguamish River and the Pilchuck River in Snohomish County. He had spent summers on his maternal grandfather farm in Marysville Washington and winter vacations with his grandmother Helen Moore in Seattle.

He was fair-haired and carried the same stocky, six-foot frame that had served him well as a linebacker in high school. At thirty-six he had already accomplished more than most men twice his age and had the lines in his handsome face to prove it. And it wasn’t just because he had an overabundant supply of ambition, self-confidence and energy. He liked to think of himself as the reincarnation of a 19th century renaissance mountain man – half wild cat, half alligator and a touch of earthquake. But what set him apart from those intrepid explorers and most men his age was that he had a nose for what worked and what didn’t. He could look at a blueprint of a building or a ship and see what fit and worked with everything else and what needed to be retooled or thrown out altogether. A child of computer games, engineers and designers often argued with him, but his unerring sense of rightness had them apologizing and changing the schematics to fit his recommendations. The only thing he had ever failed at was his marriage, and that had nothing to do with his unique cognitive skills.

The truck woke up as he slid into the cab. “Good evening, Dr. Moore,” the fifth-generation AI personal assistant’s deep baritone voice said.

“Good evening, Donald,” Nick replied.

“Would you like to listen to news or music?”

“Music.”

“1930s jazz … Harlem’s Cotton Club … your favorites coming on line.”

The truck’s internal computer scanned the satellite feeds until it found the appropriate station. The haunting notes of ‘Mood Indigo’ filled the cabin. Nick almost objected. The music was too melancholy. But Duke Ellington had been his grandfather’s favorite.

Marinette had little traffic this late at night so Nick engaged the Tundra’s self-driving option.

“Where to, Dr. Moore?” Donald asked.

“Home … no, the supermarket. I need to pick up food. My kids are arriving Monday and their mother—” He stopped, chuckling ruefully to himself. The tricked up artificial voice sounded so much like a real person. “The supermarket on Elm,” he said.

“Very good.”

The engine roared to life. The lights came on. The emergency brake disengaged with a hollow click and the car moved forward, carving a large circle in the shipyard’s half empty parking lot before heading toward the exit.

Nick settled back into the seat. “Any calls?” he asked.

“Your friend Bob Nitschke has left three messages for you.” The three texts appeared on the screen in the dash. The last one in capitals was a single word. ‘SASQUATCH!’

Nick gripped the steering wheel and sweat started in his armpits.

“Did you wish to drive, sir?” The AI asked.

“No, sorry. Keep going.”

He leaned back again. If it were anyone other than Bob I’d tell ‘em to sleep it off. Any number of people could have sent him the same message and he would have put it off to a prank or inexperience. But Bob was an expert bow hunter and woodsman. He wouldn’t have sent a message like this unless he had proof.

Somewhere nearby a ship’s horn sounded loud in the evening air but Nick ignored it. Sasquatch! It was phenomena most people equated with alien abductions. For a long time the idea of a primate unknown to science hiding out in America’s forest wildernesses was dismissed as a joke. ‘Normal’ people laughed at it as a tall tale or the result of too many tequila shots with beer chasers. But Nick knew differently. For him, a double Ph.D in engineering and physics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and winner of the Henry Ford Award for Design Excellence, Bigfoot sightings pointed to a great truth. For three summers on his grandfather’s farm, from eleven to fourteen, he had had profound eye contact with a Sasquatch looking through the kitchen window early in the morning. It was an experience he had kept to himself, until he discovered on the Internet reports of other people having similar experiences. In fact, Bigfoot encounters and reports were growing exponentially. Sasquatch was big business. In the last four years, he had become an expert on Bigfoot and a member of the Sasquatch Research Association that reported sightings and investigated encounters with the unusual creatures. His Bigfoot obsession was the main cause of his marital breakup. Traveling nearly every weekend chasing after Bigfoot encounter reports had been too much for his wife to take. She told everybody the only reason he had moved to the UP was that it was one of the nation’s Bigfoot hotspots. No way was she going to raise her children in one of the most backward places in the country. She had left and returned to Seattle.

Shaking with excitement, Nick ordered the truck to pull into the parking lot of Fast Eddie’s Fast Food Joint. He left the Tundra running. He told Donald to call Bob Nitschke.

The number rang twice. The dash monitor came to life and Bob’s pudgy face appeared. His graying hair was unkempt and his blue eyes danced with excitement that matched the enthusiasm in his voice. “Nick, I can’t believe what I’m looking at. You gotta see it.”

“You catch something on your trail cam?” Nick asked, Bob’s eagerness making him talk fast.

“Well sure, there’s that but I’m talking about the stuff on my arrow head.” He stopped, took a deep breath. His smile was huge. “Look, you gotta come over and see it.”

“Arrow head? What are you talking about?”

“I shot it.”

“Jesus, Bob! You shot a Bigfoot? That’s illegal.”

“That’s what my nephew said. Look, it’s a long story, but it was already dying before I hit it. Someone plugged it with a single round from a large caliber rifle, probably fifty caliber or higher. But that’s not important. This creature … this thing isn’t like anything associated with Sasquatch. How soon can you be here?”

“Three hours if I leave right away. You got pics?”

“My trail cam recorded everything.”

“Good. I’ll tell you how to download the pictures to the SRA website.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. This creature … it’s … it’s not like anything you’ve ever seen. It has a very human face and its skin is more like.” He paused, lips twisted in a worried grimace. “Vegetable matter,” he spit out, relieved to say it. “Look, I'm forwarding you some pictures right now. I think we should keep this between ourselves before we tell your organization about it.”

Nick took a deep breath as the first image appeared on the truck dash’s screen. He’d never seen any mammal with a green sheen like that before. “All right. I’ll be there. I have to call someone first. Are Mable and the kids with you?”

“No way. Sent everyone to my sisters. I’m by myself.”

“Good. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

Bob waved goodbye and his image faded from the screen. The last half dozen pictures arrived. “What the hell?” Nick said out loud. They showed a woman diving over the Bigfoot’s body and shooting at something out of the camera’s range.