Roadkill, p.1
Roadkill,
p.1
Books by Dennis E. Taylor
Bobiverse:
We Are Legion (We Are Bob)
For We Are Many
All These Worlds
Heaven’s River
Quantum Earth:
Outland
Earthside (coming soon)
A Change of Plans
Roadkill
The Singularity Trap
Roadkill
Dennis E. Taylor
Roadkill
Copyright © 2022 Dennis E. Taylor
All rights reserved.
This edition published 2022
ISBN: 978-1-68068-301-1
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
This book is published on behalf of the author by the Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.
This book was initially an Audible Original production.
Performed by Ray Porter
Editorial Producer: Steve Feldberg
Sound recording copyright 2022 by Audible Originals, LLC
You can reach the author at:
Twitter: @Dennis_E_Taylor
Facebook: @DennisETaylor2
Instagram: dennis_e_taylor
Blog: http://www.dennisetaylor.org
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Fender Bender
Chapter Two: Bigfoot Burrito
Chapter Three: Treasure Hunt
Chapter Four: Open Sesame
Chapter Five: Central Intelligence
Chapter Six: First Flight
Chapter Seven: Park It
Chapter Eight: Next Steps
Chapter Nine: Search Strategies
Chapter Ten: Overflight
Chapter Eleven: Barn Doors
Chapter Twelve: Saturn Fly-By
Chapter Thirteen: Getting a Clue
Chapter Fourteen: Hacked
Chapter Fifteen: The Spy Game
Chapter Sixteen: Investigations
Chapter Seventeen: Break-In
Chapter Eighteen: Battening Down
Chapter Nineteen: Shoring Up Defenses
Chapter Twenty: Third Time’s the Charm
Chapter Twenty-One: Proxy
Chapter Twenty-Two: Rescue
Chapter Twenty-Three: Chase
Chapter Twenty-Four: Spies R Us
Chapter Twenty-Five: Surveillance
Chapter Twenty-Six: Making Plans
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Going In
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Infiltration
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Accidental Captive
Chapter Thirty: Interrogation
Chapter Thirty-One: Reaction
Chapter Thirty-Two: Kidnappings
Chapter Thirty-Three: Reviewing Options
Chapter Thirty-Four: Public Debut
Chapter Thirty-Five: Distractions
Chapter Thirty-Six: The Big Reveal
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Regrouping
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Waiting for Results
Chapter Thirty-Nine: It Hits the Fan
Chapter Forty: Disassembly
Chapter Forty-One: Wrapping It Up
Chapter Forty-Two: Negotiations
Chapter Forty-Three: Coda
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One: Fender Bender
Day 1. Friday afternoon
Another bad day, at the end of a bad week, in the middle of a bad … well, life just all-around sucked. No point belaboring it.
I glared at the dented bodywork, my hands clenched, then looked up and waved one fist in the air. “Really? Really? You can’t find another way to amuse yourself?” No reply, of course. If God existed at all, he was a malicious little troll with a sadistic sense of humour.
After a moment, I sighed and dropped my gaze to examine the damage. The family delivery truck—Kernigan Food Mart painted prominently on the side—seemed to still be in working order. But it was a good bet my dad would notice the changes to the geometry.
Dad probably wouldn’t even get angry. He would just get that sorrowful look that said You’ve disappointed me again, Jack. Although compared to being kicked out of MIT, a dented fender would probably barely register. You could only get so deep into the fertilizer. Once you were in over your head, it really didn’t matter anymore, did it?
As soon as the thought entered my head, I felt my breath quicken. Nope. I did not have time for a panic attack. Not just now, thanks. Two deliveries to go, then I had the entire weekend to freak out. I automatically started the deep-breathing exercises that my aunt had taught me. One, out, two, out … At five, I felt myself begin to relax.
Now I had to deal with the small matter of the accident. It was a clear, sunny day, with the occasional fluffy cloud scudding across the sky. Typical early July weather for Taft County, Ohio. The last rain was just long ago enough that the dust was beginning to accumulate once again on the side of the road, ready to billow up with every passing vehicle.
The point, though, was that visibility was good. Granted, I’d taken the curve along Poller Road too fast as usual, but I still should have been able to see, uh, whatever it was I’d hit. I peered at the damage. There was blood on the bumper and some fur embedded in the shattered grillwork. A small bit of good news, relatively speaking—it had been an animal rather than a person. But a large animal. More deer-sized than jackrabbit, anyway.
I moved in for a closer look. The blood had a weird color—more orange than red. And the fur was long enough for a bear, but the wrong color for any bear I’d ever seen. I looked around quickly. An angry, injured bear would not be a good thing. Should I hole up in the cab?
I quickly ducked down and glanced under the delivery truck. This verified that there wasn’t a body jammed underneath, and allowed me to confirm that there wasn’t something on the other side of the vehicle, waiting to gore me.
I reached into the truck and turned off the ignition. No point in gassing up the whole outdoors while I searched.
The blood—if it was blood—formed a slight trail heading off into the grass on the side of the road. And I could see a flattened patch. Maybe the animal had landed there and bounced?
The patch of grass looked pretty thoroughly stomped, and hadn’t yet begun to spring back. It must have been a hell of an impact. Or a very large animal. But where was it? I moved to check farther into the brush—and tripped over something.
I staggered, put one hand down on the grass to steady myself, then turned. There was nothing there to trip over. No rock, no stick, no random discarded auto part.
I walked cautiously back through the patch, making each movement exaggeratedly slow and being careful not to commit my weight until my foot was down. On the second step, my toe hit … something.
I stared down in bemusement at my foot, which was pushing up against apparently empty air. I pushed a little harder with my toe and the invisible something yielded a little. Like a body, rather than a rock. I slowly withdrew my foot and then stepped back, my mind whirling. There was that old X-Files episode where some guy wished to be invisible and … I rolled my eyes, even though I was alone. Genies as an explanation? Nope, that way lay madness.
With a jerk, I reached for my phone. I really needed to get a picture of—
Of what, dumbass? Empty air? Uh huh. Poor Jack, his expulsion must have snapped his mind.
With a shake of my head and a snarl, I bent over to feel around the invisible object—then pulled back quickly. It had fur. And things with fur often had teeth and claws. Maybe I would start with a more cautious examination. I swept up some of the dust from the side of the road until I had a good pile. Then I grabbed a double handful and sprinkled it carefully over the body. Or whatever it was.
The dust settled onto something. There was a definite impression of fur, a head, arms … For some reason, the dust seemed to be getting absorbed into the body. Or maybe it was disappearing. Maybe whatever was making the body invisible was affecting the dust.
That wasn’t the way it normally worked on TV, but then, I wasn’t sure how much actual experience the script writers had with this kind of thing. Perhaps I’d have to write them a letter or something.
Two more double handfuls of dust, and I’d managed to work out a general outline of the body. Literally. The dust that hadn’t settled on the body now formed something like the chalk outlines the cops supposedly did at crime scenes.
It was big.
I couldn’t be sure, because it wasn’t lying straight or flat, but I guessed somewhere around seven feet tall, maybe a little more. I stand six foot five, and I’m used to be being the tallest person in the room, but this thing would be able to see the top of my head.
The proportions were wrong for a biped, though—too much torso, very short legs. And not a beanpole, either, unlike yours truly. I’d bet it had a hundred pounds on me.
I stood and spent a few moments practicing the breathing exercises again. I noted but avoided focusing on the warm air, the rhythmic buzzing of insects in the background, that single drop of sweat running down the middle of my back. When I could no longer hear my heart, I pulled my phone out of my hip pocket.
I made several false starts composing a text, typing then backspacing furiously, then typing again. Finally, I muttered,
“Calling Patrick,” the phone replied. I waited, a sinking, gnawing feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.
“Hi. You’ve reached Patrick Jordan. I’m not answering the phone, most likely because I don’t want to talk to you. But feel free to leave a message anyway.”
I couldn’t suppress a snicker as the recorded message played. The sentiment infuriated almost everyone who heard it, which Patrick was quick to explain was exactly the point. To be honest, Patrick could be a bit of a dick, but he and I had been friends for as long as either of us could remember, and with Natalie, we were the Three Musketeers against the world. One for all and all for Patrick. At least according to Patrick.
“Patrick, it’s Jack. Something’s happened. Something very weird. Even by your standards. Give me a call as soon as you get this.”
I hung up and re-pocketed the phone, then reached down to check around the corpse—wait, was it a corpse? What if it was just unconscious? Injured? Did it bite? Did it have stabby, stingy parts?
I grabbed another double handful of dust and repeated the sprinkling process, but more methodically, paying attention to each section of the body as it briefly appeared. Once I was sure I had the chest located, I placed a hand on it. No movement. No breathing. No heartbeat. But did that actually settle anything? I rocked back on my heels and stared at the, uh … well, stared at where the body should be.
It wasn’t human. It wasn’t an animal. It wasn’t—
I shuddered as I finally, consciously acknowledged the thought.
It wasn’t from Earth at all. Unless it was Bigfoot, which really wasn’t any better.
Or Chewbacca. Once you got past invisible and extraterrestrial, why not?
So I’d just killed an extraterrestrial. Maybe even the first one ever to visit Earth. Great. But why was it out here in the middle of nowhere? And why didn’t it have the sense to avoid getting hit crossing the road?
I glanced back the way I’d come. Chewie had picked a particularly bad place to cross Poller Road. It was a tight, blind corner, and because the curve was well-cambered, everyone took it too fast. Chewie would have had to be a kangaroo to get out of the way in time.
All very interesting, but I still had a dead extraterrestrial on my hands. So what to do? Call the cops? Call Dad? That was the same thing, really. The first thing my father, ol’ By-the-Book Kernigan, would do would be to call the cops. And the E.T. would be whisked away to Roswell or Area 51 or that warehouse where they’d stored the Ark of the Covenant, and that would be that. Then, according to every movie ever made, the government would go back on any promises and deny everything, and I’d never find out what it was.
No way. Not quite yet, anyway. Not until I had some pictures, at least.
But first, I had to finish my deliveries. Keep it cool. No deviation from routine. Nothing to see here. Move along.
I glared at the grass for a few moments more, not really seeing it, as I worked things through. Then I started the truck and maneuvered it around so that the lift gate was close to the, uh … Sasquatch? Um, no. Wasn’t that Canadian? Or maybe Pacific Northwest, anyway.
But I still wasn’t completely convinced it was dead, quickie medical exam notwithstanding. So bitey and stabby parts were still a concern. I grabbed a large spanner from behind the driver’s seat and, stretching out as far as possible to stay out of range, prodded the body—first tentatively, then with increasing force. Nothing. I felt around until I had an arm, then lifted and dropped it. The limb flopped like dead weight.
Okay. Either dead or thoroughly incapacitated.
I lowered the truck’s lift gate to horizontal, leaped up, and raised the rolling door on the storage area, then rolled out the pallet jack and threw an empty pallet and a tarp onto the pneumatic arms.
Lowering the whole assemblage to ground level, I proceeded to wrap the body in the tarp. It was, as I’d expected, heavy—easily two hundred and fifty pounds—and limp, which made the whole process slow and frustrating. But finally, I had made a Bigfoot burrito of sorts.
Another few minutes of swearing, and the burrito was stored at the front end of the cargo area, out of sight—unless you were looking for it.
Two deliveries. Parker’s and Kirby’s. Then I was done until Monday. There would still be the confrontation with my father about the accident, but I could honestly say that I hadn’t seen anything and didn’t know what I had hit.
Lawyering. Love it or hate it, everyone did it.
Chapter Two: Bigfoot Burrito
My phone rang just as I was settling the delivery onto Mrs. Kirby’s garage floor with the pallet jack. I gave her an apologetic shrug as I pulled out my phone and checked the caller ID. Patrick Jordan, the phone reported. I hit the answer button and spoke into the phone before he could get a word out. “Hi, Patrick. Let me call you back in five minutes.” Without waiting, I hung up.
I forced a proper smile as I handed the bill to Mrs. Kirby for her signature. She signed with her usual flourish, her movements surprisingly energetic for someone old enough to remember when the first automobile came to Dunnville.
“You and Patrick planning some more trouble?” she said.
“Hopefully,” I replied with a laugh. Mrs. Kirby was a long-time family friend, a de facto aunt. Fortunately, I’d thought to back the truck in so she couldn’t see the damage. She’d be certain to mention it, and I didn’t need my father trooping out to the barn before I’d unloaded the special cargo.
Once I was back in the truck, I pulled out my phone and pressed redial. Patrick picked up on the first ring.
“Nice. Real nice. You set me up with a really mysterious message, then leave me hanging. Explain to me why I shouldn’t just hang up on you, in one word or less?”
“Aliens.”
There was a moment of silence. “That’ll do it. More words, please.”
I glanced in the side mirror to make sure Mrs. Kirby wasn’t within listening distance. “Or maybe Bigfoot. I dunno. Listen, do you have any flour at your place?”
“Okay, buddy, you’ve obviously popped a blood vessel or something,” Patrick said. “Why would I need flour? Why would you need flour? Who uses flour, and for what?”
“For the invisible alien. Or Bigfoot. Or Chewbacca.”
More silence, followed by a sigh. “Okay. You’ve out-crazied me. Where and when?”
“The barn. I’ve just done my last delivery, so fifteen minutes?”
“Will do. See ya.”
Well, that had gone better than I’d hoped. Of course, Patrick probably thought he was being set up for a practical joke, but he was good-natured enough to go along with it just to find out what the payoff would be.
In this case, the joke was that there was no joke.
I drove slowly past the family home to the barn in the back acre. The Kernigan property had been a large, prosperous working farm at one time, and both the multistory farmhouse with its wraparound porch and the gigantic barn out back reflected that. The wagon doors, when fully open, allowed for two-way traffic of farm equipment. The interior was almost large enough to hold our entire house.
Mostly wasted space these days, of course. The barn now contained some old appliances and mechanical parts, a dozen bales of hay so ancient that any self-respecting cow would turn up her nose in disgust, and of course my Fortress of Solitude near the entry door.
I slid the wagon doors open just enough to get the truck through, then carefully backed it in. That was an unusual move, since the big doors were cantankerous and needed a lot of coaxing to open and close. It was a smaller risk, though, than being spotted hauling something from the truck to the barn. If Dad caught on, the alien corpse would be in government custody before you could say, “E.T. phone home.”
But as long as I didn’t do anything to attract Dad’s attention, I was probably safe. The barn had been my hangout when I was younger, and had become my retreat since I returned from college. Returned. Yeah. Such a nice, neutral word. My parents rarely intruded, texting me instead when I was holed up here.
I had long ago built a workshop-slash-hangout area near the entry door, populating it with a couple of comfortable chairs; a heavy workbench more than twenty feet long, with cupboards and drawers along the bottom; and some small conveniences, like a microwave and TV. There had been many happy times there over the years, hanging out with Patrick and Natalie until all hours on weekend evenings. For a brief moment, thinking back to those happier and much more innocent times, I wished I could roll back the past couple of years, even if it meant being back in high school.
