Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

“To Johnny,” I echo, then sip. Over the rim of the glass I make brief eye contact with the bartender, and feel a little tingle of electricity across my scalp.

Greg sips, too. He’s still looking at the couple, ruminating on what just transpired.

The uneasy tension in the room dissipates about as fast as cigarette smoke. Kyle eventually puts the shot glasses back on his tray and disappears through the kitchen door again, mumbling something under his breath.

From the karaoke-speaker-slash-jukebox, a singer croons a chorus over and over: “all the best freaks are here.” I can’t help but concur as I try and fail to picture myself spending two weeks as Silvertown’s only cop.

Chief Greg Gorman sighs once again. “I just cannot understand what the hell Johnny Rogers was thinking. What a senseless, preventable death.”

I can only nod, remembering the night the kid’s parents came home. The scream Mrs. Rogers unleashed upon the world when she and her husband pulled into the driveway to find Greg, me, and a dozen others waiting to greet them, the looks on our faces telling them more than anything said aloud after.

We had no answers for them. Not then, not now. We only had condolences.

Their “indoor kid,” with a reputation for being a video game junkie who never went outside, had evidently decided to go on a hike while his parents were away. He went alone, with no gear and, for that matter, no experience. Told no one of his plans.

Out there in the wilderness, on damp mountain trails, he’d fallen—badly—and never gotten back up.

No one could have done a thing about it.

And no one could explain why it happened.

I lose myself in the whiskey and stare off to the middle distance. When I finally look up, I catch Kyle checking me out in the mirror behind the bar as he shovels ice from a bucket into a cooler.

I smile at him, finish my beer, and raise the empty toward him in the universal signal for another round. Sure, Silvertown has its quirks, but the scenery is definitely growing on me.

“Hey Alan. What can I getcha?”

“Beer. Whatever kind, I don’t care. Just cold. C-o-l-d cold. Kyle, man, you feelin’ okay lately? I keep getting these raging headaches.”

“Migraine?”

“Yeah! Fuckin’ migraine. Cold is the only thing that works, man. This morning I opened the freezer and stuck my head in for, like, five minutes. Can’t wait for winter. Cannot frickin’ wait.”

“Well, I’m fine.”

“Huh?”

“You asked if I was feeling okay lately. I’m fine.”

“That’s good, that’s good. Must be because you’re indoors ’n’ shit. Protection from the walls.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re not blaming this on the cell tower, are you?”

“Naw, man! The town’s freakin’ out about that antenna shit, but guess what? They haven’t even switched it on yet. One of the StellarComm techs told me. All the fuckin’ nutters don’t want to hear it, though.”

“Finally some sanity around here—”

“Yeah, man. No, these migraines… they’re from the airplanes, bro. Chemtrails.”

“Oh, Jesus—”

“Kyle, listen, man. Hear me out. You know Spellman Field? They just started flying cargo out of there, which puts us guess where? Right under the goddamn flight path. I’ve seen the lines across the sky, like fuckin’ God’s cocaine or some shit. There’s all kinds of funky stuff in there, man, and it’s fallin’ right on our heads.”

True to his word, Greg went on leave to visit his mother. He’s been gone for two days and hasn’t called to check in on me once. I’m determined not to call him, either.

Each morning I’ve arrived at the station at 7:00 sharp, and today is no exception. The chief has a strict morning routine, which I usually miss out on as I take the later shift. With him gone, though, the tasks fall to me. Unlock the front door, walk the building: gun locker, cells, and my cruiser parked in the small lot out back. That done, log in to the computer to see if anything relevant has come in overnight. Nothing ever does, but check anyway. To this routine I add making a pot of coffee and texting Clara to make sure she’ll be able to volunteer today.

Her reply is quick.

Once the breakfast rush is over.

I shoot back Cool! See you then.

With all that out of the way, I step out onto the sidewalk.

The people of Silvertown still carry the somber weight of Johnny’s funeral with them but are otherwise going about their lives. Shops are open, kids walk with their parents to the lone school.

“Morning, Sally,” I say to a woman walking toward me at a brisk pace. She wears workout clothes and pushes a double-wide stroller. Her twins nap within.

“Greg back yet?” she asks, breathless.

“Next week.”

A nod. She never breaks stride, heading off down the street.

Watching her go, I notice Geezer Willy standing on the corner, exactly where he is every morning when Greg usually opens the station. My first two weeks up here, before Greg and I staggered our shifts, the two of us would step out here each day and the first thing Chief would do is greet ol’ Willy. I figure this is as good a place to start as any.

“Morning, Willy.”

He’s teetering slightly, walking cane wobbling in his ancient hand. “Morning, Officer. But I’ve told you, call me Geezer. Everybody does.”

“Need any help across the street?” I ask, echoing Greg’s daily exchange with the man.

“I’ll manage,” he replies, on cue, “in my own time.”

He looks both ways, the very picture of vigilance.

No cars coming, but he doesn’t budge at all. He’s looking at me. No, he’s looking past me.

“Now, isn’t that a sight to behold?” he says.

I turn, and in that moment the sound of several large diesel engines reaches my ears. What I see is strange even by Silvertown standards. Coming up Main Street from the west is a caravan of US