Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

artifact as well as I could. I’m lucky they didn’t peruse below the belt, because I have a feeling they might have done something rash if they knew the truth. Now I feel the same eyes on me as Clay had, and I am regretting coming. This Token could be special, but I fear danger may follow it.

If Hardy is correct, there will be five more of these. The Bridge awaits.

 

There it was again. The Bridge. It was capitalized. It was a name. “The Bridge.” I tested it on my tongue, and the hair on my arms stood. A light flashed in my periphery, and I peered outside, seeing bright stars in the distance, casting their glow from so far away. One of them flickered, and I assumed it was a satellite. I blinked, and it was gone.

The room I’d grown up in felt cold suddenly, and I was uneasy being here. The walls were closing in on me, and I gaped at the closet, as if expecting the monster I’d imagined in my youth to walk out and bite my toes.

I shut the book, gathering my pillow and blanket, and quietly crept down the hallway, the old hardwood creaking at the late disturbance.

I found the couch and knew sleep would evade me for some time.

____________

“Bed too small?” Fred’s voice woke me from a restless sleep, and I opened my blurry eyes to the dull morning light seeping past the living room curtains.

I groaned, sitting up while rubbing my face. “Something like that.”

“Look, I’m sorry about Bev last night,” Fred said, sitting on the chair across from me. The kids’ coloring books were on the coffee table, untouched.

“You have nothing to apologize for. We’re good,” I assured him.

“I know… she’s been under a lot of stress. Would you believe it took her a month to even sleep one night in her parents’ old bedroom?” Fred asked. He was dressed already, his hair damp from a shower. He’d shaven, and I spotted a tiny piece of tissue stuck to his chin, a red circle in the center of it.

“Would you want to sleep in your parents’ room?” I asked with a laugh.

“Not for a second,” Fred said. “Coffee’s on. Can I get you a cup?”

“Sure. Shower free?” I asked, and he nodded.

“Kids are in the basement watching cartoons. Bev usually sleeps in when she can,” Fred said, and I nodded in understanding. The Bev I knew was always up before dawn, ready to take on the day. Time heals all wounds, but tends to leave a scar.

Ten minutes later, I was drying off, dressing in dark jeans, a light blue shirt, and a brown blazer. I left my stubble and styled my hair as formally as I could. I was used to letting it air dry, then attempting a reasonable look befitting a professor of archaeology. With a dash of cologne, my transformation was complete.

Bev was in the hallway, wearing a bathrobe and drinking a cup of coffee. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rex.”

“You too. Sleep okay?” I asked her, but her face said it all. She hadn’t.

“Fine. And you?”

“Perfect.” We both lied to each other. They were the kind of white lies that meant no harm, but when you added them up, you struggled to recall what the truth was to begin with.

“Fred’s making bacon and eggs. I’ll be there soon.” And with that, my sister was gone.

True to her word, I joined Fred and the kids for a delicious breakfast and a thick cup of coffee before Bev came in. She wore a long black dress, a simple gold chain, her hair pinned at the sides. She looked great, and I told her so.

“Thanksgiving comes once a year.” She smiled, bringing back the young girl I used to know.

“Are you coming today?” I asked Fred, glancing at the kids.

He shook his head. “I think this is better suited for you two. We’ll stay home and prep dinner, won’t we?”

“I don’t want to stuff a turkey’s butt,” Carson said.

“Then you can remove the gizzard,” Fred joked, and Carson stuck his tongue out.

“Gross.”

We all laughed, and I wondered if this was what I was missing out on. I was over forty, single, and living alone in a brownstone.

“Time to go,” Bev said, still grinning.

We took my SUV and let the radio fill the silence between us. Outside, it was cold, thin gray clouds threatening to release precipitation that could turn to snow. We listened to a local forecast saying the same prediction, and it switched to the scheduled program. Usually, Thanksgiving Day would have nothing but pre-recorded programming, with the news automated on the national holiday, so I was surprised to hear the familiar voice mentioning the date.

“Welcome back to a special live edition of Across This Great Nation with Bill McReary this beautiful Thanksgiving Thursday. We’re discussing the possibility of life from other worlds, and what that might mean for humans if we established contact.

“We’ve been studying the stars forever, and many argue there is significant proof of visitations to the ancient civilizations on earth. Have we been visited, and when? My first guest is…”

“What are you listening to?” Bev asked after turning the radio off.

“The news. Marcus mentioned they found a mysterious object near Pluto yesterday. I guess it’s bringing the crazies out of the woodwork,” I told her.

“You don’t believe in this crap, do you?” she asked, her tone friendly rather than confrontational.

“Are you saying you don’t?”

“Aliens? Why would I? There’s no proof, and there never will be. Because we’re truly alone,” she said.

“Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” I asked her. I’d studied every ancient culture and still didn’t feel like I had any concrete answers.

“More of a leap than aliens visiting the Mayans?”

I drove further, the quiet town’s streets all but empty on a holiday at ten in the morning. The cemetery was north, and we came upon our old high school. We talked about our teachers for a moment, and I kept driving past the