Rhubarb (2 page)

The montage ended with fading, squelching radio feedback.

“Welcome back to
Beyond Insomnia
on the Weirdmerica
Radio Network. I’m your host, Lee Danvers, coming to you from the
always-on-the-move BI Bunker. Whether you’re on a long haul or cleaning a mall,
I’ve got the talk to keep you awake. Doesn’t matter if you’re a tweeker or a
seeker, we want to hear from you. Call 1-800-555-WAKE. 1-800-555-W, A, K, E.

“We’ve been talking with Dr. Calvin Atford, author,
researcher, and lecturer. He’s a noted international expert in the history of
UFO phenomena and the author of the recent book
The Shepherd Hypothesis:
Ancient Aliens and Human History
. He’s graciously agreed to stay with the
Waker Nation for a second hour from his office in London. Welcome back, Dr.
Atford.”

“Thank you, Lee. It’s been my pleasure.”

“In a few moments we’ll get to listener calls. But before we
do, Dr. Atford, where can listeners go to find your books?”

“All my books are available online, both print and
electronic. There are links on my website…”

“Which Wakers can find a link to on the BI website,
wakernation.com. Now, Dr. Atford, I’ve been fascinated to hear about some of
the lesser-known instances of UFO activity in history. You talked about the
records from the Zhang Dynasty and the twelfth-century journals of Abbott
Dmitri of the monastery at Saratov, but are there more recent cases?”

“Of course, Lee. One of the more interesting cases—which
many of your listeners may not be familiar with—is in your own country. Have
you ever heard of Brixton, Montana?”

“I remember hearing murmurs about it many years ago…”

“No way,” said Martin, turning up the volume.

“Wasn’t it revealed to be a hoax?”

“Perhaps, but there’s some compelling evidence, nonetheless.
The stories were declared a fraud after the death of Herbert Stamper, the owner
of a well-known truck stop at the junction of U.S. Highway 15 and State Highway
360. He opened the gas station after World War II, and it became known as
Herbert’s Corner. After he died in 1986, the Great Falls Tribune reported that
he had paid people to claim sightings and UFO-type phenomena for almost forty
years.”

“What types of phenomena?”

“Low-altitude aerial objects, strange bright lights over
certain geological formations, those kinds of things. Particularly in spring
and early summer. Brixton is less than two hundred miles from Malmstrom Air
Force Base, home of a large portion of the United States’ land-based nuclear
missile inventory, and no stranger itself to these kinds of unidentified aerial
events.”

“I think we all remember the reports from the fall of 1998.”

“Oh, yes. But the Brixton story has a strange angle that
distinguishes it from the Malmstrom events. Herbert Stamper claimed that aliens
actually frequented the Herbert’s Corner truck stop, eating in the diner and
shopping in the convenience store.”

“Incredible. He claimed to interact with them?”

“Yes. I visited Brixton in the mid-nineties. The new owners
of Herbert’s Corner had made an effort to distance themselves from the diner’s
past. But I met a woman, whom I’ve agreed to keep anonymous, who had been a
waitress there for more than thirty-five years. She had salvaged many of the
photos and memorabilia from the diner after Stamper’s death. She showed me
several photos of Herbert with people he claimed were alien visitors.”

“The aliens looked like people?”

“The photos appeared to be of truck drivers and other
travelers. Their pictures had been framed and hung in the diner for
curiosity-seekers.”

“Did this woman believe Stamper’s claims?”

“I can’t say for certain, but she admitted that the diner
had a reputation for odd clientele. Whether deserved or manufactured, I
couldn’t confirm.”

“Is there any other evidence, besides Herbert Stamper’s
rumors, that shed any light on what might have been going on in Brixton?”

“The most compelling evidence for me, as you might expect,
comes from historical documents. Early French trappers reported that both the
local Assiniboine and Blackfeet people called the area around the current town
of Brixton by the name of ‘Big Thunder Valley,’ because it was known for
strange sounds, odd weather, and unusual light events. One tale refers to
‘nights with many sunrises.’ Trapper Gustav Cuilliard wrote in his journal that
he had been told of an existing trading post in Big Thunder Valley, and that
there had been others there like him, by which he assumed other Europeans. But
when he arrived, he found no signs of other people or a trading post. Well into
the eighteen hundreds, settlers reported that the buffalo herds avoided the
area. These kinds of reports provide some anecdotal suggestion that something
strange indeed was going on in and around what became the town of Brixton.”

“Were there similar reports from later settlers?”

“None that I’ve found. The situation seems to have quieted
until Herbert Stamper came along in the 1940s, and then the rumors stopped
again after his death in 1986. One must keep in mind that he ran a
traveler-dependent business as Interstates 90 and 94 were built across the
southern part of the state. Was Stamper simply playing off local legends to
boost tourism? Or did alien visitors frequent his truck stop?”

“Fascinating, fascinating. Once again, we’re talking live
with Dr. Calvin Atford about his research into historical UFO sightings and his
book
The Shepherd Hypothesis
. We have to break, but when we return,
we’ll get into some of the details of your book and take calls from the Waker
Nation. Stay tuned. This is
Beyond Insomnia
.”

Lee Danvers, now as a recording, began to shill for a company
offering non-genetically-altered seeds. Martin had stopped at an intersection,
left turn signal on. He barely remembered driving the last few miles. Across
the highway, the gas pumps of Herbert’s Corner glowed under their canopy. The
little neon sign in the window of the convenience store blinked Open, Open,
Open, not quite in time with the blinking red light over the junction. A few
semis were parked in the gravel lot behind the building. At this hour, truckers
would be sleeping in their cabs after a shower on the second floor, but a few
might still be inside nursing coffee and waiting out their legal rest periods.
The twenty-four-hour diner was the only place in a hundred-mile radius to get
halfway decent coffee, eggs, bacon, and hash browns. Or chicken-fried steak, or
a burger, or fried clams on Friday nights. Martin had heard that they’d never
installed locks on the doors of Herbert’s Corner, even as they’d remodeled over
the years. They’d never planned to close. Martin was tempted to cross the intersection
to see if that was true, among other things.

A cattle truck rumbled through the intersection, heading
west along Highway 15. Martin turned to follow. A minute later, in Brixton
proper, Martin slowed to a strict twenty-five miles per hour. The sheriff set
his deputies out to make money for the county from every speeding scofflaw they
could catch. A few pickup trucks were parked rakishly around the front and side
of the bar. On the other side of town, Martin rolled into the parking lot of
the Brixton Inn.

Martin shut off his engine before
Beyond Insomnia
returned from commercial. He got out and stretched. No strange lights tonight,
only the constellations he’d never learned the names of. And no big thunder in
Brixton. Only a little wind, some insects, and the distant chug of a truck
slowing down on the other side of town.

~ * * * ~

Wake Up to the Perfect GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) Waffle!

Step 1:
Fill cup to line with GOLDEN
SUNRISE(TM) waffle batter.

Step 2:
Spray top and bottom of
griddle with GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) Griddle Spray.

Step 3:
Pour batter evenly onto
griddle.

Step 4:
Close griddle and Flip! Fun!

Step 5:
When timer signals, open
griddle and remove waffle with spatula.

Step 6:
Enjoy with GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
maple-flavored syrup or your favorite toppings.

Caution:
Griddle surfaces are
extremely hot and may cause injury, including burns. Improper turning may cause
wrist strain. Children under the age of 15 should operate griddle with
supervision. Cooking time should not exceed three minutes. Use at your own
risk.

“Good morning,” Cheryl said, and plunked a variety pack of
General Mills cereals on the counter. Martin started. He hadn’t heard her come
out of the pantry. “Need any help?” she asked with a polite smile.

She’d have recognized him, of course. How could she not?
He’d been staying at the Brixton Inn about twice a month for the past few
years. Its rooms weren’t as good as the Comfort Inn in Glendive, but they were
a far sight better than the Highline Lodge along the train tracks in Glasgow.
It didn’t have HBO, but it got the Billings and Great Falls stations well
enough over antennas, and it usually had hot water. Most importantly, it served
a complimentary breakfast, an absolute requirement for the savvy business
traveler. All in all, his favorite place to stay in the state. His second
favorite had been the Hampton Inn in Great Falls, until FastNCo.’s latest
budget cutbacks.

“I’m good,” Martin said, pointing to the red placard dotted
with happy waffle-faced suns. “Just reading the directions.” Cheryl had her
nametag pinned to her red hooded sweatshirt. She wore the sweatshirt unzipped,
practically falling off one shoulder. Her polyester maid’s uniform underneath
might have been gleaned from the clearance rack at a nurses’ supply store, but
she made it work. She gave him another weak smile.

Martin lifted the handle of the waffle mix dispenser, and
the batter oozed into the plastic cup. Cheryl tore into cellophane. Martin
popped the lid off the waiting can of Pam and sprayed the griddle. An even,
circular, instantly bubbling layer on the vertical surface, and then on the
horizontal surface. Cheryl filled a wire rack with single-serving boxes of
Honey Nut Cheerios, Wheaties, Total, and Lucky Charms. Martin poured his batter
onto the griddle, finishing with a thin, dripping flourish like that guy with
that show on the Food Network. He closed the griddle and flipped it. The red
digital timer began its countdown.

2:30

2:29

2:28…

“Do you get those from Costco?” Martin asked.

“What?” asked Cheryl. “Oh, the cereal? No, they come with
the food delivery.”

“Oh, I wondered, ’cause they sell packs like that down at
Costco,” Martin said.

“Oh,” Cheryl said, crumpling the cellophane and heading to
the little storeroom.

Martin swore silently at himself
. They sell those at Costco,
he mouthed, letting himself hear the inanity. He peeled apart a pair of paper
plates and checked the timer.

1:56

1:55

1:54…

And why hadn’t he greeted her by name? In the afternoons,
Cheryl worked as the cashier at the co-op. When he came in, she always called
up to the office, “Lester, Martin Wells from FastNCo. is here.” Then she
usually said something like, “You can go on back,” or “He’ll be right down.
Hondo got into a scrap with a porcupine and he’s been on the phone with Dr.
McFrain all morning.” Why hadn’t he said, “Good morning, Cheryl,” like he’d
said to the mirror a few minutes ago? Maybe because a few weeks ago he’d choked
out a “Good morn, Churl” and hadn’t yet found the courage to try again.

He selected a pastry off a chromed tray with plastic tongs.
It felt a little crunchy around the edges, probably day-old, but the red goo in
the middle and the lace of frosting glistened appetizingly enough.

1:28

1:27

1:26…

Cheryl returned with a box of individual Splenda packs to
restock a little bowl. Martin pressed the top of an airpot, and coffee
squelched into his Styrofoam cup. He added half-and-half, two Splendas, and a
red stir stick.

0:52

0:51

0:50…

An elderly couple, the only other breakfasters up this
early, had taken his table. The one near the windows. The one with the best
view of the breakfast counter and the pantry door.

“With those BNSF crew trucks in the parking lot, I was
afraid it’d be crowded this morning,” said Martin.

“Brenda said they got in real late last night,” said Cheryl,
nodding her head toward the woman behind the desk on the other side of the
lobby. She tucked the box away in a cabinet under the counter. “She said you
got in pretty late, too. Didn’t think I’d see you up this early.”

Interesting. Cheryl had actually thought about him, had had
a conversation about him with the night clerk. Probably only a few quick words
over a clipboard showing which nine or so of the forty rooms needed to be
cleaned later, but at least she knew he existed.

“Yeah, I thought I’d get in a run before I got over to the
co-op,” said Martin. What? A run? What had possessed him to say that? He’d
bought those Asics on sale at Sports Authority almost a year ago, and his
quisling tongue picked now to commit him to jogging? Had he even packed that
Under Armour he’d gotten to go along with the shoes and the good intentions?

“I didn’t know you were a runner,” said Cheryl.

“Just getting into it,” said Martin. His waistline belied
any other reply. He didn’t belong on
The Biggest Loser
, but he ate too
many motel breakfasts, too much fast food, and more than his share of
convenience store snack packs and microwavable meals. The Diet Mountain Dew—it
did nothing.

“Good for you,” said Cheryl. “Should be a nice morning for
it.”

“Yep. Spring’s here,” Martin said, and stuck his hand into a
bowl of ice to avoid saying anything else asinine. He emerged with a
foil-topped cup of orange juice and shook the freezing water back into the
bowl.