Not A Lighthouse

 He had made his way to the coast, to the lighthouse at Cape Hatteras. The house and the grounds were empty. This was hardly a surprise. Raleigh was a ghost town, stinking of the dead, of uncollected garbage, of rotting food in empty stores. There were a few survivors, like himself, but he just couldn't think of himself as lucky. He had seen too much death and still feared for his own. Was it crazy to think he was being watched? Was anything crazy in this insane world? Maybe the truth itself was crazy. Knowing the truth. How had he been left to save the world? He didn't know but he had made it this far and as long as he had life, he would hold onto hope...

*****

Sheriff Steve Bauman watched the webcam video of the man in the single cell of the Avon city jail as Deputy Glenn McClarnon said, "His driver's license says he's Sam Morrison of Raleigh. Bank card, couple of receipts, seems to favor Applebee's for whatever that's worth, employer health insurance card from the Wake County Public School system. That and the school-logo'd backpack he carried the IED in would indicate he worked in some capacity for one of the Raleigh schools. No cash. Said he threw away his phone so he couldn't be tracked."

Bauman was a shade over six feet tall and still built like the Navy Seal he had been once upon another lifetime. His face was soft and kind and had misled more than a few drunken tough guys into believing they could get over on him. None ever had. McClarnon was more of the modern police officer; better with a browser than a gun, a little overweight, with pale skin that had done everything it could to avoid the Summer sun.

"Tracked?" Sheriff Bauman asked. "By whom?"

"I'm getting there," Deputy McClarnon said. Reading from his notepad, he continued. "Claims that almost everyone in Raleigh is dead and the few who survive are zombies under the mind-control of aliens." McClarnon paused. "The space kind, not the illegal kind."

"I think I got that," Sheriff Bauman said. 

"Right, yeah, I suppose that was obvious," McClarnon said. "Anyway, these aliens have infiltrated the highest levels of government in nations all over the world." He paused. "According to Mr. Morrison."

"Provides a new, if even more paranoid, perspective on the Deep State," Sheriff Bauman said.

"Also, to be clear, not the brain-eating kind of zombies. More like robots. Hang on." McClarnon flipped over a page in his notepad. "Right. Simulacrums who refuse to say 'Howdy, Neighbor' even though you've known them since grade school."

"Simulacrums," Sheriff Bauman said. "I'm guessing middle school English lit teacher."

"Yeah?" Deputy McClarnon said. "Given the homemade explosives we found in the trunk of his Camry I was going to guess high school chemistry teacher."

"Fair point," Sheriff Bauman said.

"Plague Syndrome?" Deputy McClarnon asked.

Sheriff Bauman shrugged. Plague Syndrome had become a catch all diagnosis for survivor behaviors that ranged from the merely quirky to the utterly tragic; from the Star Wars cosplay actors out to destroy this biological Death Star in Tik Tok videos, to the evangelical mass suicide river cruises to heaven. "With the quarantine, I could see how you might think everyone was dead. A lot of people are, of course. The zombies, though, what was it, again?"

"Um, alien mind-controlled zombies," Deputy McClarnon said, reading from his notebook.

"Alien mind-controlled zombies. That's a new one. For me, anyway," Sheriff Bauman said. "I mean the zombies part."

"Don't tell me you had a close encounter, Sheriff," McClarnon said.

"I'm," Sheriff Bauman began, a second thought stopping him from saying what he was thinking. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?" McClarnon asked.

"Well," Bauman said, deciding to tell his story. "It might've been a dream. The memory has that feeling to it. It happened, if it happened, when I was a 4-year old. I'm walking down the street by the apartment my mom and my sister and I lived in. My dad was stationed overseas. It was high summer and the trees were full and green. There were a few other people out on the street but I didn't recognize them. Suddenly there was this noise, a roaring sound like a locomotive and everyone stopped and looked up. Everyone was very still, as if in a trance, myself included. And then a B-52 flew over, literally at treetop level. It moved so slowly that I was surprised it could stay in the air. After it passed by, myself and everyone on the street shook off whatever spell had been cast over us and moved on like nothing had happened. Nobody called out. Hey! What was that? Did you see that? I mean, you know, something to acknowledge what just happened. I wanted to talk, wanted to ask what just happened but somehow I couldn't. Here's the thing. The B-52 didn't have any insignia on it. No USAF. No American flag." Bauman paused. "And it didn't have wings."

"It didn't have wings," McClarnon said.

Bauman shook his head. "Just a silver metal tube." 

Deputy McClarnon smiled. "I think you might be right about it being a dream, Sheriff. Now, as to the symbolism in the dream."

"I was a 4-year old, Deputy McClarnon. It didn't have anything to do with my penis."

"Right. You did say it was as big as a B-52, so definitely not about your penis," McClarnon said.

Bauman laughed. "All right. Yeah," Bauman said. "It probably was a dream but I have often found myself wishing it was something else. Something more. Something real. A close encounter. Like a there's more to heaven and earth kind of moment," Bauman said. 

"You know what they say, Sheriff," McClarnon said. "Be careful what you wish for." He moved around the desk to watch the webcam feed with Sheriff Bauman. Sam Morrison sat on the bunk in the jail cell. He stared directly into the camera. "Why the lighthouse?" McClarnon asked. "Kind of painted himself into a corner, didn't he? I mean, if the alien mind-controlled zombies are really after him."

"Maybe," Sheriff Bauman said, "he was looking for the edge of the world so he could jump off."

Deputy McClarnon stiffened. "Really?"

"Relax, Mac," Bauman said. "I'm just pulling your chain."

"The universe is a mobius strip, Sheriff," McClarnon said. "We think there's an up and down but there's only the up we stand on in that particular Heisenbergian manifestation of that specific quantum occurrence of space-time." McLarnon paused. "It's science."

"Well, I'm not so sure about that but I suppose it's no crazier than thinking this is all part of God's plan," Sheriff Bauman said.

"Old Testament or New Testament God?" McClarnon asked. "Seems to me there's a difference."

"I thought you were a man of science, Deputy McClarnon," Bauman said. 

"Just data gathering," McClarnon said.

"Data gathering. Okay. Well, I don't think there's as much difference as you suggest. Old Testament Yahweh may have a higher body count overall - the Great Flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, the Red Sea swallowing up Pharaoh's army - but New Testament Yahweh kills his only son as a metaphor and ends the story with an end of the world prophecy cliffhanger. That is a total dick move. Seems like the same guy to me." Bauman paused. "You know, when you think about it, death, pestilence, food shortages, war; maybe what we're experiencing is God's plan." He smiled. "As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. As the poet said."

"You can have poetry," McClarnon said. "I'll stick with science."

Throughout their conversation, Sam Morrison had steadfastly stared into the camera, as if somehow he was watching them, instead of the other way around.

"Have you seen him blink?" McClarnon asked.

"Nope," Bauman said.

"That is some serious crazy," McClarnon said.

"Speaking of which," Bauman said, "have you heard back from public health services? Do we know if there's a psychiatric hospital or halfway house that's missing this guy?"

McClarnon broke Sam Morrison's hypnotic gaze and straightened. "I gave them the information we have on Mr. Morrison but they didn't sound terribly optimistic that they'd be able to help. They're kind of overwhelmed. There's the dead and there's the broken. They told me their caseworkers are handling 4 to 5 times their usual load."

Are the insane immune to the plague? Bauman wondered. "Did you ask them if… if they were hearing stories of alien mind-controlled zombies?"

"That's not funny," McClarnon said.

"I'm serious," Bauman said. 

"You're serious?" McClarnon asked.

Bauman smiled. "What? No room for aliens or their mind-controlled zombies on that mobius strip of yours?"

McClarnon started to speak and stopped. He nodded. "Okay. You got me."

"Science!" Bauman said.

*****

Sheriff Bauman stood outside the cell holding Sam Morrison, who did not acknowledge his presence but instead continued to stare into the lens of the webcam. Bauman thought Morrison looked the part of a high school teacher. Thin but not in a healthy way, his head just a little too big for his body. Weak chin, heavy brow, worry lines at the corners of his brown eyes. His clothing was careworn and his hair was unfashionably long. 

"Don't know if you remember but I'm Sheriff Steve Bauman. Mind if we talk?" Bauman said. "Mr. Morrison? Mr. Morrison? That is your name, isn't it? Sam Morrison?"

Sam Morrison ended his staring contest with the webcam just long enough to glance at Sheriff Bauman, then returned his gaze to the webcam. 

Sheriff Bauman nodded. "Okay," he said and walked over to the wall panel to switch off the webcam. He opened the metal door and flipped the toggle down to the off position. The red "live" indicator on the camera flashed three times and went dark. 

"Better?" Bauman asked. Morrison nodded. "So, my deputy and I have a little bet on something. I say you're an English Lit teacher, he says you teach Chemistry."

"I teach English Literature with a specialty in the American Novel," Morrison said. "So, who won the bet?"

Bauman smiled. "That would be me." 

"What did you win?" Morrison asked.

Bauman shrugged. "It was a friendly wager. Bragging rights, I guess."

"I have to get to the lighthouse," Morrison said. "What little that's left of this world depends on it."

"I see," Sheriff Bauman said. "Sounds kind of important."

"Kind of important? The end of the world? Yeah, I guess you could say that's kind of  important. Could you be any more condescending, Sheriff?" Morrison asked.

Could you be any more crazy? Bauman thought. "I'm sorry, Mr. Morrison. I guess, well, why the lighthouse?"

"Because it isn't a lighthouse," Morrison said.

"It isn't?" Bauman said. "I've been there myself more than a half dozen times. Up and down the spiral staircase inside. Quite the view."

Morrison tapped his temples with his index fingers. "It appears to be a lighthouse because that's what they want you to think."

"They?" Bauman asked.

"The Sky Boys," Morrison said.

"Sky Boys?" Bauman asked. "Really?"

"I think something was lost in translation. English isn't their first language, Sheriff," Morrison said.

"Right," Bauman said. "Of course. Seems obvious now that you mention it."

Morrison lowered his voice. "Look, I didn't tell your Deputy MacMillan because -"

"McClarnon," Bauman said.

"Whatever," Morrison said. 

"You told him quite a bit," Bauman said.

Morrison took a deep breath to gather himself. "Yes. I told him the Sky Boys can control men's minds."

"Like making me believe the lighthouse is a lighthouse," Bauman said.

"I'm not sure if it's chemical or psychokinetic but they've created mass delusions in the population of this and other countries around the world. The Plague was just the opportunity they needed. People were already feeling anxious, afraid, alone. The Sky Boys barely needed to give us a push for people to fall off the ledge of reality, for paranoia to take hold, for people to embrace even the most outlandish of conspiracy theories, for people to descend into madness and society to fall into chaos." Morrison paused. "But I didn't tell him I knew about the lighthouse."

"Because?" Bauman asked.

Morrison dropped his voice until it was almost a whisper. "Because I realized your deputy is one of the Sky Boys."

"And the lighthouse - that isn't really a lighthouse - is the key to stopping the, uh, Sky Boys?" Sheriff Bauman asked.

"Yes!" Morrison shouted as he stood up. His eyes were red with tears and his face contorted from the crippling fear stabbing at his brain and heart. "Please," he said. "I need your help, Sheriff. We must destroy the lighthouse before it's too late."

"We?" Bauman said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Morrison but I just can't -"

Morrison stepped to the bars that separated them and said, "It wasn't a dream, Sheriff. It wasn't a B-52."

Bauman resisted the urge to ask, What are you talking about? And then resisted the urge to ask, How did you know that? Instead, he walked over to the control panel, opened the cover, and switched on the webcam. When he turned back, Sam Morrison had resumed his seat on the bunk and once again stared into the camera's lens.

"We'll organize some supper for you, Mr. Morrison," Bauman said, but Sam Morrison did not answer, did not nod, did not move.

*****

Sheriff Bauman's voice preceded him as he walked down the short hallway to the jail cell with a large bag of take out food from the local Burgers Etc. restaurant. "Forgot to ask if you were a vegetarian so I got a salad along with the burgers and fries." As he reached the cell he saw Deputy McClarnon holding Sam Morrison up against the bars of the cell, his feet off the ground, and the bed sheet from the bunk twisted and wound around Morrison's neck.

"Sheriff! You're just in time. He tried to kill himself!" McClarnon said.

"No!" Morrison fairly screamed. "It's him! It's him! He's a Sky Boy!"

Still struggling to hold Morrison's body off the floor, McClarnon said, "Like I said, Sheriff. Some serious crazy, here. Give me a hand?"

Bauman noticed that Morrison's arms were behind his back, cuffed at the wrists. What the hell? He dropped the bag of food and headed into the cell. With a little effort, they managed to extricate Sam Morrison's neck from the twisted bed sheet and get his feet back on the floor. 

"Sheriff, please!" Morrison begged. "You've got to believe me."

"Thanks, Sheriff," McClarnon said. "I saw what he was doing on the webcam and managed to get in here in time but he's a lot heavier than he looks."

Bauman nodded. "So, Deputy, where did Mr. Morrison get the cuffs and how, exactly, was he going to hang himself with his hands cuffed behind his back?"

McClarnon smiled and pulled his gun but Bauman was ready for him. His right hand exploded McClarnon's nose and put him on his ass, shaking the gun loose from his grip. Bauman kicked it away.

"Jesus," McClarnon managed as he tried with both hands to press his nose back together and staunch the flow of blood. "Don't tell me you believe this guy."

Bauman considered his options. As McClarnon struggled to get to his feet, Bauman planted a practiced left hook on the point of McClarnon's jaw, sending him to dreamland. Bauman lay unconscious on the floor, blood bubbling from his broken nose.

"Is he dead?" Morrison asked. "Did you kill him?"

"No," Bauman said.

"Then kill him now," Morrison said. 

"No," Bauman said.

"Seriously," Morrison said. "Kill. Him."

"I just needed to disable him," Bauman said, kneeling to reach into McClarnon's right front pocket for the key to the handcuffs.

"You really should kill him, Sheriff," Morrison said. "Seriously. Look. I know how that sounds. It sounds, well, crazy but we're at war."

Bauman took the handcuffs off Morrison and placed them on Deputy McClarnon. "That's what you think sounds crazy?" he asked. He tried to think. He had liked Glenn McClarnon. They weren't close - workplace friends, not weekend barbecue friends - but he had liked him, or the man he thought was Glenn McClarnon.

"Sheriff," Sam Morrison said. "We need to go. To the lighthouse."

*****

By the time they arrived, it was full dark. The light at the top of the three story tall spire spun and flashed. They took Sam Morrison's homemade bomb from the trunk of the cruiser, packed in the  Wake County Public School-branded backpack, and headed up the path. The security light's near the keeper's house created a small bubble of illumination around the base of the lighthouse.

As they drew near to the entrance, a man in a park ranger's uniform approached them.

"Sheriff! Sheriff Bauman!" the man shouted. "What brings you here? You know we're closed for tours after 4:00pm."

Bauman didn't recognize the man. He whispered to Morrison, "Sky Boy?"

"Yes," Morrison said.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Bauman said. He gestured to Morrison. "Old friend from college dropped in for a visit. Wondered if I could get him in to see the lighthouse. I know it's late but I thought I'd take a chance."

The man in the park ranger's uniform said, "Well, I wish I could, Sheriff, but I can't. I could lose my job over something like that."

Bauman nodded. "Mind if we just take a walk around the grounds, then? I promise we'll stay out of your way."

"No can do, Sheriff," the man said. "Liability insurance only covers the hours open to the public. If something was to happen to you or - " he nodded at Sam Morrison " - your old friend from college here, well - "

"You could lose your job over something like that?" Sheriff Bauman offered.

"Exactly," the man said.

Bauman considered his options. The man in the park ranger's uniform had been careful to maintain a safe distance, well out of Bauman's reach. He noted that while the man's uniform said "park ranger," the sidearm on his belt said something else entirely. Then he heard it, or rather felt it at first, the vibration in the ground, followed closely by the sound of what sounded like a locomotive, dim and distant at first but growing louder.

"We're out of time, Sheriff," Morrison said. He threw the backpack over his shoulder and bolted for the door to the lighthouse. The man in the park ranger's uniform pulled his weapon and turned to track Morrison and that was enough of an opening for Bauman to make his move. He disarmed the man quickly but was unable to deliver a crippling blow. The roaring sound of the locomotive was now full throated. The man blocked Bauman's right hand and Bauman blocked the parry. Bauman snuck a left jab to the man's face and the man's teeth gave way to Bauman's knuckles. The man smiled, nodded, and spit blood, dropping his guard just a bit. Bauman delivered a flying knee to the man' solar plexus. Bauman was a bit surprised he didn't go down. Bauman threw a left hook to the man's rib cage and heard the man grunt grudgingly as the ribs crackled. Bauman doubled up with another left to the man's ear. When he staggered back, Bauman put a roundhouse kick on the man's left temple and put him down. He cuffed him, found the gun, and stuck it in his belt.

Bauman turned to the lighthouse door but it was now twelve feet off the ground as the lighthouse had risen inexplicably into the air. There was no blast of exploding rocket fuel, just the deafening roar of the locomotive sound. Bauman watched as the lighthouse that was not a lighthouse hovered and then tipped until it was parallel to the ground. It wasn't a dream, Bauman thought, as the lighthouse that was not a lighthouse moved out over the Atlantic, and then exploded. Bauman ran for cover as the night sky rained down bits and pieces of metal and brick and glass.

After the sky was done falling, Bauman walked over to where the lighthouse that was not a lighthouse had stood. What was left of the foundation gave no indication of anything out of the ordinary, except, of course, for the lighthouse that no longer stood there. Bauman wondered, Did we save the world? 

"This isn't over."

Bauman turned to see the man in the park ranger's uniform, who had managed to get up on his knees, his face bloodied and swollen.

"You know who says 'This isn't over?'" Sheriff Bauman said, pulling the gun from his belt, taking aim. "Losers." He squeezed the trigger.