Eye of the Machine

  Eye of the Machine

  ALSO BY GRANT FAUSEY

  ––––––––––––––

  ALPHA TRACK

  SKELLON EMPIRE

  WIZARD WORKS

  HEAVY ARMOR

  CHARLIE THE CAVEMAN

  FUTURE COURSE

  ENFORCE

  THE FAMILY GOOPS

  OF CRIMSON INDIGO

  POINTS OF ORIGIN

  COMING SOON

  –––––––––––––––

  OF CRIMSON INDIGO

  TALES OF THE MASTER-BUILDERS

  Eye of the Machine

  GRANT FAUSEY

  Grant Fausey

  Fausclan Entertainment

  Pennsylvania

  Copyright ©2013 Grant Fausey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including Photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Fausclan Entertainment books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  Fausclan Entertainment

  www.grantfausey.com

  Because of the dynamic nature of thee Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this works are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery Fausclan Entertainment are models, and such images are being used for illustration purposes only.

  Cover Art by Grant Fausey

  ISBN: 978-1-62620-640-3 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  Fausclan Entertainment rev. date: 04/02/2013

  Eye of the Machine

  ––––––––

  The sky was cloudy, a thunderstorm on the horizon––the typical summer evening. Definitely, hot and mucky, but John didn’t mind; he had grown up in Pennsylvania, and lived near Williamsport all his life. His father thought it was the perfect place to raise a family; at least, from his prospective. John, however, had other ideas. Life in rural America wasn’t all it was cracked up to be; the south forty was a lot of work. But cruising the old two-lane roadway in his vintage Ford pick-up truck brought with it a sense of peace.

  The pace, a leisurely forty-five miles per hour to which he had grown accustomed, gave way to his dog, Bear; the animal’s nose to the wind. His companion for nearly nine years, the two of them were inseparable, unquestionably a good team—–the dog loved riding in the rusty Ford just as much as the old farmer loved driving it. It was a match made in Heaven, although John wasn’t much of a churchgoer. He was a spirited man; it was just that he didn’t believe in keeping up with the believers next door. He visited the Bible on occasion, attended a service now and then, but figured God made him a farmer for a reason, so he tended his crops.

  Martha May, his wife, figured he was short enough to stomp on if he got out of line, and just tall enough to cuddle too, on a cold winter’s night. Either way, she was a woman to be reckoned with, and both the old farmer and the dog knew it. The mutt knew when she was playful and when to find his own way––chasing rabbits, sparking a bit of life left in his old carcass while kicking up enough spunk for both of them.

  John was gray on top, balding down the center of his head. Typical for a man in his late fifties, even though age wasn’t a factor; he loved life itself. Cared about others, even considered himself a bit of a town crier. He was always willing to help a neighbor, even if it meant giving up something of his own.

  Bear on the other hand was his pride and joy. Roughing with the dog was his favorite pastime, even when he was driving. The terrier had worn his own comfort spot into the narrow gray covering John had asked Martha to repair more than on one occasion. Bear’s claws made short order of the seat cushion; he had already patched the bench with duck-tape a dozen times.

  John nearly forgot the turn off. Skunk Hollow road came up fast––a one lane path through the fields that coursed the valley a couple of miles north of Williamsport’s Lycoming Creek. For all intents and purposes, he was in the middle of nowhere. Nevertheless, he knew the drill. Petting the dog’s head was first priority—

  Bear loved the attention.

  John swerved, practically taking the curve on two wheels, his attention on the sky, and not his driving. The truck skidded on the turn, kicking up a dust storm filled with the usual muck. Only this time, the bellowing cloud traveled in the direction of the farmhouse.

  The dog took the curve quite well, considering. Keeping track of the old farmer was a task in itself, let alone his driving. Overlooking the vast homestead from where he sat with his nose out the window delighted all his senses. He could practically taste the rich farmlands of home, while thoughts of pumpkin pie danced through his head.

  John always left the crusts for Bear. It was essentially a ritual. After dinner meant scraps, and piecrust was always among the goodies. The farmer served the community whenever he could. He kept careful watch over his livestock, even added a touch of comfort to the animals, whenever it served a purpose, or eased his wife’s chores. After all, he thanked the Maker for whatever precious time he had with her. It was the only spell he could let down his guard and relax. Still, there was no rest for the wicked; at least, until he made sure the generator was filled, and ready for the evening hours. Electricity was at a real commodity on the farm, especially when it came to the great outdoors, and a setting sun.

  A long shadow was already casting on the road, not to mention putting a shimmering glare on the front of the truck. The hood was blinding, sixty different shades of orange, and a hint of yellow, if there wasn’t a trace of rust to go with it. The reflection hit the seat next to him the hardest, messing up his vision of the dog whether he wanted it to or not. John half expected to see the same odd, orange colored hue glistening off the dog’s nose, but today was different; there was something unusual in the air. Martha could feel it too. His approach was anything but usual.

  From where she stood in the doorway, the dusty trail was high above the homestead, and bearing down on the temperamental old bird. At best, she was a fiery old feline, but John loved her just the same. Even got a chuckle out of it when she called him an old goat to his face. He also knew when to duck; the occasional backhand meant trouble, not that it wasn’t easily rectified. She never did use the skillet for much more than cooking!

  John knew he was safe. She tousled with age, worked hard in a world of ups and downs––both good years and bad ones. But John was happy with her; he couldn’t have asked for a better companion. Except for Bear, possibly—the dog never sassed back.

  Martha stepped out of the house just in time to see the heavens open up in a torrential rain that spit out a rotating disc like a Frisbee hurtled across the open skies in the midst of a thunderstorm. Lightning trailed everywhere, except the south forty. It was all Martha could do to keep her eyes on it. The thing was just big enough to blot out the sun as it crossed the heavens. Maybe ten or twelve feet in diameter—large enough to do some real damage if it hit anywhere near the crops.

  She headed for the pasture. “John,” she shouted, already off the porch, on the move. The Ford was bee lining for the farmhouse, right in the line of fire.

  "Hang on, Bear," barked John, his gray-hair elevated, filled with static electricity. "We're almost there, just a few more––" The farmer stopped mid-thought. Bear was on the warpath: his innocent little whine turned into
a full-fledged snarling session. The dog obviously knew bad news when it presented itself. The pick-up truck bounced, hard. The road vanished in a flash of brilliant orange light that sizzled through the cracks like a bolt of lightning landing on top of him. A clap of thunder followed so loud that it hurt both John’s and the dog’s ears.

  Martha screamed; the pick-up was in the air. The old farmer pushed the terrier off the seat, and onto the floor. But it was like time didn’t exist, everything moving in slow motion.

  John had no choice but to allow the truck to steer itself! His forearms were up in front of him, covering his face from the shards of breaking glass. The pick-up rattled, hitting the berm. The front shock absorbers chattered in a frenzy of squeaks and pops that signaled the end of the journey. The windshield shattered in front of him, tiny shards of glass piercing his shirtsleeve with a gale force wind that rumbled with a sonic boom.

  The Ford Ranger jumped the road, hit the ground in a cyclone with a fist full of dirt––the ground rushed up to meet John in a blur, and skidded into a ditch on its side. The driver side door flopped open. John rolled clear, coming up short of the tall grass along the shoulder––the mutt was capable of taking care of himself, even though his first instinct was to see if John was okay.

  John on the other hand was startled by the impact, disoriented. The entire experience lasted less than a moment, but felt like a lifetime had passed. He could see Martha rushing toward him out of the dust. The wreckage was behind him. The dog didn’t have a scratch on him; at least, none the farmer could see from his vantage point in the ditch.

  “That a boy, Bear,” he uttered. “You tell—” John stopped mid-stride, managing to pick himself up off the ground and shake off the shards of glass, but for the life of him, he couldn’t focus. Everything seemed surreal. He couldn’t even remember being in an accident, even though he was sure he was in a mishap, that is; whatever forced him off the road was still there.

  Bear was already onto something, and it had to be dealt with, even if it meant heading off across the field into a really big hole. Every instinct was to follow the animal, even if it meant pursuing him into the depths of Hell itself. His corn crop was on fire, at it was organic; none of that GMO crap the company was trying to force him to use. Genetically Modified seeds weren’t on his priority list. John believed in nature for nature’s sake. One crop provided for the next, one harvest yielded the seeds for the next. It was the way his father managed, and his father before him.

  Fire, however, was a different story. He could lose his whole farm if he wasn’t careful. Bear reached the trench first. The farmer could see him, but couldn’t hear him. The blast had obviously done something to his hearing. He was off balance, and needed to steady himself. The thing was disc-shaped, a marker buoy of some sort. It appearance was that of a giant yo-yo. But he still couldn’t see the edge of the gully, or the impact crater. It was as if the thing made a soft landing.

  John huffed in spite of it, and then spit a little blood from the corner of his mouth, not that it mattered. He wasn’t going anywhere, not before Martha reached him. Instead, he ripped at the stalks, pulling them away, while throwing handfuls of dirt in the direction of the fire. It was best to squelch the flames before the wind kicked up again.

  “What the hell?” he queried, looking skyward; half-expecting to see something other than a cloudburst, but for the moment, there was only a steady rain. No Jolly Green Giants or huge alien motherships. Besides, the yo-yo contraption boasted naval markings on its curved surfaces, even though it looked old and charred, as if it had survived a lonely encounter somewhere in the heavens.

  "Where the hell did this thing come from?” he demanded, bitching to himself, just as he always did. Didn’t much matter though. The device wasn’t going anywhere.

  John climbed out of the crater, his attention on the device; it was something more than the unusual markings that had John baffled. He wasn’t the brave farmer he pretended to be. Nevertheless, he had to investigate the object, take a closer look. If he had to move the contraption, it was going to take more than a couple of old farmhands and a tractor pull. The thing had to way more than a couple of tons.

  “John,” yelled Martha in the distance. John’s wife had coursed the field from the farmhouse toward the accident and stopped, searching the wreck for any sign of her husband.

  “Here!” shouted John. “Down here over the knoll.” Martha breathed a sign of relief; her husband was okay. At least, he was not part of the wreckage. She would know more when she reached the crater.

  "Damn it, Martha," yelled John, glaring at the old woman. "We're in real trouble here.” Martha took ahold of John’s hand, reassuring him of her presence. “This thing is going to bring out every freak for miles around,” he continued. “We'll have every nut in town out here by morning, digging up the ground—Who knows what else! The crops don’t stand a chance. We'll have to charge admission, just to clean up this mess."

  “Get a hold of yourself,” she insisted. "I guess we could charge admission, but who'd want to pay the toll?"

  "Shit," added the farmer. "Better go get cleaned up, before something more happens. God knows. Maybe we’ll get those damn Martian critters coming around again, or something—“

  “I don't know about that," laughed the old woman, her husband’s antics adding to the severity of the situation, not her amusement.

  John called to the dog, heading for the farmhouse, but didn’t get a half a dozen steps, before the back of the yo-yo disc popped up.

  Martha wasn’t certain, but she wasn’t taking any chances. No sir, she was getting her man clear. “Move it, mister,” she demanded. She wasn’t playing around. Whatever this thing was going to do, it was going to do it on its own.

  "All right, Martha May," said the farmer. "I'll give the sheriff a call."

  The buoy was obviously active, and sending out some sort of signal visible in the heavens as pulsating rings of light. John stared at it for a long moment, then stepped away. It was far from over, if only it had been a good old fashioned crop circle; at least, that way, he would have more than the setting sun at his back.

  • • •

  Sheriff Bigalow thought small town mayors were all alike, especially after the town hall meeting called by Mayor Richard C. Hagglin Stent-worth, a rather stout man with greying temples, short hair and the personality of a Manchurian Candidate. Still, he kept a stiff upper lip. It wasn’t the first time he found the mayor wandering about town, shouting something about invaders snatching bodies in some diabolical scheme to rid the world of human beings. At least, he wasn’t screaming thoughtless incantations, or his normal loud, obnoxious rhetoric. The man was full of himself.

  Still, the Sheriff had to respond, although, he wasn’t really paying attention. It was late––another uneventful day had passed him by, and he was ready to hang it up for the night. Deputy Manny Sergeant was on for the evening shift, not that it mattered. Except for a few firecrackers, nothing ever happened in Lycoming County. The natural gas industry workers were preoccupied with their own endeavors. If not for the road-widening operation at the top of route fifteen, or the occasional teenagers roughhousing on a Friday night after the big game, everything seemed calm––But it wasn’t; not by any means, the night was just getting started.

  Mayor Stent-worth jumped out in front of the squad car in a drunken stupor and rushed across the street gibber jabbering hysterically in some indistinguishable language, neither I, nor the sheriff had heard before. It was the oddest thing: French, or something. All the same, he was still shouting about alien intruders; not that any of us ever really believed him. The sheriff included. In fact, Bigalow nearly ran over him.

  The mayor yelped, bouncing off the front of the squad car, and stumbled away, a hand to the air even after the sheriff emerged. Parking in front of his office seemed the logical course of action, even for me, but then who was I to make assumptions.

  “They’re here,” he said, acknowledging the off
icer. “I know it. I can hear them.” Sheriff Bigalow huffed, making a beeline straight for the front door to his office, while keeping a keen eye on the mayor, in lieu of his behavior. The elected official was on a crusade, running the streets. At least, he wasn’t naked. It was damn humid for late September. Seems the climate change was getting the best of him.

  “You okay, Mayor,” asked the sheriff, “or can I give you a ride home?” Mayor Stent-worth backed away, wild-eyed, in a cold sweat.

  “They’re here I tell you,” he said wholeheartedly. “Get inside––bolt the door.” The sheriff rolled his eyes. “But don’t sleep,” shouted the mayor. “You can’t sleep. They come at you in the night.”

  “Of course they do,” said the Sheriff. I followed, silently of course, not that he could see me, being artificial intelligence an all. Reconnaissance was my first priority in regards to the fleet. Assessing any threat level before arrival was mandatory, although the mayor’s antics did give him an urgency protocol.

  “Is the mayor still drinking decaffeinated coffee?” asked the sheriff.

  “Far as I know,” laughed Deputy Sergeant. A young woman, late twenties, pretty, with blond hair pulled up into a bun peeked over the desk to see who was approaching.

  The Sheriff tipped his hat and hung it on the clothing tree in the corner, and pushed open the swing gate, stepping behind the desk. "Any calls," he asked.

  "Just old man Miles,” surmised the deputy. “Something about a flying saucer smash landing in his corn field. Says he crashed his truck."

  "Well,” chuckled the sheriff. “We'd better have a look! Who knows, with all this high-tech activity around here we might have attracted a few more nut balls to join the mayor’s evening ruckus.”