The story Wesley Stotter enjoyed the most was the one his father told about being on night patrol July 1, 1947, when he watched an alien spaceship fall out of the night sky and slam into the desert. John Stotter had been one of the first to arrive at the crash site. His description of what he saw that night could still raise the hair on Wesley’s arms.
Wesley Stotter would be sixty next year and as a self-professed expert in UFOs he had seen many strange things, but he had yet to experience anything like his father’s close encounter.
Maybe tonight was that night.
The lights stopped before reaching Stotter and hovered over an area of sand dunes. Somewhere in between Stotter knew that the Dismal River snaked through pasture land. The water separated grazing fields from the national forest. Stotter contemplated driving closer but there were no roads. Only sandy, bumpy cattle trails in the tall grass. He couldn’t risk spinning the tires of the Stottermobile and getting stuck in a blowout or scraping off the muffler again like he did two weeks ago.
He loved his Roadmaster. The wood panel had one small scruff—that was all—and the interior was still in pristine condition. Every year he told himself maybe he should get an off-road vehicle, but money was tight these days. His syndicated radio gig didn’t pay much and his UFO Network depended on membership fees.
Stotter missed the days of the Comet Hale-Bopp and cults like Heaven’s Gate stirring up the public. How could you beat or replicate young followers putting on their Nike high-tops, tightening plastic bags over their heads, then lying down and waiting for the spacecraft traveling in the tale of the comet to come and whisk them away to their greater destiny? No one could make up crap that good.
These days the Internet allowed UFO junkies to get their fill 24/7. They didn’t have to depend on Wesley Stotter. But just as the economy was cyclical, so was alien fascination. The more unsure and chaotic the world became, the more people started looking for something to blame their fears on. So Stotter’s webcam investment was giving Stottermania a second life.
He continued his narration for his radio audience, slipping in his characteristic tidbits of history and folklore, the kinds of things his cult following gobbled up.
“This is sacred land,” he said in a soft reverent tone and yes, sure, a bit theatrical. “The Cheyenne hid in these valleys in between sand dunes, surviving a brutal fall and winter in 1878–79. Soldiers from Fort Robinson hunted them down, wanting to imprison them. When that didn’t work, they slaughtered more than sixty men, women, and children right here in these valleys.
“They say the Dismal River ran red with their blood. So you might, indeed, call this hallowed ground. Coincidence that another civilization would hone in and choose the sky over this same valley where the energy of Cheyenne spirits still rise up at twilight? Nope. I don’t think so.”
Stotter’s hands were steady now, the camera tracking the lights. How many minutes had it been? They had remained stationary for so long that anyone first seeing them might simply think they were stars.
Then just as suddenly as they had appeared, they shot out, so quickly Stotter couldn’t move the camera fast enough. They streaked above him, shooting up and out, like meteors, only no jet stream, no cosmic dust was left behind. Without a sound they were gone.
Stotter stayed plastered to the side of the car where he had leaned to hold himself up. His head tilted back, his face to the sky, mouth gaping. Only now did he notice his flannel shirt was glued to his sweat-drenched back. His beard itched and his balding scalp tingled. There was a ringing in his ears and it felt like an electrical surge had passed through him.
He glanced back, expecting the lightning to be close. Instead the thunderheads stayed on the horizon. In the twilight they looked more like mountains than clouds.
He signed off and managed to reach up and click off his microphone. That’s when he heard a voice saying “… asking all emergency personnel …”
It was his police scanner. Had they seen the lights?
“… reporting injuries. Southwest side of the forest off Highway 83.”
Wesley Stotter spun around to look at the sky over the national forest. It was in the opposite direction of where he had seen the lights. But it had to be related.
He checked his watch. Then he rammed his equipment back into the duffel bag. Slammed the tailgate, making three attempts before it stuck in place.
He was close enough that he could be one of the first to arrive. He would witness the damage before anyone had a chance to cover it up this time.
CHAPTER 4
TEN MILES ON THE OTHER SIDE
OF THE NATIONAL FOREST
Wesley Stotter struggled with the tailgate of his 1996 Buick Roadmaster. The wireless microphone stabbed at his Adam’s apple but remained attached to the collar of his flannel shirt. He was fully aware that he was live streaming yet he was caught speechless, his eyes glued to the sky.