Chapter One: The Crash

  Constable Brannigan sat on his front porch, listening to the breeze rustle the winter wheat. The field appeared like an ocean under the moonlight, reminiscent of the one he had sailed in his youth. Soon, it would be time for the harvest, and the area would be rotated to cattle. He looked forward to watching the calves in the pasture, as they would provide a distraction from the inescapable silence of his home. A half-full bottle of whiskey, covered in dust and bitter recollection, was next to him. The temptation had gone, but he kept the bottle as a reminder of his past and of every tomorrow he would never have. The wind felt good on his brow, and he took comfort in the small things.

  The clip-clop of hooves and the creaking of a wagon marked Farmer McConnell's approach. Clouds blocked his view of the elderly man, but time and familiarity told him that McConnell had spent the evening drinking at O’Malley’s tavern. Brannigan remembered the smell and taste of the dark rye beer that the men consumed at this time of year. Each night, they drank to mask their aches and pains, and to drown out their perceived slights and sorrows. For Brannigan, it was the memory of the fire, the embers of which still glowed red inside him. No one knew about the fire. It had happened long ago, and he saw no point in visiting graves.

  The clouds parted, and the moon illuminated McConnell when he passed the bell by the driveway. Brannigan waved, knowing that even if his neighbor had been sober, he would not have returned the gesture. Brannigan surmised he might be asleep, but Mildred, his weathered old hinny, knew the way home. They had taken the same trip many times over the past thirty years. Neither was as young as they once were, but when dawn came, they would work the fields as they always had.

  One could not tell the passage of time within the valley if the seasons had not changed. Even with the suffering experienced last fall, life continued as usual. The schoolyard was quieter, the roads were less traveled, and hearts were heavier. The sun rose, the harvests came, the men filled the tavern each night, and the ladies gossiped every lazy Sunday afternoon. Brannigan still exchanged pleasantries with everyone he met, except for Farmer McConnell. These formalities danced around the truth, which was the unspoken collective nightmare that had been their lives. But just as a lie spoken often becomes the truth, a truth never uttered will pass from memory and become lost to time.

  Brannigan stood and stretched to relieve the stiffness in his muscles. He stepped inside and turned the knob on his large oil lamp, increasing the flame to illuminate the room. The living room appeared much as it had on the night his wife and daughter left. Some items were in disarray from hasty packing, while others remained properly placed on shelves and the table. The ever-present image of Lord Tanimo hung above the fireplace, collecting dust. Brannigan had always been tidy, but now he no longer had the heart to clean.

  On his way to the kitchen, he stepped over a crumpled dress, drank the remaining milk straight from the bottle, and rinsed the bottle in the sink. He pumped more water than needed from the faucet and dunked his head under the cool running water until he felt the day's dirt wash away. When he finished, he stood without drying his hair, letting the water run down and soak his linen shirt. Brannigan considered boiling water for a nice hot soak in the tub, but the explosion overhead changed his mind.

  Brannigan hit the floor and covered his head with his hands. Soon, he realized nothing would fall onto his home and crush him. He got to his feet and scrambled out the door. Overhead, a turbine engine whined, sputtered, and failed. Brannigan saw the faint outlines of smoke from a surface-to-air missile. He followed the trail until he saw the impact cloud. Debris and puffs of fire fell to the earth. Something crashed to the north, the distinct orange of a fire growing at the edge of his vision. Judging from the distance, the fire was in the middle of Widow Murphy’s apple orchard, five kilometers away on the other side of McConnell’s land. Brannigan remembered protocol and went to the emergency bell, ringing it as loud as possible. After thirty seconds, he stopped to listen for an answer. To his relief, other bells rang into the night. Everyone must have heard the explosion.

  Now that help was on the way, Brannigan gathered his equipment. He saddled his mare Hermila, grabbed his shovel, and picked up a water bucket. Hermila, spooked by the explosion, was initially unwilling to move. But after many sweet words and promises, she trotted out to the road. Within minutes, young Alby O’Shea rode up to meet Brannigan. Still in his night clothes, he held his shovel and bucket in one hand. Alby looked at the fire and said, "It doesn't appear to be that bad from here.”

  "I hope so. A lot could happen before we arrive. Let's hope the wind stays steady."

  Brannigan checked for anyone else coming. Waiting longer risked the fire spreading uncontrollably, endangering any potential survivors.

  "Come on, Alby. If anyone else answers, they'll see the flames and head there," Brannigan said, nudging Hermila forward.

  They cantered toward Widow Murphy’s orchard, not daring to risk galloping in the darkness with Hermila's age. As they made their way down the winding road, the scent of smoke grew stronger, mingling with the damp night air. Shadows danced along the path as the firelight flickered against the trees.

  Brannigan spotted McConnell’s wagon turning toward Murphy’s farmhouse. No doubt he intended to check on her first before rendezvousing at the crash site. Reassured, Brannigan rode through the orchard with renewed urgency. The distant crackle of flames echoed through the silent countryside, and a knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach. Time was against them, and every second mattered.

  Alby whistled at the sight of the downed aircraft. It was a small cargo transport, reminiscent of those used by the occupiers during their eighteen months of terror. However, this one was unmarked and painted black. Scorched earth surrounded the craft, and smoke billowed from the right turbine engine. The left engine still spun, but it was winding down. Brannigan and Alby dismounted.

  “Stay away from that turbine,” Brannigan warned.

  “Yes, no worries about that, sir,” Alby replied as he circled the craft.

  Much of the fire had already extinguished itself. Murphy kept her orchard well irrigated, and there had been substantial rainfall the previous week. Alby used his boots to stamp out the remaining flames. Brannigan inspected the wreck. One hatch was wide open, and he scanned the area, hoping no one was watching them from the shadows.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Alby,” Brannigan called out over the low whine of the engine, “someone survived and left the craft. Stay alert. We don’t know who they are.”

  Alby hurried back to Brannigan, his eyes darting towards the trees and the darkness. He had good reason to be worried. No one in the valley had a fond memory of the occupiers.

  Soon, Mildred came into view, pulling McConnell and Murphy behind her. Murphy hopped off the wagon with an ease that belied her age. She walked towards the wreck in her boots and faded black dress. Lines on her face showed her grief and decades in the sun. She stopped before Brannigan, and McConnell joined her with an oil lantern. His age showed in his movements, stiff and off-balance.

  “Well?” Murphy said.

  “I,” Brannigan started.

  “Someone survived and ran off,” Alby interrupted and shrank back as his elders looked at him.

  “Yes, someone exited the craft. I have not had the chance to check it out yet.”

  “We will keep watch while you do,” McConnell said.

  I bet you will, thought Brannigan.

  “Right. Keep an eye on the woods, Alby. I will not be long.”

  With that, he approached the hatch. He paused at the entrance to check for danger, human or mechanical. It was too dark to see inside.

  “McConnell, may I use your lantern?”

  McConnell silently handed over the lantern and then positioned himself between the aircraft and Murphy. Brannigan, holding the lantern in front of him, took a deep breath and proceeded inside. The sweet, metallic smell of blood greeted him, and he felt a wave of nausea. Small and bare, bloody footprints led from the cockpit and outside, where they disappeared into the charred grass. Whoever it was must have escaped before the fire spread. The amount of blood he stepped in as he moved to the front of the craft was substantial.

  He knew that no one could survive such severe loss of blood for long. Even if they found the person, they would be beyond saving. It was an hour’s ride to the hospital, and it had been a year since anywhere in the valley had electricity. There was no chance of survival.

  Brannigan’s speculation was for naught. The scene before him confirmed his worst fears. The pilot was dead, and the aftermath of a violent struggle was evident. The windshield and controls bore dark, ominous stains. The pilot’s position indicated a desperate struggle for life. Brannigan touched the victim’s forehead; it was still warm. He surmised that the attack had occurred after the crash landing. With a heavy heart, Brannigan backed out of the craft and handed the lantern back to McConnell.

  “The pilot is dead. It looks like it happened after he landed. I saw bloody footprints leaving the craft. Whoever the assailant is, they have gotten away on foot. We do not know who they are. The killer knew what they were doing.” He turned to Mrs. Murphy. “Why don’t you take Alby back with you to your home? Make sure no one is inside and lock yourself in until morning.”

  Murphy squared her shoulders and put one booted foot down. “Constable Brannigan, I appreciate your concern. But I will not hide in fear on my land. I’ll stay and help however I may. Even if it is merely to stand here and make sure you keep your manners.”

  McConnell chuckled, and Murphy held Brannigan’s stare. He sighed.

  “Right you are, Mrs. Murphy. Still, we need to be alert. We do not know what happened.”

  “Precisely. We do not know a thing or what led to this. Who shot down this craft, and who murdered the pilot? Like as not, they have no interest in us. But I agree we should err on the side of caution. What do you suggest we do next? It is not yet midnight, and we have many hours of darkness before us. Aiding us if you will,” Murphy said.

  Brannigan considered this in silence when Alby tried to enter the craft.

  “I wouldn’t do that, boy,” McConnell said. “Some things cannot be unseen.”

  Alby turned white and cast a doubtful look at the hatch. He looked back to McConnell, nodded, and stepped as far back as he dared without leaving the lantern’s dim light.

  “That’s the smart thing, Alby,” said McConnell. “Now, Constable, we must first find this shuttle’s transponder and destroy it. Now do not go looking surprised at me; you are not the only person to begin his life in the city, Brannigan. I remember the old ways, and I know people like that,” he gestured at the wreck, “are never without eyes upon them. At least not for too long. We must destroy the transponder and get the pilot buried at least three meters down. Any transponder he might have implanted will not be able to get past that much earth.”

  Murphy cursed and kicked the ashes that lay about them. “Of all the places to land, it had to be here. Just my luck.”

  “Even if we do all that, couldn't they track everything from the air?” Brannigan said. Even though he would not admit his lack of knowledge in front of McConnell, he could at least acknowledge to himself that this situation was beyond his scope of expertise. He had moved to the southern continent to escape these technological terrors.

  "Like as not, they could not," the old man's voice was a whisper that cut through the silence. "But ask yourself, when was the last time you saw any craft in the sky? Or the shining of the barges above, going to and from the elevator? That's right; you haven't. None of us have. Whatever took power from the occupiers also took it from us and, from what I can tell, the entire planet. It's unlikely they could find the crash site if we act now."

  Brannigan nodded, the old man’s words echoing ominously in his mind. He pointed to Alby, his voice low and urgent. “Alby, I need you to ride and visit everyone between here and the river. We need cart oxen and many able-bodied people with shovels and rope.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alby replied. Without hesitation, he mounted his horse and disappeared into the encroaching darkness.

  “Mrs. Murphy,” Brannigan continued, his tone edged with tension, “could we fit this shuttle in one of your buildings?”

  Murphy eyed the craft warily. “Yes, I'm sure we can. Do you think there are enough oxen in the valley to drag a ship like this?”

  Brannigan nodded. “That won't be a problem. These things are lighter than they look.” He tapped the fuselage, the sound barely a whisper in the still air.

  “We'd better get a move on, Brannigan,” McConnell muttered, casting a nervous glance around.

  “Right.” Brannigan turned to Mrs. Murphy. “Would you please keep watch while we work? I fear a blade coming out of the darkness.”

  The tension grew as Brannigan and McConnell dragged the pilot out of the craft. They searched him for any identifying marks. His long limbs and slight build marked him as an off-worlder, his nose bore the markings from an oxygen tube, but there was no bottle. All he had was a pack of chewing gum and a pocketknife. They found a spot nearby where they could bury him, working swiftly as the night grew old and dawn grew in the distance.

  Brannigan delegated tasks as more people arrived. He assigned four to bury the pilot, and the rest to destroy the onboard electronics on the shuttle. They searched for the transponder, but they found none. It took four oxen and two draft horses to drag the craft to the nearest barn large enough to hold it. Once inside, they covered it with a tarp and nailed the doors shut. Men followed with rakes and shovels to smooth the drag marks. The same people turned over the scorched earth until only fresh soil remained. By sunrise, there was no sign that anything other than a quiet night had passed in the valley. They discussed it and agreed that no mention of this night would ever pass their lips like so many other things to befall the good people in the valley.

  After the last stragglers made their way home, Brannigan stood outside Murphy’s residence. She offered him coffee before he, too, made his way home. He declined with a small smile and mounted a sleepy Hermila. Murphy closed her front door, but Brannigan did not move until he heard her lock it. Brannigan nudged Hermila forward and made his way home. Once inside, he went straight to bed and drifted into an uneasy sleep, nightmares of fire storms and men trying to speak as blood poured from slit throats. A shadow crossed his bedroom wall and watched him sleep through the window for a moment before disappearing.