The Outerlings

The mysteries hidden throughout deep space are as dark and dangerous as those which lurk in the minds of men. How naïve are we to think that we are special and alone; that nothing intelligent came before us or will come after we are gone; that nothing more potent or powerful bids its time waiting for that perfect or opportune moment to reveal itself to someone. Many claim that space is a vast emptiness. They are wrong! “Space” is truly a paradoxical concept for it is in fact filled with a myriad of things; however, there are a select few who know this fact for certain. Most days begin, happen, and finish like nearly every other day, but some days are different. Some days are more bizarre than other days. Some days are more extraordinary than other days. It is these days that you might consider to be ‘strange days.’ We examine the strange days of a certain Carter L. Craft, an older, single man, living alone near the foothills of the Rocky Hills in Beaverhead county, Montana.

It was October 23rd in the early 2000’s, and old Mr. Craft was thoroughly enjoying his retirement. He had worked as a mailman for 32 years in the Black Hills of South Dakota and upon retirement he moved near his favorite backpacking trail in the Rocky Hills of Montana. Carter never liked to go above 7,000 feet; and claimed that too much altitude made his lungs feel funny. He lived in a small wooden cabin right around where Grasshopper Creek passes through Madigan Gulch, west of the small town of Barretts. Craft led a simple life. He started most mornings with a hike, followed by some water color painting and getting lost in spy novels on his porch with a glass of bourbon, neat. There was a small herd of cattle to which he tended. It wasn’t for money, but rather to help pass the time.

As he did most every night, Craft prepared a cup of decaf coffee to which he added one or two ounces of bourbon depending on the day, and would watch the local evening news. Feeling more tired than usual he retired to his bed at about ten minutes to ten. It was not but roughly an hour later that he awoke to a bright light illuminating his eyelids. His eyes burst open, yet remained lying down. His bedroom window faced away from the cow pasture and he saw bright blueish lights passing from the south east to the north west, towards Bannack National Park and over his pastures. He thought it looked strange, but soon after the lights had past, he heard brief thunderous claps and assumed it must have been lighting. He lie awake waiting, but the thunder was never accompanied by the pattering of rain. It was too late in the season for heat lighting as well.  The nearest road was little Cold Spring Creek road, which never had any large truck traffic unless the driver was lost, and rarely was there even low flying planes in the area. Craft’s mind raced with possibilities. It was difficult to fall back asleep. Eventually, the weight of his eyes convinced his mind it must have been lost trucker’s engine backfiring and he was overcome by sleep.

Craft woke up tired and soaking wet with sweat. He didn’t feel well, but he couldn’t quite place why. His symptoms would comes and go: headache, nausea, dizziness. He thought maybe he had too much bourbon yesterday and that some breakfast and real coffee might help. He ate his breakfast, two sunny side eggs, bacon, and a piece of sourdough toast. He spread the yolk across his toast and slipped his coffee. Finishing his breakfast, Craft sat on the front porch with the remainder of his coffee to contemplate a route for his morning hike. Gazing at the rolling yellowish green hills and rounded peaks beyond his pastures, Craft took a deep breath in appreciation of nature’s beauty only to notice that his cows were late. Normally, his cows worked like clockwork, making their rounds, grazing through the various pastures during the day and sleeping under the large Bur Oak tree in the southern valley from his cabin. Maybe the noises and lights last night kept them awake as well, he grunted aloud. His voice like gravel, it dawned on Craft how easy it was to go days without speaking when you live alone.

He decided to hike down the gulch and up one of the taller peaks in the area. It was one of the more rigorous hikes for Craft, but he thought the exercise and fresh air would do him some good against these sudden mystery alignments he had been feeling. He hiked through his pasture and down along Grasshopper creek heading upstream. He made his way up to a peak that was nearly straight west of Bannack and south of Badger Ridge South. Carter enjoyed hiking his own trails. He learned to be an excellence cartographer in his youth, as he had led many backpacking excursions before settling down as a mailman.

He sat and rested atop Hermit Hill, a name for the hill that he had in jest of his own solitary circumstances. He must have been lost in thought because when he refocused his eyes to his surroundings he had trouble deciphering his cardinal directions. Even some of the geographical features he had hiked through for years started to seem foreign to him. Befuddled, he scratched his head and suddenly his stomach began to hurt. Carter drank some water and then vomited his breakfast. He sat on a large rock for some time and examined his surroundings, while he slowly began to feel better. What felt like small and slow waves of restoration washed over him as he began to feel like himself again. He could recognize his surroundings once again. Though he felt better he began to worry that he was not well. He might have some novel flu virus he kept hearing about in the news. Craft looked over, back from where he came and noticed something odd between the pine trees.

Climbing higher up onto some larger rocks on top of Hermit Hill, he got a better vantage of his property. He noticed bizarre patterns in his pastures. They were quite subtle to begin with as they would come and go as chaotic winds shifted the yellowish green pastures. When the patterns were visible, they were of various geometrical designs, some which he did not recognize. The patterns seemed arbitrary, yet if they were arbitrary why were they so apparent in his vision? The shapes and patterns extended and crept across the landscape, exposing the design of it all and tearing it down all at once. Vibrations would wash over the twisting shapes and seamlessly shift the pattern anew.  He watched as the aberrant shapes evoked within him a sinking feeling, and though abhorrent, was also marvelous in nature and utterly captivating in a strange, perfect, yet terrifying simplicity. He sat on the rock gazing for what seemed like eons. The sunset was bursting across the western sky when he came too.  The patterns slowly dissipated into the clouds and drained as rain across distant horizons, coating the land in a blurry haze.

Carter eventually returned home. His hike had taken most of the day. He made chicken noodle soup from a can and slowly ate one bowl with crackers submerged in the broth until he went to bed.  There was the news or bourbon laced decaf this evening. That night there were more strange lights followed by booming sounds; thunderous churning sounds that would erupt chaotically and sporadically. Each repetition changed tones, yet none formed any recognizable melodies. Whatever the sounds were, they rippled with fearful vibrations through the valley. Craft assumed the sound would be deafening for someone who was nearer to it, or even just outside his own home. His only conclusion was that the government must be up to something. Bannack National Park was far enough away from any metropolitan area to hide any number of devious government projects. Craft monitored the activity of these disturbances for the next few days. He would be tired from his hikes, and more often than not, read in bed after dinner and fall asleep after journaling the days activities and phenomenon.

It had been about ten days since the Hermit Hill incident, when one night, in between the grinding and dissonant roars, he began to hear what sounded like summer rain on his tin roof.  He had fallen asleep in his chair and the TV was on. He got up to turn off the television. The windows behind the TV faced the western pasture and he thought he saw a glint in the distance. As he stared out the windows as a remarkable blueish light reflected across hundreds of the retinas staring back at him. He could see that it was dry outside, yet the patter of rain continued. He couldn’t move as he watched each effulgent grayish-blue light streak across the sky east to west dancing like spot lights across the backs of his motionless herd which encircled his cabin. He gazed out his window until he couldn’t remember anymore.

Craft walked out on the porch and saw the indentation of where the cows had stood all night. The cows had since moved on, back to their clockwork schedule. Surveying the western valley, Craft’s attention was captured by smoke over the horizon. Something near Bannack was on fire. Before he could contemplate further, a helicopter chugged over head towards Bannack. Shortly after, it was followed by a couple of crop dusters which he saw dump that red phosphate fertilizer to quell the flames. Craft didn’t take a hike, but rather watched as the smoke slowly died down over the next few hours. The rest of the day was uneventful. If any more unusual lights or thunderous sounds occurred that evening, Craft slept through them.

Craft awoke the next morning, wet once again, and in his chair; a crusted bowl of soup in front of him. The TV was on but muted. He mechanically arose from out of his chair to make his breakfast and coffee. He made two sunny side eggs, bacon, and a side of sourdough toast. He watched the yolk filled in the divots of his bread and considered how much better he felt this morning then the past couple days despite waking up sweating and in his chair. Any strange phenomenon seemed like a distant memory.  That morning he again didn’t take a hike. Now that he recognized them, he could see the patterns in the landscape from his own porch now. As if somehow he was able to see from his vantage and that of a bird flying overhead. He peered into designs of cities and the people within them, to the slight spaces between the grains of wood in the leg of a desk, and beyond deep within his own memories and the memories of others near to him and then of strangers. He saw how the minute actions among masses of people effect the course of history, he could even predict the future. He would witness the purpose of it all, but only as a forgetful tourist unable to regurgitate the incredible revelations he just witnessed.

Blake Hoggs, a fireman, and one of few friends Craft had in the area, came over unexpectedly the next morning around ten o’clock. Carter had made breakfast, and was now reading one of his spy novels with coffee in hand. Craft offered a cup to Hoggs, who accepted, and the two men exchanged formalities and sat on the porch discussing the recent peculiar events.

“You know Carter, on my way up to your place all your cows were looking real bugged-out. Just kinda staring at me as a drove up. I even got out of my truck” Hoggs said in a deep rasp he developed due to smoke inhalation on and off the job. Hoggs loved a good cigar. “Lots of strange things have been happening around these parts. Some folks are saying it has to do with Beaverhead crater, like some meteorite comet type thing or what not. Some say its some supernatural ghosts in the old Bannack buildings. I figure is has to do with some protesters trying to scare Barretts Minerals from opening that new quarry.”

Carter nodded along and eventually added, “Strange about the cows, for sure. They were all staring at me the other night. Right here,” he made a cold and calculated gesture to the yard just beyond the porch where they grouped, “Just looking right in at me, like they wanted something,” he stated plainly. Hoggs nodded quizzically as if expecting Craft to say more about the issue, but Carter, maintaining his gaze at the pasture and the memorizing patterns he saw, slowly sipped his coffee. After a minute or so Hoggs cleared his throat and started to tell Craft about what had happened in Bannack with the fire the day before. Hoggs explained that once they suppressed the flames they found, at the epicenter of the fire, a rock.

It was a glistening stone about two feet in diameter. The stone looked wet but to the touch is dry and warm. It had a subtle polychrome glow. A few hours after the fireman had called in what they had found over the radio, two men in black suits showed up in a white van. They claimed to be a special unit of the FBI and that it was crucial to the safety of the nation that they handle the clean up of the rest of the fire site. The fireman pointed out where the stone was and a few more men in hazmat suits stepped out of the van with protective breathing gear. Hoggs finished, “So me and the boys had a few beers at Mac’s place, went to bed, now I’m here talking to you. Figured you might have seen a thing or two since you live all the way out here.”

Carter merely nodded, “Strange days, that’s for certain. More coffee?” Hoggs shook his head no and said he’d better get going. He had gotten quite the queer feeling from Craft and feeling anxious to leave, He said, “Listen, I’ve got to get going. The honeydew list is always getting longer.” And abruptly stood up and nearly knocked over the small table on the porch and as the table tottered his coffee cup feel to the ground despite a clumsy effort to catch the mug. Carter said nothing and just stared at the broken cup as Hoggs apologized. “I’m so sorry, Craft, here let me get that.” But Carter abruptly grabbed his hand and stared into Blake’s eyes. The pause was awkwardly long and Craft’s knuckles turned white. A red hand imprint was left on Hoggs’ arm as he forcefully yanked away from Carter’s stone cold grip. Neither man said another word as Hoggs staggered to his truck.

That afternoon Carter gave Hoggs a call. He said he was sorry for being so aloof that morning and that he hadn’t been feeling himself. “Let me make it up to you Blake, I thawed some venison from last year and have a six pack of that Big Sky we like.”  Hoggs accepted the invitation and drove back to Craft’s cabin at around nine that evening. It had begun to rain fairly heavily on the drive over, but Craft had said the door would be open and Hoggs should let himself in when he arrived.

Hoggs ran from his truck to the front door of the cabin and quickly let himself in. The lights were off in the front hall and living room. The TV was muted, but Hoggs could see the flashing lights of the TV reflected around the living room. “Carter?”  Hoggs walked towards to kitchen where the lights were on. Carter was standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at Blake as he walked through the threshold of the kitchen. Before Blake could act, Craft bellowed a dreadful cry and was on him in an instant and tackled him to the floor with unnatural strength. Lights began to strobe in the kitchen and as Blake struggled he saw something all the more abhorrent beyond Craft coming out of the bedroom. Flashing lights outlined the figure of a tall creature. It had a silvery carapace with a collection of bristling antenna on his oval shaped head that lashed with varying spots of red light.. It had two sets of arms, one was long and gangling, the other short and robust. In a flash, there were three of them standing in the room over both Hoggs and Craft, gurgling and choking out horrid chittering sounds and glancing at one another as if to communicate. Craft, having secured Hoggs to the ground in a grapple, made eye contact with him, and out from Craft’s mouth came a swarm of thousands upon thousands of tiny nanites. They were small silverish six legged creatures resembling aphids. Hoggs struggled but to no avail as the nanites poured into every orifice on his body. They crawled into his mouth and nose, under his eyelids and through his ear canal. The thunderous sounds began and the whole cabin was engulfed by that flashing awful blue light.

Craft woke up in his bed this time feeling refreshed. He thought it would be a good idea to meet his friend, Martin Heck, in Dillion and suggest they go camping together. Craft called Martin, who suggested he bring his whole family along. Craft thought that was a splendid idea and they planned to drive to Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest, so they could go deep into the woods and camp there for the whole weekend. As they drove to the destination, breaking news played on the radio, “A large accident occurred on route 15 near Pocatello involving a white van, a large semi-truck, and four other cars. All lanes of traffic are blocked. First responders claim however there are no survivors or even bodies at the scene. Crews are working to get the crash cleared off the highway and to conduct a further investigation….”