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Clock |
| Written by Philip Neale | |
| Sunday, 10 August 2008 | |
Author's note:- At 3,000 words this submission is longer than I would normally post, but with no naturally occurring break inthe plot I felt obliged to enter it as a single entity. My apologies if anyone falls asleep.........Philip Neale.
The craft hovered silently in the night sky over the small mid-western town, lights dancing in a strobe-like rhythm around the edge of its circumference. There was, to any observer who may have been present, a sudden faint, but clearly discernible hum before it disappeared towards the North, leaving only a band of bright but rapidly fading light to betray its presence. The deliveries had been made and it was now merely a question of time before the new home would be ready.
There had never been a clockmaker's shop in Stanfield before, indeed the township boasted only five thousand souls, and as a sales catchment area was far too small for any other retail establishment other than the local grocery/grain store. Nevertheless a clockmaker had set up in business in one of the vacant premises long abandoned by a bankrupt business which had singularly failed to generate an income for its unfortunate proprietor. Stanfield itself had no industry, forming merely a staging post along Route 63 between Waterloo and Rochester, for the cornfields that were the mainstay of the state of Iowa.
There had been much discussion amongst the residents as a series of vehicles, delivering quantities of shop fitting equipment, came and went over a period of three to four weeks. The premises were transformed during that period from a ramshackle façade concealing a series of small and dingy rooms, into a bright and welcoming emporium opening out into a single showroom. Lighting was diffused and easy on the eye, and there played in the background a gentle, almost hypnotic, strain of music which no-one could quite recognise but which, within a few days, all had committed to memory and were now whistling and humming as they went about their daily business.
Lazlo Domarski was the owner of the town's newest enterprise, and no-one thought to question his wisdom in setting up such a curious trade in an otherwise stagnant backwater. If you were to ask him, he would tell you that he came from ‘somewhere near Krakow' but that was all, and his engaging smile would automatically dismiss all thoughts of further enquiry from the mind. Clocks came from nowhere, appearing in quantities inconsistent with such a miniscule market, and at strange times in the daily cycle. They were of every design imaginable and suitable for all tastes. Within weeks virtually every household in the little township had acquired one, at $100 each, discarding existing and sometimes long-serving timepieces without so much as a single thought. The till at Lazlo's shop rang to a sweet tune, and very soon he had cashed in to the tune of around $150,000. It was time to implement the plan.
Steve Cranshaw stumbled upon Stanfield having taken a wrong turn off Route 27 whilst heading for Charles City on 218. He cursed his navigation skills and wished now that he had brought his wife along. Parking the Dodge outside the grocery store he headed inside. There was an eerie silence, even allowing for the size of the town, and the only sound was the steady ‘Tick, Tock' of the wall clock which hung behind the sales counter. There was no bell, and after a brief look around the place he decided on a more direct approach.
"Hello! Anybody home?"
Complete silence greeted his loud hail, and scratching the back of his neck he peered through the open doorway just behind the counter into what appeared to be family quarters. Normally such a door would be closed and bearing a curt notice that entry was for "Staff Only", or alternatively marked, quite bluntly, "Private". Steve was not a man for taking liberties, but when his second request for assistance went unanswered curiosity got the better of him, and lifting up the counter flap he stepped beyond into unfamiliar territory.
Passing through the central alleyway of what was clearly a stock room with rows of shelves to either side, he came upon a closed door which did, in fact, bear the aforementioned curt reminder that beyond lay "Private" quarters. He knocked and waited. He knocked again, and a third time. Frowning, Steve looked back the way he had come, and a cold sensation began to run its fingers down the centre of his neck. He shrugged it off and tried the door handle; it turned and the opening revealed a comfortable sitting room containing all of the usual trappings of Middle American life. The smell of cooking assailed his senses and led him further into the premises to a kitchen/dining area where a light shone. He could now hear the faint sounds of a radio in the background, but none of the normal chatter which accompanied a mealtime.
He'd seen ‘Psycho' as a kid and instinctively knew what was going to happen to the private investigator who mounted the stairs at the Bates Motel. He'd hidden behind a cushion as his dad smiled, but that feeling had remained with him ever since. It was here now, screaming at him to turn around and walk away, begging and pleading that he didn't really need to take the next steps into the room before him. Too late; curiosity was the overriding sensation as it always had been throughout his formative years. It had got him into scrapes in the past but somehow he'd always come up smelling of roses and it leant him a feeling of invulnerability. Without even thinking about it, he was entering the back room of the premises.
The sight which greeted his intrusion was odd to say the least. Steve was standing at the threshold of the family's cooking and eating area. The room was what you would expect in a town of the size of Stanfield, with all equipment functionally sited along the appropriate wall in an ergonomically efficient manner. There were four places set, and four meals served up on a pine table - quite clearly a dinner had just been laid out prior to the shop closing temporarily at midday. A man, his wife and their two children were sitting there, just sitting, staring out into space, unmoving and wide awake.
It was a while, Steve was not sure how long, before he decided to make a move of any kind but a slow and measured walk around the table revealed nothing more than he already knew. They were alive, he was certain of that from the slow rise and fall of all of their chests, but all four displayed not the slightest inclination to move despite a snapping of fingers before each of their faces. Shaking himself out of a feeling of unease, he retraced his steps back into the shop, making for the front door with the intention of seeking help of some kind. Turning back as he closed the door, Steve's attention was caught by the clock he noticed as he entered some time before.
The steady ‘Tick, Tock' was still the only audible sound in the shop, but this time he noticed that there was no movement from the second hand. Checking his own watch Steve noticed that it too had stopped. The exact time on both was the same. That ‘Psycho' feeling was now running up and down his spine like some demented millipede, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing to attention like some parade ground recruits. He knew that getting into his car and just driving away was the sensible thing to do, he knew that, he did. A cold sweat was now running down his chest but he was drawn by the irresistible urge to find out what was going on. The only way that was likely to be achieved was in finding someone else in this town, and turning to the right he walked off the sidewalk and headed for the first available house.
Behind the large glazed window of the clock emporium, Lazlo Domarski had seen Cranshaw's arrival and had watched every move that he had made, both inside the front of the shop and outside on its porch. He frowned; the last thing he needed was some damned busybody poking their nose in just at the wrong time. He picked up the telephone.
"Cole?" "Yeah"
"Domarski. You'd better get down here, company's arrived. We may have a problem, and use the rear entrance, we don't want him spooked."
Cole Grainger was the county sheriff and had been one of the first to purchase a timepiece from the new retailer. A long standing officer of the law, he was well respected both inside and outside the district. This rendered him invaluable to Domarski and the plans which he had been charged to carry out; no-one would question the actions of the local cop. His arrival from the rear of the premises coincided with Cranshaw's exit from the property adjacent to the grocery store. "He been in there long?"
"No" Domarski replied "But long enough to work out that something is not right. Look at him. If we don't take him out right away he'll spread the alarm. We cannot allow that to happen."
"He's comin' over"
"Get in the back and stay out of sight. I may need you if things get awkward."
Steve had reached the middle of the street as Grainger made himself scarce, and never saw the lawman's hasty exit. He stood briefly before the shop before pushing the door and stepping inside. Although modern-looking, it had one of those spring loaded door bells to announce the visitor; it seemed oddly out of place. The figure behind the counter stood with his back to the room and was very still, almost as if frozen in mid act just like the others.
"Damn! What in hell's going on here?" His gaze swept the room, temporarily leaving Domarski. The unexpected reply startled him.
"I do beg your pardon, I was engrossed in something. Can I help you?" The shopkeeper's benign face was a picture of hospitality and Steve was taken aback.
"What? Oh, well I didn't expect.....you know." He cleared his throat, embarrassed at his own surprise.
"Is there something you wish to purchase?"
"No, thank you. I just wondered......look, is everything OK around here. I just came from the store across the way and there's people in there just staring into space. The folks in the next house are the same."
"You mean Dawson's shop? Well I don't know about that, but Mrs Dawson just came out of the door, look." He pointed across the street.
A middle aged woman was polishing the shop window as they spoke, and two children came running out of the premises and down the street. From the property next door, a man in a suit and carrying a briefcase walked to a Buick, got in and drove away. Steve shook his head in disbelief.
"No, you don't understand. I've just been in both places and they were as good as dead.....except they were still breathing."
He was now aware that he'd started to gabble and that what he was actually saying made no apparent sense at all. Nevertheless he had seen what he had seen, and this odd looking man was practically telling him that he was crazy. Domarski was looking at him in a manner which could only be described as condescendingly polite. Any moment now Steve would be patted on the head, told not to be such a silly boy and to go along on his way. That riled him.
"Mr..........?"
"Cranshaw, Steve Cranshaw." He snapped.
"Well, Mr Cranshaw. You can see for yourself that all appears to be well. I really do not know what else to say. Are you certain that you are feeling alright?" That smile again.
"Yes I am! Don't patronise me. There's something wrong here. I'm going now, but I'll be back with someone who'll listen.........."
The words faded suddenly and Steve dropped slowly to the floor as the hypodermic administered by Cole Grainger took effect. The Sheriff broke the fall; the last thing they needed was any unexplained injuries, particularly to a stranger. Working together he and Domarski carried the now sleeping figure into the back room where Steve Cranshaw was gagged and tied securely to a chair.
"Now what?" Grainger's voice had an uneasy edge to it.
"Stay calm. It will all be over very soon and he will not be bothering us for four or five hours. By the time he wakes up there will be nothing to corroborate anything that he's likely to tell to an outsider."
"I hope you're right, everything depends upon you."
"Go back to your office and wait. I'll get in touch when it's over, then you can tidy up. Just don't answer any phones for now."
With Grainger now gone, Lazlo Domarski returned to the work he had been doing on the remainder of the clocks. It was vital that all the rest of the consignment were fitted with the devices without delay in order to transmit the instruction to the last batch of townsfolk. Those already treated would not be discernible from the remainder to an outsider, but Cranshaw had stumbled upon the Dawsons and their neighbours in the middle of one of the processes. That had been unfortunate and completely unforeseen.
He would need only a couple of hours to make the last alterations to the dozen or so timepieces which had yet to be delivered, and then the job would be finished. Perhaps then he could get rid of this ridiculous disguise and go back to his proper job. Two hours later, and with Steve still on another planet, he made his way to the other end of the small settlement armed with the last of the clocks. They had really not anticipated such an easy victory over such a sentient species. Not a drop of blood had been spilled, and as far as anyone was aware no lasting damage had been caused to those targeted. One final adjustment to the frequency back at the shop, and a catatonic trance would be induced in those now in receipt of the last of the timepieces. Less than one hour later they would awaken none the worse for the experience and the job would be finally complete.
Steve Cranshaw shook his head and tried to focus his eyes through the mist which was slowly clearing. The town of Stanfield lay before him just as he remembered it. Or did he? Checking his watch, he saw that he had ‘lost' a number of hours. It was now late afternoon, and he had arrived at this place around noon, of that he was sure. The pain in his head was beginning to subside and he drove the Dodge carefully into the main street, parking up outside the store. ‘Dawsons Groceries' it said above the door, and a creepy feeling of déja-vu ran through him like ice.
Now he remembered, and the longer he sat there the more came back to him. Gunning the engine, a squeal of tyres and a black cloud of burning rubber had him speeding back down the main street in the direction of Waterloo. There had to be someone who would take his story seriously.
In the clock shop Domarski and Grainger watched the departure with misgivings. This was not how it was supposed to end. The treatment should have erased Cranshaw's short term memory and have obliterated all recollection of the past few hours. The sheriff radioed ahead for his deputies to intercept the ‘speeding' stranger who had just tried to rob Domarski's Emporium. That would be enough to hold him until help could be summoned from outside. This time they would have no choice in their method of dealing with the intruder.
Steve Cranshaw stared out of the bars criss-crossing the small window in his padded cell. He had been in the sanatorium now for over three months. That they had railroaded him was beyond doubt in his own mind, but with no independent corroboration of his story, and a violent confrontation as he had tried to evade capture, he must have appeared like some psychotic on the loose. They had even managed to convince his wife and family of his mental instability and he had to admit that, with a track record of unpredictable behaviour, things did not look too good for him.
Lazlo Domarski, or Robert Barringer as he was properly known, was at that moment sitting in a meeting room deep within NSA headquarters at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. With his disguise now a welcome thing of the past and the debriefing completed, he could afford to relax. Now that the last of the inhabitants of Stanfield had been restored to their former selves, the alien invasion threat had finally been removed. There had been a number of isolated incursions across the world, reminiscent of the 1960s film ‘Village of the Damned' and in an unprecedented show of co-operation, international action had been swift and decisive.
They had been expecting something of this nature since Roswell in 1947. The remains of the craft had revealed a sophisticated set of instruments, one of which had turned out to be a form of mind control device. Subsequent experiments had shown that the equipment was capable of transplanting brainwaves from one ‘volunteer' to another. Clearly this was a part of some plan to invade the Earth and take over its population. That the ‘weapon' had, in fact, required a period of time before the host mind became totally subservient had given the security forces the opportunity to counter its effects.
It had taken over fifty years to devise a counter weapon, and now that ‘field trials' had been completed on what was assumed to have been a proposed landing site, the world was ready. Steve Cranshaw's unwitting intrusion into the US counter offensive had almost compromised the entire campaign. It would be a long and lonely wait until he was deemed safe to rejoin the rest of a society which he had, unknowingly, almost destroyed. Copyright 2008 Philip Neale |
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