The Others by Jeremy Robinson

Author:Jeremy Robinson [Robinson, Jeremy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-07-14T22:00:00+00:00

26

The hour-long drive is tense. While Harley is oblivious and grooving to a tune only he can hear, Jacob and I watch the skies. But there are no lights, no saucers, and no helicopters. I’m not sure if it’s our unassuming transportation or the actions of unseen forces, but we seem to have escaped the desert without being followed. Jacob’s sense of an inhuman anger persisted for a time, but then faded and disappeared. Whoever—or whatever—he sensed is gone.

It’s been a while since I was in this part of the world. Vegas holds no interest for me, but a case brought me here three years ago. Another missing person. And while my hotel was smack dab in the middle of the world’s most desperate city, I spent most of my time on its outskirts visiting establishments that, while legal in this part of the country, don’t get a lot of help from law enforcement.

I pull off the road onto an unassuming driveway that winds around a barren hill and descends into a valley. The house at the drive’s end is large and homey. A farmer’s porch lined with rocking chairs wraps around three sides. While most visitors take comfort inside the home’s many rooms, I spent more than a few nights on that porch, sipping sweet tea, watching the skies, and listening to the desert’s creatures.

Although the sky is no longer a source of comfort, seeing the long porch and rocking chairs brings a smile to my face.

“This doesn’t look like a hospital,” Harley observes. Then his eyes widen. “Wait…is this what I think it is?”

“It is,” I tell him. “But we’re not here for that. And neither are you.”

My tone leaves no wiggle room. He nods and sits back, eyeing my back, which has grown stiff. “How is that not hurting you?”

“It will,” Jacob says. “Eventually. But I can help you with that, too.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I have no intention of keeping Jacob with me as I pursue this mess toward its conclusion. That will either be my death, or the undoing of a human trafficking ring run by non-human entities, supported by cult groups and probably Scientologists. It’s also concealed by two secretive and dangerous corporations, and likely older than the United States. Maybe even older than modern humanity’s rise from the stone age.

“So, what is this place?” Jacob asks, as I put the car in park beside an assortment of vehicles whose owners are about to have their nights ruined. “Some kind of business? They don’t even have a sign.”

“Something like that,” I say and push open the door. “Both of you stay here. You spot anything, and I mean anything unusual, you lay on the horn.”

“Uhh,” Jacob says, the sound coming out as kind of an uncomfortable laugh. He’s smiling wide, and I realize why when he says, “Everything about this place feels unusual.” He flinches back and laughs. “And good.”

Geez, I think, looking at the two-story farm house. Note to self, when traveling with an empath in the midst of puberty, avoid brothels.

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