citizen-seth
On the Prowl
Double feature!!!
These next two chapters are pretty short, so I'm posting them together. Enjoy!
Waylon decided to spend the afternoon on the beach. The navy fabric of his swim suit hung low on his hips, a slight trail of dark hairs running from his navel to somewhere below the waist band. He threw a towel over his shoulder and tucked his phone, camera, and a book into his bag. The worn leather of his flip flops slapped against the pavement of the sidewalk as it lead away from the cluster of buildings in the center of campus and downward towards the bay. Waylon entered the forest that separated the school from the water. Unlike the forests back home, maple, oak, and birch tress replaced the towering spires of pines, their intertwining branches casting the path into a patchwork of shadow and sun.
After a final curve and descent, the boathouse came into view. A wide and deep building, its green and white structure jutted out over the calm inlet. A plaque near the building’s door listed in large type the accomplishments of the Balmoral crew teams:
Conference Champions - 1975, 1977, 1983, 1984, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2004, 2007, 2008, 2009. Regional Champions - 1977, 1983, 1984, 1998, 2001, 2007, 2008, 2009. National Champions - 1984, 2007, 2008.
As Waylon got closer, he wondered if the crew team members looked as good as those he had seen on television during the Olympics. If so, he thought, he should make it a point to attend a meet. He stopped and peered into one of the boathouse’s windows, shelves of oars and shells lined the walls making space for docks in the building’s floor.
“Hello, Waylon.” Waylon jumped; he hadn’t heard the boathouse door open. The voice was silver and calm. “How are you today?”
Waylon recognized the voice’s owner the moment he saw him, a tiny light bulb going off in his mind: the boy he saw rowing the previous week. Finally, he could see the details of his face. His dark auburn hair fell across the pale skin of his face with silver blue eyes that rested on a gentle bed of freckles. He was older than Way, a junior, or senior perhaps. Taken aback that the other boy knew his name he opened his mouth to the only thing came to his mind: “Who are you?”
“My name is Cameron, Cameron Cole.” He stretched out his hand. Waylon did not shake it.
“How do you know who I am,” Way asked with a tinge of worry in his voice.
“You are on the equestrian team, my best friend Guy is the captain.”
“Guy Or?”
“Yes.” The connection put Waylon at ease, but only slightly. Why would Guy be talking about him to Cameron? Somewhere in his mind, Waylon knew that things were not adding up, but before he could begin to sort it out, Cameron spoke again. “Are you going to the beach? Mind if I join you?”
Waylon didn’t know what to do. The sudden appearance of Cameron made for an awkward start to his peacefully planned afternoon but, at the same time, Waylon did not feel inclined to turn down the company of a perfectly attractive athlete. “What a chance meeting you,” he said and smiled, as though he had made a very funny joke. Waylon furrowed his brown and began to walk.
The walk to the beach was quiet and uneventful. Waylon made no attempt at conversation; he decided that if Cameron wanted to tag along then it would have to be Cameron that diffused the awkward tension between them. As Waylon laid his towel down on the beach, Cameron sat next to him, slowly sinking into the loose sand. “Need help,” Cam asked as Waylon began to apply sunscreen to his body.
Waylon weighed the possibility in his mind and slowly answered: “sure.”
His hands slid around the nape of Waylon’s neck, working the cream coloured liquid into his skin. “I unnerve you,” he said. Waylon did not respond. Cameron’s hands began to work around the curve of his shoulders.
“Is everyone so perceptive where you’re from,” Way finally asked.
“Nanaimo,” he said. “I am from Nanaimo.” His hands worked further down Waylon’s back, his fingers tracing the gentle rise of vertebrae.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“No. You would not have.” Waylon wondered if he heard a gentle lilting in his voice. Cameron’s fingers brushed the top of waist band of Waylon’s shorts. He thought he felt him slide a finger quickly in the crevice where skin and fabric met, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was sweat, maybe the sand.
Waylon left Cameron where he met him, at the boathouse. They spent several hours on the shore together, and in that time the frigid air between them slowly began to thaw. Waylon learned that Cameron had been raised by foster parents, and that he was studying astronomy. He and Guy had been roommates Cameron’s first two years at school, and they remained best friends despite Guy being a year older. He also knew that Cameron’s presence was calm but, as he himself said, ‘unnerving.’
Waylon made it back to the Keep by five o’clock, and met James in their room. After relaying the events of the day, James echoed Waylon’s initial reactions to Cameron. As far as James was concerned, Cameron was ‘creepy.’ The pair decided to eat dinner in the Keep’s small dining room before getting ready for whatever Logan had been able to get together for that evening. They both ate well, both not wanting to start their first night of college debauchery on an empty stomach. As they returned to their room, they found Logan waiting for them by the door.
Waylon was still unsure of how he felt about the rich looking teen, but he wasn’t going to let it get in the way of whatever it was that was going to happen that night. He didn’t like that Logan chose to stay in the closet, but he decided it wasn’t his place to force the issue.
Logan explained that instead of spending money on their own alcohol for the night they were going to party with some students he had met in Fasque House the following evening. He said that they would head over at 10 o’clock Sunday night. Back in their room, James and Waylon speculated on whether the party was actually Logan’s idea of being thrifty or if it was a solution to not being able to procure the libations he had promised.
When the appointed time came James, Waylon, Logan, and Eric made their way down the Keep’s main staircase and out across the Quadrangle. Fasque’s residence, Bell House, was on the opposite side of campus from the Keep. It was a building Way had noticed, but not one that he’d ever given much thought to. As he approached it, he finally took in the way it stood out from the general gothic uniformity of much of the campus’ architecture. Unlike the Keep, Bell House was only two stories tall, and instead of a uniform grey stone, its walls were bricks of a soft pink shade. The only ornamentation on its façade was two large lion statues on either side of an ornately carved door.
As none of the boys were residents there, none of their keys worked and Logan was forced to knock on the door and wait for an answer. When the door finally opened, it must have been one of Logan’s friends that answered because Logan made a quick introduction to the group before they started down a hallway, towards the sounds of laughing and loud music.
The hallway ended in a large, den like room. A fireplace stood on one wall while a wall full of windows looked out onto the field and forest beyond. The room was full of people. Most of them wore purple but others, like Waylon, wore hints of green or one of the other house colours. He saw Guy standing in a corner talking to a group of girls. One of them looked like Locke, but he was forced to turn away as a red solo cup was forced into his hand.
The room wasn’t spinning yet, Waylon thought. It was definitely getting fuzzy, however, as Waylon finished his fourth cup of whatever punch was being handed to him. He’d lost track of James somewhere near a crowd of girls by the fireplace, or maybe it was by the staircase, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he didn’t feel like walking back to find him was an option, so he dropped himself onto a plump couch tucked away from much of the action. “Looks like someone’s feeling pretty good,” Logan said. Way hadn’t noticed him on the couch.
“Well, hello, friend.” Waylon wasn’t sure if his speech sounded as slow to Logan as it did to him.
Logan leaned in. “Maybe you need to go lie down?” He stood up and slowly pulled Way to his feet. “Come over here . . . I know somewhere you can lay down.”
They walked down what seemed like miles of hallways, and finally entered a dorm room. Way didn’t bother to think about the room’s owner, as it was empty he fell upon the bed and closed his eyes. He thought he heard Logan push the door too, but blackness drowned out the sound.
Waylon didn’t know what was happening. He felt sheets against his chest. He wondered where his shirt was. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten to wear one to the party. There was a giant dinosaur standing next to him. Someone was playing with his lips with someone else's lips. Light came from somewhere. Did the door open?
Suddenly, a blond boy that was somehow on top of him was ripped away. “Who are you? What are you doing?” Somewhere in his mind, Waylon recognized the voice. Where did the blond boy go, he wondered. A face with funny coloured hair loomed over his. It looked familiar, heknew, but he couldn’t place it. He looked into the silver blue eyes and smelt something familiar: sunscreen. Slowly the synapses of his mind connected and recognized the face above him, recognized the person that had pulled Logan away.
“Cameron. . .” Waylon mumbled.
The silver voice came back calmly: “Waylon. Why are you in my bed?”
C.I.A. Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Building 4, Section 25
July, 22, 2009
Special agent Charles Sloan sat hunched over his desk. Marla, his aging secretary, had just brought him a report. The report had been part of a larger intercept transmission during the Cold War. Since its interception, it had spent decades in a file box in one of the C.I.A.’s many storage rooms - until today. Two days ago Agent Sloan was reassigned onto a special case, a case that has his secretary and himself sifting through boxes of old Soviet records until they found this:
“Marla,” Sloan said, leaving his office. “Assemble a team and get a plane ready. Looks like we’re taking a little trip.”
These next two chapters are pretty short, so I'm posting them together. Enjoy!
Chapter 9
The Chance
The Chance
Waylon decided to spend the afternoon on the beach. The navy fabric of his swim suit hung low on his hips, a slight trail of dark hairs running from his navel to somewhere below the waist band. He threw a towel over his shoulder and tucked his phone, camera, and a book into his bag. The worn leather of his flip flops slapped against the pavement of the sidewalk as it lead away from the cluster of buildings in the center of campus and downward towards the bay. Waylon entered the forest that separated the school from the water. Unlike the forests back home, maple, oak, and birch tress replaced the towering spires of pines, their intertwining branches casting the path into a patchwork of shadow and sun.
After a final curve and descent, the boathouse came into view. A wide and deep building, its green and white structure jutted out over the calm inlet. A plaque near the building’s door listed in large type the accomplishments of the Balmoral crew teams:
Conference Champions - 1975, 1977, 1983, 1984, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2004, 2007, 2008, 2009. Regional Champions - 1977, 1983, 1984, 1998, 2001, 2007, 2008, 2009. National Champions - 1984, 2007, 2008.
As Waylon got closer, he wondered if the crew team members looked as good as those he had seen on television during the Olympics. If so, he thought, he should make it a point to attend a meet. He stopped and peered into one of the boathouse’s windows, shelves of oars and shells lined the walls making space for docks in the building’s floor.
“Hello, Waylon.” Waylon jumped; he hadn’t heard the boathouse door open. The voice was silver and calm. “How are you today?”
Waylon recognized the voice’s owner the moment he saw him, a tiny light bulb going off in his mind: the boy he saw rowing the previous week. Finally, he could see the details of his face. His dark auburn hair fell across the pale skin of his face with silver blue eyes that rested on a gentle bed of freckles. He was older than Way, a junior, or senior perhaps. Taken aback that the other boy knew his name he opened his mouth to the only thing came to his mind: “Who are you?”
“My name is Cameron, Cameron Cole.” He stretched out his hand. Waylon did not shake it.
“How do you know who I am,” Way asked with a tinge of worry in his voice.
“You are on the equestrian team, my best friend Guy is the captain.”
“Guy Or?”
“Yes.” The connection put Waylon at ease, but only slightly. Why would Guy be talking about him to Cameron? Somewhere in his mind, Waylon knew that things were not adding up, but before he could begin to sort it out, Cameron spoke again. “Are you going to the beach? Mind if I join you?”
Waylon didn’t know what to do. The sudden appearance of Cameron made for an awkward start to his peacefully planned afternoon but, at the same time, Waylon did not feel inclined to turn down the company of a perfectly attractive athlete. “What a chance meeting you,” he said and smiled, as though he had made a very funny joke. Waylon furrowed his brown and began to walk.
The walk to the beach was quiet and uneventful. Waylon made no attempt at conversation; he decided that if Cameron wanted to tag along then it would have to be Cameron that diffused the awkward tension between them. As Waylon laid his towel down on the beach, Cameron sat next to him, slowly sinking into the loose sand. “Need help,” Cam asked as Waylon began to apply sunscreen to his body.
Waylon weighed the possibility in his mind and slowly answered: “sure.”
His hands slid around the nape of Waylon’s neck, working the cream coloured liquid into his skin. “I unnerve you,” he said. Waylon did not respond. Cameron’s hands began to work around the curve of his shoulders.
“Is everyone so perceptive where you’re from,” Way finally asked.
“Nanaimo,” he said. “I am from Nanaimo.” His hands worked further down Waylon’s back, his fingers tracing the gentle rise of vertebrae.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“No. You would not have.” Waylon wondered if he heard a gentle lilting in his voice. Cameron’s fingers brushed the top of waist band of Waylon’s shorts. He thought he felt him slide a finger quickly in the crevice where skin and fabric met, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was sweat, maybe the sand.
-----------
Waylon left Cameron where he met him, at the boathouse. They spent several hours on the shore together, and in that time the frigid air between them slowly began to thaw. Waylon learned that Cameron had been raised by foster parents, and that he was studying astronomy. He and Guy had been roommates Cameron’s first two years at school, and they remained best friends despite Guy being a year older. He also knew that Cameron’s presence was calm but, as he himself said, ‘unnerving.’
Waylon made it back to the Keep by five o’clock, and met James in their room. After relaying the events of the day, James echoed Waylon’s initial reactions to Cameron. As far as James was concerned, Cameron was ‘creepy.’ The pair decided to eat dinner in the Keep’s small dining room before getting ready for whatever Logan had been able to get together for that evening. They both ate well, both not wanting to start their first night of college debauchery on an empty stomach. As they returned to their room, they found Logan waiting for them by the door.
Waylon was still unsure of how he felt about the rich looking teen, but he wasn’t going to let it get in the way of whatever it was that was going to happen that night. He didn’t like that Logan chose to stay in the closet, but he decided it wasn’t his place to force the issue.
Logan explained that instead of spending money on their own alcohol for the night they were going to party with some students he had met in Fasque House the following evening. He said that they would head over at 10 o’clock Sunday night. Back in their room, James and Waylon speculated on whether the party was actually Logan’s idea of being thrifty or if it was a solution to not being able to procure the libations he had promised.
--------------
When the appointed time came James, Waylon, Logan, and Eric made their way down the Keep’s main staircase and out across the Quadrangle. Fasque’s residence, Bell House, was on the opposite side of campus from the Keep. It was a building Way had noticed, but not one that he’d ever given much thought to. As he approached it, he finally took in the way it stood out from the general gothic uniformity of much of the campus’ architecture. Unlike the Keep, Bell House was only two stories tall, and instead of a uniform grey stone, its walls were bricks of a soft pink shade. The only ornamentation on its façade was two large lion statues on either side of an ornately carved door.
As none of the boys were residents there, none of their keys worked and Logan was forced to knock on the door and wait for an answer. When the door finally opened, it must have been one of Logan’s friends that answered because Logan made a quick introduction to the group before they started down a hallway, towards the sounds of laughing and loud music.
The hallway ended in a large, den like room. A fireplace stood on one wall while a wall full of windows looked out onto the field and forest beyond. The room was full of people. Most of them wore purple but others, like Waylon, wore hints of green or one of the other house colours. He saw Guy standing in a corner talking to a group of girls. One of them looked like Locke, but he was forced to turn away as a red solo cup was forced into his hand.
-----------
The room wasn’t spinning yet, Waylon thought. It was definitely getting fuzzy, however, as Waylon finished his fourth cup of whatever punch was being handed to him. He’d lost track of James somewhere near a crowd of girls by the fireplace, or maybe it was by the staircase, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he didn’t feel like walking back to find him was an option, so he dropped himself onto a plump couch tucked away from much of the action. “Looks like someone’s feeling pretty good,” Logan said. Way hadn’t noticed him on the couch.
“Well, hello, friend.” Waylon wasn’t sure if his speech sounded as slow to Logan as it did to him.
Logan leaned in. “Maybe you need to go lie down?” He stood up and slowly pulled Way to his feet. “Come over here . . . I know somewhere you can lay down.”
They walked down what seemed like miles of hallways, and finally entered a dorm room. Way didn’t bother to think about the room’s owner, as it was empty he fell upon the bed and closed his eyes. He thought he heard Logan push the door too, but blackness drowned out the sound.
-----------
Waylon didn’t know what was happening. He felt sheets against his chest. He wondered where his shirt was. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten to wear one to the party. There was a giant dinosaur standing next to him. Someone was playing with his lips with someone else's lips. Light came from somewhere. Did the door open?
Suddenly, a blond boy that was somehow on top of him was ripped away. “Who are you? What are you doing?” Somewhere in his mind, Waylon recognized the voice. Where did the blond boy go, he wondered. A face with funny coloured hair loomed over his. It looked familiar, heknew, but he couldn’t place it. He looked into the silver blue eyes and smelt something familiar: sunscreen. Slowly the synapses of his mind connected and recognized the face above him, recognized the person that had pulled Logan away.
“Cameron. . .” Waylon mumbled.
The silver voice came back calmly: “Waylon. Why are you in my bed?”
Chapter 10
Samarqand
Samarqand
C.I.A. Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Building 4, Section 25
July, 22, 2009
Special agent Charles Sloan sat hunched over his desk. Marla, his aging secretary, had just brought him a report. The report had been part of a larger intercept transmission during the Cold War. Since its interception, it had spent decades in a file box in one of the C.I.A.’s many storage rooms - until today. Two days ago Agent Sloan was reassigned onto a special case, a case that has his secretary and himself sifting through boxes of old Soviet records until they found this:
Dispatch: Suffa RT-70 Telescope, Samarqand, Uzbekistan
To: Galenki RT-70 Telescope, Galenki, Russia
March, 22, 1971
Subject: Considering the reports of Galenki Station and the surrounding area, it should be noted that Suffa and Evpatoria stations are experiencing similar effects. Dr. Akhmatova had had studied the findings and her reports are inconclusive. Elevated rates of cancer diagnoses continue at all locations. In livestock, disfiguration continues with abnormalities in the numberings of heads, legs, and eyes. All attempts at replicating the mutations by Dr. Akhmatova have been unsuccessful.
A second report of lights of the Suffa plateau preceded the latest mutation reports. All satellite readings are negative for American interference. Moscow has not been advised. We are awaiting further test results from Dr. Akhmatova. Immediate relay of any further sighting reports is requested.
SFCFML - 153207124
To: Galenki RT-70 Telescope, Galenki, Russia
March, 22, 1971
Subject: Considering the reports of Galenki Station and the surrounding area, it should be noted that Suffa and Evpatoria stations are experiencing similar effects. Dr. Akhmatova had had studied the findings and her reports are inconclusive. Elevated rates of cancer diagnoses continue at all locations. In livestock, disfiguration continues with abnormalities in the numberings of heads, legs, and eyes. All attempts at replicating the mutations by Dr. Akhmatova have been unsuccessful.
A second report of lights of the Suffa plateau preceded the latest mutation reports. All satellite readings are negative for American interference. Moscow has not been advised. We are awaiting further test results from Dr. Akhmatova. Immediate relay of any further sighting reports is requested.
SFCFML - 153207124
“Marla,” Sloan said, leaving his office. “Assemble a team and get a plane ready. Looks like we’re taking a little trip.”
)
(I'm in Melbourne, so in Australia we're all behind with US TV.)
You're clearly better than I at grammar, punctuation and all those little things we all seem to forget when penning our mind's work. (My favourite word in English -- Oxymoron)
