There are four men at ‘The Alien Crash Site’ when I arrive. It’s noon on a Saturday and the interstate buzzes behind me. It’s exactly the right time to stop at a place like this- to have a picnic, here, or to pee in the facilities. ‘The Crash Site’ is a state park, or, if not officially a state park, it’s a state-funded destination. There is nothing at the turn-off that suggests it is closed to the public. Nothing at the entrance. Just like there is nothing to suggest that three of the men are plain-clothes soldiers, outside of their very rigid posture and their jackets, bulked up by concealed tactical armor.
The fourth man, at least, is in fatigues.
‘The history of ‘The Alien Crash Site’ begins abruptly with some of the strange phenomena that have been observed in the clearing. These include floating lights of all colors, strange, inhuman whispers, and the occasional unwitting levitation (none of which have been caught on camera). The history does not cover the actual crash or how anyone might know it is a crash site. It does not suggest why most people believe it needs to be approached under cover of dark and at risk of being fired upon by military guards. These things are taken for granted, as if they were always known. But they were never known. They still aren’t.’
The soldiers stare at me. I stare back, to the best of my ability. Nothing else happens.
I return to the camper and grab an old shovel I found along the highway when I stopped to pee. I step back into the clearing and see that, with the exception of their eyes, which follow me, the men haven’t moved. Past the edge of the clearing, the men walk with me in a sort of dance. For each step I take toward the center, they move slightly closer and in whichever directions allows them to stay equidistant from me.
Another man arrives from the parking lot- he has a kid on his shoulders. They see what’s happening and leave.
By the time I’ve reached the center of the field, the soldiers are each withing a couple yards. I take care to maneuver the shovel in a way that seems unthreatening. My phone hangs from my pocket, not-so-secretly recording this interaction and not so secretly streaming it to the cloud. The shovel slips into the ground. The soil is soft, as though recently churned. I dig and the soldiers watch.
After about an hour I begin to pull up little bones. Small skulls soon follow. By hour two I have a whole collection laid out- an alien crew and pieces of what might be a hull. The soldiers seem neither surprised nor concerned. I take pictures of everything. I upload it to a link-sharing site and wait to verify that it can be viewed publicly. I place one of the little skulls in my pocket.
The soldiers don’t move back to their original positions as I leave. They wait until I’m loaded into the camper and then, drawing small, folding shovels, they begin to re-bury the crash site.
The alien skull glows in the dark. I try to post the effect but receive an error message. My old post is gone. The skull is warm to the touch.
I take the skull back to the field and bury it myself. The soldiers don’t even move this time. They must have seen this happen before.
“We’re cool now, right?” I ask. The soldier in fatigues nods in a way that makes me add: “Won’t happen again.”
He shakes his head slowly as if to say: No, it won’t.
-traveler
