Chapter 20: CHAPTER NINETEEN

Clarence Fenwick was learning his lines when he should have been asleep. He read each line a dozen times, trying different ways to bring his point across. It wasn’t working, nothing was working. No matter how he read it, it sounded so monotonous, so boring that he hated himself for even agreeing to take the part.

“Fuck this,” he said, tossing the script on the table. Hunger gnawed at him, but the diner was closed.

He wanted to ruin Creighton’s picture through his ability to use special effects to his advantage, but now it seemed as if Creighton didn’t even need special effects. What was the matter with that son of a bitch? First it was supposed to be a fantasy with fire breathing dragons and maidens in distress, a family comedy, a documentary, a romantic fantasy, or whatever the hell it was supposed to be.

The script sucked because Creighton sucked as a writer. Five years ago the man had written a six hundred page novel about a lake monster that had stunk so bad the editor of a major publishing house had sent back a letter Fenwick wasn’t supposed to see. A quick peak on Creighton’s desk while the man had stepped out for a moment revealed the essence of that letter:

‘Dear Mr. Creighton, Perhaps you should consider continuing your education before you send us another manuscript. In a few years, when your education is complete, and you are more proficient in the English language, we might consider one of your manuscripts. We are returning it after our first reader struggled with it mightily. Yours etc etc.’

Blunt. No beating around the bush. Fenwick had wanted to laugh because he knew exactly which manuscript the editor was referring to. What was the title? ‘The Monster in the Lake’ or ‘The Lake Demon,’ something along those lines. Creighton had given him part of the manuscript, asked him to read it, wanted to know what he thought of it.

Fenwick had lied, of course. If he hadn’t, his job might have been in jeopardy. He told Creighton what the man wanted to hear. It’s brilliant, unusual, suspenseful, blah blah blah, lay it on thick. That’s what he had said, but his mind was tuned to a different station. Stupid, idiotic, filled with cliches, with plot holes so deep you could see all the way to China. Damn, there was a cliche right there.

He didn’t care about cliches right now. He was more interested in the script, that masterful piece of a screenplay courtesy of Harold Creighton.

“ ‘I will not let you go with him,’ ” he read. “ ‘You do not know what awaits you in yonder forest, sister.’ ”

He winced as if he had been punched in the stomach. Oh God, that was so bad. How could he possibly read those line with a straight face? How could he look at the other actors and read what was on these pages without breaking into side-splitting laughter?

He needed a walk. He had to get away from this script, from the words crawling inside his mind. He thought of wolves and bears and moose and whatever else lived up here in the wilds of Canada, wondered if they wandered into the village at night. He had seen smaller animals, like foxes and squirrels, but they feared humans and kept their distance.

He put on a jacket. October, rather chilly at night. He went outside and looked at the diner which was dark, as he imagined it would be. Almost straight across the street was Chandrha’s home, but for some strange reason the door stood open, and he could see the back of someone he didn’t recognize, someone in uniform. Male, rather tall and imposing. Fenwick couldn’t swear on it, but the uniform reminded him of an air force officer.

What would they be doing here?

He approached Chandrha’s house. “We are not leaving with you, Sen Westwood.” That was Chandrha, her voice rather malicious.

“Something wrong, Chandrha?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to say anything, but curiosity took a hold and demanded an answer.

“Hello, Sen Fenwick,” she said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

The man turned around. About fifty, not much younger, not much older. Rugged face, clean shaven, crew cut.

“Who are you?” the officer demanded.

“Maybe I should ask you that question,” Fenwick said. “I know the cast and crew of this picture, and I’ve never seen you before.”

“Colonel Matthew Westwood, United States Air Force.”

“You’re a long way from home, Colonel.”

“So are you,” Westwood said. “Los Angeles, California, I believe. One time actor, now behind the scenes. Special effects. Oh yes, we know all about you, Mr. Fenwick. And the rest of these people here.”

“We?”

“The United States Air Force. You think we’d let the Canucks hang on to the prize of the millennium? The aliens are coming with us...”

“How did you get here?”

“I’ll have to thank Mr. Montelier for that. He contacted me... well, not me personally, but he did place a call to the Pentagon, and they contacted me because I’m familiar with this country. Besides, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to come up here, see what these aliens are all about.”

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“You don’t seem to understand, Colonel Westwood,” Chandrha said. “We’re not leaving this village.”

Rheôvhan stood in the doorway separating the bedroom from the living room. “Could you keep it down, please?” He looked at Westwood. “Chandrha, why is this human in our home at this time of night?”

“I want all the aliens to gather in the center of the village,” Westwood said.

“No,” Rheôvhan said, a simple, yet powerful word.

Westwood reached for his handgun, carried in a holster at his side. “You’re taking orders from me now, animal.”

“Animal. I should have guessed.”

“I have to get back to my script,” Fenwick said. He started for the door, but Westwood aimed the gun at his chest.

“Stay here, Fenwick. I’m sure the script can wait.”

“And where are we supposed to go?” Chandrha asked.

“Colorado,” Westwood said. “There’s a super secret facility where you will be examined, and, if necessary, dissected for further study.”

“That’s rather barbaric, isn’t it?” Fenwick said.

“If you don’t do what I tell you,” Westwood said, pointing the weapon at Chandrha’s head, “I’ll kill you, and it won’t bother me one bit. Then I’ll kill your—”

“Aren’t you taking this a little too far?” Fenwick asked.

The gun swung over to Fenwick’s head. “You stay out of this. Did these aliens brainwash you?”

Fenwick wasn’t sure he could take on this big man, but he had to try something. He didn’t know if he had any friends among these Tereskàdians, but to see them taken to a secret facility in Colorado was out of the question. He had to get away from Westwood somehow, contact someone in the Canadian government, tell them about the American Colonel.

“All right,” he said, “you can take these aliens. There are about a hundred and sixty or so. They should be removed and studied.”

Westwood scowled. “What made you change your mind?”

“The main reason these aliens live up here without being bothered is because they’re... well, cute. You have to agree with me on that, Colonel. None of these ugly reptilians you see in the movies, none of the tentacle waving monsters from War of the Worlds. But... who knows what evil thoughts they have on their minds?”

“So what are you going to do?” Westwood’s weapon was still aimed at Chandrha.

“I’m going to help you gather these aliens,” Fenwick said. “Males... females... cubs... Of course there are the whistling dragons.”

“You know something, Fenwick,” Westwood said. “I don’t trust you. You seem too eager, too much like a kid looking forward to a visit from Santa Claus. You know what we’re going to do? You can stay here with these aliens, and you can get yourself a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow morning we’ll get everyone together.”

“Why did you come here without your men?” Chandrha asked.

“I have my men on standby.”

“Apparently you don’t know as much as you think you do about us. I’ve communicated with other Tereskàdians, and they’ve told me there are no other air force personnel in or near this village. So you’re here on your own, trying to get us to come with you.”

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