Carrier Wave: A Day Of Knowing Tale Read Online Free PDF Page B

me down,
wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you! Ha ha!”
     
    Helms was about to tell the man what he
could do with his tape, but was surprised to find that she’d
already accepted it.
     
    “I’m not going to-” she started to say, but
that energy in her spine was still building. She wanted to laugh,
scream, dance, run somewhere or punch something or maybe just weep
uncontrollably. The caravan was becoming painfully
claustrophobic.
     
    The man smiled at her. Nothing mischievous
or sinister in the gesture this time. Just understanding and
empathy. He motioned her towards the door, and she bolted out of
it, tripping down the steps and sprawling in the gravel driveway.
The recorder went spinning out of her hands. She frantically
crawled over to it and checked its integrity. It looked intact. She
hit play, and heard the first bass tones crackle out of the tinny
speakers.
     
    She sobbed with relief.
     
    ***
     
    Helms had been sitting in her cruiser in the
station parking lot for fifteen minutes. Her fingertips dug into
the soft leather grips of the steering wheel. She ground her teeth
together so tightly that she could taste the chalky dust of enamel.
Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision, lending the external
spotlights little unfocused halos.
     
    Beside her, the tape recorder sat on the
central console. She shivered uncontrollably. She thought about her
pistol, buttoned into her holster. She thought about how it might
taste. But every time her hand moved down for it, it started
drifting toward the recorder instead.
     
    The back door to the station opened, and a
figure stepped out. Large and male, she could tell by the
silhouette, but the details were lost behind her haze of tears. The
figure peered toward the cruiser, ducked its head and shielded its
eyes against the light.
     
    ‘No, please,’ Helms thought. ‘Just walk
away.’
     
    The figure approached the passenger side of
the cruiser. Helms heard the thunk of a handle being lifted, and
the interior lights flicked on. She kept her eyes locked straight
ahead. Her hands on the wheel. She felt the car shift as the man’s
weight settled in beside her. The door closed.
     
    The man grunted, cleared his throat with
some difficulty, and croaked “what’s going on, Helms?”
     
    She didn’t respond.
     
    “Helms?” He tried again.
     
    Price reached over and set his hand on her
shoulder. The contact broke everything. Her resolve crumbled. Her
shaky hand pried its nails from the wheel, and began moving
downward of its own accord.
     
    “I’m sorry, Price,” her voice cracked. “It’s
not me.”
     
    He watched with some confusion as she picked
up the tape recorder, and pressed play.
     
    A few opening notes of static, a deep,
almost imperceptible bass, and a screaming whistle that danced
wildly through the registers.