- Working at KSC
- NASA Old Headquarters building on KSC destroyed.
- Flintknapping points
- Vampires of Kennedy Space Center and the O&C
- Demons of Kennedy Space Center
- Demons of Kennedy Space Center, corpus callosotomy
- Ghosts of Kennedy Space Center, End of Spiders
- Dreams of Kennedy Space Center, lovers and pyramids.
- Witches of Kennedy Space Center
- Cave Bears of Kennedy Space Center
- Aliens of Kennedy Space Center, uninvited guests
- Remembering Kennedy Space Center
- Lake 33 Killing Relic
Ghosts of Lake 33.
A Weldon Spring Story.
Chapter Three,
“NO”
Welcome!
A new Book in first stages of writing.
The following pages and chapters are first drafts, including typos, grammar and tense problems.
Take it for what it is, A WORK IN PROGRESS.
.....And....Since I am by nature, a discovery writer, the story could change 100% (Have to get the ideas it out of your head and onto the monitor before it can be improved, fixed or corrected. Or thrown in the trash can via the delete button.
This is NOT the book cover, just me playing around with some graphics
"NO”
The shadows lengthened across the Lake 33 Levee as Dave, my “Ghost town customer” for the day, made his request. “Hey, take us back to the cave.”
I gestured toward Dardenne Creek and the weathered sign in front of the well-used path, its red letters stark against metal.
“See the ‘No Trespassing’ sign?”
Dave’s casual demeanor couldn’t mask his calculated interest. “They’re kind of lax now right? Has to be safe, didn’t all the bad stuff get removed out to Nevada or Utah? Come on, that’s only a sign, not an eight foot tall razor wire fence. So it is not dangerous.”
“The cave is as safe as needs to be for half a million years, until any remnant radiation finally dies,” I replied, recalling almost getting shot in front of Buck’s cave.
Dave’s nameless friend joined the pressure. “Come on, show us. There will be an extra tip. We cannot leave Busch without some some pictures. The cave is sort of famous on the net.”
His smile was bright and geniune.
“August A. Busch Wildlife area is public land. There is Lake 33 and there is the trail to the cave. You’re welcome to go back there whenever you want.”
There goes my tip.
My words echoed hollow. “But as the tour guide for the ghost towns and the Weldon Spring hot zones, I can’t take you. Not without losing my permit.”
Dave’s mock outrage carried the practiced edge of authority. Clean-cut, flattop hair cut, expensive watch, perfect posture, and teeth.
Homeland Security written all over him.
The familiar request again, like so many times before, the air heavy with unspoken accusations of domestic terrorism.
The trail to the cave beckoned in my peripheral vision, sinous along Dardenne Creek to the hillside, sealed forever, but still whispering its secrets.
No.
The dreams of the shaman in the cave had stopped, thank God, but the memory of those night terrors lingered like radiation in the bones.
I watched them exchange glances, these agents playing tourists, and felt their frustration.
Every month brought new faces, and friendly attempts to crack my resolve. The beautiful anthropologist had been the government's masterpiece, almost worked too. Only a too causal question of sinc about the towns Roosevelt had burned, had alerted me that she was acting. What a loss too, she had been laughing at all my tour jokes.
Dave and his partner shifted tactics, “You knew Buck, right? The one who sold the dirty bomb material.”
Only Homeland ever mentioned Buck anymore.
The weight of Homeland’s surveillance pressed down, waiting for me to make a mistake or drop a hint that I was part of the gang that bombed the burning landfill in St. Louis. But I wouldn’t. Not after their three day interogation last time.
“Buck?” I said with a questioning looke. “I hunted bucks in this area as a kid.”
I looked around to see if anyone was listening and said in a whisper, “I shot one illegal, out of season. Actually, we were hunting raccoons which was also illegal, but the dog chased up the buck. Had to shoot. A stupid kid thing.”
Their frustration turned tangible.
“You know what the fuck we are talking about. You were at his funeral.”
“Been to a lot of veteran’s funerals as part of the suicide prevention group. Cannot remember all of the names from the burials I attended. If you can save just one vet or first responder, its worth going to the funerals.”
The undercover agents faces turned a shade of crimson.
I stood my ground, surrounded by the ghosts of accusations past, the cave behind us.
“You can go to that sealed up cave anytime,” I said, exhaustion seeping into my voice. “But not with me.”
The words hung between us like fog over the creek where they’d dumped those chemicals years ago. I was innocent, the FBI knew it after three days of interrogation. I was only a janitor who’d attended the wrong funeral.
However Homeland was not convinced of my innoncence and I was trapped between government suspicion and whatever darkness lurked in that sealed cave.
“Okay,” said Dave, “We will visit the cave without you,” and his partner handed me a twenty-dollar bill. Another sign they were govenment agents, Homeland’s tips were always miserly.
They drove away, but I knew someone would be back. They always came back, with new faces and old questions, circling over secrets better left buried in the dark.
Return HOME from Ghosts of Lake 33, Chapter Three
My newest book, available on Amazon
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Author Bruce Ryba at Kennedy Space Center Launch Pad 39B & Artemis 1. "We are going to the Moon!"
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