Darkness at Midday

The Day Nothing Happened. The day began quietly enough, one of those hotter than hell days when horny toads looked for any shade possible. Noon in June along the Mexican border can be dangerous, just from the heat. Throw in the drug runners and the Coyotes, it becomes deadly. Most people who lived in the area were aware of the simple fact: a person should not travel between the southernmost U.S. towns and the northernmost Mexican cities. The government of Mexico did what it could to protect travelers, but the highways were full of ‘toll’ stops with banditos doing what they must to make a living. On one of those roads running through the Sierra Madre Mountains, approximately a hundred miles south of Marysfield, the Olson family was about to become the victim of one of those toll stops. They drove south on Mexico Federal Highway 16, through the Cañón y Sierra del Pegüis. The Olson family from Minnesota was headed south to Mazatlán on their summer vacation, piloting a thirty-six-foot motorhome through the winding canyon roads. “Honey, can you turn the AC colder? I am sweltering over here,” Missus Olson said. “It’s on low now. It should cool down the higher we go, are the kids still sleeping in the back?” replied Mister Olson. Turning around to check, and catching sight of two pairs of feet dangling off sofas in the middle of the rig, she said, “Looks like it.” Julian and Julia, the Olson’s adopted twins, weren’t asleep. Both played possum with headphones on, listening to Christian music. As they came around a blind corner, they met upon a semi-official looking roadblock. Camouflage four-bys with twelve men, armed with automatic weapons, blocked the road. Having no choice but to stop, Mister Olson tried to look reassuringly at his wife as he slowed. “Brad?” was Missus Olson’s troubling question. “Margaret, I am sure it will be all right. Just don’t say anything.” Again, he failed to reassure. As they came to a stop, a man with a cowboy hat covering his eyes from the sun approached. “Buen día, señor. You must be inspected for drugs. Please step out of the caravana.” “Now look here, I don’t think you are a real policeman. Do you have a badge?” Brad set up the joke, not even knowing it. Shaking his head and moving his automatic rifle to a more menacing position, the man said, “This is our badge. We don’t need no stinking badges.” In doing so, the others around the four-bys moved their weapons to a ready position and began to move closer to the motorhome. Offered little choice while facing a dozen armed men, Brad Olson did as he was told. “Bradley?” was his wife’s only comment as he headed for the door. “Margaret, you stay here. I will try to talk to them. Keep the kids down and quiet.” He then stepped out into the blistering noonday sun. The first robber greeted him, motioning him towards the front of the RV with the barrel of the gun. “Señora, you come out too, we don’t want any surprises while we inspect,” the lead man ordered. “Margaret, you stay put. Look here, sir, we are just on vacation. How much do you want to let us go on our way?” “Are you trying to bribe me? What makes you think we want money?” He looked around and ripped off some quick Spanish to the others in the group. Cracking a joke, he got them all to laugh. On the left, the little group was passed by a beat-up pickup truck with a few locals in the cab, hauling five sheep to market. “Why do they get to pass?” Brad asked his robber. “They are locals they’ve nooo mooneeey!” Not understanding what was about to happen, Brad could sense the acid from his stomach begin to crawl up his throat. The hair on the back of his neck rose at his impending doom. Fear leached out of him in buckets of sweat. Margaret stood, putting her face up to the windshield of the caravan. “Please let us go. Bradley, do something!” Feeling in complete control, ten of the eleven behind the leader relaxed their weapons, except the youngest. The boy standing smack dab behind his uncle, the leader. This was his first robbery, and he was doing his best to cover his uncle and not looked scared. Then it happened. The area was engulfed in black. Not dark, but a nothingness so black, the noonday Mexican sun could not penetrate it. That was when the clacking of automatic rifle fire started ringing out, and the screaming began. It was just as promptly silenced. A hundred miles north, in Marysfield, Trevor and Shannon were driving south to a location scout for a new film that needed ‘rustic’ backgrounds. “I am not sure this site will work for the directors, they want the 1930s. These buildings are from the 1920s.” Shannon looked over Trevor’s list of locations. “Do you really think most directors will be able to distinguish the difference between Art Deco and Art Nouveau?” Trevor quipped as he drove their black Escalade, AC on high to combat the June midday heat. “If they are any good, yes, they will know the difference and will be quick to point out the fact. There is a place to the west that should be a better choice. Why isn’t it on your list?” “It will cost twice as much to rent. Old Lady Jones can be such a—” Trevor was cut off by the strangest sounding ‘varump’ noise. Resembling an airplane breaking the anti-sound barrier. As if all the sound had been sucked into a tiny place, many miles away. Visible over the mountains to the south was the arc of a black globe cresting above the ridgeline. Trevor slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in the middle of the country road. “What the hell are you doing?!” Shannon screamed at him. Trevor sat, mouth open, his arm motioning for Shannon to look south, before he managed a smart mouth comment, “I didn’t expect to see that, today. It can’t be good.” “Holy crap, that must be miles high.” Trevor made a quick check of the ever-present blue gem stick-pin Crystal had given him. He called it his Crystal early warning system. There was no glow coming from it, yet. Four hundred and fifty miles above the event, a Department of Defense Meteorological Satellite monitored the area. It recorded what appeared to be a three-mile-diameter hole in the earth. None of the standard infrared, ultraviolet, or low light sensors would penetrate the blackness of the sphere, no energy escaped the dome. Doppler radar picked up the hole from both north and south of the border. TV weather guessers were quick to label it an anomaly since it only lasted precisely forty-two minutes. Smelling a story, a news crew from Chihuahua began the journey to the center of the event. From the not-so-secret base south of Marysfield, a Joint Air Force–Border Patrol operation was using blimps mounted with side and ground penetrating radar to spy deep into Mexico. They were searching for people trying to sneak over or under the southern border and had no idea they would witness another otherworldly event. This incident was different, it registered and was recorded via radar; the one from five years ago did not. Dedicated Texas-based storm chasers headed over the border, trying to be the first ones on the scene with pictures. The news crew from Chihuahua was the first in the area, beating out the Mexican Marines by over an hour. They streamed live to the citizens of Mexico, and that film uploaded worldwide in seconds. The first shot was of the turned over beat-up, rusted out pickup. Dead sheep were scattered over the road. The red blood on the white wool made for a gripping image. A lone survivor merely repeated the word, nada. Always looking for a catchy event title, some Anglo weatherman with a translation program turned it into Lanada. Marketing found it had a catchy, easy to remember ring to it. They calculated it would grip the attention of most news consumers, allowing for more advertisement time to be sold. Thus, the event was titled for a marketing strategy. Leaving an engineer to stay and help the first victim as he could, the cameraman and reporter crept up the road towards the line of jeeps blocking the lane and the bullet-riddled motorhome. Translated from the Spanish, the newscaster reported, “It appears the caravan was being held up by the… I think I might become ill…” The camera did a pan of the two bloody bodies draped over the front of the motorhome. Bradley Olson, half sitting against the front bumper, and Martha Olson, hanging out of the shattered front window, both riddled with bullet holes. At first unable to recognize the twelve bodies strewn about the ground, the reporter accidentally kicked one of the would-be robbers. Its arm snapped off, not unlike a dry twig. “Excuse me a moment.” The reporter ran out of view of the camera, sounds of vomiting could be caught off the shot. The cameraman continued shooting the scene while waiting for the return of the reporter. He clearly documented the desiccated bodies and the signs of their flesh being torn from their corpses. It was hard to distinguish the damage because the bodies looked as if the moisture had been sucked from them, or been drained of life, leaving only empty husks. Stomach contents spilled, the reporter returned to lead the task of searching the scene. “I have reported on several brutal gang murders and traffic accidents, but this area… I can’t think of the word, but otherworldly comes to mind. There is an oppression here I can’t explain.” Leading the way to the motorhome, they looked inside, finding it empty except for the broken glass from the front windows and the splattered blood from Margaret’s lifeless body. There was no sign of the twins. “We need to head closer to the center of the event.” Tablet in hand, the reporter was using it as a GPS to locate the apparent center of the black globe, Lanada. “Let’s follow this wash up the canyon, it looks like the center is about a kilometer from here.” The reporter led the way. The picture was bumpy as the cameraman continued to roll tape as they walked. “Do you hear anything?” the reporter finally asked. A voice from off camera, “No, not a thing. No birds, not even a wind. Creepy.” “Let’s keep going.” Up the path, they came to the strangest scene yet. In one of the more secluded canyons, they found a makeshift campground with thirty more dried husks of leftover bodies. “These corpses seem to be farmers or locals. They are dressed differently than the dried bodies down on the road, but they shared the same fate. Bodies drained of… everything.” The camera panned left to show tie-dye shirts and linen pant piles—twelve of them. “The unlikely uniforms of the visitors, I have encountered this before, God have mercy.” The reporter went to pick up one of the shirts and pants, discovering it covered a people suit. “Jesus Christ!” He jumped back while making a cross over himself. The cameraman moved in for a closer look. The bizarre film showed twelve people suits covered by the visitors’ uniforms. Not suits people had left behind, but twelve bodies of skin, analogous to the owners being skinned; only there was not a knife mark on any of the suits. Or maybe more accurately, the innards of the bodies had been removed from the dermis without leaving a mark. “Do you hear that?” The reporter could be seen looking around into the air. The sound of an approaching helicopter, discernable in the distance. “I hope that signal got through. People need to learn about this.” They continued filming until the Infantería de Marina landed. The report went dark with the hand of the first arriving marine covering the lens.