Windkill

The crowd at the gate had grown over the last hour. People from the surrounding towns were lining the fence in a vocal opposition to the show. Like most Midwesterners, they behaved, the worse of their manners confined to obscenities that were quickly quashed by various church groups in attendance.

As the air grew cooler and night drew near, the clouds parted and the pale blue sky made an appearance. Rather than lighten the mood of the people at the entrance to the valley, it only reminded them the locale included more than they could readily see.

There were a few people in the crowd who seemed to like the idea ‘Scared to Death’ had come to this place. They set up Halloween decorations despite the resistance of several of the more conservative picketers. A line of plastic skeletons hung from the fence in a macabre dance.

It was the rusty fence and skeletons that Cal first saw as the van pulled to a stop near the gate. The security people came out of the compound and parted the mass of people to allow passage of the van.

As the vehicle slowly moved towards the gate, an ambulance joined the parade. Cal watched a preacher stand to one side, performing a prayer that was lost in the noise, his arm moving in the sign of a cross. A cold tremor passed up his spine with a sense that they were taking a chance most people would avoid. What the hell had Marilyn gotten them into?

The ambulance followed them past the gate and parked near a group of trailers. Immediately, the security people closed the gate and resumed their watch of the protesters.

“This is it,” the representative said with forced cheerfulness. He sprang to his feet and edged past Cal to reach the door. The door slid open to the sound of the protest in full swing with the guests of honor.

The children climbed out first, then Cal. Marilyn was out of the van and walking to a fire set in a pit near the trailers. The representative was following her, making rapid hand gestures. Cal guessed the man was attempting to coral Marilyn and keep the family together. Good luck, he thought uncharitably.

Cal looked at the surroundings and shivered again. This place looked like one of those photographs of the entrance to a Nazi concentration camp. The tall fences looked like they still had every ounce of strength they contained on the day erected. The watchtowers stood silent vigil over the antics of the people attempting to calm the Ottingers.

Weeds grew in the rail bed and road, leading to a huge gully formed by two opposing faces of stone. Another fence at the entrance of the draw added to the oppressive atmosphere of the place. Two groups of men were walking out of the gully, one pair carrying a camera. Cal blinked when he recognized the tall man with the cameraman. It was Brock Wood, the reporter for the show. The sight of the tall man seemed to make the entire event official.

Cynthia nudged Cal and handed him his luggage, a carry case containing a change of clothes and toiletries. He accepted the bag and followed the rest of his family to the fire pit, where Marilyn was already holding court over the various people who had come out of the trailers to greet them. As he arrived, Marilyn placed herself between Cal and a striking brunette.

The woman reached around Marilyn and extended her hand to Cal. “Hi. I’m Melissa Koyle the assistant director for ‘Scared to Death’. Welcome to Windkill.”

“Thanks, I think,” Cal managed, and still received a foul glance from Marilyn. “I’m Cal Ottinger. This is my wife Marilyn and my children Bryon, and Cynthia and her husband Bob.”

“We’re really excited to be here,” Marilyn reclaimed the conversation, her voice almost lost in the din from the gate.

Looking past Melissa, Cal saw the representative talking earnestly to a young man dressed in black. The man exuded an air of competence with his replies to the representative punctuated by graceful hand gestures.

“The director, Mark Goodwin, will speak with you shortly. Then we want to interview each of you separately to get your feelings about this show and our fun tonight. After that, you get something to eat and we wait for the sun to go down. The show should kick off at about eight-o’clock.”

A tall black man stepped up to the group, his face drawn and haggard. His voice was deep and resonant. “I want to talk with the Ottingers.”

“Not just yet Dolan,” the director placed a hand on the man’s arm and stopped him effectively. “I am Mark Goodwin, the director of this show. We all know why you are here and what we do, but what you do not know is the nature of your adventure tonight. Why don’t we all walk to the tower over there and we can film your reaction while Brock Wood tells you about the valley?”

As politely as the man made the request, Cal walked obediently to the narrow entrance of the gully. To his side, Dolan seemed subdued, darting glances at each of the family members while they walked, his suit a little strained by exertions in the valley.

“This isn’t right,” Dolan whispered to himself, Cal catching the words.

The time for fooling his family with wild stories was at hand. While the man in the van might have been a plant to heighten their anxiety, Brock Wood was the real thing. Two more men carrying cameras joined the man who followed Brock about like a faithful hound.

Taking a stance by the inner gate of the draw, Brock looked at the family with a serious air. The director, his assistant and the many followers hung back out of camera range as Brock cleared his throat. Cal and his family stood in a loose line in front of Brock Wood, each of them looking past the reporter at the gloomy confines of the gully.

Marilyn gave a nervous titter of laughter, and Brock stared at her with something close to anger.

“This is not a place to laugh. It is not a fun adventure. This is real. I know you have watched the show and decided it must be a game to be played, a short piece of excitement, but I must tell you I have spent the better part of two hours in the valley and it is not the place to think you are safe.” The cameras circling the reporter and family captured Brock’s moment of impromptu honesty.

“What the hell is he doing?” Melissa leaned close to Mark.

“Quiet,” the director held a forestalling hand to Melissa.

Brock gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “In that valley, people died. The exact casualty toll is impossible because the bodies were destroyed.”

“One thousand one hundred and forty-seven,” Dolan said softly.

“…so remember you are walking on a huge grave and treat it with respect. To scoff at the lives lost in that valley is to take a step onto a path of doom.” Brock paused and collected himself, tugging his suit straight, then running a hand through his hair.

Cal glanced at Marilyn and for once found her face set in worry. It was a little late to understand how foolhardy her decision to drag them here was, but at least she was realizing the danger.

“Behind me is the entrance to Windkill.” Brock gave an official voice, the same tone he used at the opening of each show. “In the nineteen forties, it was Deutshwerk. It was a massive factory devoted to the production of munitions used by the allies in the battles of World War Two. Four enormous buildings filled with machinery manufactured the munitions which were then stored in a series of bunkers to await transport by truck and train to the east and west coasts.”

“Windkill employed about a thousand people of the local area who saw the plant as a godsend during the harsh times of the depression. Those people came through this very gate every day on busses driven by army soldiers. Those soldiers guarded this valley in the concrete towers you see behind me. Only these few remain as silent testament to the horror seen on one afternoon.”

A cameraman slid in front of Cal and blocked his view of Brock. It hovered for a moment, then continued down the line of his family. His doubt became a sick knowledge they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. His grandfather would have said someone stepped on his grave. Cal thought it should be someone was digging his grave. This show would not end well.

“During the height of operation, three explosions occurred so closely together that they seemed like one; one enormous explosion that decimated the valley and killed those people in its confines. It was an explosion that destroyed most of the buildings in the valley and toppled all the towers on the valley’s rim. An explosion so large that it blew out the mouth of this gully and destroyed homes on the far side of the road.” Brock pointed past Cal, and the cameras obediently followed his gesture.

Looking back, Cal saw the guards had moved the protesters so the cameras would have an unimpeded view of the highway on the other side of the perimeter fence. The director and his people had moved to one side during Brock’s lecture so they would not be in the picture, but they, too, were looking west.

On the face of the hill beyond the highway, the ruined foundations of three houses stood a stark white on the mellow green of pastureland.

“Only the fence and these towers remain as witness to the events of that day.” Brock drew them back like moths to the flame. “Inside the valley, a few houses remain, as do most of the bunkers and part of a factory building. You will start at separate points in the valley to investigate the location. You will then make your way to the site of the first explosion, where you will receive your next instructions. Pay close attention to the compass and you will not stray from the path.”

“You can not get lost in a physical sense. The valley is one mile wide by two miles long; you need only walk to a rock wall and follow it south to come to the exit of the valley. But in that valley wait over three hundred dead people. They are waiting for you to understand what happened that horrible day. They are waiting for you to tell the world why they died. Do not fail them.”

Closing his mouth, Brock looked at the ground, his hands clasped palm to palm in silent prayer for the dead and the living. After a pause, he looked at Cal, then each member of the family, his eyes locking with their eyes.

“Welcome to ‘Scared to death’.”