Windkill

The truck, of a vintage long since discontinued, slowed to a stop with a squeal of the brakes. Brock had seen that style of truck in hundreds of war movies and knew it was commonly called a deuce and a half. It stood tall and ominous while the reporter and his friends waited for the occupants of the truck to make the first move.

They did not have long to wait. Canvas at the rear of the truck pushed aide and men jumped from the bed to the road. Each man checked his gear, then walked to stand in front of the truck, forming a line across the road. Despite the antiquated nature of their equipment, the weapons the men carried seemed lethal enough to do the job. To a silent command, the ghosts raised the weapons and aimed at the men standing at the entrance to the draw.

A scuffle to his left told Brock that Dolan had restrained Anthony. It did not take a genius to understand why the effect man had tried to run. While the weapons looked solid, the men standing in front of the truck were transparent.

“Are you filming this?” he whispered to Paulie without turning his head.

“Yes.” the reply was so soft Brock had to strain to hear the cameraman. “I just hope they don’t think this camera is a cannon.”

“Stay on them,” Paulie heard Mark order over the receiver.

Before the cameraman could reply, the front passenger door of the truck opened, and a man climbed out of the vehicle. Its form blocked the light as he passed the front of the truck and circled around the rear of the formation.

“Aw shit,” Paulie said aloud and lowered his camera. “Brock, Melissa says the girl fell off the bridge.”

The reporter turned away from the ghosts and looked at Paulie. The smaller man was grim while he listened to cross traffic of Mark and Melissa arguing. “How bad is she?”

The argument was going full swing as Mark, determined to have the ghosts filmed, kept telling Melissa to shut up and the assistant director tried to tell Brock to hurry to the girl. “Both of you shut up,” Paulie snapped, satisfied by the shocked silence from the director’s trailer. “How bad is the girl?”

“Paulie,” Dolan said from a few feet away as he pulled Anthony back to the group.

His head bowed and hand on the ear with the receiver, Paulie looked up into the eyes of the ghost. His heart lurched as Paulie realized he had gained the undivided attention of the specter.

The officer looked at the cameraman with interest; his dark hair oiled neatly back, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He reached to Paulie’s ear and removed the receiver, then held the device to his own ear. The ghost’s expression did not change as it listened to the resumption of the argument between Mark and Melissa, both of them attempting to make the news men do their bidding.

A corner of the officer’s mouth turned up in a grin. Then it handed the receiver back to Paulie and bent to look at the camera. Looking to his right, Paulie could see Brock gesturing for him to raise the camera. With a groan, the cameraman raised the camera and held it pointed towards the ghost.

Not threatened by the technology, the ghost continued to study the camera until satisfied. It stepped away from Paulie without concern and moved to Dolan.

The psychic stood still and waited with Anthony firmly in his grip. The Englishman looked like he wanted to be on a different planet, but he held his ground as the ghost came close and faced Dolan.

Dolan thought he understood what was happening, suspected he was under the scrutiny of the men who performed security for the valley while it was in operation. It took no leap of imagination to believe the men might still take their job seriously. That would explain why their bodies were incomplete while the guns were very substantial.

“There is a woman hurt in there,” Dolan said calmly while trying to picture the Ottinger daughter in his mind.

The officer tilted his head in surprise.

“She fell off the bridge,” the psychic added and pointed toward the structure.

The ghost bowed his head and knuckled his chin as he rocked on his heels.