Susan spent much of the next two hours looking at the mostly invisible evidence at the event field. When she finally saw the visible evidence- she found that she wished that she hadn't. To put it in basic English, it amounted to green, yellow bile like what you spit up when one is very ill with a respiratory infection. She decided a short walk outside the event area would be better.
The sun was coming up and she stopped by one of the lab trucks to catch her breath.
"I never imagined something like this happening less than 25 miles from where I was born."
Susan looked around to find the Marine from the SUV lounging against a stack of plastic crates.
"You are from around here?' She asked.
He shrugged, took a sip of something that smelled like coffee and then pointed over to his right, south-south east.
"I was born and raised down in a holler near here."
"What is a "holler?" she managed a smile.
He straightened. She made note that he was pretty good looking like most Marines she had met over the course of her dealings with the General. Most men who wore uniforms and were in peak shape tended to be.
He sighed.
"Sorry Ma'am, I forget that if you aren't from the South, there are terms we use that no one else does."
"It's Susan, not Ma'am." She said
"Not sure I can call you that." He said even as the smile crept across his face. "A Holler is a hollow which usually can be a dip in the land or a gap in a hill. These days with all the development, the holler itself is long gone and only the name remains."
"Like Sleepy Hollow?"
"Don't know that one, Ma'am."
She almost replied with the headless horseman but decided against it.
He stood up and bent down and picked up a flask.
"Coffee?"
"Yes, thanks."
He handed her a cup- the lid cup from the flask and poured the black coffee into it, the steam rising into the growing light.
"Looks like they will be combing this site for days." She said then decided that stating the obvious was about as dumb a line as she had ever come up with.
"The locals are going to hate it." He said. The sunlight hit him as it does in the morning and she could see his name tag on his fatigues. Wilson and the other military Abbreviations that always escaped her.
"Speaking of which...." Wilson trailed off as he began looking at something to the right.
She turned to look where he was looking.
A squad of Marines were escorting a rather rumpled man through the tent camp.
"Do you know him?" She asked.
"Yes, it's Floyd Wilkinson- the town drunk- well one of the 50 or so."
She stared at him (probably agape).
Wilson glanced at her then shrugged, he looked embarrassed.
"I was a Deputy Sheriff before I enlisted, so I got to know all of them sots before I left."
"Wow."
"I know. There are other words that come to mind."
"I know, like FUCK."
"Wow. Why is that one of them?"
"Because Floyd may be our only eyewitness to the event."
"So what you are saying is that this is going to become another Roswell Incident."
"Looks like it."
"Fuck."
"I know."
The sun was coming up and she stopped by one of the lab trucks to catch her breath.
"I never imagined something like this happening less than 25 miles from where I was born."
Susan looked around to find the Marine from the SUV lounging against a stack of plastic crates.
"You are from around here?' She asked.
He shrugged, took a sip of something that smelled like coffee and then pointed over to his right, south-south east.
"I was born and raised down in a holler near here."
"What is a "holler?" she managed a smile.
He straightened. She made note that he was pretty good looking like most Marines she had met over the course of her dealings with the General. Most men who wore uniforms and were in peak shape tended to be.
He sighed.
"Sorry Ma'am, I forget that if you aren't from the South, there are terms we use that no one else does."
"It's Susan, not Ma'am." She said
"Not sure I can call you that." He said even as the smile crept across his face. "A Holler is a hollow which usually can be a dip in the land or a gap in a hill. These days with all the development, the holler itself is long gone and only the name remains."
"Like Sleepy Hollow?"
"Don't know that one, Ma'am."
She almost replied with the headless horseman but decided against it.
He stood up and bent down and picked up a flask.
"Coffee?"
"Yes, thanks."
He handed her a cup- the lid cup from the flask and poured the black coffee into it, the steam rising into the growing light.
"Looks like they will be combing this site for days." She said then decided that stating the obvious was about as dumb a line as she had ever come up with.
"The locals are going to hate it." He said. The sunlight hit him as it does in the morning and she could see his name tag on his fatigues. Wilson and the other military Abbreviations that always escaped her.
"Speaking of which...." Wilson trailed off as he began looking at something to the right.
She turned to look where he was looking.
A squad of Marines were escorting a rather rumpled man through the tent camp.
"Do you know him?" She asked.
"Yes, it's Floyd Wilkinson- the town drunk- well one of the 50 or so."
She stared at him (probably agape).
Wilson glanced at her then shrugged, he looked embarrassed.
"I was a Deputy Sheriff before I enlisted, so I got to know all of them sots before I left."
"Wow."
"I know. There are other words that come to mind."
"I know, like FUCK."
"Wow. Why is that one of them?"
"Because Floyd may be our only eyewitness to the event."
"So what you are saying is that this is going to become another Roswell Incident."
"Looks like it."
"Fuck."
"I know."
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