A silent engine’s azure glow spiraled dust along a dry, rusty riverbed, illuminated a rickety bridge, and shot into the late-afternoon sky. Inside the object, like a helicopter without rotors, US Army Special Operations Commander “Linebacker” glanced up from his tablet. With a nod to his pilot, the Government’s clandestine exercise, operation “Game Day,” began. For the first time in the wild, civilians would suffer military techniques and equipment so-far unknown to the human psyche.

All held tight to their seats with the rapid rise of this semi-visible craft were the remaining aircrew– a Space Force copilot, a middle-aged heavyset man in a beige suit, and a willowy young woman in a lab coat. To observe the following minutes, the vehicle perched high above the tiny Western desert town of Red Fork River; incorporated population, twenty-one souls.

Few buildings made up the bones of a Main Street: an old church, some dive bar called Open Cap, a cluster of ranch style homes, a “business center,” and the ramshackle Sheriff’s station.

Standing window-side with frigid air blowing from a rattling air conditioner, Sheriff Eli Tillman switched the Station’s cordless phone from his right to left ear. A drawer opened, filled with printer paper, multicolored Sharpies, and a cellphone– its battery warm to the touch. On any other day, the Sheriff would be using the device to make this call, but the overheated power source was worrying– he wondered whether it was a simple malfunction, or part of something… more sinister, as he had begun to suspect.

“Bill, you gotta be kidding me,” Tillman’s raspy voice pitched.

The State’s Chief of Staff, Bill Grumman, sighed, “Sorry, Eli, but the Governor personally delivered the message– there’s nothing more we can do this week. That fire… well, the damage is far more extensive than our initial assessment. It’ll be at least another forty-eight to seventy-two hours before I’ll have any definitive answers. And for God’s sake, keep those fingers crossed. Pray no one needs a medevac– they cost a fortune! My friend, just keep faith. It won’t be another week I promise, we promise! And with the good Lord’s help, emergency services and deliveries should be cleared by Monday.”

“And Mike?”

The Chief of Staff strained his voice, “The Tanner’s order? Tell him we couldn’t find a workaround, Eli. He’ll have to hold tight.”

Red Fork River sits near the head of a cul-de-sac-shaped gorge carved from the southwestern American Cordillera, with a single State access road– Red Fork River Route 1. At the other end of the valley, where surrounding mountains rim an abandoned uranium mine, three contributaries feed the facility’s water supply, stored behind an aging dam. Runoff from the dam snakes through the valley under the town’s only bridge– while an occasional storm might flood the river, damage to the bridge is rare, and access to Route 1 has only been denied twice in the town’s history.

Nine days ago, a third event severed Red Fork from the world. A tanker truck sent to refill Mike Tanner’s single-pump gas station had “inexplicably” lost control, jack-knifed, and flipped over attempting to exit onto Route 1. Luckily, the driver had escaped with minor injuries before an explosion rocked the area, and immediately shut down the ramp.

Over the last week, Eli and Bill had tag-teamed the road contractor, Kelly-Grade Inc., a subsidiary of Meta Dynamics Group, in an attempt to pin down a definitive repair schedule. What neither man knew, however, was that Linebacker had personally overseen the tanker’s successful sabotage, isolating the small town and ensuring that the Governor would continue to receive endless “delays.” As these two government men coordinated on the phone, the ramp had already been repaired, and would reopen to a long line of unmarked semi trucks at Linebacker’s signal.

After a long pause, the Sheriff asked, “Bill… will it, you know, be a few more days?”

“Who knows when we’ll have another rig out there. I only know it won’t be this weekend… something about the concrete order? I dunno, never had so many problems getting answers outta someone. I can’t tell if these guys are lying to me or just incompetent,” and Mr. Grumman finally exhaled.

“Ahhh, probably both. Looks like neither of us has made any headway. Well, okay then, thanks for the update.”

For the last time in his long career as Sheriff, the burly man hung up the office phone. Slamming a sheet of paper on his cluttered desk, he filled it with fat, red Sharpie:

“Governor ON IT, 1 or 2 days MAXIMUM. Remember: don’t use 9-1-1! If you have an emergency, call the station, or my cell– Sheriff T.”

With thumbtacks in-hand, Eli crossed the street, and posted the note on the church’s Community Board just beside Red Fork River Graveyard and Mausoleum. Taking a deep breath, he stared longingly at Open Cap. He needed a drink, and a few words with the bartender, before his interview with a young man named Manuel Salamanca. The number of strange events in his jurisdiction had multiplied out of control as of late, and this teenager claimed to have valuable insights for the Sheriff.

Anyone who might’ve escaped the desolate community years ago was scattered to the winds with the uranium mine closure, and only the most “loyal” residents were left. The few remaining structures that constituted the outskirts of Red Fork dotted the land like dry brush. When landlords Diane and Mike Tanner lost their last tenant to a nursing home, they’d converted their duplex into the town’s “business center,” meaning the community had options other than getting drunk or going to church on weekends. The right side of the duplex housed Mike Tanner’s Hometown Eatery, Home Improvement Center, and Certified Auto Parts Outlet; next door, Diane Tanner’s Beauty Parlor, All-Day Spa, and Dance Studio.

Just up the road from the business center, Manuel waited at home for his best friend Devin Jones. For what felt like the thousandth time this week, the Internet was down, and the only entertainment available would have to be captured on his mother’s new smart TV through a pair of rabbit ears. While he waited, he watched an episode of some rerun he couldn’t quite place.

Though the shadows outside were growing long under the late afternoon sun, any outdoor activity in Red Fork was still inadvisable, and like every other Summer day, that evening was deliriously slow. The Tanner’s mid-sized pump had been empty for days, leaving only the Sheriff’s cruiser and two five-gallon cans in its trunk with any gas.

Mr. Jones, dressed in cargo pants, marched along Main Street– outside of Route 1, the only paved road with a centerline. Each window framed the zombie faces of his neighbors staring at the same, vaguely familiar show he’d been watching before leaving his house. Approaching Diane Tanner’s, he jogged onto the duplex’s wooden deck, and peered into the first window.

In a scene lit solely by television, Diane sat next to Phyllis, a close friend and loyal customer. The women’s voices intensely argued when a drape of silence fell over both in unison. Their eyes locked. Finally, Diane violently shook her head, stood, and jabbed a finger at the screen. Phyllis harrumphed, and crossed her arms. Although each woman had their own, vague idea of the show’s name, both were certain the other’s was dead wrong.

Neither the red Chuck-Ts Devin’s cousin had “bequeathed” him for his fifteenth birthday, nor the Iron Maiden’s Stranger In A Strange Land official t-shirt his dad had traded him, fit his goofy expression. A flickering reflection from eyes inside the parlor hypnotized with a mental image Manuel had recently put in the blond teen’s head: a dead calf half-buried in the valley’s red sand. An intense blast from the TV put him on his heels, nearly toppling his backside onto the log bench under the second window, advertising an array of newly arrived nail-polish colors.

The two women shaded their faces, the screen shut off, and they stared like circling dogs in a fighting ring. After blinking away the retinal spots from the TV’s bright blast, each quaked and shuddered in turn. Devin’s muffled laughter echoed from the front window, and Diane waved at the young man. With his departure, the women fell giggling into each other’s arms.

The townsfolk’s strange behavior had only just begun, although its final reach would eventually disturb even the most hardened military man in that craft above. On any given day, that teenager should be filled with angst, while those two ladies had never argued over so much as a single nominee for the Academy Awards, let alone the name of a half-forgotten sitcom.