The Pilot (1)

 

The Pilot

Chapter One:

Hans Schimmelpok and Clancy Blankets were daydreaming. One day, they thought in unison, they would have their own agency. Modern private investigators extraordinaire. Currently on their way to the bank, they imagined stopping a runaway madman and reclaiming large canvas bags with dollar signs on the front. Maybe then they could reclaim the ashes of their dreams from their currently relegated, unknowingly discontented roles. For now, they were running an errand for their boss. Their rusty Impala sputtered in the wind.

Down the road, climbing above the horizon, sat the Sky Arrow. It was a cheesy tourist attraction, promising a view to the stars and above. They had visited it years ago on a class trip. Clancy, going through a pirate phase, brought a spyglass. Peering zoomed on city streets below, they realised then and there it would become where they observed the happenings of vast and dense lands. 

They reached the bank. There was, as expected, no burglarizing taking place. They did some bank bureaucracy. It was boring, but so were most of the errands their boss sent them on. 

They worked two dozen miles south of their imagined headquarters, at the Foxtrot. Having just returned from the bank and turning on their computers, their boss, a cantankerous man dubiously dubbed Pistol Pete, walked in. Leering from the doorway, which he took up most of, he hung a hand in his waistband, and took a draw of his non-cuban cigar, “Back from lunch huh, took you two long enough.”

Hans squirmed. Clancy spoke up, “You sent us on an err-” 

He was cut off. Pistol Pete apparently had a limited amount of time budgeted for the two. “No excuses, it's coming out of your paychecks.” he chuckled, but Hans and Clancy weren’t sure he was joking. He heard a siren passing outside and was reminded that his visit was not purely for torment. “Alright dimwits, there’s been a crash halfway up fifth street, now get your asses over there and give me a fifth-page writeup on who skinned the cat and why speed limits are out of control. Too high or too low I don’t care, whatever’s easier for you numskulls to  argue.”

He took a scratch at his vast stubble and blew smoke wherever he pleased, “I want it in by noon tomorrow. And don’t forget you two are still on for that piece on the exploding fox population, the environmentalists will eat that up.” He took a drag and laughed in a way only a bastard could. He left without saying goodbye. A gun swayed with his step, hanging from the rear of his waistband, probably regretting its choices in life.

Recently, eyewitness reports had been popping up about unusually high and dense fox sightings on the outskirts of town. Their current investigation was to figure out why.

As the wise among us could have guessed, Hans and Clancy were not quite detectives. The best way to  describe their role was that they were fifth-responders. Not that there’s any shame in the word journalist, there is indeed shame in the manner of journalism that our set of doubled-up sidekicks conduct. By the time they arrived at the scene of the crash, the only traffic present was due to poor urban planning.

Car story set aside, one task remained: The mystery of the foxes. To the consternation of local landowners and the fascination of local children, foxes had appeared everywhere overnight. All with sleek red fur, and eyes that pierced the night. Hans and Clancy had put on their best Sherlock and Watson accents to try and find the origin of the exonerated animals. Hans brought his trusty camera everywhere, but unsurprisingly the foxes were in no hurry to be photographed. Clancy had more success, and a few locals on western edge of town tipped him off that the foxes seemed to line the roads to the ocean. 

Being on the West coast, Hans and Clancy often enjoyed their view of the Pacific while they worked. Being on the West coast, there was a fairly odd selection of late-night spots for writing about foxes. They had only seen a few, sparse foxes on the ride over, and had decided to focus on the written portion of their assignment for the time being. 

Clancy and Hans found themselves at Naans Diner, a convoluted fusion of latent India and lulling Americana. Appending the diner’s confusing continued existence, it existed at the top of a particularly forested and scenic hill, the sunset-painted waves peeking through the parking lot. Hans and Clancy gave up on ordering food (what kind of diner didn't serve plain bacon and eggs?) and settled for spiced coffee to supplement their writing. All other diner patrons segued to bedtime as the sky fast-approached the blackest segment of night.

Wrapping up their words, they had realised in their efforts to knock ol’ Pistol Pete’s socks off they had forgotten to take a photograph for story accompaniment. Leaving the diner absent of both food and productive work took their morale to the bottom of the hill which the diner crested. It was there they spotted a sleek and indifferent fox. It was only one, but they’d take anything at this point.

Hans spoke in a whisper, “Hey man, I think we’ve got an angel on our shoulders, I think that’s a fox,”

“Nice eyes Hans, you make ‘em yourself? Of course it’s a fox, let’s be discreet and you can cover your ass with a wicked night shot.” 

In their attempt at silence and cohesion, they both took a slow step forward while focusing strictly on the sly beast 20 feet in front of them. Even that proved to be too much for them, however, and Clancy stepped on Hans’ toes. Hans yelped, and as the fox inevitably ran off, he righted himself for redemption. In one smooth move, he flicked the flash open on his camera and attempted a Hail Mary shot. He might have caught the final wisps of a tail whipping around a bush. He wouldn’t have the chance to check.

In the bursted light of flash photography, something strange became very apparent. In front of Hans and Clancy, hundreds of slit eyes lay. Surrendered again to the night, a check of the camera revealed that something was indeed very askew. “Clance, tell me we don’t have to go forward.” 

“If these are foxes, I think we might be able to salvage our jobs. If not, I think our hides are toast in any one of about five ways.”

Hans, keeping the camera’s viewfinder glued to his eye, using it almost as a shield, pressed forward into the thicket. Clancy, using Hans very much as a shield, followed. As they waded deeper into the bramble, they wondered if the eyes were simply a trick of the light. A slow breeze twitched their hair, it being on end and all. 

At last, Hans pressed his cocked finger. The flash went. Eyes and fur beamed back at them. This was no trick of the light. Spiralling deeper into the woods, Clancy and Hans took picture after picture of the spectacle that presented itself seemingly endlessly to them. The breeze took on a roaring quality, enthralling the duo. 

“Was this called for in the weather Hans?” 

“I didn’t check, you know how mad Pistol Pete gets at the thought of supporting other forms of news.” 

“You listened to that rant? Jeez, didn’t know you were such a suck-“ Clancy was interrupted by what his eyes told him he was seeing. While they were talking, Hans had continued to photograph the unnatural abundance. Sitting perfectly still, the foxes’ hair pulled with the gusts, towards a central point directly before the camera. Encompassing this point is what could only be described as a void. Or a window. It could be imagined a portrait of the universe from above. A circle about 6 feet across, it seemed to exist as temptation incarnate. 

Hans’ jaw didn’t drop so much as whip open. Clancy had stars in his eyes, this was going to be their big break. In the rapid and vacuous glut of air escaping past their selves towards this, well, thing, they turned to each other burning with energy. They clamoured to ask each other important questions. Neither could hear. 

Hans took a step forward, no longer able to hold his weight from the void. He was pulled in, his last action to throw the camera at Clancy, hoping the final flash image of this calamity could be saved. The kind man Clancy is, he reached in to save Hans, before being sucked into the void himself. The camera never crossed his mind.

Hans found himself on a stack of papers. Looking around the dark room, he thought he recognized the musky smell. He got up unsteadily and fought with his balance to stumble along the wall. Finally finding the switch, he flicked the lights on to find that he was in his boss’ office. In fact, Pistol Pete was sitting there, sneer on face and phone clutched tightly to chest. 

He stared Hans up and down, glanced around the room, and coughed huskily. The phone was placed on its rocker immediately. “I was, err, finishing that crash article, speed limit critique, the one you and your chuckleheaded partner probably didn’t start.” Hans looked around. Pistol Pete scrunched his face. “How long’ve you been here?” 

Hans didn’t immediately answer, instead flipping through the only folder in arms reach. “I was just looking for this file, just got here, will be leaving now, goodnight sir, um, boss.” Hans grabbed the busiest looking paper in the folder, gave a salute, hated himself for it, and left. He hoped the camera had reached Clancy.

It hadn’t. Clancy wouldn’t have noticed anyways. He thought he had died briefly, before his eyes adjusted to the light. It was daytime. Bright, hot, day. Too hot. Clancy unbuttoned his shirt, and fell to his knees, off-kilter. He was slipping down sand.