The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 1: Project LARS (Part 3 of 6)

The morning had been going well.  There was hot water. 

The shower blistered across R.J. Blass's shoulders.  The warmth of it heated the icy tiles and took the chill out of the air.  The slow thrumming of the jets against his skin made him reluctant to get out.  Here was a moment of absolute peace and comfort.

When he finally stepped out, the cold clawed its way back into the bathroom.  He hastily dried the rapidly cooling droplets from his body and then used the towel to wipe the steam off the mirror.

R.J. hummed a tuneless song, passing a razor over his face.  There was more white than black in the stubble he took off.  Each rinse of the blade sent more of the gray whiskers down the sink and gave him a chance to forget about them until the next day.

He was just finishing getting dressed when the pleasant repetitiveness of his morning was shattered by a hammering on the aluminum storm door, like an unenthusiastic woodpecker on a tin roof.  R.J. reluctantly crossed his small apartment, buttoning up his shirt.

The small window in the door revealed a man sniffing the air, with a look of disgust on his face.  He was dressed for a polar expedition.  The hood of his giant parka was pulled back revealing sandy brown hair.  The gel in it marked the passage of a comb, like striations in a rock formation.

Great.  Some missionary from the lower forty-eight here to convert us heathens, R.J. thought.

The guy must be broiling in that getup.  Didn't anybody tell him that April on the coast didn't require the Nanook of the North outfit?  The temperature outside was hovering above freezing.  The gray sky over the harbor hinted at rain later that day, not snow.

He cracked open the front door and yelled through the storm door.  "Sorry, not interested." 

"Mr. Blass?  Mr. Reginald Blass?"     

"It's R.J.," he said automatically before his whole name could be spoken.

"R.J. Blass, I am Agent Maxwell Wiley with DTAA."  He held his badge up against the glass.  "May I come in?"

R.J. stepped out and pushed the door just wide enough to take hold of the man's badge.  He pulled it in for a closer look.  Agent Wiley didn't resist, but he didn't loosen his grip on the wallet either.  His nose wrinkled again at the fish smell. 

The odor was a constant presence in Dutch Harbor and took a while to get used to.  R.J. didn't even notice it anymore.  It was an easy way to spot a newcomer.

"I never heard of the Domestic Threat Assessment Agency before.  Did you make that thing yourself?"

"We are a sub-branch of Homeland Security.  Have you heard of them?"

He let the badge go.  "Sure I have.  But that looks like it came off a forty dollar printer."

"I can give you the number of the field office in Juno if you would like to verify my credentials."  Agent Wiley smiled, his teeth somehow catching a glint of unseen morning sunshine.  "Or if you prefer, we could hold this meeting there." 

It was a pretty unvarnished threat.  R.J. wondered how that would go down: would the agent show up at the plant with a couple of uniformed officers?  Szymanski would love that.  It would be one more bullet in the man's gun.  He might not be able to fire him for being brought in for questioning, but he would never let R.J. live it down.

That was of course if the guy was actually a federal agent and not some kind of freak. He looked doughy and fairly harmless.  If things went bad R.J. figured he could always toss him out.