have something useful. I don’t think we’ll find much here...” Ward looked at a distant brick structure on a low hill, back behind where the house had stood. “What is that?”
“Looks like a walled garden, sir,” Buchanan said, squinting his eyes.
“It’s the only thing standing. Might as well check it out. We’re not going to find anything in this rubble.” Ward led the way around the foundation of the house and on through the torched remains of what might have been an orchard or a stand of decorative trees. Large slabs of dark gray granite led up the hill to a tall wrought-iron gate, which stood wide open. They had to step high, as if the stairs were meant for larger beings than humans. They reminded Ward of old megalithic structures he’d seen on the History Channel, where some moron was always claiming Stonehenge was built by aliens.
If extraterrestrials were visiting the planet, Ward’s agency would have known about it. The Anomalous Strategic Threat Research and Intelligence Agency (ASTRIA) was not known to the public. Their mission, dating back to the Eisenhower administration, had generally been to focus on “unknown unknowns,” in the words of a more recent Secretary of Defense. Originally founded in response to reports that the Soviet Union was investigating the use of psychics for intelligence-gathering and other strategic purposes, ASTRIA had looked into matters ranging from the supernatural to the extraterrestrial...almost never finding anything of importance to national security. Almost.
They walked through the open gate. Inside, there tall blocks of dark granite, arranged in rows, many of them inscribed with names but not dates. Each row had a generation of people named JONATHAN SETH BARRETT, followed by a Roman numeral. The most recent date that had been carved belong to the boy for whom they were searching: JONATHAN SETH BARRETT IV. It had a birth year, but no death year. Next to it was CARTER MAYFIELD BARRETT, born a few years before Seth, dead at the age of fourteen.
“What is this place?” Ward muttered.
“Looks like a graveyard, sir,” Avery replied.
“I can see that. Looks like a graveyard for generations of people who haven’t been born yet. Fucking rich weirdos,” Ward muttered.
The earth in front of Carter’s grave was churned up like something had dug its way in or out. As Ward continued walking, he saw all of the graves with death dates were like that.
“What the hell happened here?” Ward asked. “Don’t see why Homeland Security would dig up all these graves.”
“Maybe they didn’t, sir,” Buchanan said. “It could be like the security video from the morgue in Charleston. The walking dead, sir.”
“The walking dead.” Ward frowned. They even had the “zombie master” on video, for what it was worth. A grainy image of a tall guy in dark sunglasses with longish hair. “How many paranormals are we talking about now? The little diseased girl, the healing rich kid, and some zombie master guy? I believe we have stepped into some shit here, gentlemen.” One of the dark granite slabs near the back was labeled JONATHAN SETH BARRETT. “This must have been a hell of a guy, this first Jonathan Seth Barrett. They planned to name unborn generations after him. What kind of freaks are we dealing with?”
Buchanan wore a thoughtful look. Avery blew his nose into a handkerchief.
“Getting a cold, Avery?” Ward asked.
“Must be allergies, sir.” Avery wiped his eyes.
“Get it together, Avery,” Ward said. He looked around the churned-up graveyard one more time. “There’s nothing for us here. Let’s move on to the next objective.”
They returned to their black Chrysler 300C sedan, which was modified with armored plates inside the body panels and bulletproof glass for the windows. It was faster and quieter than when it had arrived from the factory, and loaded with heavily encrypted communications equipment that was a bit more advanced than what was available on the open market. Despite all this, it looked like a perfectly normal car, at least to the casual observer.
They crossed through the decaying, boarded-up town. The largest remaining employer in the area, Winder Timber Processing, had shut down a year earlier. It had belonged to the mayor of Fallen Oak, who had died along with his wife and daughter the day little Jenny decided to kill a crowd of people. The records showed Mayor Winder’s relatives had inherited the business, taken one look at the books, and closed it down and sold off the machinery. Fallen Oak’s population was shrinking rapidly now. Ward doubted if