January 9th, 1962
I’m compelled to write my thoughts as it will be the only record of my work. My family has abandoned me; my friends pretend to not know my name. Nevertheless, I must persevere. Time is of the essence, and I can’t stand aside.
The truth must be revealed.
Three months ago, I discovered large amounts of money disappearing from the company books. While it’s not odd for sheet metal and rubber to be purchased, the senders were never medical facilities. And we don’t have a branch in Colorado. I had approached my supervisor with this knowledge, and he’d insisted I was mistaken. My wife wanted me to leave it be, but I couldn’t.
As of today, I am unemployed. My whilom employer has made it impossible for me to get a new job. The last straw was this afternoon when I returned to an empty home, a half-hearted note on the fridge. Little else is left for me in Chicago. Whatever I’ve uncovered is trying to bury itself again, and me with it. I must take action if I’m to regain my life.
April 13th, 1962
With great difficulty, I’ve reached Colorado. I ran out of money for gas and so resolved to hitchhike. I’m not fond of strangers and it’s hard to tell who has honest intentions. I’m fairly certain the strange couple with multi-color headbands and torn up clothes were inviting me to an orgy.
But I survived the journey and have something to report.
The address marked on the invoices is a storage facility. The warehouse looms behind wire mesh fencing, lights perpetually on. The gate remains closed until a blank semi rolls up. They stay for no more than an hour then leave. It’s been the same for the last three days.
I’ve managed to go undetected in a makeshift tent in the woods nearby, though I’m quite tempted to kindle a fire during the frigid evenings. The nearby road rarely sees activity, so potentially I could warm myself without giving away my placement. Still, the warehouse guards and their rifles give me trepidation.
My next objective is to find a way inside. Writing this, I realize how mad I sound. But the answers I require are inside. If I can only find documentation of the real purchases, I cou
May 1st, 1962
My last entry was cut short by the cocking of a gun. Life flashing before my eyes, I had wondered why I didn’t listen to my wife. My greatest quality was calculating numbers and remembering names and data, not uncovering grand mysteries. I waited for the inevitable.
Yet it wasn’t to be.
My assailant requested my purpose. The story sounded quite ridiculous as it departed my trembling lips, but thankfully he believed me. John Smith, as he introduced himself, had the same mission: find out what was happening in that warehouse. He had an idea for getting in but needed another man to ensure success.
Against all sanity, I joined him.
I’m quite certain “John Smith” is some form of government operative. Without trepidation, he hijacked an incoming semi and hogtied the poor driver. We took the vehicle down to the gate and provided the proper papers. Once inside, we slipped away under the guise of needing a restroom.
The warehouse is a specialized staging facility. Cages and glass cases line the back wall, some filled with mangy dogs or gerbils. The contents of our truck went into the bulky freezers, crates marked FRAGILE wheeled out of sight.
Our greatest discoveries were upstairs in an office. The owner cared little for organization, paper sticking out of drawers and shelves. Sweat’s beading on my brow at the mere thought of that room and the tense calm of Smith. After dismissing several handwritten diagrams and lengthy essays, I found shipping orders. More than what I’d discovered initially. The animals, multiple chemical compounds, and medical equipment were being forwarded to other facilities across the country.
But the final destination was Texas.
At this point, we heard a sound. People looking for us. Smith hissed under his breath, finger tracing the trigger of his pistol. I memorized the address, and we departed quietly. The men seemed none the wiser. Or perhaps they weren’t paid enough to care.
Whatever the reason, we left the facility without a scratch. We’re now on our way to the final facility, hoping all answers will soon be revealed.
June 25th, 1962
My assumption was accurate. “John Smith” isn’t John Smith.
His name is Kyle.
He whilom served in the US military as an operative. He’s seen Europe and Africa, scuba dived to evade capture and rode horses to traverse deserts. According to him, his fencing teacher suggested he try an alternative route to college. This resulted in secret missions that reporters would dream of taping.
But his identity was compromised. He lost his livelihood and purpose, but not his gifting. Our very endeavor is due to strange messages being transmitted across the radio waves of which he decoded and tracked to Colorado.
He doesn’t put stock in fate, but I truly believe he’s a miracle. I laugh at my initial entry in this journal, thinking I was some super spy who could uncover dastardly plots. The delirium has since worn off, common sense grateful for a 6’0 man who can hotwire cars and shoot a gun. Not that I’ve seen him use the pistol, but surely if he chased terrorists and cartels, he must have some skill.
We’re progressing slowly to our destination. Kyle worries someone is following us, though his skepticism never runs dry. I personally see nothing of note; every sedan and van looks the same. Random sequences and states on every license plate. Nothing out of the
4GY 55T
June 27th, 1962
Drats. It’s the same plate. Why is it following us?
Kyle seems perturbed by my scribbling, but I have nothing else to do. The sound of my pen is the only thing keeping my heart from bursting. If I write faster, I won’t look in the side mirror. At that horrid blue sedan with a chip in its front bumper. The men don’t seem familiar.
Don’t look! What am I thinking? Just keep writing. But what?
Mmmmmmmmmmm
Pumpernickel bread. Yams. Buildings. My shoes. Not my shoes; the soles are barely holding on. I should’ve brought another pair but I didn’t expect
Was that gunfire? Are they shooting at us? Be firecrackers or a loud engin
July 1st, 1962
What am I doing with my sad life?
The sedan passengers did in fact shoot at us. Kyle had seen them long before; when he’d found an opportunity to lead them away from civilians, he did. His gun prowess was quite impressive, though he couldn’t steer at the same time. I dropped my notebook to take the wheel.
It was quite thrilling until I got shot. I’m certain I would’ve died if not for Kyle bandaging my arm in time. Though I believe he’s misdiagnosing; this hurts an awful lot for a flesh wound.
My near-death experience has revealed some horrible truths: I’ve done very little with my life. My gravestone shall mark me as a failed man. My memorial service will be marred by empty pews. I will leave this world without an impact.
I thought this journey would help me regain my life, but I now believe it will snuff it out for good. I don’t see a way out other than death.
July 5th, 1962
Kyle has gone. I’m not sure what to do.
From my vantage point, I can see through the glass barriers set up around the facility. Several doctors, or doctor-looking people, move around inside. Howling vibrates the panes. They seem to be injecting something into the dogs, but I can’t see what or why. Maybe the documents on the desk know.
So far no alarms. I’m finding invoices, scientific studies.
“controlled genetic mutation on dogs” “results 57% conclusive” “trained werewolves”
How do you train a werewolf? And aren’t werewolves men?
I think someone discovered me. Where’s Kyle?
Margaret, if you somehow come upon my notebook, I want to apologize. I should’ve ignored the discrepancies. I just wanted to do the right thing. But here I am, cowering in an office overlooking a mad science lab and contemplating taking up this coat rack and bashing in the head of whoever walks in. That’s perhaps a better idea than writing an apology you’ll never see.
Then again, perhaps you will.
January 9th, 1964
How strange that I want to apologize to a ratty old book. I quite forgot that you were left in my back pocket. I guess the best apology is to chronicle the end.
My former employer was funding research into a genetic weapon: werewolves. Kyle has since joked that they saw too many monster films, but I’m under the belief that such a weapon is ingenious. It’s so unbelievable that no one would think of it.
In my moment of fear, I’d decided to act. The coat rack was a means to an end; once the guard fell cold, I took his gun. With my mind a little clearer, I traversed the facility carefully. My objective was to disrupt some function of the lab area so the compounds would be destroyed. Based on the documentation in the main office, I deduced that the filtration system was the most vulnerable.
Kyle met me halfway. He’d contacted some old friends for support. We took out the filtration system via the piping. Lots of smoke and flashing lights. Thankfully no werewolves.
The facility employees were arrested, their experiments destroyed.
As for me, I got a new job. Kyle’s adventurous life of exploring the world and evading danger is mine. Months of training became a year of operations beside my now best friend. I wouldn’t have imagined such a story would be my life, but so it is.
I guess this isn’t much of an ending. But life rarely has such neat bows.