“The Blue Hills Dam”

by Cosimo Greco

Grey. Ominously green-grey. Or perhaps the greenish tint was only in the eye of the beholder, the result of a sort of prior understanding of how the crisp surface reflected in the daylight. The dam that held back the coiling rage of the Sippewan River was the only man-made construction within several miles. It was surrounded on all sides by the slopes of the Blue Hills. These hills were steep and uninviting, and quite surprisingly, considering their blunt name, no such hue could with any ease be found upon them. Instead, their evergreens were, much like the dam, colored green-grey. Uninviting green-grey. Here and there, smoke could be seen trailing upwards from the thick woods covering them. The people who lived out here were of the kind who preferred to keep to themselves, and who equally preferred it if you would return the favor.

On this particular night, a figure could be found deep within the confines of the great structure called The Blue Hills Dam. It tried its utmost to keep to itself. The shadowy figure’s whistling was drowned out by the sound of the turbines, a fact which did not seem to bother it much. This dark creature was dressed, as one might expect for this kind of surreptitious activity, in black—from head to toe. The soles of its shoes were as soft as riverbed grass on a wet spring morning. They had allowed it to glide past the underpaid and overqualified security guard in the moonless and windy September night without much effort. Its pants were wide and thin, and they as well kept quiet as it ran the last stretch underneath the bright spotlights, scurrying over metal handrails in a race to reach the door that was closing behind the apathetic guard. As a belt it had used an old scarf, which also wrapped around the bottom part of the turtleneck that covered its upper part. The balaclava was of the kind where there is only a single hole for both eyes, but it had pulled it up onto its nose ridge, and so only a small slit showed the mélange of colors that made up its eyes. Just above them, its unkempt, grey eyebrows bulged behind the dark fabric. With intervals, gloved hands were disappearing into a backpack, pulling out explosives and setting timers. Carefully and methodically, moving like a smooth mongoose, it placed the devices on the weakest parts of the machines. Sometimes it would stop in the middle of a plant to smell the fumes. This was always followed by a short giggle. And then the whistling resumed.

Up above, the guard had reached the gate over by the Supervisor’s Office. It was empty at this time of night, but someone had left a desk lamp on, and fire-prevention was part of the guard’s job description, so he put his smartphone away and reached for the keys attached to his belt. He got it right on the fourth attempt. Office was a bit of a glorification, he thought as he entered. In reality, it was more of a mobile home that, although neatly kept, had seen better days. He turned off the lamp and sighed. Without the light on he could now see that a dark sedan had pulled up outside the gate. He squinted. Behind the mesh, he could clearly make out the outline of a man in a suit. The headlights behind the man made it impossible to make out any further features. The guard spat out his dip into the bin by the desk. No good news ever came after midnight. Slowly, he made his way out again, careful to lock the door behind him. While he walked the short distance, he pulled out his can again. This new pinch was larger than his usual ones, as if he wanted to demonstrate his hatred of everything about this particular situation by stretching his bottom lip as far as it could go.

Detective Dramer Crower spoke in a soft, humming voice: “Evening, Sir. I’m Detective Crower of the Loganville Police Department.”

He held up his shield.

“Evening, Detective. What might I help y’all with?”

“I got an anonymous tip that someone might want to break into your facility tonight.”

“Sounds serious. We talking terrorists?” said the guard with the slightest hint of mockery.

Detective Crower smiled, showing a perfect row of gleaming teeth set in a boyish smile. “Hardly,” he said. “More like bored teenagers.”

“I see.”

“Do you mind if we take a look?”

“Not at all. Could always use the company,” the guard replied, but didn’t look like he meant what he said.

He buzzed the gate open. Detective Crower stepped through.

“Is your partner coming?” asked the guard while motioning towards the car.

“Nah, just me for now. A quick tour, I’m afraid.”

“As you wish.”

They walked in silence, the guard obviously trying his best to think of something interesting to say.

“You notice anything suspicious recently?” Crower said to ease the tension.

The guard shrugged. “No. Nothing ever happens out here. Been here two years now. Ne’er so much as seen a fish jump.”

“I see.”

“I just swept the perimeter. If you want, we can check the interior, but no one gets in or out without setting off a sabotage alarm.”

“Might as well. Here, take my card as well. In case something funny happens later on in the night.”

Detective Crower handed him his card. A sudden look on his face materialized in the process that to the unaccustomed eye might be mistaken for a sudden onset of boredom.

“Thanks,” said the guard, pocketing it without looking at it.

“That anonymous tipster of yours say anythin’ else?”

“Nope. Afraid not.”

Another shrug.

The guard drew his keycard in the reader and entered his pin. The heavy metal door opened with a click.

“Who else has access here?”

“Maintenance, engineers, my colleagues, several folks from the city, I dunno. Lots.”

“Aight.”

The lighting was low as they descended down into the facility. Detective Crower closed his left eye to help increase the rate in which his night vision would develop. The interior was Spartan, to say the least. Not so much as a painting to lighten the monotony of beige and grey. The guard mumbled a hurried description of the dam’s daily activity, which Crower did not listen to. Instead, he discarded his chewing gum into a napkin and placed it in his pocket. The guard opened more doors as they traversed footbridges and spun down spiral staircases. The detective ran his gaze across shadows wherever he found them. His bored companion let his flashlight slash through the places where he most expected to find a cowering teenager. When they reached the turbine room, the guard halted. He then turned and pointed at Crower.

“I’ll go left if you take right. That way we don’t have to circle around it.”

Crower could see why. The lighting down here was very sparse. Industrial places usually kept timers to regulate the lighting, as at night only the watchmen were expected. They had flashlights; hence, there was no point in wasting electricity. He nodded and grabbed his own penlight from inside his coat jacket. Taking care not to trip and fall on the stairs leading down to the turbines, he squinted hard, ignoring his wife’s voice inside his head saying that it was beyond time for that eye exam. Meanwhile, the guard slugged around the platform overlooking the room. He was running his much stronger beam across the turbines. Crower stopped. He squinted harder.

“Go back!” he yelled.

“What?” came the reply.

“I thought I saw something over by the third turbine. My light’s too weak.”

The guard shook his head slightly and returned the beam to the third turbine.

“Ain’t nothin’ there.”

“Someone there? This is the Loganville Police, come out with your hands above your head!”

Nothing but turbine noise met the command. Crower drew his weapon. There was something off about the turbines. The guard muttered something again from up above, but the sarcasm was lost on the Detective. From the corner of his eye, Crower could see him walking on ahead, unmoved by the fact that the Loganville Police Department’s finest detective was clearly on the trail of something.

“Dangit.”

He moved forward, penlight and muzzle pointed in the direction of travel. His breathing became heavier and he struggled to slow it down. He could no longer see the guard. Shadows appeared, moved, and disappeared again as he stalked on. The tension always made it difficult for him to discern which of them were holding imaginary dread, and which of them held things that would actually go bump in the night. The further he got, the more ominous they became. Finally he reached the third turbine, and as he did so his imagination cleared out. It was no longer needed, because his brain had found evidence of a real threat. He now knew.

“Hey!”

What was the guard’s name again? He could not recall. Had he ever mentioned it?

“Hey, you!”

“No point in hollerin,” claimed a voice behind him.

Crower spun around fast. The black-clad figure was standing with its feet wide apart. In its left hand was the guard’s flashlight.

“He’s quite incapacitated.”

Crower aimed steadily at its head.

“He better still be alive.”

“If that’s what you could call his existence.”

Crower frowned.

“Where is he?”

“Over yonder,” said the figure and pointed the light over somewhere to its left.

“Give me the cellphone,” said Crower.

“What cellphone would that be?”

“The one that you’re fixin’ to set off those explosives with.”

“Ain’t no coverage down here, son. They’re timed.”

“How much time is left?”

“Haven’t gotten around to settin’ ‘em yet.”

Crower relaxed a bit.

“Good. Put down the flashlight and lay down on the ground.”

“Can’t do that. This dam needs to go.”

“Why?” asked Crower—uneasy and tired at the same time.

“Because that bastard has built his monstrosity of a house down there. Down where the farm used to be. Three stories high.”

The figure’s voice dived into a growl, and it was difficult to discern what was uttered after that.

“You gonna blow up an entire dam, ruin hundreds of lives, and spend the rest of your life in prison, all because he built a house?”

“It ain’t right. First, he strong-arms the build of the damn, forcing us hardworking people out, and then he builds a house on the plot where we were forced from. He needs to learn that he is not God.”

“Buxley has broken no law,” said Crower flatly.

“Who gives a damn about the law?” shouted the figure.

“I do. Now put down the flashlight and lay down.”

“As you wish.”

The flashlight fell to the ground, glass first, and broke against the floor. Crower shouted as the figure dived into a roll behind the turbine. It was gone in an instant.

“Shit,” said Crower, ran after, and slipped on the shards of glass.

He hit the side of the second turbine with his right knee and shoulder. He collected himself and tried to shake it off, but his knee would not quite obey his brain’s instructions to speed up as he resumed the chase. As he limped around the corner, it became clear to him that he had no idea where his newfound nemesis had gotten off to. He swept his tiny penlight across the room. Around him, he could make out slight sounds that did not fit in, but he was unable to pinpoint the places from which they originated. He continued to the left, further into the area, hoping that he would pick up the trail. Suddenly, he caught a whiff of something familiar. The draft was coming from his left—behind turbine number four—so he raised his pistol and slowly crept forward. He inched around it and then rushed the last part of the bend. It didn’t help. A flash of dark fabric shot out and slapped him on his cheekbone. He hit his head on the turbine hull. His pistol was gone in the next move. The figure disappeared towards the stairs, laughing. Crower could hear the sound of his pistol being disassembled as it ran. Parts of it went flying into hard-to-reach nooks and crannies. Blood started to flow from a cut above his left eyebrow, and he charged after his assailant with newfound rage. The figure was fast. Before Crower had managed to reach the bottom of the stairs, it was already gone from sight again. Crower threw off his jacket and put his penlight away. As the top of the stairs were illuminated fairly well he decided he could put both his hands to better use. He ascended slowly—mostly due to the fact that his leg was still not cooperating quite as much as he would have liked it to—and found the unconscious guard when he reached the platform. The figure was waiting for him at the end.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t have waived a gun in my face, Detective.”

“Give up. This ends now.”

“Bit of a cliché, ain’t it?”

“It ain’t a cliché, it’s how things work.”

“Tell me, do most of your arrests involve your own disarmament?”

“Shut up and get down on your knees.”

“Yeah, I reckon’d you’d be mad about that.”

At that, Crower lost his temper and started a screaming run. The figure stood his ground. When the raging Detective was four steps from it, it pulled off its balaclava and threw it at him. It hit Crower in the face, obscuring his sight. The figure twisted and sidestepped, laughing again, and let Crower continue his journey into the concrete wall. He hit it with considerable force, and he did not get back up again. The unmasked figure observed him with a look that was halfway between amusement and sympathy.

“Detective? You don’t intend on givin’ up that easy, are ya?”

Crower moaned. The figure leaned in over him.

“You’re bleedin’, Detective. What say you about lettin’ this one be?”

Crower opened his eyes and looked up on a weathered face that was surrounded by long, dark-grey hair. The corners of his eyes were wrinkled from a lifetime of squinting and laughing. The eyes were impossible to assign a single color to. The sweat on his cheeks made his stubble glisten in the dim ceiling light. Crower cracked a smile and coughed. The man smiled back. Crower pulled his legs back and bent his knees, before he kicked the soles of his feet into his tormentor’s face with a force that sent the man flying. This time it was Crower who laughed.

“I’d prefer not to,” he said as he got on all fours.

The man was leaned against the railing, panting from the newly inflicted pain and the shock.

“That’s more like it, Detective.”

Crower stood up. “Surrender,” he said.

“I can’t. I told you!”

“And I can’t let you do it.”

They stared at each other. Crower could no longer hear the turbines clearly. Neither could he hear what he had imagined being the Sippewan River rushing forth in the background. All he could focus on was the smoldering wrath that poured through the eyes of his assailant.

“I’m puttin’ a stop to this now,” he said, stepping forward.

The man did not respond. Crower hesitated, no longer as sure of himself. “Give me your hands,” he said with an uncertainty that bounced off the concrete walls.

“I’m settin’ those timers, son,” hissed the black-clad man as he heaved himself up against the railing.

Too late, Crower realized what he was intending to do. He reached him just as he was over the railing, preparing to lower himself down off the overhang. It was a twenty foot drop.

“For God’s sake!” he shouted and grabbed the man’s shoulder.

The man smacked him with the palm of his hand, and Crower lost his grip momentarily. With a rapid movement, he instead went for the scarf that was coming undone around the man’s waist. The grey-haired man locked eyes with him.

“When Lucy got the news that he was fixin’ to build that house on her family’s old land—the land that the government said we had to give up—that’s when she had her stroke.”

Crower opened his mouth, and the man let go of the railing. The scarf in his hand held for a moment before its threads came apart with a puny and sickening sound, unworthy of the implications it held. Crower closed his eyes as the second sound reverberated around him. After it was gone, everything went quiet. He disappeared into a silent and colorless land, and he imagined himself surrounded by the waters outside, stuck forever in a green-grey paste of nothingness. He could move his arms, but he could not smell, feel, taste, hear, or see anything beyond that green-grey paste. Suddenly, he was aware of another sense. A sense which brought him back above. He opened his eyes and felt a longing to go back to that soothing nothingness. Then he leaned over the railing and looked down. A black mass was stirring gently below.

“Unbelievable,” he mumbled as he started to run towards the stairs.

He was dragging himself along the floor as Crower reached him. His left leg was broken, and a piece of bone was sticking out through the fabric of the black pants. Crower bent down next to him. The man shifted his eyes towards him but did not stop his crawl.

“She tell you I was gon’ be here?” he said between painful grunts.

“She’s slow in the body, not the head,” said Crower.

“Yeah, that’s on me. I should’ve been more careful.”

The man lost sight of Crower as he continued his slow migration towards the turbines. Crower was looking beyond him, into the gloom on the periphery of the place.

“She gon’ be pissed about the scarf,” said the man beside him with genuine sadness in his rumbling voice.

“I don’t think she’ll care, dad. Please, can we go now?”

The man stopped.

“She here?”

There was a sudden change in the tone, and Crower could once again hear the sounds of the Sippewan cursing around them.

“She’s waiting in the car.”

Nathaniel Crower hummed at this. Without making a move, or acknowledging anything else around him, he pondered things known only to him for the better part of ten minutes. Finally, he raised his arm towards the kneeling Detective.

“Ok, Dramer.”