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.. What on earth did you plan to do?
Dunn: Well, the only thing we could do, which was to right the boat and continue on—while doing our best to bail, of course. And that’s when I first noticed it: way up there beyond the ridge; something moving, swinging, like the tip of a giant sword—only black against the sun—something which, after we’d scaled a nearby rockfall, turned out to be the blades of an industrial wind turbine—just one out of what seemed an endless array, spread out across the scrublands for as far as the eye could see, casting long shadows, like Cyclopean sentinels.
Detective Shaw: Cyclop—cyclopean—what is that? Is that Latin?
Dunn: Huge, Detective. Massive.
Detective Shaw: Right. And then, what? You returned to your boat?
Dunn: You know we didn’t return to the boat.
Detective Shaw: Yes, I understand that, just as I understood they found a spiraled hole exactly one inch in diameter in the bottom of your canoe. But it’s better for the record if I pretend I know nothing, okay?
Dunn: Okay. No, then we began walking, because we’d figured out where we were at—the Pyreridge Wind Farm just north of Edgerton, as you said. And we knew, also, that they gave tours there and even had a visitor’s center; a center which might still be staffed even though it was extremely late in the day, and which would have a telephone.
Detective Shaw: A wise move.
Dunn: Yes, it was as good as any. Or so it seemed—until we came to the wind turbine with the white service truck parked at its base; and saw … where we saw …
Detective Shaw: Yes?
Dunn: You’ve seen the pictures, Detective.
Detective Shaw: But I need to pretend I have not. And I need to hear what you, personally, saw with your very own eyes. For the record, Dr. Dunn. Please.
Dunn: Where we saw a man, a service technician, by his clothes, hung by his neck from his own safety line … from the back of the wind turbine’s nacelle. Just … just sort of swaying there, in the wind. A man who was missing one shoe. And who …
Detective Shaw: Go on …
Dunn: And who had no discernible face. Okay? (inaudible) He had no face. Isn’t that good enough?
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Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood's "The Willows."
