A Cage for Hungry Hearts [COMPLETE]

2a. Winston

May 2013

The shuttle to Area 51 is an old cabover, a retired yellow school bus. It rides rougher than a farm tractor and smokes worse than my Great Aunt Cathy. Naturally, I get stuck riding the seat on a fender, because I'm too damn polite by far, but southern manners are hard to shake. It's hard to believe a country boy like me is heading for Pluto. No, not the wannabe planet, but PLUTO.

P-L-U-T-O.

Paranormal Life Form Underground Trial Operations.

In Area 51—yes, that Area 51.

The weight of that still hasn't settled in my head, and it probably won't until we get there and I've adjusted to my first duty station as a United States Marine.

Back when my new supervisor, Brucker—a charming guy with a whole lot of muscle—announced it was time to leave the USO and head for home base, my heart had damn near beaten outta my chest. I've got worse jitters than the day I left for Basic.

This is a huge change from life back home in New Orleans, where Dad was ready to kick me out if I didn't go back to college, get a blue collar job, or join the Navy like he did. He didn't seem to understand that the world doesn't work the way it did when he was my age, but he was right about one thing: I had to do something. So, just to spite him, I joined the Marines, the notorious dumb jocks of the US military. He hates having a jarhead in the family.

The bus has no air conditioning, and this is Nevada, so it's sweltering inside the cab as we cruise down the interstate at a whopping 55-miles per hour, getting passed by everything else on the road. The windows are all down, but I'm sweating bullets under my dress uniform. It was convenient during the flight, got me bumped up to a good seat on the plane, but the getup sucks in hot weather. To make matters worse, I'm nauseous from bouncing around.

"This thing could use shocks," I tell the blond airman on the other fender seat after the bus hurdles through a series of potholes, nearly slamming my head on the ceiling. The airman clutches the seat in front of him for dear life. He looks about my age, twenty-four or so.

"No joke," he says with a mild grin, extending his hand across the aisle. I shake it, matching his considerable grip. He's a tall guy, pale as I am after two months in a barracks, but more lanky than muscular. He has to hunch to keep his head from touching the ceiling.

"Corporal Winston DeBrock. Marine," I say. "Logistics. Straight outta basic."

"Michael Smith. Air Force. MP. I'm an E-4, too, a Senior Airman."

So our ranks are the same.

We exchange nods, then settle back into our seats. Brucker hasn't been forthcoming with details on how far we are from our destination. Over the next hour, I watch the passing landscape as we move further into the desert. There are long stretches of sand interrupted by the occasional abandoned building. It doesn't take long for me to get bored with the scenery. When we turn onto a long and empty road, I strike up another conversation with Michael.

"Ever been to Nevada before?" I ask, raising my voice so he can hear me. Something in the undercarriage of the bus has been clanking for the past three miles. It'll be a miracle if we even make it to the base at this rate.

"No," he replies. He's got a wide mouth and a sharp nose. I can't help but admire his profile. "I'm from Georgia," he says. "Never been much of anywhere else."

I wipe away the sweat trailing down the side of my face. "New Orleans. Lived in other places, too, but my family always ended up back in NOLA somehow."

"I might've guessed. You've got that accent."