KYLE SLEDGE

Bobby Weaver was playing fetch in the backyard with his pet doberman, Dax, when he threw a stick and it became stuck midair. It was like someone hit a pause button to freeze the piece of wood in place. Dax jumped up, clamped his teeth around the broken tree limb, and hung from it for a few moments. The dog tugged and tussled against what seemed to be the invisible hand of an unseen force firmly holding the stick in place. All the while, a cool wind from an impending storm rustled the branches of the poplars and cedars in the woods just beyond the back fence.

Gobsmacked, Bobby sat down on the steps leading up to the deck. He watched while Dax leapt over and over again to chomp on the stick. The young boy’s spellbound gaze at what he could only surmise to be a supernatural phenomenon broke when his mother, Francine, stepped outside to call him in for dinner. He turned her way, but failed to utter a word.

“Bobby, honey, go wash up for din–” was all Francine could get out before she noticed what held her son’s attention. At first, her brain couldn’t comprehend the sight. Surely, it was just some kind of trick Bobby had devised to make it look like the stick was hovering. Hidden wires. An optical illusion. That sort of thing.

“Very funny, mister,” she said. “You’re not fooling me.”

It was only when Francine got closer to the floating branch that she began to realize it wasn’t a gag. She walked around it, examined it from all angles, and ran her hands along the top for fishing line. None was found. She even grabbed the stick and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. That’s when she got scared.

“Get inside, Bobby,” she said.

“But…”

“Now.”

Bobby did as he was told, while Dax stood beside Francine and barked at the stick. She thought to herself that this couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of vivid, nonsensical dream. Any moment now she would wake up. She closed her eyes and willed herself to come out of it, but to no avail. Deep confusion welled up inside of her. She pulled her phone from her back pocket and called her husband, Rod.

“Hey,” he answered. “Almost home. Got caught by a train.”

“Come to the backyard when you get here,” Francine said.

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“I can’t explain it. There’s this tree limb. It’s stuck in the air and I’m freaking out.”

“What?”

“Just come out back when you get here. How far away are you?”

“About five, ten minutes.”

“Okay. I’m gonna send you something to show what I’m talking about. Hurry. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Francine hung up and used the phone to record a video of her making a complete circle around the stick. Like a hack magician would, she waved her arm above and below it to show there was nothing holding it in place. Then she sent the footage to Rod.

When Rod stopped at a red light near their street, he checked her message. Sure enough, it was a clip of what she had described–a stick stuck midair behind their house. Slightly bemused, he chuckled, chalking it up as the product of some augmented reality app. At that point, he laughed it off as a lame practical joke she was trying to pull. After all, his wife did have a penchant for pranks. Just last week, in fact, she enlisted one of her students with a knack for impressions to call his office as Gollum seeking legal advice against Sméagol for stealing and hiding the One Ring. Rod only realized Fran was behind it, because he could hear her laughing in the background.

Strong gusts of wind had picked up by the time Rod met Francine in the backyard. The storm’s bottom was just about to fall out. Bobby followed his dad outside when he got there and sat on the ground next to Dax. Rod’s theory of Fran’s video being a joke was bust as soon as he laid eyes on the stick. He tried everything Francine did to get the thing to move, but it stayed in place.

“This is unreal. How did this happen?” Rod said.

“I was playing fetch with Dax and threw it. After that, it got stuck. That’s it,” Bobby said.

Soft sprinkles of rain dappled their skin. A blinding streak of lightening lit up the sky like God took a flash photo of the neighborhood. A chest rattling roar of thunder followed.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Francine said. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it is, we can mull it over inside,” Rod said.

Right before the downpour struck, everyone filed into the house and sat at the kitchen table. Their tilapia and asparagus dinners had grown cold, because all of their focus laid on the bay window above the sink peering into the backyard. It was difficult to see through the deluge, but the stick was fixed firmly in each of their minds. Even Dax was worried, as he laid whimpering at the family’s feet under the table.

“Rod, I’m scared,” Francine said.

“I know. I’m not far behind you,” Rod said.

“What if this is, like, some kind of top secret experiment being done on us? Or what if it’s a sign of an alien invasion? Or the apocalypse?” Francine hyperventilated as she cried.

“Fran, slow down. Breathe. There’s got to be a rational explanation here.” Rod comforted his wife by rubbing her back.

“It’s like a Fortnite glitch in real life,” Bobby said.

“The only thing I can think to do is call an officer out here,” Rod said. “Fat chance it’ll do us much good, but I still think we should file a report and get someone else’s perspective.”

Rod dialed 9-1-1 and hit the call button, but the device shut off completely before it went through. He tried turning the cell back on, but it didn’t respond. After plugging it into a charger, it wouldn’t even light up. The same thing happened when he attempted to use both Francine and Bobby’s phones. The Weavers lacked a landline, so there was no other way to make an outgoing call while at the house.

“Son, go pack an overnight bag,” Rod said. “We should, too, Fran. I don’t want to stay here with all this weirdness going on. Could be a freak spike of localized radiation, electromagnetism, or something else harmful. Who knows? We’ll get a hotel room and go from there. Maybe our phones will be working again by then.”

“Shouldn’t we let the neighbors know what’s going on?” Francine said.

“Not yet. It might send folks into a frenzy. I don’t want to draw that kind of attention. Authorities need to know first. Then we ought to be able to tell everyone else about it.”

Rod and Francine cleared the table, sealed everyone’s uneaten meals in Tupperware, and loaded the dishwasher while Bobby gathered his belongings upstairs. Then, Rod took Dax’s crate out into the garage and placed it into the rear of Francine’s Jeep. He led the dog into the container and headed back into the house to pack with his wife. Not long thereafter, everyone had their stuff together and climbed into the car, with Rod driving the family to find pet-friendly accommodations for the evening.

Although the search was brief, night fell quickly. When they made it several miles from their house, the family spotted the bright signage of a Holiday Inn a few leagues from the highway leading into Midtown Nashville. The storm had tapered off by that point, but the flow of traffic was still slow due to the rain-slicked roads. The Weavers caught almost every red light on the way to the hotel. The last one stopped them next to a bushy bearded homeless man on a street corner. He held a sign that read, “FORTUNES – $1” in bold black marker. Francine glanced at him from the front passenger seat, and their eyes met. Instinctively, she hit the button to lock her door even though it already was.

“Hey, lady,” the vagrant shouted at Francine. “Yeah, you! You’re gonna die! We’re all gonna die!” He roared with laughter, and took a heavy swig of schnapps from a bagged bottle. The drifter cackled some more, as alcoholic spittle ran down the front of his facial hair.

The light turned green, and the Weavers pressed on wordlessly to their destination.

After checking into the Holiday Inn, the family headed to their room and unpacked their wares. Rod and Francine sat under lamplight at a table near the window, futilely trying to make their phones work. Bobby passed out asleep almost as soon as he laid down next to Dax on one of the two beds.

“Well, at least we can use the room’s landline,” Francine said.

“With our luck, it’d be busted, too,” Rod said.

Just to be sure it functioned, Rod walked over to the phone on the nightstand in between the beds, picked up the receiver, and put it to his ear. There was a dial tone. He hung it back up.

“It works,” he said. “I’ll call the police and meet them at the house. While I do, stay here with Bobby in case he wakes up.”

“Can’t we call in the morning and go together? I don’t want me and Bobby to be left here to fend for ourselves.”

“Fran, don’t worry. It’s safe here. Just make sure to keep the door locked until I get back.”

“But what if something happens to you?”

“It won’t.” Rod picked up the phone again and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The dispatcher answered immediately after the first ring.

“My name is Roderick Weaver, I live at 2011 Beechwood Avenue. Something strange is going on in my backyard. I think someone might be trying to break into my house.”

“Are you in a secure location, Mr. Weaver?”

“Yes. I slipped away to a Holiday Inn with my wife and son. I would’ve reported this sooner, but our phones aren’t working.”

“Is there currently anyone else within the domicile? A dog, a friend, a neighbor?”

“No.” Rod could hear the dispatcher typing.

“Did you witness an intruder in the backyard, or hear their voice?”

“No. Rain was coming down in sheets. It was hard to see or hear what was going on. I’m almost positive I saw someone trying to jimmy the back door open, though.”

“How many entrances are there into your house?”

“Three. The front door, the back door, and one through the garage.”

“And you claim someone was trying to come in through the back, correct?”

“Yes.”

There was more typing on the dispatcher’s end before their response. “Mr. Weaver, a patrol unit is en route to your place of residence. We suggest you stay at the Holiday Inn while police carry out an investigation into the disturbance. An officer will follow up with a call to this number after they’ve determined the area is secure.”

“Thank you.” Rod put the phone back in its cradle.

“Why did you tell them about a break-in?” Francine asked.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say there’s a floating stick that needs a look-see. They’d think it was a crank call, and wouldn’t have sent anyone. I’ll tell the police what’s really going on when I get there–that is, if they don’t find out themselves.”

While waiting for the cops’ response, Francine had fallen asleep in the bed with her head on Rod’s shoulder. A couple of hours had passed, and there was still no call back. Rod was getting antsy, wondering if the officers’ equipment might have malfunctioned like his family’s phones did. He gradually slipped out from underneath his wife without waking her and walked over to the desk to write a note on the hotel’s stationery.

It read, “Left to see what’s taking so long. I’ll be back. Love you – Rod”. He put the message on the nightstand next to his wife. Then the phone rang, jolting Francine, Bobby, and Dax out of their slumber.

“Hello?” Rod answered.

“Mr. Weaver?” The drawl belonged to a man.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Weaver, this is Officer Richter with the Metro Nashville Police Department. Our investigation has yet to yield any signs of a break-in, but if you would, we need you to come to your house and answer a few questions.”

“Of course. I’m on my way.” Rod hung up the phone.

“You were just going to leave without saying anything?” Francine said, gesturing toward the message Rod wrote.

“It was taking so long, I thought their radio or phones might’ve gone haywire like ours did. I assumed that’s why they hadn’t called us back. And you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you up, so I left a note.”

“A note. You were going to leave your family alone with this whole mess going on and only offer us an office memo as a courtesy? What if we never saw you again? Those cops could’ve shot and killed you thinking you were an intruder. And who knows what the hell that stick might lead to? All Bobby and I would’ve been left with is a piece of paper with some scribbles on it as our last memory of you.”

“Fran, calm down.”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. Not today. You know what? Go ahead and leave. Bobby and I will be fine by ourselves.”

“Whatever you say,” Rod said. He grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys off the table and pocketed them. Bobby hopped off the bed and hugged his father’s waist. Rod took a knee and embraced his son.

“I’ll be back, buddy. Keep an eye on your mom for me, okay? Y’all make sure to stay in the room and keep the door locked.”

“Yes, sir,” Bobby said. “Don’t forget to tell Dax bye.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. See you in a bit, Dax.” Rod reached over Bobby’s shoulders to scratch the doberman behind the ears and pet his head.

Before Rod left, he shared a soft, knowing glance with his wife, which was their way of saying they loved each other. Francine was too prideful to speak right after arguing, so he let her have that small victory. He figured she would cool down by the time he returned.

Rod exited the room, and the door closed behind him with a quiet click. He took the stairs down to the first floor and made his way to the parking lot through a side entrance. The storm had dwindled to a drizzle, and he was met with a crisp breeze underneath starless skies.

The return trip to the house was short and brisk thanks to the fact that there wasn’t much traffic on the road. When Rod arrived, a tan Crown Victoria with government plates was in the driveway behind his Audi. He opened the garage door with a remote control and maneuvered past the vehicles to park inside. The unmarked cop car was off and no one was in it, so Rod assumed the policemen were out back.

To Rod’s surprise, the lights switched on after entering his home. He was greeted in the kitchen by a man in a dark gray suit wearing black leather gloves and brandishing a Glock. A slight look of delight washed across his face, as if Rod were an old friend he had run into by chance.

“Mr. Weaver,” the man said, smiling. “Glad you could make it. Let’s get more acquainted, shall we?”

Rod was led into the living room with the pistol to his back. A woman in a beige pantsuit sat in the lounger, flipping through a copy of the Bible. She closed the book and stood when the two men entered.

“Have a seat on the couch, Rod. Is it okay if I call you by your Christian name? I’m sure we can be a little more informal with one another given the circumstances,” the man said, nodding at the firearm.

Rod sat on the sofa’s center cushion. He kept his hands in the air since the gun remained trained on his chest. The unknown duo held court in front of him, and they both pulled out wallets containing CIA credentials.

“I’m Special Agent Frank Carter, and this is my partner, Special Agent Paula Delborne–in this world, that is. Our actual names are incapable of being pronounced by any language in this artificial realm. We work in a classified division of the Central Intelligence Agency that investigates and regulates supernatural and paranormal occurrences and discrepancies within this reality. And based on the video that we intercepted from your wife earlier tonight, that’s precisely what we’re dealing with. We had hoped you wouldn’t involve the local authorities–we even remotely disabled your phones on your end to discourage that from happening. But still, we persuaded the police to leave the situation up to us.”

“Wait,” Rod said. “Unpronouncable names? Fake realms?”

“God, Carter. I thought you would’ve learned by now. Humans don’t know what’s really going on here, much less anything about metaphysics. Stop starting up front with that. It confuses them,” Agent Delborne said.

“Okay, Delborne, if I’m doing such a poor job, then you tell him what’s happening.”

“Gladly. Mr. Weaver, let’s be up front. We’re here to facilitate your neutralization. However, as a courtesy, we will explain the circumstances and reason why beforehand, as there’s no ill will on ours or the CIA’s behalf.”

“I’m going to die, because of that floating stick? My family and I won’t say anything. I swear.”

“I wish we could believe you. But it’s not so much the stick itself, as what it represents and what could happen if any information about it got out. We can’t have that. There are greater stakes involved. As my partner implied before, this reality is far from the kind of ‘real’ that you’ve been led to believe. And the stick out there in your backyard is proof of that,” Agent Delborne said.

“How familiar are you with video games, Mr. Weaver?” Agent Carter said. He eased himself into the lounger, making sure to keep the pistol pointed at Rod. Agent Delborne relaxed, too, and sat on the coffee table facing Rod in front of the couch.

“Some. I used to play a lot in college,” Rod said.

“Which one would you say was your favorite?” Agent Carter said.

“World of Warcraft, I guess. I was a Draenei Paladin.”

“A Paladin. Excellent. I dabbled with WoW back in the day, too, whenever I found some downtime. I was a Worgen Rogue, myself–named him Havagül Fangrel. But that’s beside the point. Let’s use that game as an example.

“Before entering the online world of Azeroth for the first time, there were several steps required, right? We had to make an account, choose a server, and then create our characters. The avatars could be male, female, and have a bunch of different custom physical attributes. Those same principles can be applied to the life we’re living now. Prior to engaging with this version of reality we’re currently in, we scripted a general idea of who we were going to be at the start. It’s like we’re pre-made personas in an MMORPG sharing a kind of limited, virtual space.”

“You could also think about it like us being players in a VR game,” Agent Delborne said. “What we’re experiencing right now is a simulation of a physical world from the outlook of independent flesh and blood frameworks which have specific sensory and evolutionary capabilities. This whole planet over is one great big program running on a supercomputer in a single server out of a literal infinite amount of others. It’s how life on Earth has always been. It’s not real per se, but it is in a way.

“Agent Carter, you, and I each live simultaneously as people here, and in another plane as extensively different entities that are connected via a vast neural network. Our forms outside of this realm chose to have their consciousnesses loaded into the system to play human roles which are studied on a mass scale as a means to determine the efficiency of the species as a creation. When these anthropomorphic bodies’ natural functions cease, we simply go back to fully experiencing who we were beforehand and resume those lives, with only a sliver of time having passed. It’s like waking from a dream.”

“Except it’s no mere fantasy,” Agent Carter said. “The goal of this particular server is to find out if mankind is the most ideal host to explore and solve certain problems which are abstract to our true identities, but beneficial to our greater holistic knowledge as immaterial beings. Subjects such as war, famine, death, disease, homelessness, hate, depression, heartbreak, economic strife, and the like don’t actually affect us, but edify us strictly in mathematical and theoretical senses. More positive fare such as incidents related to love, joy, humor, wisdom, generosity, art, music, and scientific discovery are examined and calculated as well, albeit to lesser extents. The results have been inconclusive, but homo sapiens don’t look too promising so far. In fact, there’s always a chance for humanity and its various incarnations to get deleted altogether due to certain deficiencies and paradoxical features.”

“Even if I bought all of that nonsense, what does any of it have to do with a stick stuck in the air in my backyard?” Rod said.

“It has to do with everything, Mr. Weaver,” Agent Delborne said. “See, at the outset, you opted into being unaware of the program’s full intentions, choosing to be privy only to a sole person’s perspective of corporeal birth and death. The majority who decided to aid in the research plans chose the same path as well, as it was necessary to have a large population and data set of that ilk to learn from.

“Meanwhile, Agent Carter and I were primed since infancy with meticulous training and inculcation methods at a clandestine academy. We were taught Earth’s real purpose in order to internally monitor and maintain the integrity of why it’s here in the first place. It’s our duty as arbiters of this realm’s overarching rule set to ensure it runs as smoothly as possible. However, things occasionally go awry, and have the potential to bring the whole simulation to a halt, thus rendering the program’s primary function moot. Bearing this in mind, what you witnessed involving the stick in your backyard could be considered as one of those fatal hitches–a ‘glitch in the matrix’, so to speak.”

“A bug, an error, an aberrant computation,” Agent Carter added.

“Right. We’re here to make sure the botched code gets ironed out in order for this little environmental anomaly to return to normal before it comes to anyone else’s attention. That way, life on Earth can keep rolling gently down the stream. So, I’m sure I don’t have to explain why we can’t risk having you or any of the Weaver clan as loose ends,” Agent Delborne said.

“You don’t want to cause a panic. I get it. But if you kill us, people are going to notice. The partners at my firm, Fran’s school, Bobby’s friends, our family, our neighbors–someone will ask questions. They’ll find out about whatever’s going on with this shady, mystical stick shit,” Rod said.

“Oh, they’ll notice what happened to you alright, Mr. Weaver. That’s an inevitability. But it’s one we’re in complete control of. For starters, we’ve already convinced the local police that we were the ones you thought were trying to break in. They think we’ve been investigating you for embezzlement and racketeering, and that we got a mite careless during our reconnaissance, rousing your suspicion. We got them to phone you for the ‘all clear’ so you’d come back home for a premature, unpublicized arrest. What’s more is illicit money has already been put in your bank accounts through backdated channels, and documents for your case are being forged as we speak,” Agent Delborne said.

“They also believe that you had become profoundly paranoid, and realized not too long ago we were closing in, so you fled tonight to avoid apprehension. What everyone isn’t aware of yet is that the pressure and intense scrutiny you were under led to a psychotic break, and you killed your family before turning a gun on yourself. How tragic,” Agent Carter added.

“What? That’s insane,” Rod said.

“Of course it is. People do crazy things all the time, Mr. Weaver–especially if they’re facing a long stretch in a federal penitentiary. Here, let me show you something,” Agent Delborne said.

Agent Delborne pulled a phone out of her pocket and played security camera footage of a man wearing a black hoodie, mask, gloves, and sunglasses approaching the Holiday Inn room Francine, Bobby, and Dax were in. He had exactly the same height, stature, and gait as Rod. The likeness was so uncanny that Rod even thought it was him for a second. The unknown figure rolled twin carbon monoxide canisters on a dolly in front of him. He propped the CO containers beside the door, knelt down next to the room’s entrance, and attached a flat fabric flap to the end of a small tube connected to the receptacles storing the gas. He fed the cloth portion underneath the doorway, and cranked the tanks’ valves open.

“In case you haven’t realized, that’s carbon monoxide being pumped into your family’s room. This happened shortly after you drove out of the parking lot,” Agent Delborne said.

While Rod watched the clip, tears fell from his eyes. Immense waves of guilt, shame, anger, and fear walloped him. He wept so hard, his whole body shook. Agent Delborne swiped to another video recorded by a different phone’s camera. The shot was angled up at the hotel’s exterior with a large window on the top floor blown out and engulfed in flames.

“All it took was a spark. Our masked colleague set it off as soon as you walked in here from the garage,” Agent Delborne said. She stood up, pocketed the phone, and stepped around to the other side of the room across from the couch. Then she pulled a Glock from the shoulder holster underneath her blazer and pointed it at Rod, who was curled up on the sofa and crying in the fetal position.

Agent Carter got out of the lounger and walked over to Rod. He placed his firearm onto the coffee table. After that, he took a standing position next to his partner.

“By now, the toxin our field team swabbed onto your steering wheel should be taking effect. It’s a new chemical the boys and girls over at R&D cooked up. The contaminant is supposed to seep through the skin and cause the subject to become intensely suicidal. However, it’s still in an experimental phase, and has caused some testees to turn homicidal instead. So, we’ll take our chances by keeping another gun handy. That said, feel free to finish the job. It’s not like you really have anything here to live for anymore,” Agent Carter said.

Rod sat up and palmed the pistol in front of him. He couldn’t stop sobbing. He tried to mentally fight the synthetic compound’s effects with positivity by silently praying to God, conjuring memories of his wife and son, and even projecting forgiveness onto his captors, but it was no use. Violent nihilism took over and drowned him with poisoned thoughts.

“Fuck you. You’re evil. I hate you. I hate this world. I’m sorry, Frannie. I’m so sorry, Bobby,” Rod said. He put the Glock in his mouth and pulled the trigger. After a loud and sudden pop, it was over. A smattering of blood and brains painted the family portrait above the couch.

Agent Delborne holstered her pistol. She pulled out her phone, took a photo of Rod’s corpse, and sent it to her superiors. Accompanied with the picture was the message, “Suicide.”

The two spooks exited through the back door. They stood on the deck and looked out on the floating stick. Agent Carter fished a lighter and a pack of Camel Turkish Silvers from the inside pocket of his coat. He took a cigarette from the box, lit it, and followed the drag by exhaling a relieved plume of smoke. He offered one to his partner, but she declined.

“I was wondering when that mind control stuff was finally going to kick in,” Agent Carter said. “Do you think he eventually believed what we told him about reality being a simulation?”

“Does it really matter?” Agent Delborne said.

“Fair point.”

The faint sound of sirens whined in the distance. Tactical squads were on their way to assess the situation and run damage control. Soon, the surrounding neighborhood was evacuated under the pretense of Rod having planted anthrax balloon bombs close to everyone’s homes weeks before offing himself. The premise was flimsy, but it worked, as fear overrode logic. The residents were immediately escorted to a secure, remote facility under the guise of a deadman’s switch being poised to set off the imaginary packs of lethal powder at a moment’s notice.

All of this was done before the Weavers’ backyard became totally enshrouded by a giant white nylon tent. The stick was kept from prying eyes, barred from public knowledge, and analyzed to determine what caused its static aerial state. No one outside of Agent Carter, Agent Delborne, and a cadre of expert scientists, technologists, engineers, physicists, and theoretical mathematicians well-versed in similar esoterica came in contact with the piece of wood from that day forward. Hypotheses ranging from it being the initial stage of an advanced enemy weapon, related to extraterrestrial involvement, connected to religious prophecy, and existing as a result of a localized meteorological phenomenon were all floated. One proposition even went so far to say it did in fact provide proof of life on Earth being a holographic or artificial construct of some kind. Despite the immense amount of intellectual power dedicated to solving the enigma though, no definitive conclusion regarding the event could be reached. However, a singular consensus was shared among everyone involved in that seeing a stick stuck like that was definitely weird.