Chapter 3: The Men in Polished Shoes

Chapter 3: The Men in Polished Shoes

The synthesized voice from the phone had become a permanent resident in Jebediah’s mind. It echoed in the silence between his heartbeats: “Jeb-e-di-ah.” It was a sound that had scraped away his sense of safety, leaving the raw nerve of fear exposed to the world. He had unplugged the phone from the wall, but he could still hear it.

He spent the day in a fugue state, his chores performed on autopilot. His eyes kept straying to the north pasture, to the impossible sigil etched into the grass. It was a scar on his land, a constant, silent testament to the violation. He felt watched, not just by the empty sky, but by his own home. The phone, the window, the very air seemed to have allied with the intruders.

Late afternoon was painting the plains in hues of old gold when he heard it. A low, unfamiliar engine noise. It wasn't the tired grumble of a neighbor's pickup or the distant whine of the mail carrier's Jeep. This was a smooth, steady purr, the sound of something that didn't belong on his dusty, rutted driveway.

Peering through the living room window, he saw it: a black sedan, gleaming as if it had just rolled off a showroom floor. It crawled up the track like a patient beetle, its polished surface reflecting the vast, empty sky. It came to a stop a respectful distance from the porch, its engine cutting off with a soft, expensive sigh.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, two doors opened in perfect synchrony. Two men emerged. They wore immaculate black suits, crisp white shirts, and thin black ties. In the dusty, sun-baked world of the Stone Ranch, they looked as out of place as penguins in a desert. Their shoes, Jeb noted with a strange sense of dread, were polished to a mirror shine, already collecting a fine layer of Texas dust.

Jeb’s hand instinctively went to the Winchester on its rack before he stopped himself. These weren’t the things from the sky. This was something different, but his gut told him they were no less dangerous. He met them on the porch, letting the screen door slam shut behind him, a small, defiant sound.

The taller of the two men stepped forward. He was unnaturally still, with a pale complexion and short, dark hair. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses that reflected Jeb’s own weathered face back at him. He didn’t offer a hand.

“Mr. Jebediah Stone?” the man asked. His voice was flat, devoid of any accent or emotion. It was the voice of a man who reads reports, not one who engages in conversation.

“That’s me,” Jeb said, his own voice a low grumble. He kept his arms crossed over his chest.

“My name is Agent Thorne,” the man said, gesturing vaguely to his shorter, silent partner. “We’re with the Department of Energy. We’re in the area monitoring for anomalous atmospheric phenomena. We were wondering if you’d noticed anything unusual in the last forty-eight hours. Any strange light displays, electrical interference?”

The lie was so smooth, so practiced, it was almost convincing. Department of Energy. But their questions were surgical scalpels, aimed directly at the heart of his terror.

Jeb’s mind raced. The phone call. The lights. The massive pattern in his pasture. To admit any of it felt like handing over a weapon. He was a man who prized his independence above all else, and these men reeked of an authority that did not respect boundaries.

“Can’t say I have,” Jeb lied, forcing his face into a mask of placid ignorance. He tasted dust in his mouth. “Been clear skies. Just the stars.”

Agent Thorne’s lips curved into something that was technically a smile but contained no warmth. It didn’t reach his hidden eyes. “I see. And no other disturbances? Nothing on the ground? Sometimes these atmospheric events can leave… patterns. Scorch marks.”

They knew. The cold certainty of it settled deep in Jeb’s bones. They knew about the symbol in his field. Were they with them? Or were they chasing them, just like him?

“Ground’s been dry, but nothing I’d call a pattern,” Jeb said, his voice hard. “You boys want some water? It’s a long drive back to wherever you’re from.” It was a dismissal, plain and simple.

Thorne’s smile vanished. He took a small step closer, his polished shoes crunching on the gravel at the edge of the porch. “Our instruments registered a significant energy surge over this specific area, Mr. Stone. A very powerful one. We would appreciate a call if anything… unusual… occurs. It’s a matter of public safety.”

He held out a stark white business card. Jeb didn’t take it. After a beat of tense silence, Thorne placed the card on the porch railing. “You have a good evening, Mr. Stone.”

Without another word, they turned, got back in their car, and drove away, leaving a plume of dust that seemed to defile the very air. Jeb watched them go, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was trapped. There was the silent, unknowable thing in the sky, and now there were these cold, knowing men on the ground. He was no longer just a victim; he was a piece on a board, caught between two powerful, shadowy players in a game whose rules he couldn't begin to comprehend.

That night, he didn't even try to sleep. He sat in his armchair, the Winchester across his lap, his gaze fixed on the north pasture. He wasn't just waiting in fear anymore. He was watching with a grim, defiant purpose. He had to see it. He had to look the devil in the face.

Around two AM, the crickets went silent.

The air grew heavy, pregnant with the same unnatural stillness from the first night. Jeb’s grip tightened on his rifle. He scanned the sky, his eyes straining against the darkness.

And then he saw it.

It wasn’t the three points of light from before. It was the source. A shape, blacker than the night sky, was descending. It was a perfect triangle, its edges sharp and defined as it blotted out the stars behind it. There was no sound, no engine roar, no rush of displaced air. It moved with the absolute silence of a bad dream.

It stopped a few hundred feet above the center of the pasture, hovering with impossible stability. A soft, pale green light, like cold foxfire, bloomed from its underside. It didn't illuminate the craft, only the patch of ground directly beneath it.

Jeb watched, his breath frozen in his lungs, as one of his steers wandered into the column of light. The animal stopped, its head lifting as if in a trance. It didn't fight. It didn't even low in fear. It simply stood, accepting.

Then, it began to rise.

Slowly, smoothly, the thousand-pound animal was lifted off the ground, its legs dangling uselessly. It floated upward, bathed in the sickly green glow, drawn into the belly of the silent, dark machine. There was no tractor beam, no visible force—just a quiet, horrifying levitation.

As the steer disappeared into the craft’s underside, the light extinguished. The triangle remained for a heartbeat longer, a void in the starfield. Then, without moving left or right, up or down, it simply ceased to be.

One moment it was there, a solid mass of terrifying geometry. The next, it was gone. The stars it had obscured shone once more, cold and indifferent.

Jebediah sat in the darkness of his living room, the heavy rifle feeling like a child’s toy in his hands. The air rushed back in, the crickets tentatively starting their song again. The world was trying to pretend nothing had happened. But Jeb knew. The dread, the mystery, the cold fear—it all had a shape now. It was a silent, black triangle.

He had finally seen the butcher up close.