The Box

A mysterious ancient power source threatens a father and son…

I stood in the middle of the road, shrouded in deep shadows punctuated by sharp morning light slicing between craggy boulders and bare, lifeless mountain ranges. The Box I clutched tingled with energy, as though demanding to be opened. Ahead of me, the two-lane highway ribboned through plunging ravines without a soul visible for miles ahead.

My decision to set out alone into the wilderness, unburdened by anything other than The Box, was impulsive, instinctive and raw. I was sure he would hate me for it, but I must go on. If I didn't do it, civilization would be in danger. I trudged ahead, ruminating on how this unfolded so suddenly.

It all started a month ago, when my archaeologist father, Professor Michael Frampton, was scouting a Native American village on a reservation in Utah, in search of information leading to his next excavation project – ultimately his next research paper, maintaining his position at Oxford.

The piercing scent of sagebrush rode on waves of hot air as we went from house to house, visiting with tribal elders. I took notes on the native language, fascinated by mythical tales of thunderbirds and giant serpents waging war millennia ago.

“Peter, we've learned nothing real,” Dad complained on the last day of our week's visit. “I was hoping to find someone who could verify this…”

He pulled a browned paperback book out of his knapsack, titled Beyond Myths: The Ancient Story of UFOs in Utah. Before I could speak, Dad flopped the book open to a highlighted page. I squinted at the old-fashioned typeface.

It described a cataclysmic explosion, centuries before Europeans arrived, triggered by a UFO crashing, similar to the mysterious event in Siberia. The book insisted there was a hidden fuel source, a closely guarded secret of the local Native Americans. If one could recover and harness this unknown fuel, it would change the course of history.

“Dad, you mean that hogwash is why we've been pestering the reservation?” I wrinkled my nose. “The author had no evidence of such a thing ever happening! A UFO could easily be an asteroid, with no magic retrievable fuel.”

“But Pete, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. My career depends on how this expedition turns out. I want to find the crash site and determine what happened. Even if there is no fuel source, I'm still doing original research.”

“I wish your original research didn't involve dying in the desert, chasing some legend.”

Nothing I said dissuaded him. Our final interview was with the tribe’s chief, Wind Wolf, a man of a hundred years if their record keeping was accurate. His leathery, wrinkled visage and wispy white hair belied eyes examining us with the sharpness of one decades younger.

“Your purpose is unwise,” he barked before Dad could open his mouth. “Some boxes should never be opened, least of all by white men. You seek fame. That is dangerous.”

“How do you know what we came for?” I asked.

“You think I can't tell? You seek to gain control of the power behind the explosion. It is buried under its own rubble, for good reason. Now leave us in peace!”

With that, two elders escorted us out of town. Dad was jubilant. The chief's anger had proven, for him, that the story in his book was true.

“We'll look for a crash site with a helicopter. If it happened, we'll be able to see it in this lifeless territory.”

And by golly, we did. We flew over wild terrain, with as few indications of humanity as though we were in prehistory. After several hours, Dad whooped, pointing at a ragged, circular marking on the ground. It looked like a crater had been packed with gravel. The land for miles around was flat and sunken, a rift valley surrounded by arid mountains.

“This is it! The geography clearly indicates a blast site, leveling everything in its path and creating a landslide that filled in the impact hole. Somewhere in that gravel lies the answer.”

We spent the next two weeks digging down through the rubble. Getting earthmoving equipment was out of the question. Dad was too broke and paranoid to hire a team, so the two of us excavated by hand. I doubted we would survive long enough to discover anything, between the unrelenting heat and the backbreaking labor.

One morning, Dad's pickaxe struck something with a metallic clang that made my blood run cold.

“Dig, Peter, dig!”

And dig we did. It was The Box, about the size of a concrete block. Smooth, steely, its unblemished surface shrugged away the dirt as we brought it up. There were no latches, seams or hinges. Dad hugged it, gazing at it as though it were Baby Jesus. As sunlight bounced off it for the first time in untold centuries, it flashed with blinding radiance like a mirror. I threw an arm over my eyes, stumbling back and tripping over piles of gravel.

“Success,” Dad whispered. “I will unlock the secrets of this Box if it's the last thing I do…”

“Dang it, it probably will,” I groused, brushing myself off and trying to steady my trembling legs.

My stomach was heaving, my chest too tight, hair standing on end – I could almost see thermonuclear radiation emanating from that horrible Box. In that moment, I knew: it would kill us both if I didn't take matters into my own hands. The look in Dad's eyes was complete obsession, like a mad scientist in the lab. As if The Box had put a spell on him.

I thought of all this now, plodding down the middle of the endless empty road. Stealing The Box out from Dad's tent as he napped and running away without a clear plan was preposterous. How could I dispose of it in such a way that it could never be found, without destroying it and potentially unleashing whatever power slept within?

Apparently, the highway wasn't as desolate as it looked. A dusty blue Jeep topped the rise ahead of me, slowing and pulling alongside as I moved to the shoulder. The driver rolled down the window. I looked up in alarm and met the piercing eyes of the tribal chief we'd spoken to a month ago.

“You found it,” he stated, a fact rather than a question.

“Yes! Help me get rid of it before Dad finds me!”

“Get in.”

I hopped up into the passenger seat, holding The Box firmly in my lap. I wanted to ask Chief Wind Wolf a million questions: how he'd known we found it, that I ran away with it, that I'd be on this exact highway, and how was he still sharp enough to drive at his age?

“None of that matters,” he said, as if reading my mind. “I know where you can dispose of it. Ten miles west – a cavern with a flooded mining shaft. We throw it ten thousand feet down into the water, and it'll be irretrievable.”

“Dad will be heartbroken…”

“Your father will get over it.”

“I don't know, he's crazy over this thing.” I squirmed against the scratchy seat belt. “I'm afraid he'll never forgive me for taking it away. Hey, can I move in with you – be adopted by the tribe?”

Wind Wolf chuckled, eyes on the road.

“Peter, your father still loves you, his flesh and blood, more than the enchantment of this Box. If he had to choose, he would save you.”

“Meh… I'm not so sure.”

He'd been working me like a pack mule the past few weeks. We hadn't had a real father-son conversation since he'd embarked on this. I mean, I'm not the corny type, but I know when something's wrong. I noticed a motorbike gaining rapidly on us and craned my neck to see it in the mirror.

“Jeepers, it's Dad! He's on our trail – now what? We can't let him follow us to the mines.”

Wind Wolf gripped the steering wheel and swung a hard left, plunging off-road in a cloud of dust. He led Dad on a treacherous chase through rocky terrain, dry creek beds, sand pits and washed-out gullies. I don't know how he knew where he was going. I clung to my seat, breath stuck in my throat, praying Dad wouldn't take a spill on that dirt bike and wondering if we would stop to help him if he did.

“Of course we would.” Again, the chief read my mind. “Hang tight, we're almost there. So is he.”

We braked so sharply, the seatbelts locked. The black opening of a cavern yawned into the boulders in front of us. I leaped out, The Box in my arms. The whining buzz of Dad's bike drew closer like an angry hornet.

“Wait! You need light!”

Wind Wolf scrambled out after me, clutching two headlamps. He strapped one to my forehead and one to his own. In that time, Dad screeched to a halt behind us, waving his arms and yelling,

“Stop! Let him go!”

The chief grabbed my arm, hauling me into the cave. We stumbled down narrow tunnels, jagged points of stone scraping at us: left, right, left, so many turns I couldn't imagine ever retracing our steps. Yet we never were far from Dad's voice, calling, pleading for us to turn back. The air was turgid as we descended into the mountain belly. Stalactites glimmered in the beams of our lights. Our scuffling footsteps and heavy breathing echoed, amplified in the close quarters.

Finally, we rounded a bend, abruptly meeting our destination: a circular shaft of sheer nothingness gaping at our feet. Dad burst through the opening and rushed at Wind Wolf.

“Give me my son!”

In the tussle of arms and legs, we all came rolling dangerously close to the abyss. I pulled away, shouting at them to stop, waving The Box in the air. Wind Wolf tore it out of my arms and backed against the wall as Dad got to his feet.

“Peter is safe – we're disposing of The Box.”

“Go ahead, keep it!” Dad croaked, wrapping me in his arms. “I don't want it anymore. You stole my son to get it – you can have it.”

“You think he kidnapped me?” I was incredulous. “I ran away! Chief Wind Wolf is helping me get rid of it before it kills us.”

We watched as he hoisted The Box into the air, flashing like the sun in the beams of our headlamps. The chief hurled it down into the abyss. We bent to follow it with our lights. It let off a high-pitched screaming sound as it plummeted, glowing a fiery white like an asteroid about to crash to Earth.

“Follow me!” Wind Wolf herded us down the tunnel. “It won't be safe when it hits the water.”

We ran for our lives as a dull boom and flash of light swept in from behind us. A deep rumbling vibrated under our feet as the whole mountain trembled like a waking giant. Up and up we scooted, crawling and wriggling as rubble crumbled about our heads.

Just as I was ready to be buried alive, we burst forth to overwhelming daylight and clear blue sky. Wind Wolf dragged us up into his Jeep, spinning the wheels against the gravel as he put as much distance between us and The Box as possible.

I looked back as the mountain seemed to shudder and sink into itself, sending quivers right through the Jeep.

“Well, Dad, are you happy now? I told you this was gonna end in disaster.”

“It's ok, Pete.” He squeezed my shoulder. “As long as you're safe, nothing else matters. I was blinded by power, by greed. I should have known better.”

I shook my head. Chief Wind Wolf smiled at us in the rearview mirror.

Notes ▼

Words: 1979.
Written for the August 2024 Official WdC Contest, Short Shots.
Prompt image is being used for the cover art.
Also written for "The Lodestar Contest" 
Prompt: Long ago it disappeared, but now it's back. That's a problem.
Also written for "Starting Stories" 
Prompt: must use the phrase "I was sure he would hate me for it, but I must go on. If I didn't do it..."