Ascension: Invocation Read Free

calling Him 'Al'."
    Milan couldn't help it. He laughed out loud, on camera. Dr. Pembrooke smiled at him through the monitor as Jim quickly gave a summation and went to commercial. The red lights went out. The director gave an all clear, and the producer began to shout to the team.
    "Okay, we're done here for now, people. Let's get some new footage of the tear and the town. Milan, can I see you?" The producer walked to Milan as he removed his mic. He was anxious to get back outside. "L.A. would like for you to do more about string theory. We have something in the can that you did last year with Larry. Do you remember that?" the producer asked.
    "Faintly," Milan said as he briskly walked to the door.
    "Can you be back in an hour to talk with Jim about the advances in the theory since last year?"
    "Advances?" Milan checked his cell phone. He had no signal. It was working before he thought.
    "Yeah, like... has anyone solved it?" the producer said, his voice shaking. Milan looked up from his phone and saw the middle-aged man brush tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "What's happening?" he asked, trying to catch his breath. The producer had now thoroughly broken down and was crying as silently as possible, so not to attract the attention of his staff.
    "No one really knows at the moment," Milan said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "But we'll figure it out. Let me see what I can find out at the site. I'll come back in about an hour, and I'll try to explain things further, okay?" The producer nodded and worked to regain his composure. "Walk outside with me," Milan told him. "Get a little air, clean yourself up. You'll be okay."
    "I can't even call my family," the producer said.
    "I'll try to see if I can make arrangements for that, okay?"
    Again, the producer nodded. Milan began to walk away toward the radio station, disappearing inside the crowd dancing now to Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al". It was ridiculous. Milan left him with that. He felt terrible. He didn't even know the producer's name.
    
    Alicia made her way past the remaining aisles of goods in the dollar store to her makeshift office, which consisted solely of a desk and her iPad. She took off her jacket and draped it across her folding chair. She checked herself in the reflection of the computer screen and tapped a key to wake it up. First stop: Facebook. She had thirty friend requests. Not bad. She updated her status. "It's a party in Tuscumbia, Alabama! Crazy here. Going to talk to the locals. Will update more details as they happen. Stay tuned to Triton! Blarrgh! Need coffee!!!"
    She then surfed to the competing networks. CNN had a terrific shot of the tear. "God, they've got the best graphics," she thought as she made her way to Fox, then ABC, CBS, and finally MSNBC. No one had anything new. This was good. Everyone was focusing on ground zero, the radio station. She needed a different angle. Maybe she'd go for the fringe. "Oh, wait," she thought. "Mama fears for her family. Sweet!" She'd find a rattled backwoods family and do a piece on them and their response to the aliens. Southern kids had adorable accents. This was Alabama. There had to be some dust bowl-era-looking barefoot family somewhere. Potentially hilarious. Perfect.
    "Brady!" she shouted.
    "Yeah?" was the response from the wash room directly in front of her desk.
    "You ready?"
    “I'm taking a dump, babe."
    "Hurry up. We've got to go."
    "You got a lead?"
    "I've got an idea, yeah. Finish jerking off and let's get out of here."
    "I love it when you fantasize about my junk." The toilet flushed, the water ran and Brady emerged drying his hands with toilet paper.
    "Are we out of paper towels?" Alicia asked.
    "I couldn't find any."
    "We're in a fucking convenience store, Brady. Aisle six."
    "This is a fine." Brady tossed the wet paper in the trash can. He stepped to the corner and picked up his camera and remote bag. "Where are we going?"
    "To the sticks. We need to find a redneck