Page 36 of Strange Lights

The organization is the antithesis of the agency and all it stands for. They call themselves the Whistlemen. I call them the Waffle House warriors for two main reasons. Most importantly, because it’s less gendered, less sexist. I get it; Whistleperson doesn’t have the same ring to it. Doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily. But come on now, even I don’t want to be called a man all the time. It’s not the 1950s, and we should strive for more inclusivity.

Second, I use the term because it drives Wolff up a metaphorical wall. He’s one of the top three in charge of the Whistlemen. Wolff isn’t even his real name, and its two f’s annoy me irrationally. Hypocritical of me, given my own chosen name? Probably. But if you’re going with a code name, stick to Wolf. Anyway, I’d be inclined to call Wolff my archnemesis if I didn’t have bigger fish to fry. As it stands, he’s got archnemesis-lite status, based solely on how much he annoys me in petty ways. He’s the biggest conspiracy nut you could imagine, a walking tinfoil hat cliché, and he gives the rest of us who fall in the middle a bad name.

Gemma, though, is another story. She doesn’t bother with code names or covert identities. Gemma is her real name. She is the other half of the two-person team making up the visible leadership of the Whistlemen. She’s competent and scarily efficient. If only she didn’t have standards. I tried to ask her out once, and she popped out the most accurate and brutally honest list of my faults I’ve ever heard, and she doesn’t even know the half of it. She had enough valid points that I never attempted that again, and I keep her as close as I keep anyone who knows that much about me. Keep your enemies close, your friends closer. But I trust Gemma in a friend-adjacent way. She has kept my name out of the information I pass to the Whistlemen. Anything I give her or Wolff comes not from “Reggie” but instead from a “confidential source.” Maybe it’s overkill, but you can’t be too careful. Wolff isn’t happy about it, but he respects Gemma.

And what would that kind of organization be without a shadowy and secretive boss? I don’t know who the head honcho of the Whistlemen is. As far as I know, they only communicate with Gemma and Wolff. I’m not even sure either of them has met their boss. My money is on the boss being very high profile or covert. Possibly both: undercover somewhere in the government or the agency itself. I don’t want to trust someone I don’t know with this most important of rescue missions, but I have limited choices. Agency 51 isn’t exactly an easy place to get into. Even harder to get out of. If anyone can get Eldi out, it’s going to be the Whistlemen and the spies I know they have inside the agency. At the very least, their information might be the key. If I have to break into the agency headquarters myself, I need every bit of information and help I can squeeze out of Gemma and Wolff. It’s my selfish attempt to get Eldi out of Agency 51 without having to go myself. My last-ditch effort without sacrificing everything I’ve fought for. And a safety net to try to rescue her should I fail.

Calvin has heard mentions of Wolff, Gemma, and the Whistlemen, but he has never taken them to be more than an informal group of conspiracy theorists. Wolff aside, they’re much more than that. Their mission is basically opposition of the agency. Instead of weaponize, destroy, and cover up, they want to protect the creatures, magic, and supernatural of this world by way of full disclosure. You can’t protect what you don’t admit exists. Hence the name; whistleblowers to their core. My philosophy doesn’t entirely align with theirs⁠—I think it’s best to keep quiet⁠—but they’re better than the agency.

The problem is too many powerful people and governments don’t want that reality. Sometimes I wonder why the agency lets them get away with it rather than crushing them completely. Maybe it’s simply that people don’t find the Whistlemen credible, so why bother? The Whistlemen’s organization is universally scorned. It doesn’t help them that they’ve chosen to run their organization out of Waffle Houses and other pancake restaurants across the US. It makes sense; they have operations everywhere and a front to work under. Plus, who doesn’t love waffles? But it doesn’t sound professional.

The Whistlemen must be in chaos with the government admitting that extraterrestrial life exists and is even on the way here. I can’t imagine the upheaval Wolff and Gemma are fielding. I wonder what it means for the organization’s future. Maybe they’ll be less of a joke now.

I take a long time to fall asleep. I leave Calvin in my bed alone, choosing instead to sit outside in the cool air of the summer night, running my hands over Goat’s grimy fur like a worry stone. My stomach turns over with the flash of headlights in the distance. But, of course, it’s only someone out for a late-night drive, UFO chasers probably. Zara won’t be returning. She already has what she came here for.

My mind turns to that weapon. I don’t know if it would even work on Eldi. If they try it on her, if it works against her and they use it⁠—I won’t simply run away this time, I’ll burn it to the ground and take all of them with me. I can’t stop seeing Calvin’s look of horror when I explained what it does. The disgust and shock in his eyes. It makes me think of another conversation years ago.

What is that thing?

Protection. A weapon.

It’s wrong. It’s bad.

No. It’s freedom. It’s power. It will save us.

I don’t have more nightmares, but the thoughts are enough to haunt me when I do finally fall asleep.

Sleeping in, a luxury I’ve missed for years, now only fills me with a sickly guilt when I, for once, awaken well after the sun. Calvin is already up. He sets a coffee mug in front of me when I emerge from the bedroom and sit down to the breakfast he’s also cooked. I mutter my thanks, and my eyes fall on the cactus, back on the table, hovering somehow over a cup of water, suspended in a delicate web of plastic wrap and rubber bands. The little pot sits nearby, neatly glued back together. Calvin sees me looking.

“It will grow new roots. You can plant it again in a couple weeks,” he says with a sheepish shrug. “I looked it up.”

I try to thank him, but all that comes out is a strange sort of squeak. For the second time in as many days, I’m trying not to cry in front of Calvin over a cactus.

16

The Whistlemen

I’m five espresso shots deep into my day and running on tremendously high cortisol levels by the time we roll up to the most isolated Waffle House in Nevada. A tumbleweed rolls through the nearly empty parking lot. The slightest breeze pushes waves of hot air like a sweltering tide over us as we emerge from the Winnebago. Nobody is going to come all this way just for the waffles.

A gangly and bored-looking boy stands behind the station inside the front doors. The place smells like a maple tree exploded, and the vivid yellow under the fluorescent lighting makes me want to break out my sunglasses.

“Welcome to Waffle House,” he says tonelessly, before glancing at his watch. “Actually, we’re closing in three minutes, so I can’t seat you.” He visibly perks up with the realization.

“You’re a twenty-four-seven establishment, aren’t you?” Calvin asks.

“Not this location.”

“It’s like, 3:27 in the afternoon?” Calvin says, checking his phone for the time.

“We’re booked for a private company event,” the boy replies, sighing deeply.

“I want some waffles. And I’d also like the house special number 247,” I say determinedly. Code for “I’m here on important Whistlemen business.” Any employee here should know enough to call in Gemma and Wolff for that. The waffles are because I’m hungry.

The boy squints at me and says, “We’ve taken that item off our menu. We’ve been running a new special lately.”

I drop the pretense. “No, seriously, call Wolff and Gemma. And food while we wait⁠—I’ll pay for it and everything,” I say, pulling out cash. I’m not fond of maple syrup, but judging by my stomach’s enthusiastic rumbling, I could use an actual meal. When did I last eat? Breakfast? Those cheesy Doritos I remember buying from the rest area vending machine when we stopped to stretch our legs? Calvin and I have been driving and sleeping in shifts, eating dubious gas station snacks and fast food. We made it here from Montana in record time.

“Wolff and Gemma who?” the boy drawls, looking me up and down. I’m wearing travel clothes, baggy basketball shorts, and a binder under a T-shirt printed with a Lisa Frank–style UFO and the words “Get in, Loser.” It seemed funny when I bought it, but it’s becoming too real to wear, I’m realizing, and not the best for serious meetings.