Until the hovering crystal ladder appeared, no one in Turnersville noticed the dented aluminum bucket, with its sisal rope handle, resting in Hobson’s field amid the tall wildflowers and rye grass. Everyone excused Frank Hobson for missing the evidence. Frank was sixty-two and nearsighted, refusing to wear his prescription glasses because they slipped off his thin and sweat-coated nose the minute he mucked stalls in his barn. Even his grandson, twenty-three-year-old Jerome Hobson, assigned to till the contiguous corn field, did not see the bucket until the sparkle reflecting from the ladder’s uprights exploded rainbows across the lawns and into the younger man’s eyes.

Jerome, who most townies called Jerry, caught sight of the colored lights and slowed the tractor he was using to pull the rusted plow through the dry soil. He squinted in the March seven in the morning sun. Where was those pretty lights from? He raised his hand across his brow to dim the glare. And there she was: A glass ladder, leaning on nothing in the middle of the field. Jerry scanned the length of it and realized it rose hundreds of feet into the sky. Like something out of them fairy stories his grandma used to read him and his baby sister, Sue Lynn.

He leapt from the seat of the tractor, brushing dust from the sleeves of his denim shirt as he crossed into the flower field. He hadn’t been out this way since last fall when he took Joann Shelton for a little walkie into the woods. Joann was as disappointing as the rain had been that night. Jerry had his mind set on getting himself at least a blow job. All he got was sopping cold-rain boots and an earful of how he was no gentleman. Well, no shit, Joann. What kind of guy asks a girl to take a walk in the woods at three in the morning in October? And what kind of girl agrees to take that walk?

No matter. He had something interesting right here, fer sure, he thought as he shifting from one booted foot to the other and positioned himself a safe three feet from the crystal ladder. Well, lookie that. The ladder sliced through the hazy air, tilted, as if it was resting against a ledge. Jerry leaned closer, tipping his chin to look skywards. The ladder not only seemed to lean against nothing but also seemed to hover above the ground. Jerry tipped his body, bringing his nose near the damp wild flowers and grass to get a line of sight at the ladder’s base. He pressed his ear to the damp grass. The wildflowers tickled his face. Yessir. That there ladder wasn’t touching the ground. A few strands of rye shoots were standing under the bottoms of the uprights. He stood, tiptoeing closer with a sense he might wake something, and karate chopped his hand underneath the bottom of the vision. Besides feeling a little chill, his hand passed right under the uprights.

Jerry hunkered down in a squat and looked up, unable to see the top rungs which passed beyond clouds. Now, he was no scientific scholar guy, but he knew the clouds were a few miles up. That’s one tall ladder, he thought. Bet it would cost a few thousand dollars at the hardware store, fer sure. He considered touching the side, reaching and withdrawing his fingertips. Within the crystal, he could swear he saw something moving. Like rainbow light worms weaving through the glass. He didn’t want none of that. Fer sure. He might drive a tractor up and down that field, but his pappy didn’t raise no fool. And that thing didn’t grow here, fer sure.

Probably some alien thing. He looked around to see if he was standing in a crop circle. Now that would be something. That rancher, Ursula Downing, over in Clark’s county, had one of them crop circles and the National Questioner paid her a few thousand for pictures and a story. But, no. No crop circle. Just the crystal ladder next to a bucket. He regarded the bucket, hummed and rubbed his stubble, which never quite grew into a goatee. He leaned forward a bit and found the bucket empty and average. It looked like the one in his grandpap’s barn. Four-gallon aluminum, with a rope handle and a bit of rust around the bottom where it rested on the wet ground.

Jerry rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. Must be something he should do now. Like tell someone. But not too many someones. He wanted to make sure the National Questioner interviewed him as the finder and not some townie big-mouth who would steal Jerry’s thunder like they stole corn from his grandpap’s far-most field in the late summer. Bunch of church-goin criminals in this town.

Which got him thinking. Maybe he should call Pastor Wilson? The ladder, after all, appeared to be going right to heaven. Might be a representative of the Lord might know what to do with this situation. But no, Jerry decided as he considered Pastor Wilson’s past behavior. The good pastor regularly appeared on the local radio station, boasting about his recent book or latest sermon, and did all he could to bring attention to himself. The pastor was as apt to raise the alarm and steal Jerry’s story as any of the parishioners. Nope.

Jerry wasn’t the one to make this sort of a decision. Honest, no matter what he did or didn’t, his grandpap would find a reason for correction. And Jerry didn’t want none of that slap to the side of his head today. That old man could go on for weeks about the slightest fire in the barn or spilled paint on the walk. If Jerry screwed this up, he’d get no sleep with grandpap standing over him pointing and squinting and ranting about how Jerry was a good-fer-nothin’. Nope. Fer sure.

Jerry backed up towards the tractor and hopped into the seat, trying not to take his eyes from the crystal. Which sure was pretty. The morning sun ignited the surface and scattered tiny rainbow cubes across the flowers and reeds, sparkling like that prism hung in the window at that store in the city mall. The ladder seemed stable. Wasn’t moving or blurry. Jerry decided he would drive the tractor to the barn and take the chance the fairy ladder would be here when he returned.

He jogged back to the tractor, turning back a few times as he chugged to the barn. He returned with his grandpap and the field hand, Iggy, hanging on the back of the tractor. Iggy jumped right off.

“Damn. Look at that,” Iggy called back to them as he rushed towards the ladder.

“I thought you were full of manure, boy,” grandpap Frank said as he ambled towards the vision, favoring his left leg, and rubbing the stubble on his square chin. He squinted. “But sure enough, that’s a crystal ladder.”

“Just as I said, pap.” Jerry pointed. “See how it’s not leanin’ on anything.”

“Might be leanin’ on something way up,” Iggy said, craning his sunburned neck towards where the ladder disappeared beyond the clouds. “Something up past the clouds.”

Frank patrolled, examining the ladder from all sides. He leaned over the bucket. He grunted. He said, “Damn strange, that.”

“Isn’t that our bucket from the barn?” Iggy asked.

“My bucket?” Frank snapped. “Can’t be. Unless some damn fool dragged it out here and forgot.” He glared at Jerry. Then at Iggy.

Jerry searched his mind. He didn’t think he had used the bucket recently. Not in this field anyway. He glared at Iggy and said, “Yeah, Iggy. You must’ve left it.”

“Me? No, sir. Fer sure.” Iggy shook his head.

“Don’t matter,” Frank said. “Don’t matter who left it. There it is. And there that is. And we can’t till this field next week with that damn thing in the the way.”

“Fer sure,” Iggy agreed.

“Fer sure,” Jerry quickly echoed. “Ya see the wormy rainbows inside the glass, pap?”

Frank continued to squint up at the ladder and rub his chin. His lips moved as if he was speaking his thoughts. He said, “Might call the paper.”

“That’s what I thought, pap,” Jerry blurted.

Frank frowned. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He said, “Or might call the sheriff.”

“Do you think we should climb up first?” Iggy asked.

Frank turned slowly, squinting at Iggy. He removed his glasses, folded them slowly and shoved them into his shirt breast pocket. He said, “Now, that’d be a dumb move. Would you drink a glass of you don’t know what if a stranger said it was tasty? No. You wouldn’t.”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir, is right. You don’t drink unlabeled spirits and you don’t touch crystal ladders in a field. Even if it stands beside a bucket that looks familiar. Ya hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir, is right, Ignatius.”

Iggy backed away from the ladder. He nodded at Jerry as if staying clear of the ladder had been his thought all along.

Jerry grunted. Iggy was a simpleton hired to muck stalls and paint fences. Not to do no thinkin’. Jerry planned on firing his bony ass the minute grandpap was dead and Jerry took control of the land. That was fer sure.Jerry’s poor opinion of Iggy wasn’t so much because of Iggy’s simple ways. Although the way Iggy picked at his back teeth after a meal irked Jerry. What really rubbed Jerry raw was the way Iggy had been smug since high school, always commenting on Jerry’s pitching and agreeing when the coach pulled Jerry out almost every game to use the relief pitcher. As if Iggy was the coach. As if Iggy was a New York Yankees Hall of Famer or something. As if. Smug bony ass nobody do nothin’ comment-making stall mucker.

Jerry offered, “Iggy should go call the sheriff, pap.”

“No, Jerry. I’ll go ring the sheriff. Iggy’s returning to the barn to muck that last stall. And finish repairing the pump. And you,” he said, turning his attention from ladder to Jerry, “you gonna stay put and see if this damn thing changes or does anything peculiar.”

Jerry was nodding and thinking he would rather go muck the stall than stay alone with the sparkly fairy ladder as he said, “Yes, pap.”

He realized he was still nodding as he watched as Iggy drove the tractor, taking his grandpap back to the barn. The sun was above the roof of the house now. Must be around ten. Gonna be one of those dragging days. Hot, so your shorts clung to your ball hairs and your socks needed wringing. He wiped his forehead where beads of sweat had formed. Not enough to drip like in June, but enough to make him want another shower. He avoided looking at the ladder and its wormy rainbows and, instead, enjoyed the sparkles of rainbows dancing across the rye.

He spotted a clutch of chickadees playing between the early blooming cornflowers. Sure was a strange spring. Early flowers. Extra warm out. Not like other Marches he had tilled the rotating fields. Last year was the east field and part of the south field. Next year, it would be the north and rest of the south field. This year, he was prepping the mid field and west field. Unless that fairy ladder was still right smack amid the west field. Jerry guessed they would replant the east and south. Although that would mean a lean crop since the ground would not have enough recovery time.

And grandpap would bitch and not let Jerry sleep. Perhaps he should try to pull that ole ladder down? Probably weighed more than the aluminum ladder stored on the side of the barn. But Jerry could at least pull it loose and let it fall and break and shatter into a thousand shards and let all those wormy rainbows escape. That seemed unwise.

Jerry rubbed his chin and wished more hair would grow in. Girls liked a thick goatee. And girls liked guys who took charge. Jerry would be in charge of the farm someday. Probably sooner than Christmas, the way grandpap smoked and coughed. Jerry would need to start acting like he was in charge. Take that ladder right down. Wormy rainbows or no.

He stormed towards the ladder, taking unusually long strides, hands positioned to grasp the uprights. As his hands touched the translucent surface, an electric current entered his palms, traveled into his wrists and shocked his forearms. His brain registered the sharp tingle as his body registered his flight through the air and onto his back within the tall rye grass. His first reaction was to inhale after the impact as he slammed into the damp, hard ground, which pressed all the air from his body. His second reaction was to the spasm running up his backside and tailbone. Damn, that hurt.

But he had no brain to focus on the spasms as the icy charge exploded in his fingers, hands and arms. The shock and pain overcame both the breathlessness and his scattered thoughts. The chill down into his bones was worse than if he had immersed his arms into Wilson’s Pond in the dark of winter when a blanket of ice and slush coated the surface. With a deep inhale, Jerry had enough breath to wail.

Still flat on his back, he raised his arms and found them black and solid, elbow to fingertips, as if turned to obsidian. Flexing his elbows was impossible. He could not make a fist or move his fingers at all. His second wail was more of a whine as the chill burned through his arms and hands, like thunderless icicle lightning sparking from his fingers up into his shoulders. How could something feel so cold and burn so bad? Tears formed in the corner of his eyes, but he found it impossible to close his eyes to blink them away. He tried again to bend his arms and found them cemented in an outstretched hug preparation position. But no one was there to hug him. Or to help him. Jerry moaned one last time, murmuring, “Pap…” before he lost consciousness.

When Jerry cracked open his heavy lids, he found standing over him his grandpap, Iggy and Remy Gunderson, the most rotund officer in the Rock Creek County sheriff’s department.

“Whatcha doin’ lying there with your arms out like Frankenstein fer?” Iggy asked.

Frank snapped, “Look like one of those damned fool yoga people.”

Jerry blinked several times and kept his arms stiff in front of him. He was afraid of that icy burning. He found his voice and stuttered, “I… I touched that thing and got shocked.”

“You didn’t get nothing but dumber,” Frank said.

Jerry sat up and checked his injuries. The blackness and solidity was gone. He bent his arms tenderly. No pain. It was like nothing happened. “I touched–I was gonna climb it. But it blew me off. Turned my arms black. I swear, Pap.”

“You were sleepin’ stead of watching the damn thing. Dreamin’.”

“No, Pap. I swear on a bible stack, that thing shocked me with ice.” Without the confidence he usually had when he moved, Jerry used his hands to raise his body into a sitting position. He noticed Gunderson and his partner, Leon Flaherty, circling the ladder.

Frank frowned. “That thing shocked ya? Only thing I believe is that you defied me and touched that damn thing.”

“Pretty dang strange,” Officer Flaherty called from his position beneath the ladder. “It was just here? Sudden?”

“Yup,” Iggy replied.

Jerry groaned at Iggy’s enthusiasm. “I found it.”

Gunderson straightened himself, placing his hands on his lower back. His belly domed over his thighs as he regarded the sparkling ladder. “Damn strange. Just appeared?”

“What’s it leanin’ on?” Flaherty asked no one in particular.

Gunderson straightened, his belly still hanging over his thick thighs, and said, “Get up there and find out.”

“No, Sir. Officer Gunderson. I wouldn’t touch it,” Jerry struggled to his feet. “I touched it. Blew me way over here. And burned like devil’s fire.”

“You don’t say,” Gunderson said and regarded Jerry without affect. “Get up there, Flaherty.”

“Yes, Sir,” Flaherty said, stepping over the disregarded bucket and reaching for the nearest upright. As his fingers touched the crystal, it blew him ten feet across the field as if he weighed no more than a maple leaf. His body moved soundlessly through the air. He landed on the ground with a thud and a cough.

The others ran toward him and his outstretched arm.

“It burns! Holy Christ on a cross!” Flaherty was shaking his arm. “My fucking fingers!”

“Let me see that,” Gunderson said, grasping Flaherty’s fingers. He turned them up and down while Flaherty wailed. “Looks fine.”

“It fucking burns!” Flaherty screamed again.

“I said that,” Jerry said. “Like devil fire. Can you move your fingers?”

Flaherty pulled his hand away from Gunderson. “Fuck no. Like they’re frozen.”

“That’s what I said,” Jerry said. “Same thing happened to me.”

“Ya need medical attention there, Flaherty?” Frank asked.

“What about me?” Jerry asked.

Flaherty examined his hand. “Yeah. I think, maybe. Sure burns.”

“My arms are still burnin’, pap,” Jerry said.

“I’ll get Chief Dennis down here. With the medics. Just stay put, Flaherty,” Gunderson said as he lumbered toward his cruiser parked beyond the field. “Two clock ticks.”

“My arms both still burnin’,” Jerry said again.

“Shut it, Jerome,” Frank said. “We got an officer down. You blind, son?”

Jerry shifted on his feet and watched Gunderson waddle to his patrol car, retrieve the radio handset and lean into the mike. Jerry watched Gunderson’s lips move while listening to Flaherty whining and whimpering. Jerry shook his arms and hands, fighting the burning pins and needles. He glanced at the crystal ladder and noticed the rainbow worm patterns dance and sparkle inside the glass.

“Probably alien technology,” Iggy said.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Flaherty said. “Real strange.” He rubbed his fingers.

They were silent as Gunderson replaced the handset and donned his bullet-proof vest. He squeezed into it and struggled with the side ties. It rested over his belly, like a perverse corset. Gunderson tried but failed to reach the last tie and left it dangling as he waddled back across the field. By the time he reached the group by the ladder, the ambulance had arrived.

The response speed did not surprise Jerry. The first responders in town typically loitered around the diner and had nothing to do but watch television and eat every doughnut the diner produced. That diner was always out of doughnuts. The two first responders, who Jerry recognized but could not assign names, arrived at Flaherty’s side almost as soon as Gunderson. They tried to focus on their task but kept shooting glances at the ladder.

The first, tall with thick, dark black hair, pointed, “That’s what bit ya?”

“You attend to his hand, Volbert,” Gunderson said.

“That’s what we’re doin’, sir. But we would like to understand the circumstances–“

“This here’s my shootin’ hand,” Flaherty said. “It’s all burnin’.”

“Seems fine,” said the second responder who was bald and almost as round as Gunderson.

“Well, it burns like a syphilis piss,” Flaherty said.

The two first responders glanced at each other but made no comment. They continued to examine Flaherty’s hand. They took his vital signs. He seemed fine.

“I got shocked, too,” Jerry said.

The bald responder approached Jerry and performed the same ritual, making small talk and asking questions about the ladder’s presence. The others continued to stare at the ladder but made no conversation until townies crossed the field. Of course, Jerry thought. Nothing to do and curiosity about the ambulance. Probably all hoping his grandpap was finally dead.

Abalone French, the nearest neighbor, was the first of the approaching crowd to reach the ladder group. “What we have here, fellows?” she asked.

“Stay back, Abalone,” Gunderson said.

“That’s the biggest ladder ever,” a red-headed teen asked, craning his neck and looking up with his hand over his eyes. “And sparkly.”

“Yes. But stay back, son,” Gunderson said. “One man been harmed already. We don’t want anyone else hurt.”

“Two,” Jerry offered. No one paid him any mind. Others crossed the field and listened as his grandpap explained how he had found the ladder and called the sheriff. How he was sure it was alien technology and was planning on contacting the papers once the officers finished their investigation. Chief Roberta Dennis joined the other officers and nodded through their report. She checked Flaherty’s hand. She examined the ladder without touching it. She radioed the station and requested a forensics team from county and made a call into the university.

Jerry stayed silent as the rainbow worms danced through the glass. The high afternoon sun intensified the prism effect, and the tops of the rye and flowers sparkled in reds and purples, greens and blues. He guessed it was almost noon by the sun’s position. He rubbed his arms, still trying to shake off the burn. His arms felt better by the time Missy Anderson brought a basket of sandwiches and Patty Francis Anderson brought gallons of sweet tea and plastic cups.

The crowd munched and theorized until the forensics team and the professor from the university arrived and examined the ladder. Jerry heard the professor report she was a history professor and could not fathom what the ladder was. The forensics team reported it was not glass, not crystal. The substance and character of the ladder a mystery, the investigators spent most of their three hours sipping tea and showing off new test kits to each other. One investigator was particularly proud of his blue light pen.

Jerry felt his arms cooling, although his fingers still burned. He almost laughed when the red-headed teen tried to slip by the investigators to climb the ladder. As his hand grasped the upright, it flung his skinny ass across the field, resulting in the investigators, adults and first responders surrounding him and checking his vitals.

“That’s two injured,” Gunderson noted. “Got to keep folks away from here,” he said, directing Flaherty to bring out the yellow tape from the cruiser. He and Flaherty set posts and strung the crinkled tape in an awkwardly constructed triangle around the patch of ground at the base of the ladder. As they tied the last yellow tape to the sagging posts, the ladder sang as if a church choir was inside the crystal intoning hymns. The history professor warned everyone back, and Gunderson ensured they complied.

The crowd, in a reverie, stepped back and listened as the ladder glowed and liquified, like the substance inside of a rectal thermometer, all metallic and watery. Jerry’s hands burned again. Flashbulb light exploded from the ladder and a thin man in wire-rimmed glasses and a tweed suit stood at its base. The crowd gasped and moved back farther. Jerry advanced until Gunderson’s hand slapped him on his chest.

The thin man adjusted his glasses, securing them behind his ears, cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well. Hello.”

The murmurs grew louder from the crowd, with questions of identity and of the ladder’s function. The Stranger ignored them all. He said, “Who’s in charge here?”

“I’m Chief Dennis. Suppose I’m leading here. And you might be?”

The Stranger smiled without pleasantry. “Yes. Well. I’m from maintenance. We apologize for the inconvenience.” He held out his hand as if to hold a serving tray and a clipboard with a thick stack of papers appeared, flat on his hand. He regarded the stack and said, “Just a moment.” He riffled through the papers with his other hand and said, “Yes. Maintenance installed the wrong device this morning. With our apologies.” He waved his hand, and the ground quaked.

The crowd gasped in concert, grabbing onto each other for balance.

“No worries,” the Stranger said, raising his empty hand. “Just a moment more.”

To his left, outside of the taped triangle around the ladder, a hole formed. Jerry could see it was rectangular and seemed to collapse in as the soil disappeared, replaced by a set of gray stone steps. Steam rose from the hole.

“Yes, well,” the Stranger said as the quaking subsided. “All in place now.”

“What’s in place now?” Chief Dennis asked, leaning towards the hole and wrinkling her nose as the odor of sulfur filled the air.

“Yes. Well, this morning, maintenance was to install descent stairs and installed a climbing ladder by mistake. We’ve been having issues with the codes in work orders. Sorry for the confusion.”

“Who the hell are you?” Jerry asked, unable to control his emotions one moment more.

“Step back, Hobson Junior,” Chief Dennis warned.

“That’s unnecessary, Chief Dennis,” the Stranger said. “Mister Hobson is on the list.”

“What list?” Jerry asked, moving forward now past Gunderson’s still outstretched hand and Chief Dennis’ glare.

The Stranger consulted the pile of papers on his clipboard. “Jerry Hobson…. Hobson. Yes, here it is: To descend today. With all of you.”

“Descend? Descend where?” Chief Dennis asked.

The Stranger frowned. “Oh, my. Well, this is beyond my pay grade. Let’s see. You have not seen a short female with wings? No? Oh, my. Yes, well. Jerome and each of you are scheduled to descend.” He reviewed his papers. “Yes. All of you.”

“What the hell are you sayin’ boy?” Frank asked. Jerry could tell the Stranger was about to get a head slap from his grandpap. No one told Frank what to do on his land.

“Frank Hobson? Senior, correct? We have Junior as deceased.”

“That’s right, boy. There’s me and the grand boy here. And you’re trespassing on my land.”

The Stranger flashed his kindless smile again. He reminded Jerry of the robot people who worked at motor vehicle. All business and fill out Form J and get into that other line. The Stranger said, “Oh, that tone is unnecessary, Mister Hobson. I’m just doing my job. And others’ jobs today, apparently. Lots of correction reports to write and file, I’m afraid. Sorry for the confusion.”

“The only confusion is with you, boy. What do you mean, descend?”

The Stranger frowned. “This line of questioning is quite uncomfortable for me as it is not my department. I merely oversee maintenance.”

“Maintenance of what?” Jerry asked, shaking his burning hands to clear the pain.

“Yes. Well. I oversee installation of climbers and descenders. Like this device rising to the beyond–and those stairs, dropping to the never where.”

The crowd looked to where the Stranger pointed. One woman fainted. Jerry did not know her name. She worked in the bakery at the corner store. Jerry said, “So, what? You’re from heaven?”

The Stranger blinked several times. He said, “I could see you require instruction. I am sure the concierge will meet you below. Make your way down the stairs–“

“I’m not going down there,” Iggy said. “You’re saying I need to go to hell?”

The Stranger regarded Iggy, then quickly said, “Ignatius Entwistle. Oh. Of course. Molesting children, even once, sets that course. And seventeen times this last year. Well, Mister Entwistle. What did you expect?”

The crowd murmurs intensified, peppered with gasps and whines. Roberta Dennis called out, “I’m a church goin’ god-fearing woman, mister whoever you are!”

“I live for Jesus,” another man Jerry did not know called out.

The Stranger said, staring at his paperwork and avoiding making eye contact with the irate crowd, “Yes. Let’s see. Roberta Dennis. Several abortions. And poisoning your mother-in-law after mass two years ago so she could not come with you on vacation. You saved her airfare and getting that extra room, but still not nice, Missus Dennis. Steve Millson. Lives for Jesus. Sells used machine parts as new. Minor, really. Let’s see. Oh, yes. And cheats on taxes. Not so bad. Hm. Oh, here it is. Beat your wife almost daily.” The Stranger looked up and shook his head.

Marcie Sue Whitehead began to cry. She leaned on Flaherty and cried out, “I only stole a few times!”

The Stranger flipped through his pages. “Confession is a tad late, Miss Whitehead. They fired three people at the bank because of your regular withdrawals. That was confession time.” He paused, then asked, “Is Miss Hobson present? Sue Lynn?”

“That’s my sister,” Jerry said.

“Yes. Well. She has a list of misdemeanors.“

“Not my sister!” Jerry snapped. “You got your facts wrong, Mister.”

“Misdemeanors that qualify her for dispensation. But,” the Stranger said as he consulted his clipboard papers, “it seems she is not due for reporting for several years. She’s out of town. Is that correct?”

“At school, yeah,” Frank said.

“Yes. That’s what I have noted here. She’s not included.“

“What about me? I never did nothin’ to no one!” Gunderson cried out, suddenly not so assured even in his bulletproof vest.

The Stranger regarded Gunderson. “Officer, do you want me to reveal your history to these others?”

Gunderson raised his finger, which was still as his belly bounced up and down. “You got nothing on me!”

“Except for the time outside the gay bar. Except for that.“

“You’re gay?” Frank asked, fists balled.

The Stranger raised his finger. “Ah, no, Mister Hobson. Homosexuality is not an offense. Victimless. What Officer Gunderson enjoys is violence. And punishment. Isn’t that right, Officer?”

Gunderson ignored the question as his round face turned into a large plum, purple and fleshy.

Jerry couldn’t help himself. He asked, “What about Joann Shelton?”

“I’m right here, Jerry Hobson. Don’t you cause trouble!” Joann called out.

“Yes. Miss Shelton. Quite the agreeable girl.” The Stranger smirked then “Except for your volunteering at the adult home in Clark’s county. Made quite a killing last year stealing prescription drugs and selling to your little sister’s middle school friends.” When Joann did not respond, the Stranger added, “And Officer Leon Flaherty. Knew all about it. But took his cut. In cash and… let’s see. Fellatio.” The Stranger dropped the pages on his clipboard as Joann shrieked and ran across the field. The Stranger said, “Life is simple, folks. Church don’t matter. Religion don’t matter. All that matters is being honest –and considerate. Treating others as you would want to be treated. Not hurting others. The do no harm precept like Wiccans or Libertarians follow. Like that.”

Flaherty sputtered, “But… Liz Barnes fucked half this town.”

“Nope, doesn’t matter who you copulate with. It matters why, Officer Flaherty. Liz is descending because she spends excessive time spreading nasty rumors about those she calls her friends and taking money from her grandmother’s purse. Not for cheating on you with her own brother. Although that did not help her case.”

“What about the children? Surely, the children are climbing,” Rachel Burgseon said, as tears filled her eyes and she pulled her four-year-old son in her arms close to her.

The Stranger smiled then. “The little cretins in this town have earned their descension. Cheating on tests. Sneaking cookies. Bullying. Or worse: Not stopping bullying. Picking on the fat kid. That kind of thing. Children are a special class of evil. However, the climbers burn off their childhood negative score by living an honest adulthood. I mean most of you have had years to repent.”

Rachel kept at it, insisting, “Sam Johnson’s at school. He’s into that Grunge music. Smokes weed. Always cursing.“

The Stranger flipped pages. “Yes. Sam. Good kid. Brilliant. He’s alive and well. And scheduled for climbing years from now.”

A woman Jerry didn’t know called out, “What about Gary Gordon? Been drunk for forty years. And Tom Dentry’s still on the meth.”

The Stranger consulted his papers. “Mister Gordon is descending for not paying debts back to his friends. And Dentry is going for stealing from his friends. Hurting oneself with drugs or alcohol is not a sin, per se. You have free will. It’s harming others that determines your direction. Up or down.”

Rachel’s face was bright pink. She asked, “Isn’t there some accounting? I mean, I lied a few times–but, but did a lot of charity work. I don’t understand.”

“Well, yes. But each harmful act carries a weighted score. For example, you can donate millions to charities, but that only scores one point. Stealing one dollar earns you a negative 16,432. Unclean hands. It’s a legal theory. You can’t argue you should climb up when you have the slightest blemish.”

“What about a reprieve? Extenuating circumstances?” Rachel asked, unwilling to accept what Jerry had already determined was inevitable.

The Stranger frowned then, as if he resented the question. “Yes. Yes, we call that ECCE: Extenuating circumstances, credit and exemptions. Rarely given.“

“Like what? What counts?” Rachel asked.

“It’s a limited list,” the Stranger said. “I doubt any of you would qualify.“

“Ask us. Check your paper,” Frank said, pointing feverishly at the clipboard.

The Stranger glanced over his papers, resisting. “Fine. Yes. Credits and exemptions. None of you learned a second language. That’s always heavily weighted.”

“Why?” Frank asked. Jerry watched in amusement remember the times his grandpap insisted English should be the national language.

The Stranger ignored the question, continuing, “Latin is particularly heavily weighted. As is calculus and physics.” He glanced up. “Not in this crowd.” He flipped through the pages. “Played masters level chess? No. Fan of the band Tool? No. Read all of Shakespeare’s works, including Troilus and Cressida?”

“Cressa what?” Frank asked.

“No. I suppose not. Avoided reality television? Voted Libertarian? No. No.” He paused and pursed his lips. “Maybe this one. It’s one of the most popular. Perhaps took a child to a science museum or art gallery instead of watching football on a Sunday afternoon? No. I suppose not. Yes, well. That’s most of them. The others involve international travel, donation of organs and tipping waiters and waitresses.” His voice faded as he lowered the clipboard and papers. “Well, dead is dead. I mean, you all know the Frost poem, assuredly. No?” The Stranger cleared his throat, rocked on his tiptoes and recited,

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.”

He rocked on his toes once more, indicating the end of his recital and said, “So you can go into the sky and ice or down into the fire. Dead is dead.”

Chief Dennis asked, “We’re all dead, then? Even the children.”

“Well, yes. You spent all this time racing to the store to hoard toilet paper but let the virus spread through the entire town. You were done-for weeks ago. Normally, we send an escort. One soul at a time is the norm. But for a mass exodus, we use risers or descenders. Much more efficient. We’re all about efficiency. We’ve just been overwhelmed with all the relocations from this planet. Which partially explains the screw up on this installation. But that’s been corrected. So. I suppose my work here is done.” The Stranger waved his empty hand over his clipboard, which vaporized. He reached for the ladder and secured his hands to the uprights.

Frank asked, “What about the bucket?”

“Bucket?” The Stranger asked.

“Yes, sir. The bucket.” Frank gestured to the bucket at the Stranger’s feet.

“Ah. Yes. That’s not ours. I think Jerry must have left that there. Your mind wandered so often, Jerry, when you were pretending to work.” The stranger regarded the bucket, made a tsk sound, scanned the small crowd and, with a barely perceptible nod, tapped the ladder. He seemed to blend into the rungs, becoming as clear and illuminated, rainbows and shots of colored light. Then he and the ladder faded like a morning haze.

The sun seemed to fade, too, leaving nothing but a grey sky of clouds and mist. Left was the crowd, the stone stairway, the smoke, the sulphur and the whisp of ash. A tongue of flame licked the top step, and a burst of steam escaped the chasm. Jerry could swear he heard a deep, baritone growl rise from the depths as his grandpap smacked the back of Jerry’s head.