Boris Zolotov & The Kyshtym Dwarf

alien cult

A human chain 100 people long intoning an old Soviet favorite snaked its way through the water and onto the beach. It stopped to meet me. “Boris Yevgenyevich.”

“Michael.”

“I’m just going to dry off and we’ll talk in a few minutes.”

He shook my hand and walked on. Being the leader the rest of the chain followed suit, greeted me and went to get dressed. For most of them that meant from scratch, not changing out of a wet suit. They were lined up boy-girl-boy-girl, a mix of ages 30 to 70, with all appendages fully extended, reaching out to the person ahead in line. And that’s how they marched on, removing a hand from somewhere to shake mine and moving along. Soon it would begin to be truly strange.

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