The Tiniest Invaders
Book One: Coexistence
William Bebb
This story is dedicated to the memory of my parents, William & Sally.
Thanks for raising me to be the sick twisted man I am today.
This novel is a Hands on Productions & Publication novel copyright 2011. All rights reserved. Any distribution of this novel without the expressed written permission of the author is illegal and subject to U.S. and international laws. This novel is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents described are solely the result of the author's overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual real companies, products, events or people; living or dead, is a coincidence. ISBN 978-1-4507-5195-7
Contents
CHAPTER_ONE, So, it begins, with a bang
CHAPTER TWO, Sugar and spice
CHAPTER THREE, All God’s children don’t need shoes
CHAPTER FOUR, As the crow flies
CHAPTER FIVE, True grits
CHAPTER SIX, Ghost stories
CHAPTER SEVEN, Things, great small and nasty
CHAPTER EIGHT, The new confederacy & dragons
CHAPTER NINE, Perverts and pigs
CHAPTER TEN, No deliverance
CHAPTER ELEVEN, Stormy weather
CHAPTER TWELVE, Hookers & autopsies
CHAPTER THIRTEEN, Bad dreams, worse reality
CHAPTER FOURTEEN, Dust to dust and singularities
CHAPTER FIFTEEN, Birmingham blues
Sneak peek at All Hallows Evil (working title) Due out Halloween 2011
CHAPTER ONE: So it begins, with a bang
The television played softly as Charles sat in the big, somewhat stained but nonetheless extremely comfortable, recliner with his eyes closed. His mind drifted away from the host of irritations that had marked his day which he spent working the cash register in the exciting world of Big Jimmy's Gas & More store. He was in the beginning of an extremely exciting dream about the two cheerleaders who came in, from the high school down the block, earlier that day. In the dream, the young ladies were wearing cheer-leading outfits that would never meet the approval of the local school board and were much too short to be anything more than what they were- A middle aged man's best kind of dream. Unfortunately, as the perky cheerleaders were bending over examining some items on the bottom shelf he was rudely interrupted.
A high pitched yet masculine scream echoed from somewhere in the house and he was once again thrust into a world sadly devoid of scantily clad cheerleaders and back into his living room where the television showed two politicians discussing how each were more liberal than the other. Jumping to his aching feet, he half stumbled half ran toward the screaming. He grabbed his baseball bat from the umbrella stand as he stumbled down the hallway. Please be some dumb bastard trying to break in. Maybe a crack head or someone else I can beat to a pulp. Charles was thinking about the burglar who broke in a week earlier and stole several relatively inexpensive but hard to replace items. The fact he didn't have insurance that would cover the losses, fed his anger as he hurried down the hall.
The screams came from behind the bathroom door. If a burglar broke in there I bet he's already sorry. He thought, relaxing his grip on the bat. Barbara, his wife, was apparently having a fit over something in there. Charles knocked and waited. He'd learned a lot over eighteen and half years of marriage. One of the most important things being, that if the bathroom door was closed and she was in there you didn't open the door without her permission- screams or no screams. He learned that a long time ago, and still had the scar on his forehead where she'd hit him with the scented candle to prove it.
“Get your ass in here and kill this damn thing, you idiot!” Barbara's melodious voice shrieked through the door. He took a deep breath of air and opened the door. Avoiding looking at where she was, he saw her flabby shaking arm pointing at the wall opposite where she sat. He quickly spotted the object of Barbara's screaming fit. A small brown roach, maybe an inch long, was in the corner where the bathroom wall joined the ceiling. Holding his breath, he reached up and plucked it off the wall. It wiggled in his tightly closed hand as he walked out of the bathroom.
“Close the Goddamn door, you idiot. And wash yer hands when ya get rid of that nasty thing.” His darling wife suggested. He closed the door and walked to the kitchen.
Charles wasn't the squeamish type about bugs. So carrying it in his hand, while deeply disturbing to many people, didn't bother him in the least. He stopped and considered tossing it in the trashcan. Then thought again as he felt it energetically crawling in his closed hand- he knew he had to kill it or she'd be screaming again in a few more minutes about a roach in the kitchen. I could just squeeze it till it pops. A thoughtful look crossed his face. But then I'd have to wash my hands. He shook his head. I'll just whack it, with her copy of the People magazine, and then toss it in the trash.
Charles always hated washing in general and avoided it when possible. He, in fact never bathed unless his wife had enough of his body odor, which cologne only partially covered, and forced him into the shower. He released the roach and rolled up the magazine. It had a picture of a sexy teenage girl singer who would have no career at all if she weren't the sexiest thing he had seen since his recently interrupted daydream, when the insect scurried under the microwave oven. He sighed, heard the toilet flush and knew Barbara would be coming soon. She always washed her hands. He set aside the magazine and lifted the microwave and set it on the floor.
Good God. What a nasty mess. He thought, looking at all the sticky stuff that had congealed under the microwave. Stuck in the goo were several pennies, a couple of dimes, a pen, a receipt from a restaurant and one slowly moving roach. He surveyed the mess, heard the bathroom door open and the elephantine steps of his wife and cringed involuntarily. Her footsteps were receding. She was going into the living room. Charles relaxed and looked for the paper towels and spray bottle of window cleaner. When he got back to the mess everything was still there except the roach. He squirted a small tidal wave of blue tinted liquid over the gooey mess. After briefly considering trying to pry out the dimes he decided against it and wiped up the nasty mess. He took the soggy paper towel across the kitchen and tossed the whole mess into the trash.
It's probably cleaner than it’s been since we moved in here. He thought, as he finished wiping the counter clean. No wonder we got roaches, she hasn't cleaned this house, really cleaned it for- he stopped, trying to think of the last time she'd really cleaned anything. Sighing again, he put the microwave back in place and went to wash his hands. A roach is one thing but that gooey mess was just damn nasty. He thought, turning on the kitchen faucet. As he finished washing and began drying his hands on a paper towel he felt something in his palm. He tossed the towel in the trash and looked closely at his palm. Got a damn splinter. He thought, spotting a little brown thing sticking in his hand. A tiny drop of blood oozed out around it.
Using his fingernails he tried pinching it out and felt it go in deeper. “Shit, where are those damn tweezers?” He mumbled, as he went through the kitchen drawers. Turkey thermometer, those little metal ties used to tie loaves of bread shut, lots of grocery receipts. Why dear Lord does she save grocery receipts? He wondered, as he closed the drawer and walked down the hallway staring at his hand. The aroma in the bathroom still reeked of its last occupant. Charles breathed thru his mouth again and looked for the disinfectant spray. He grabbed the can with a pine tree on its label and shook it. Nothing covers the smell of my wife's shit better than pine. He thought, as he sprayed the small room.
“It's no worse than the ones you leave.” Barbara said, laughing loudly from the living room, where she'd taken possession of the recliner and was currently watching a shopping channel. The volume on the TV was cranked up all the way. As Charles sprayed the bathroom he could clearly hear the spokesperson informing the audience there were only a few dozen Little Angel's collector plates still available for only $19.99, plus shipping and handling, of course. He opened the medicine cabinet and pawed through the contents.
There was enough foil wrapped suppositories to last even the most constipated person at least five years. There was also a small box of adhesive bandages, an empty bottle of aspirin, a mostly empty tube of hemorrhoid cream, and behind a small glass bottle of iodine a rusty pair of tweezers. He found them stuck in another small pool of congealed goop and had to pry them loose. Turning the hot water faucet on, he washed off the tweezers. Charles flipped on the light over the bathroom sink and stood poised to pull out the splinter, but stopped. He stared at his hand and the splinter in shock.
In the sickly flickering glow of florescent light he wasn't sure he was really seeing something odd or not. He stepped into the hallway and looked again. The skin color around the splinter had gone from its normal peachy hue to dull dark gray all around the splinter to about the a size of a dime. The fuck? He thought, as he tried gripping the splinter with the tweezers. Never accused of being a graceful or even mildly coordinated man he fiddled and prodded at the splinter for several minutes. He grew more frustrated and mildly alarmed as the gray color around the splinter seemed to be growing in size.
"Gotcha.” He grunted, as he pulled out the almost a quarter of an inch long splinter. No blood oozed out of the tiny hole as he stared at the splinter still held in the tweezers. His eyes opened wider as the small brown splinter slowly wiggled back and forth in the tweezers grip. Just flush the damn thing. Squirt some iodine on yer hand and go try to stop Barbara from ordering some stupid collectors plates. He thought, as he heard her punching in the phone number from the living room and muttering to herself. “Ooh that's too cute the way the puppy is sitting up.” He held the moving splinter in the tweezers and looked at his hand with the growing dull gray patch of skin as revelation hit. It's some kind of fucking poison shit. Great.
After carrying the slowly waving splinter back into the kitchen he got a small plastic sandwich bag and dropped it in. Charles prodded his discolored palm and was alarmed at how cool and numb it had grown. There wasn't even a tingle, but the discolored area was spreading into his fingers and was creeping around to the other side of his hand. The skin where the splinter had been was as black as his socks and the color faded up to the original gray in the slowly spreading area on his hand. He went back to the bathroom and poured the whole bottle of iodine on his hand, wherever it was turning those weird gray and black colors. Charles tried to wiggle his affected fingers but they wouldn't move. They felt dead. Breathing harder and scared he went to the living room and listened as Barbara recited the credit card number to the courteous operator who was standing by ready to take her order.
“Barbara honey, I need to use the phone. I think something-” Charles started to say.
“Hang on one sec honey, my idiot husband is whining bout something.” She interrupted, fixed him with the look, and waited for him to say something else. The look she gave him made the prospect of his hand falling off seem rather unimportant. Her eyes narrowed, her crooked discolored teeth were bared back, and her breathing had started that unmistakable gearing up sound she made when she was about to yell.
He backed up and looked down sheepishly. “Uh, never mind honey. It will be okay. You go ahead and get your-.” He pointed at the TV where there was an extreme close-up of a plate. The plate had a painting of a puppy, all brown with bushy hair and a pointy tail. The puppy was standing on its hind legs and its front paws were reaching up at several red, yellow, and blue butterflies. It was the most vomit inducing thing Charles had ever seen.
“You gonna shut up and not be a horse's ass while I'm on the phone?” It was phrased like a question but carried with it the undeniable tone of an order. Charles nodded and walked out of the living room and back to the kitchen.
I'll get the bag and take the splinter to the hospital. He thought, nodding as he grabbed his car keys, started reaching for the bag and stopped. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the counter unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Three roaches, identical to the one from earlier, were sitting near the bag and one of the bugs was shooting what appeared to be a brilliantly bright laser beam at it. He faintly smelled burning plastic and saw the bag slowly being burned open by the light coming from the bug. His hand forgotten, he watched as the bug that had been firing the laser walked quickly in thru the hole it had made. The other two roaches turned around and angled themselves so they were facing him. The bug that had gone into the bag lowered itself down and then a small bright light winked on near the bottom. Several tiny things came out of it and moved over to the slowly waving splinter.
He ran to his desk, tried to open the drawers with his numb hand, found it impossible and used his other one until he found his magnifying glass he used for building model cars. Or, as Barbara believed, he used while sniffing glue as he built model cars. When he got back to the kitchen the one roach was still in the bag and the splinter was slowly moving back toward the bug surrounded by dozens of small moving figures. Another bug or whatever the hell they were was still sitting outside the bag pointing at him. He wondered briefly where the third one might be but had to see what the Hell was going on down there and lowered the magnifying glass.
Sweat covered his body in a thin sour smelling nimbus as he stared at the tiny moving objects. The little things were still much too tiny to clearly make out, but they had attached something that looked like shiny silver strings and were moving the splinter closer to the body of the bug, thing or ship? Could those really be tiny spaceships sitting on my counter, just inches away from a jar of extra crunchy peanut butter? He stared in amazement and wonder as the little things began shifting the splinter against the roach. He shook his head and stared as bright lights flared where the splinter rejoined the ship. I should call the newspaper or the government. I could be famous. He saw, in his infertile imagination, a newspaper featuring his photograph with the words Charles Campbell discovers aliens in his kitchen!
He lost track of time, as he stared, but eventually noticed fewer little people were around and realized they were going back inside the roach. In the several minutes he had been staring at the tiny recovery operation the third roach, the one he hadn't noticed disappear had climbed up and sat on his dull gray hand. By the time the last of the tiny people were going back in their spaceship that looked like a roach his hand had slowly started changing shades back from black and gray to a much more healthy pink hue. He was watching the bug in the bag walking out when he felt the tingles of his previously numb hand. Charles glanced down and saw the third bug slowly bringing tiny hoses back inside.
He stared at his hand, saw the more familiar skin tone and sighed, smiling. He looked down as the third bug walked off his hand and all three lined up on the counter facing him. A strong bright white light rapidly flashed into his eyes and he heard clearly a voice begin to speak.
You will not remember anything unusual happening this evening. You simply had a splinter. Your hand hurt for a while and that is all you will remember. There were some unintelligible whispers and the message continued. And you will never again approach another roach or any other bug. Go back to your normal existence. That is all. The bright flashing lights winked out and the small roaches remained motionless as Charles rubbed his eyes and went to the refrigerator for a beer, briefly wondering why his hand tingled slightly. He had just popped the top off his beer and was sipping when Barbara started to yell.
“You goddamned idiot! Look! More roaches and you standing there swilling beer!” She brought down the cutting board on the three scurrying bugs with both flabby arms swinging it. It was a heavy one, made of beautiful oak, which had been passed down from generation to generation- Never to be passed down again.
People for thirty miles around heard the explosion. Houses within half a mile of the blast site, formerly known as Charles and Barbara's house, caught fire from the blast wave and windows were shattered for several miles around. Twenty people were struck permanently blind from the flash of brilliant white light. The radiation levels were never revealed to the public, but hundreds of people died within a few days of the blast. The FBI, Homeland Security, CIA, and several large black vans filled with men in funny looking uniforms with masks and respirators cordoned off the approximately fifteen miles around the explosion site.
The only public explanation theorized was that apparently terrorists had been experimenting and were trying to build a nuclear weapon when it, presumably, accidentally detonated. After all, why would anyone nuke a town of 1,800 people in rural Northern Alabama? One member of The International Nuclear Regulatory Commission summed up the town's fate this way on TV.
“The only things that will be able to live in Palmerdale Alabama for the next two hundred years are roaches.”
The sun was setting as a limping possum trundled slowly across and through a thicket of leafy green kudzu. It wiggled its nose and peered at the clearing ahead. Sniffing the air it was unsure if its eyesight or nose was to blame for its confusion. It smelled no people in the area but a human girl was sprawled in the kudzu only a few feet away. Deciding to trust its nose it continued to move slowly forward. It moved cautiously but fell over on its side and remained motionless as the girl began to speak.
“Hello. I am Betty White. I have come here to visit my grandmother. I am twelve years old.” The girl spoke in a normal tone of voice but her eyes did not blink, nor did any part of her body move except her mouth. A squirrel stopped climbing a tree, looked down at the girl and remained still as she spoke. It had seen the girl, gradually increasing in size, over the last few weeks and thought it slightly curious but otherwise held no particular opinion on the matter. The girl's body grew larger every couple of days. Each time it grew a large silvery ball descended from the sky the night before. It didn't like the sounds the ball made and would leave the area whenever it came. When it came back the first time after the ball had left it found a girl's head on the ground, cushioned by the leafy kudzu plants. Every time the ball came and left the girl's body was larger. Its growth seemed odd to the squirrel but only in a passing way. It had more important things to consider. Fall was here and winter was coming and nuts didn't collect themselves.
The girl turned her head toward the prone body of the possum and her eyes opened wider. She sat upright and then stood. Wearing a black short sleeved shirt and shorts she squatted down and poked the possum gently with her index finger. “You are not dead. You are pretending to be dead so I will not harm you, but you have nothing to fear from me. I will neither eat nor hurt you.” She then leaned back in the underbrush and opened her mouth wide. A blue butterfly fluttered to a stop inside her mouth. The squirrel lost interest and wandered away. The girl remained motionless and eventually the possum quietly limped away as a small roach climbed up and sat on the girl's forehead.
For an hour nothing changed, except the sunset. A robin landed on a tree branch overhead and looked down. It spotted the tasty looking roach and swooped down. Using its beak it attempted to bite the insect in half. The roach's body flashed a brilliant blue-white light and the robin slid off of the girls face and fell to the ground, dead.
As the last rays of the sun left the sky a silver ball, about two feet in diameter, descended from somewhere far above the Earth. It settled into the kudzu plants just in front of her and a small dark rectangle opened on its surface. Five roaches, two ladybugs and a canary emerged. They moved to the girl’s outstretched hand and remained motionless there for nearly another hour. A crow, with smoke singed feathers and a missing wing, hopped from under the weeds and entered the silver ball. The dark rectangle closed and the butterfly flew rapidly into the sky heading south. The roach that had been sitting on her forehead climbed into the girl's mouth while the other insects and canary went off in different directions. She turned toward the distant sounds of yelling and music and started to walk in toward them.
“Run! Run, damn it!” Coach Waldrip yelled, holding a clipboard in his big sweaty hands. He swore and threw the clipboard at the bench without looking. Freshman Tommy Fulton had taken off his helmet just seconds earlier to drink some water. The thrown clipboard connected with his forehead surprising him and causing him to fall backward off of the bench. Jake Carver looked down at his stunned teammate and laughed. But looking up at the scoreboard his laugh quickly died. It was the fourth quarter with five minutes left on the clock. His team, The Fighting Possums, trailed The Rebels twenty-nine to twenty-three. He watched the game for a few seconds then turned and watched Amy Lynn leading the other cheerleaders.
The squad was gyrating in time to the band's music. He smelled the popcorn from the stands as some of the crowd began to leave, trying to avoid the heavy traffic after the game. Amy was on top of an impressive pyramid of teenage girls cheering loudly. From his vantage point he could see up her skirt, and he smiled. A sudden whack to the side of his helmet made him turn to face coach Waldrip.
“You, Carver! Get your mind right! Get in there and run the Jethro plays! I'll signal which ones now get your ass out there!” The coach yelled, as spittle flew from his lips.
You better calm down coach, or you'll have a heart attack. Jake thought, as he ran to his teammates.
“Coming onto the field is number twenty-two, Jake Carver.” The announcer said, in an over the top excited voice. “While they're huddling up, let me remind everyone that Sonny James Used Cars is proud to bring you live coverage of this exciting game tonight on WRAG FM. Remember that tomorrow is free hot dog day at Sonny James, so bring the kids, bring the dogs, heck why not slap the dust and cobwebs off of her and bring the mother in law?
Its first down, at the Rebel's forty yard line, with three minutes and twenty five seconds left in the game. The Possums line up for the snap. Carver fades back. But no one's open. He feints left, he heads down the center and- Oh baby, he's been dog piled at the thirty-four yard line.”
The announcer continued to ramble, but all Jake heard was a repetitive series of hollow thumping sounds as he lay unmoving on the field.
He awoke on his back when the coach, never trained in proper medical procedures, judiciously threw a cup of icy cold water in his face. Jake felt woozy as he sat up and tried to decipher what the coach was screaming at him. His ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton as he shook his head.
“Jake, wake up! Can you hear me? The team needs you boy! Come on, suck it up! Get out there! Do it for the school!” Waldrip yelled, bending over him. Jake noticed the sweat stained armpits of the coach’s shirt and smelled a hint of whiskey trying to hide under the aroma of chewing tobacco as he looked up. His hearing and vision cleared at the same moment the coach said 'Do it for the school.' Jake nodded and his fellow players helped him up. He glanced at the scoreboard. Fourth down? How long was I out? He wondered, as he trotted back onto the field.
As the teams lined up for the last play of the game a young blonde haired girl wearing a black short sleeved shirt and shorts stood silently watching from the Rebel's end zone. The girl looked at the stands watching the people yelling and then looked back as Jake shouted hike.
“Carver has the ball!” The announcer shouted, over the public address system and for all the listeners on WRAG radio. “He's under pressure. He's swinging left and running hard. He's at the twenty, the ten- Touchdown Possums! With twenty seconds left in the game, and the score tied at twenty-nine, Waldrip calls for his last time out. Just a reminder folks, Sonny James has just received a dozen, that's right twelve, like new used cars today. All with low mileage and all protected by the Sonny James personal guarantee. Sonny wants you and your family to come on down tomorrow, enjoy some free hotdogs, and with every purchase, receive a new AM-FM radio. I was just handed a note to remind everyone, if you'd like to donate to help out the people in Palmerdale the Red Cross blood mobile is in the parking lot. And stay tuned to WRAG after the game for the best in classic rock and roll.”
Jake watched, from the sidelines, as Tommy Fulton kicked the field goal. It was good and the remaining crowd cheered loudly. After the ball sailed through the goal very few people saw the little girl reach up and catch it one handed. Jake saw the catch and the girl staring back at him as he yelled along with the rest of the team. When the cheerleaders and players blocked his view of the girl he felt an odd desire to go talk to her. Tommy was grinning like he'd just won the lottery as Amy Lynn gave him a big hug.
The marching band was playing, and the milling crowd made it hard for Jake to think clearly as he worked his way through the knots of people until he saw the goal posts and past the end zone where the girl had been standing. He didn't see her in the small groups of people heading toward the parking lot. Trotting over to where she had been standing, he looked around but she was gone. He unsnapped his helmet and slid it off. Sweat dripped down his face and the back of his neck as he looked down at the football, or what remained of it. He bent down and picked up the deflated ball. There were four small holes running along its length. Poking his finger inside one of the holes Jake looked confused as the announcer wrapped up his broadcast.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and those of you who aren't quite sure, it is official the Ragland Fighting Possums have beaten the Rebels thirty to twenty-nine. Coach Waldrip certainly has a lot to be thankful for tonight. If you'd like to show a little thankfulness don't forget the Red Cross bloodmobile will be taking donations in the parking lot. Drive carefully on your way home and don't forget tomorrow there's free hot dogs at Sonny James Used Cars, where they treat you like family. We now return you to our regular programming.”
Thomas McGee slowed his old truck to a crawl and then stopped as his wife shouted at him. “Pull over you old coot. That poor girl looks lost.” Sally unrolled the passenger side window and called to a girl watching the cars go past. “Girl, where are your shoes?” The blonde girl dressed in black shorts and shirt looked at the old lady in the car.
“I have no shoes.” She said, then tilted her head slightly and then added “Ma'am.”
The old lady said something to the driver of the truck and then opened her door. Sally was nearly ninety years old but she moved with amazing speed as she walked over to the young girl. They were nearly the same height and the girl looked at her as she came closer.
“Where are your folks? Why don't you have shoes? Are you lost? You look lost.”
“I” the girl said then paused for a moment before continuing. “I have no folk’s ma'am. In that I have no parents to speak of. I did not know footwear was required. Is it a law? As to being lost, I know precisely where I am. I am in Ragland Alabama.” She paused again. “My name is Betty White. It's nice to meet you.”
“My mamma always used to say 'All God's children got shoes'. I believe we have some in one of the closets at home that would fit you.” Sally said, and waited a few seconds for the girl to respond. The girl didn't say anything. “You say your name is Betty, eh? That's a pretty name. I bet you haven't had anything to eat tonight, have you Betty?” Sally continued, looking at how skinny the girl was. “If you need a meal you can come home with Thomas, my husband, and me. I won't be able to sleep at all tonight if you don't come along.” Sally said, reaching out and taking the girl's hand.
“I do not wish you to lose sleep. It is vital for good health and at your apparent advanced age you should not lose any rest. If my coming along will make you feel better and rest more comfortably I will accompany you.” Betty said, allowing the old lady to lead her to the rumbling truck. The girl climbed in slowly, as if she'd never been in a car before, and sat quietly looking out the windshield as the old lady climbed in after her and closed the door.
“Tom, this here is Betty White. She's gonna be comin along for supper and you're gonna be happy about it. Right?” Sally said giving her husband a look he knew all too well.
Slipping the truck into gear, he said, “Yes dear.” They rode along in silence for a few seconds before the girl spoke up from the dimly lit cab of the truck.
“Your hand is squeezing my leg. Why are you doing that?” Betty asked.
“Thomas, you old horny goat! Get your filthy paws off of this little girl before I skin you alive with a dull potato peeler!” Sally screeched.
“Oops sorry. My hand slipped.” Thomas said smiling, as the truck went through town.
“You have an odd accent Betty. You don't sound like you're from around here. If I was to bet, which I never do, I'd say you're from somewhere up north.” Sally said, keeping an eye on her husband as they continued home. The girl continued to silently look out the windshield as the truck passed a few fast food restaurants and a gas station. “Is something ailing you? You sure don't talk much. You don't have to worry about Tom, if that's what has you so hushed up. He's just a touch senile. He don't mean no harm.”
Tom shot his wife a dirty look as the truck slowed for the turnoff to their driveway. Though unpaved and full of potholes, with decades of practice he drove around them with practiced ease. Rounding a curve in the driveway the headlights flashed across an old white two story house.
“Be it ever so humble, this here's our house Miss Betty. I think you'll like it.” Sally said, as the old man parked the truck by a large oak tree. A wooden porch encircled the front of the house and dozens of hanging plants adorned it. A large cat stood up and stretched on the porch, as Sally got out. “That's my cat, Mr. Sawyer. I named him after the boy in that book, Tom Sawyer. Have you ever read it?”
“Tom Sawyer was written by Mr. Samuel Clements in the nineteenth century. I am familiar with many books on a wide variety of topics.” Betty said, stepping out of the truck. Sally was looking at the girl and missed the cat's reaction to the new arrival. It stared at the girl and hissed as its fur puffed out. After another second the cat turned and ran into the house.
“You might know a lot about books, young lady, but Tom Sawyer was written by Mr. Mark Twain.” Sally said, leading the girl by the hand up the porch steps.
Tom sat behind the wheel of the truck and wasn't paying attention to the girl's rambling about pen names. As he watched her walk up the steps a big slightly disturbing grin spread over his face.
“Mm, so sweet.” He whispered, as he thought about all the fun he could have later with his house guest.
The county deputy was disgusted and tired. He continued to wonder just how stupid people were as he used a flashlight to wave oncoming traffic to turn around and go back where they came from. The road into Pinson, the town closest to Palmerdale was closed to all traffic. There were signs and big military trucks blocked the road behind him, yet more cars seemed to come every day. An enormous black RV with two small rotating satellite dishes on top stopped and an old man with wispy white hair dressed in a tweed jacket came out. He walked quickly over to the deputy and presented a red laminated card.
“Stay put. I have to call this in for verification.” The deputy said. The old man nodded and looked at the line of cars snaking behind them down the road for as far as he could see. Within seconds the deputy came over and gave him back his red card. “Dr. Anniston, you have been given clearance. The site director wants you to stop in at the restaurant at the top of the hill, just through the intersection.” The old man turned and began to walk back to the RV but the deputy spoke again quickly. “Doctor could you spare a second?”
“What is it?” He asked, in an irritated tone of voice, turning around again.
“Is it safe to be standing out here?” The deputy asked. “I've heard that the radiation levels were safe out here.” He paused and looked worried, then continued “I'm not afraid or anything. I just don't want to go home and make my wife or kids sick. Is it really safe?”
The old man's irritable look didn't disappear but it did fade slightly as he listened to the deputy. “The event site-” he paused. “The explosion site has significant radioactive levels. But you are well outside of the danger zone. Your wife and children will not be harmed by your assignment. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going.” The old man said, then hurried back to the RV and climbed aboard. The deputy, breathing easier, grabbed one of the roadblock saw horses and moved it out of the way for them to drive through.
Minutes later, Dr. Anniston and his personal assistant Trevor entered the restaurant. He was happily surprised to smell hamburgers grilling. A temporary partition wall separated off half of the dining area and a soldier stood at attention in front of the only door going in. The rest of the room was taken up with a few tired looking soldiers and a pair of men wearing black overcoats who were whispering at the table farthest away from everyone else. He told Trevor to go eat something, while he checked in. Walking over to the soldier, he pulled out the security pass and presented it.
“Go on in.” The guard said, looking briefly at the card.
Opening the door he saw one wall had a highly detailed color satellite photograph covering it. A small desk took up one half of the room. Several manila folders were in neat piles on it. Seated behind the desk a woman was talking on the phone. He guessed she might be in her late thirties. Her black hair was tied up in a tight bun. Unlike most government people he’d met, she was wearing normal clothes- Blue jeans and a red and black plaid shirt. He couldn’t see her shoes but was willing to bet they were some type of boots. She nodded at the old man and waved for him to come inside.
He entered, closed the door and walked over to the wall with the aerial photograph. A collection of small round yellow stickers covered most of the area that was black and gray on the map. A bright red sticker was near the middle of the yellow ones. Leaning closer he stared at the lone red sticker and noted how trees within a quarter of a mile had been stripped as bare as toothpicks and most of them had fallen in a concentric circle away from the red sticker. He stepped back and tried to see if he could spot where he was on the map. A four lane highway ran south away from the blast zone. An intersection showed a small shopping center and there were several green stickers in the parking lot. He heard the woman behind the desk finish her call and turned toward her.
“Welcome to Pinson Alabama Dr. Anniston, or would you prefer to be addressed as professor?” The lady said, standing up from her chair and reaching across the desk to shake hands.
“I would prefer James, but if you feel the need you may call me Dr. Anniston.” He said, as they shook hands. “The professor title is something for my role when I choose to do lectures at universities not out here in the real world. You are Amalia Armstrong. Am I correct?”
“You are indeed. Please have a seat.” She said, gesturing to a metal folding chair. “I’m sorry the accommodations are so Spartan but things have been rather hectic, to say the least, over the last few days.”
“It’s alright, but I’m a bit confused.” He said, sitting down slowly on the cold hard chair, with a wince of discomfort. “Why does Homeland Security need me? I’m happy to help but frankly I’m at a loss as to why I’m here.”
“Technically speaking, I’m not with Homeland Security or any other branch of the government you’ve probably ever heard of. I serve as a specialist regarding events of singular oddness for various departments including the FBI.” She said and smiled. “Did you ever watch that television series where federal agents worked on odd cases of the paranormal?”
“Afraid not. The last television show I watched regularly was Little House on the Prairie.” He said, looking at his watch and yawning before continuing. “So, you are an agent who investigates odd events. Seems to me a nuclear blast, albeit a small one, would not equate to the realm of the paranormal. Abnormal to be certain but not paranormal.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at the aerial map on the wall again then back at her. “I was under the impression, from news reports, that this was a case of terrorism, but your being here coupled with the request I received to come here raises an interesting question.” He said, falling silent and looking at her expectantly.
“That being?” She asked, with a smirk on her face.
“Do you suspect this a new Roswell or something like that?”
“I wasn’t alive when the incident at Roswell took place. But you’re on the right path James. The initial investigators found several things that didn’t make sense. Nuclear material leaves a unique signature under normal circumstances. A trained technician can usually identify the probable or definite origins of such material within minutes or sometimes hours but rarely is it impossible to determine. The blast here was five days ago almost six, and the best investigators in the world are stumped. The radioactive signature is unique and several trace elements have been found at the blast site. But the kicker is one of them was previously unknown.”
“Unknown to whom?” Dr. Anniston asked, as he felt his pulse quickening.
“Anyone on this planet, but that’s not the reason you were asked to come. Since the blast, intelligence has intercepted several communiqués that have been indecipherable. At first we tried decoding them as regular messages, but the world’s best cryptologists and most advanced computers haven’t had any luck. Admiral Bronson, at Langley, suggested you might have some luck with them and that’s why you’re here.”
“My dear, I hate to correct you, however I am here because I chose to come. I saw some of the preliminary messages and thought it best if I visit the site firsthand. The news media has been filled with a plethora of drivel, as usual. Admiral Bronson said you’d fill me in on the true story.” He unwrapped a small butterscotch hard candy and sucked at it before continuing. “How have the communiqués been intercepted?” he asked.
Amalia looked embarrassed and remained silent for several seconds before speaking. “E-mails sent over the internet.” She saw Anniston’s face turning red and hurriedly continued. “It’s not a hoax. I swear it’s not. Ever since the blast government snooper programs have intercepted several dozen communiqués, ranging in size from a few dozen to a few hundred symbols. The origins have been WI FI internet hotspots with multiple source email addresses and the addressee is always different. The origin has been tracked back to several sites throughout the world, but the majority have been sent from here.”
“Here?” he asked, torn between laughter and disbelief.
“The majority, over eighty percent, have originated from the Birmingham area.” She said, handing him a micro memory card. “Here’s the complete record, so far, of every message. Is there anything I can do to help James?”
“I will need a place to park my vehicle and a good night’s sleep.” He said taking the memory card with his trembling fingers. “And before you tell me not to let any of this information leak out, don’t bother. Back when I worked to decipher both the Nazi’s Enigma program and the Imperial Japanese codes I was taught the consequences of loose lips. One of my fellow cryptologists disappeared for nothing more than a slip of a tongue after a few drinks at a London tavern during the war.” Dr. Anniston said, slipping the memory card into his shirt pocket.
“Your driver will be told where to park. The operations and research trailers are already in place. If you gain any insight, ANY” she stressed “Please let me know as soon as possible. I’ve managed to steer the more aggressive elements of the military away from the more insane responses they’ve proposed but time is critical Dr. Anniston, very critical.”
“Are you suggesting they wish to retaliate? Against whom and where? Are they so convinced that it’s extra terrestrials that they won’t believe it if I prove these e-mails are just a hoax? He asked, standing up with some difficulty. The cold metal chair had been decidedly uncomfortable for his old body.
“All I know is that there is a faction that believes all of this is a prelude to an alien attack. Saner minds are currently unconvinced of an alien connection. Those are the decision makers who are looking at some militant group being behind the whole mess. Truthfully, I hope it is just a terrorist thing. If aliens are proved responsible behind this it could get very bad for everyone. There have been proposals made that I can’t go into detail about, but let’s just say they would make what happened here pale in comparison.” She said, looking upset.
“I understand.” He said feeling much older than he had when he first came in. He glanced at the color aerial map again before walking to the door. The crazy nutters want to nuke the area. It’s just like those crazy movies from the 1950’s. Aliens come to Earth and some idiot in the army wants to exterminate them. Only this time they would incinerate millions of humans in the process. Good God what a mess. All I have to do is prove the messages are from terrorists or not related to this event to save everyone. He thought, closing the door behind him.
“Do they have anything edible?” Anniston asked his old friend Trevor.
“Nothing I would suggest for human consumption. Give me twenty minutes and I'll whip up something that won't give us botulism or something equally disagreeable.” Trevor said, holding open the door to the parking lot.
“That would be most appreciated. What time do you have?”
“It's almost eight. Why do you ask?”
“I think after dinner I shall try and get some sleep. I'll try and get up early tomorrow and get to work. If I weren't so exhausted I'd start now.” The old man said, stifling a yawn.
“Is it that bad?” Trevor asked, opening the door to the RV.
“It's just the end of the world, but I feel fine.” Dr. Anniston said, with a slight smile.
“Oh, good. You had me worried for a minute.”
CHAPTER THREE: All God’s children don’t need shoes
Thomas waited patiently for Sally to fall asleep. As she tossed and turned he knew if he tried to sneak out of bed she’d be fully awake in an instant. Once she started snoring however, he knew it would take a freight train plowing thru the bedroom to snap her out of her slumber. Just thinking about the girl sleeping down the hallway was enough to give him something he hadn’t had for nearly a decade- an erection. Of course, the two little blue pills he took before bedtime might also have had something to do with that. He felt his lumpy wife fidgeting next to him in their king size bed and grew more impatient as he stared at the red numbers on the clock glowing brightly in the darkened room.
She’s so pretty. Like a delicate porcelain doll. I don’t care how weird she acts, she’s perfect. Probably a run away or maybe a bit touched in the head. Either way I’m sure we could have some fun together. He thought, as a wicked grin stretched across his face in the darkness.
Sally snorted next to him and brought him back to reality. The glowing red numbers floating in the inky blackness slowly advanced until his wife’s first rumbling series of snores began. Not wanting to be caught, he decided to wait a few more minutes, to be on the safe side. I bet I could do things to that girl that would make her squeal in delight for hours. And then, I bet she could do some nice things for me. Maybe she’d fall in love with me. She might even beg me to run away with her and be her husband. I wonder how old she is. I guess I could ask her, after were done having some fun. He thought, as he slowly sat up and swung his legs out from under the heavy quilt.
With his wife’s snoring cycling up stronger and louder he was sure the time had finally come. After standing up on his shaking skinny legs he tip toed across the room. He ignored the familiar route to the bathroom and headed instead for the closed hallway door. Dressed only in a saggy pair of jockey shorts that were mostly brown with a few white spots, which when brand new had been solid white in color, he felt more alive than he had in years. With visions of himself as a admittedly somewhat older Romeo in search of his juvenile Juliet he stepped firmly down on Mr. Sawyer, the cat’s tail.
Mr. Sawyer had been sleeping soundly, but having been awakened by a bare footed ninety-eight pound horny old man he did what seemed most reasonable and logical. The cat yowled and dug its sharp claws into the old man’s ankles. It bit down as its rear feet kicked and clawed at the man’s leg for good measure.
He screamed for less than a complete second before managing to clamp a hand over his mouth. Realizing what he had done, he lifted the foot that had stomped down on the cat as he struggled both not to scream and not to collapse from the intense pain.
Mr. Sawyer was free but chose to give the old man a few more lacerations and scrapes as it wrapped himself more fully around his lower leg. The old man reached down, grabbed a handful fur attached to the cat and pulled.
This was not a good way to extricate the extremely agitated feline from his leg. As he lost his balance and fell against the wall, the cat retracted its claws and ran under the bed. I’m gonna shoot that fucking cat. He thought, as he limped to the hallway door. After finding the doorknob, he held it firmly and listened to his wife continuing to snore. Slowly he opened the door and crept into the deserted hallway. From the light spilling from the living room he could see trickles of blood running down his leg.
The mantel clock, in the living room, started chiming as he walked in. Had he not been looking down at his wounds he probably would have seen Betty before she spoke, but as it was he nearly had a heart attack.
“You are injured.” The strange girl said from where she stood in front of an antique oak desk. An almost obsolete computer, they used for keeping in touch with relatives, sat in front of her. Her fingers were rapidly tapping on the keyboard as she turned her head and looked at the old man.
Looking embarrassed, he stood in the middle of the living room wearing only his dirty underwear. “It’s nothing really. The cat just didn’t take kindly to being stepped on. Doesn’t even hurt.” He said, trying to figure out what to do or say next.
“Why did you step on your cat?”
“It was just an accident.” He said, moving slowly toward her as she continued to type extremely fast. “So, you like playing on computers? Me too.” She turned her head back so she was again facing the screen. He bit his lip and decided to prod the girl. “I hope you’re not looking up naughty pictures on there. Sally gets mighty pissed when she catches me taking a peek.”
Sidling up behind the girl, he placed his hand on her shoulder and looked at the computer screen. He recognized the popular email program and tried to read what she was writing. It was gibberish. Just a long series of numbers and letters and symbols. He looked at her face and forgot all about his aching ankle and the computer. My God, she’s beautiful. He thought and sniffed at her hair. She didn’t seem to notice or mind so he sniffed again and looked puzzled. There was a faint aroma of chemicals about her he hadn’t noticed earlier. It wasn’t quite ammonia, but it was close. And some other smells he couldn’t even guess at.
The old man was so engrossed in Betty, he didn’t notice her finish the message she had typed and sent. When she turned to look at him, he jumped back startled.
“You should treat your injury or it will likely get infected.” She said, staring at him.
“It’s not that bad.” He said. “Betty can I ask you a question?” He continued, as his breathing increased and his face turned slightly pink.
“You just did.”
Thomas looked confused for a second and then chuckled. “Right you are Missy. But what I meant was may I ask you a personal question. You know just between you and me.”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to sit on the couch with me?” He asked, gesturing at a large lace covered sofa.
“Is that the personal question you wanted to ask?” Betty asked, walking toward the sofa.
Thomas laughed and sat down. “Yer a funny little lady, ain’t ya? No Betty, I just wanna have a little chat is all. Here, take a load off.” He said patting his knee. “Just sit on my lap and call me Santa.”
“I do not think I should. I weigh quite a bit.” She said, standing in front of the old man.
Weighs a lot, my ass. The old man thought angrily. Little bitch just doesn’t want to play nice. He grabbed the girl’s wrist and pulled her onto his lap. Betty tried to keep from falling but she was surprised. He smiled as he pulled her down and wrapped arms around the girl’s waist. His smile was brief as her full weight snapped his leg like a brittle chicken bone.
A scream was growing in volume as Betty looked into the old man’s shocked face. Her blue eyes flickered and a brilliant flashing light shined out of them. His scream died into a murmur of confusion and then nothing as his mouth hung open and his pupils dilated. She stood back up and removed the old man’s arms from around her waist as the flashing light sped up.
“Be quiet. You do not feel any pain. When you awaken you will not remember coming to see me tonight.” She paused for several seconds before continuing. “You will help me in any way that I ask. I am your granddaughter, Betty White. I have come to live with you and your wife for a time. Now, close your eyes and sleep until morning.”
The old man’s eyes closed and his head tilted down to his chest as he snored softly. She spotted the erection in his underwear and tilted her head slightly. After several seconds she placed her hand on his leg where the bone had snapped. They remained like that for nearly an hour before she slid her arms around the old man’s body and lifted him over her shoulder. Carrying him easily down the hallway, she opened the bedroom door and walked in. The cat, standing on the open windowsill, hissed at her as she slid the old man into the bed.
“He is okay, Mr. Sawyer.” The girl said, pulling the quilt up over his snoring body. Quietly, she turned and walked back into the hallway before closing the door behind her.
The stars were still bright as dawn crept closer. An owl hooted softly somewhere in the distance as a dog, a combination German Shepherd and all round mutt, slept on his back on the porch of a small rustic house. Quietly whimpering, its legs moved rapidly in the air as a light came on inside. Jake Carver opened the backdoor and carefully stepped over the slumbering dog. He walked down the steps carrying a metal bowl filled with dog food. Turning on a spigot the boy filled a bucket with water and set the bowl of food next to it.
“Hey Frodo, you dreaming of chasing rabbits or orcs?” The boy whispered.
Leaning back with his hands on his hips, Jake stretched and yawned. Dressed in his track and field uniform the boy walked toward the chicken coop. He climbed over the wire mesh fence and opened the lid on the plastic container and threw out some of the dried corn for the still sleeping birds. After checking that there was water in their trough he climbed back over the fence.
Wiping chicken shit off the bottom of his shoes, Jake shuffled his feet across the grass and began his stretching exercises. As he warmed up he heard Frodo’s collar clinking against his bowl. Lazy dog. Typical of a hobbit. Jake thought, as he set the timer on his cell phone and started jogging down the driveway to the deserted two lane road ahead. A minute later Frodo was bounding along beside him as the promise of dawn made the stars dim slightly on the eastern horizon.
It was late October and Jake Carver breathed deep the crisp morning air as he ran. To him it smelled like a subtle perfume devised by a madman. There was cow and horse manure mixed with a generous portion pine trees. After almost two miles, the country road lined with pine trees opened up and Jake could see the sleepy rural town of Ragland beyond several acres of pastures and farmland. He wondered briefly if he was the only one awake when a pair of headlights appeared in the distance. There was a light fog making the town seem kind of spooky. Jake smiled and shook his head as he followed the winding country road back into the trees. It’s sort of like a ghost town except nothing weird ever happens here. He thought, as he ran.
From around a curve in the road he heard a monotonous squeaking sound growing louder as he ran. The familiar shape of Allison Taylor pushing her rusty grocery cart, filled with all her Earthly treasures, came into view. She smiled and waved. Jake waved back and kept running.
Frodo had been trotting along with Jake until he heard a noise. It was faint but insistent. The dog stopped running and looked at the thick jungle of trees and kudzu plants. The sound grew a little louder and he barked. Jake stopped running and walked back to the dog.
“What is it? You see some orcs? Maybe some tree-ents?” He rubbed the back of the dog’s head and clicked his tongue. “Come on you goober. Let’s go.” Jake said before whistling as he ran and after a few more barks Frodo sprinted after him.
Behind them a small silver ball cleared the trees and began rising swiftly into the dawning sky.
“Doctor Anniston, what are you doing?” A young lady asked, as she entered the computer lab and saw him stuffing tobacco into his old elaborately designed pipe. “You aren’t going to smoke that thing in here, are you?”
The old man looked at the red digital clock on the wall and saw it was nearly five in the morning. He gave the young woman an irritated look and struck a wooden match. After lighting the tobacco he puffed on his pipe and smiled. “Would you prefer I go outside and smoke, young lady?”
She tapped a fingernail against a sign tacked to the wall. It had quite large red letters on a white background that read, NO SMOKING!
“You would send an old nearly decrepit senior citizen, a veteran even, outside on a bone chilling morning such as this? Perhaps to catch a stray germ or virus? Perhaps to fall ill at a time when the very existence of all mankind could hang in the balance? You would exile an old man to the cold unforgiving gulag of the Piggly Wiggly parking lot?” He sucked on the pipe, and stared at her through his thick glasses while thoughtfully stroking his neatly trimmed gray beard.
Sighing, she shook her head and sat down her workstation. “I just don’t want to get in trouble with whoever is in charge of this project.”
The old man chuckled softly as he puffed on his pipe and leaned back in his thickly padded leather office chair. “My dear, you are precious. Who do you think chose you to come out here to the exotic lands of northern Alabama in the first place?”
She turned her head slightly. “You?”
He nodded and looked over several pages of the latest email message spread over his desk. An awkward silence filled the air as he scribbled on a notepad for a few seconds. The old man paused and looked as if he’d fallen asleep. The pipe sagged at the corner of his mouth and she was about to ask if he was alright when he opened his eyes and continued to write rapidly.
She turned back to her keyboard and entered the Algiers Paradigm computer program. He’s in charge? Who would have put a man his age in charge? I bet he’s never even touched a computer. She thought, running the latest intercepted email messages through the system.
“Alice? May I ask you a question?” Anniston asked, as he leaned back in his chair.
She saw the program was running computations and turned back to him. “Go ahead.”
“Do you believe these are messages from aliens?” He asked, standing up and walking slowly to a small wooden bookcase.
His tone of voice was neutral and she couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or serious. “Well sir, the question of who they are, is sort of irrelevant isn’t it? Whether they are from aliens from another planet or a group of nuts planning on setting off another nuclear device is beside the point, isn’t it?”
The old man turned on the stereo and smiled as he turned back to Alice. “Without trying to seem melodramatic, I believe you are dead wrong. It makes all the difference in the world.” A big band swing tune began to play through the speakers as he continued. “If these messages are originating from a sinister group of our fellow Earthlings, desiring to wreak havoc, it raises two issues that trouble me.” He swayed as he walked, in an almost dancing fashion, across the computer lab.
Alice was surprised to see her foot tapping along in time to the music as she swiveled her chair and watched as the old man gracefully half danced- half walked and continued to speak.
“If the people we seek are human terrorists they are damned peculiar ones. First, they build and detonate a low yield nuclear device in a rural area with an extremely low population. Secondly, the messages themselves are as queer a duck as ever waddled across the planet. There’s no discernible pattern to them, at least none that this nearly ancient human can perceive.” He said, and stopped to look out of one the windows. He stood motionless as the next song began to play.
Alice waited for several seconds before turning back to her computer and checking for any progress.
“I’d like to make you a wager young lady. If any of these splendidly designed deciphering programs manage to ever decode even a small portion of one of these messages I will never again smoke. But for the sake of the wager let’s put a time limit in place, say forty-eight hours. At that time, if no progress has been made you must honor me with a dance. What do you say?”
“You want to dance with me?” She asked, smiling and blushing a little.
“Of course my dear, but you missed my point entirely. I’m willing to wager my last remaining vice, namely smoking, that we’re barking up the wrong tree. If these messages are of an extra terrestrial origin we will most likely never make any sense of them. Maybe they aren’t messages at all.” He walked back to his chair shaking his head. “No, that’s not precisely what I mean to say. They are obviously messages but the meaning may be as nonsensical to humans as whale song or dolphin chatter.”
Alice felt tempted to point out some researchers had already deciphered a small portion of those languages but let it slide. Mainly because she had been considering the same possibility since the first dozen different deciphering programs had failed utterly to make sense of the messages.
“So is it a wager?” He asked, walking back to his chair.
“No. Not because I wouldn’t dance with you.” She said, smiling slightly. “Truthfully, I believe you may be right but if that’s the case, why are we bothering to try to figure out the messages at all?”
Leaning back in his chair, the old man sipped from his tea cup and smiled. Because my dear, we could be wrong. If that’s the case, our efforts may be the only thing standing in the way of more disastrous events in the future.” His smile faded as he turned back to his notepad. He had just started to write when he heard a small scream behind him. He looked up and saw the woman run toward the door, then stop and look at him.
“I’ll be right back. I have to get some bug spray.” She said, before opening the door and running down the small hallway.
Looking across the room, he saw a roach scurrying up the wall and into a crack where the ceiling intersected the wall. He shook his head and looked back at the notepad while puffing meditatively on his pipe.
