'There is?' I asked.
'Yea. They're getting pregnant. And the most amazing thing is, fifty four days after the original abduction, they're abducted again.'
'And why is that?
'Well, it's obvious - alien foetuses in human women.’
'And don't tell me,' I said, 'they're abducted again for a check-up.'
'You're on my wavelength,' he said.
I read deeply about the phenomenon then. Ufologists seemed to split into two camps - those who believed, and those who decided it was simply a sexual fantasy. Even the supposed pregnancies never reached birth, dismissed as phantom pregnancies.
Reporting back to Toady, he said: 'Well, we may as well check it out. Something's going on, so who knows.'
We worked out a woman who was due her fifty four day check up. And that night, we waited by her house, sure it was to be an inner fantasy with nothing at all to see. So you can imagine our shock as a van turned up in the middle of the night.
I immediately went to see what was happening as the two men broke into the house. The injection hardly stirred her.
'Hallucinogenic,' Toady said later. And the next thing we saw was her being carried out and into the van.
Two hours later we followed the van to a clinic. On the outside it seemed a normal intravenous therapy clinic. But as we broke in, observed the strange goings on, the implantations and the extractions and the baby farms we guessed we'd stumbled on a new variation of taking over.
'I guess the foetuses are genetically altered,' said Toady after the op was complete. 'You know, an obedience gene, or something like that.'
'You mean alien abduction is their cover for placing Opera people before they're born?'
'Oh, I doubt if it's always been like that. Alien abduction seems a valid psychological fantasy. So Opera decided to use it; induce abduction scenarios for their own ends.'
But at least, this particular operation had been closed down.
Waiting for the night's patients to leave, we blew the whole place up. However, two days later, we got a bit of a shock.
'Simulacra,' Toady said, his eyes glazing over, his emotions attempting to rise.
In local newspapers all over the land, they had died. An accident here, an inexplicable heart attack there. If you didn't know what you were looking for, you'd never have guessed.
'Six hundred, Toady. Six hundred women dead because of us?'
'No, Simulacra,' he mumbled once more. 'Don't look for patterns where they don't exist.'
Simulacra? Sure. A good cop out for the patterns that hurt too much.
EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL
Toady will be back soon. He will. I need him. It's Toady who's kept me free for so long - free from ... Opera. Opera the omnipotent; Opera the malign. Opera, the great conspiracy that is turning all our lives inside out. I f only you knew.
But I know. And Toady knows.
Where is he?
'Won't be long, Young. Only a couple of days,' he said.
One of his many contacts had been in touch - coded messages by E-mail. And a major Opera player had been identified. Another big country house - they always were. You can be secretive in them. Especially if you control everything.
'I'll get him, Young. Another conductor out of the way. One more mile trodden on the road to freedom.'
Toady will be back soon. He must be. He HAS to be. We can't lose. They're all around us. We can't lose.
The mania seems to be advancing fast. Maybe that's the primary weapon of the conspirators. Psychological warfare. Turn everything - even the trees, the birds, the signs by the road - into co-conspirators. Are they real? Are they true? Or do they have another purpose?
Paranoia - that's the secret. Make everything paranoid; a new superstition.
Toady hasn't come back yet, and out the window I see black clad men approaching. The soldiers of Opera. He must have failed. He must have talked. And here they come. To get me.
I pack a rucksack. Grab a gun. And go.
I'm a city person, so the going is rough through the countryside. Those damn branches keep bending down to hit me. Those rocks jump in my path to trip me. They're in on it, I'm sure. I'm not only fighting Opera. I'm fighting the world.
They're encircling me now. I can see Opera ahead. It's a clever ploy, making out to be just fishermen by the river. But I know their game. I raise my assault rifle. Let off a blast. They fall - plop, plop, plop - into the river. But the birds. They're flying, they're screeching. They're telling the others where I am. And there's too many to shut up.
So I run on some more, Opera hot on my heels.
I come to a road and the black car is coming on towards me. I crouch down, wait for it to come close. And I let them have it. A long burst, shattering glass, fountains of blood, a huge crack, a fireball, a plume of smoke. I'll get all you Opera bastards. I'll get you. I can't lose.
I'm in control here. The world is conspiring against me. But I'm in control here. Until ...
Toady.
He lives. They didn't get him. He's alive.
'This way, Young,' he beckons.
'Thank God.'
I follow him as he runs through the trees. I feel safer now, aware of his greater experience. He'll protect me.
And together we'll fight Opera forever. And we're gliding through the land, forever evading, forever winning, forever killing.
He's braver than me. He shows no fear. Just professionalism.
And we approach a car.
He's clever is Toady. He must have placed it there ready for our getaway. And we approach the car.
Toady. I stop. I look around. Who are those people around me? It can't be Opera. 'Toady,' I say, 'what have you done?'
But Toady isn't Toady. Not as he takes off the mask. Not as he smiles. Not as he raises his gun and my consciousness goes blank.
And here I am, on the bed, tied down. Here I am, trapped in a mania of despair. Here I am in the hospital. But it's Opera's hospital. They're after my mind. But I'll fight. I'll never give in. I can't.
I scream as I tug at the belts that hold me down. And a nurse comes in. Smiles. But it's an Opera smile.
She raises the hypo. Smiles again.
'Don't worry,' she says, 'everything is under control.'
About the Author
1955 (Yorkshire, England) – I am born (Damn! Already been done). ‘Twas the best of times … (Oh well).
I was actually born to a family of newsagents. At 18 I did a Dick Whittington and went off to London, only to return to pretend to be Charlie and work in a chocolate factory.
When I was ten I was asked what I wanted to be. I said soldier, writer and Dad. I never thought of it for years – having too much fun, such as a time as lead guitarist in a local rock band – but I served nine years in the RAF, got married and had seven kids. I realized my words had been precognitive when, at age 27, I came down with M.E. – a condition I’ve suffered ever since – and turned my attention to writing.
My essays are based on Patternology, or P-ology, a thought process I devised to work as a bedfellow to specialisation. Holistic, it seeks out patterns the specialist may have missed. The subject is not about truth, but ideas, and covers everything from politics to the paranormal.
I also specialise in Flash Fiction in all genres, most under 600 words, but also Mini Novels - 1500 word tales so full they think they're bigger.
Connect with Anthony
Smashwords Author page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/anthonynorth
Anthony's Website: https://anthonynorth.com/
Anthony's Blog (inc current affairs): https://anthonynorth.com/blog/blog
Twitter: https://twitter.com/anthonynorth
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anthony.north.330
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I, Adventurer Page 6
