Invaders

by Vaughn Heppner

  I finally dug him out of the inside jacket pocket and shook him.

  “Are you listening to me, Rax?”

  He still did not respond.

  For the first time, a stab of panic touched my chest. Something was off. I looked up into the sky again. The vulture or hawk couldn’t have dived out of sight. What had happened to the soaring creature?

  I shaded my eyes and scanned the sky from one end of the horizon to the other. There was nothing. I did it a second time. My head swayed back as I noticed a swath of green grass on the northern slopes.

  Those mountains had been bare before. I stood on the valley floor, staring at the green area. That had definitely not been there earlier when we’d stood beside the dirt road.

  I looked up at the sky and then at the grassy area.

  “You’re somewhere else,” I said aloud. “You crossed a barrier. This place doesn’t have a vulture or a hawk, and here, one area of the mountains has water.”

  I looked at the metal-encased crystal in my hand. Was it possible that Rax did not work in the place that was almost like Nevada?

  I tried to think this through. We hadn’t crossed under a camouflage screen. What sort of barrier had we crossed?

  I looked around, made a thirty degree turn and trudged toward the dirt road in the distance. This one didn’t have any grass in the centerline.

  A chill blossomed in my chest. The cold tightened, and I found that I had to force myself to breath.

  “Okay, Dorothy,” I said. “You’re not in Kanas anymore.”

  The attempt at levity did not lighten my mood. I took a deeper breath and began walking along the road. Sure, I could turn around and go back to the place where Rax had functioned. How would that help me, though? If this had something to do with Polarions, I wanted to find out what.

  I trudged approximately two miles. At that point, the dirt road changed into a concrete one. I kept walking beside it, and I spied a house in the distance. It had a fence—

  I stopped.

  The house had a telephone pole. Wires on the pole led to another telephone pole. That led to another and so on. The poles soon followed the road, which dipped about a mile away. There were no poles behind me, just ahead. That house over there was one of the ends of the lines for this place’s telephone service.

  My mouth was dry as my sense of unreality increased. It was too bad I’d lost my canteen in the destroyed Chief Cherokee. I’d lost the AR-15 as well.

  After another half mile, I trudged upward on the road. I spied something flickering to my left and frowned. The flickering worsened, and it seemed as if I could see something behind a shimmering ghostliness.

  I detoured off the road, took out the .38 and neared the shimmering area.

  I shouted hoarsely and dropped onto my stomach. Then, I began to slither over dirt and through grass, closing in on what appeared to be three alien tanks hidden behind a camouflage field.

  I stopped about forty feet from the flickering field. It was like something from a science fiction movie. I lay there, scanning for signs of Unguls.

  No one moved inside the field. Nor did I see any tank tracks leading to the half-hidden vehicles. That seemed weird.

  Did Unguls wait inside the tanks, ready to blow me away? I began to doubt that. Surely, they would have noticed me walking down the road. The tanks must have heavier disintegrator beams than the rayguns the Unguls carried.

  I stood, dusted myself off and put away my .38. Then, I strode for the flickering field, slowing as I neared it. I took a breath and plunged through the distortion.

  The three tanks had parked one behind the other. I couldn’t see any open hatches. Each was the size of a U.S. Abrams M1, although a little taller. Nothing moved on the tanks. Each had antennas and what I now realized were disintegrator cannons. It would seem each tank could also cast a camouflage field to hide itself.

  “Okay,” I whispered, beginning to move. I approached the rearmost tank and noticed dirt clods in the tracks and a clump of grass. I touched the tread. It was real. I climbed the bulldozer-like tread and used the flat of my hand to bang on a side of the tank.

  Nothing happened. By this time, I hadn’t expected anything to occur. I finally noticed a hatch and tried to force it open.

  After five minutes of futile effort, I jumped down and approached the second Ungul tank. It, too, resisted my efforts to enter.

  I backed away, observing them. I noticed footprints in the dirt. The Ungul had worn shoes, and it looked as if they had headed for the road.

  I rubbed my chin. The Unguls had set up a camouflage field around their parked tanks. That would seem to indicate they had voluntarily left their vehicles.

  I looked up at the sky. Had the Unguls contacted the orbital vessel? If they had, why hadn’t the Organizer sent reinforcements. If the Unguls hadn’t contacted the orbital vessel, why wouldn’t they have retreated from this odd place and told the Organizer about it?

  I kept remembering the disappearing sparrows and that Rax hadn’t detected anything to account for that. The little crystal had suggested a magical possibility.

  I’d read enough science fiction to be familiar with the Arthur C. Clark saying, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

  If the Polarions existed, wouldn’t their tech seem like magic to the rest of us? But if Polarions existed, why had they left their Greenland laboratory intact with frozen specimens from bygone eras? What did it mean that Greenland had once been known as Thule to a civilization that greatly predated the ancient Greeks?

  Should I follow the road to see where it led or should I retreat and get back to the Guard-ship? We’d already picked up more data. Maybe Rax had held back certain info from me. The more I thought about that, the more likely it seemed.

  I would keep going. If the Unguls wanted to investigate this place on foot, then so did I. I’d just have to make sure the Unguls didn’t capture me.

  -27-

  Several miles later, I lay on dry grass in the shade of a boulder, looking down a hill on a small Nevada town. The municipality had a main street with a general store, a bank, a post office, a hotel, a diner and a church. There were big shade trees throughout the town that couldn’t have a population of more than eight hundred to a thousand people.

  The one unusual aspect of the place was a tall white tower on the other end of town. The tower loomed over the buildings and was maybe three times the height of an old Saturn V rocket, the kind that had shot Apollo spaceships to the moon.

  The tower had a futuristic feel to it. It gleamed in the sunlight like polished metal. There was a large plaza around it at ground level. The plaza—a circular area—looked like it had a plastic coating, spreading out the length of a football field all around.

  People congregated on the plaza until a siren blared that I could hear from here. Half of the people headed for the tower. The other half headed for their homes, it would appear.

  I watched those heading for the tower. A door opened at the base of the tower. The people lined up, slowly filing inside. When the last person disappeared into the tower, the doorway vanished.

  From where I lay on the hill, the door didn’t seem to close or slide shut, the opening just disappeared. Was that more Polarion magic?

  If I were to bet, that’s what I’d lay my money on.

  I went back to studying the town. Yep, the majority of those who had left the plaza went to the various homes. A few people headed for Main Street.

  I counted twenty-three cars, nine trucks and estimated around one hundred bicycles. Three of the trucks—older model pickups in mint condition—headed up the road. It would seem they headed for the country houses.

  I kept watching for another twenty minutes or so. I saw a sheriff’s patrol car move along the streets. Soon, it drove to the hotel, parking there. A sheriff wearing a cowboy hat got out, looked around and then headed for the hotel.

  What should I do?

  In the end, I slid out of
sight, climbed to my feet and headed down toward the road. Before I reached the road, two Unguls in natty business suits and old gangland-style hats rose from behind a large boulder. One of them aimed a raygun at me. The other spoke into his cuff.

  I kept my hands away from my body.

  “Do you boys have a problem with me?” I asked.

  The Unguls glanced at each other. The cuff-talker opened his mouth.

  “Why did you climb the hill?” he asked.

  “I’m giving my friend a surprise party,” I said. “I wanted to make sure he hadn’t made it into town yet.”

  “That is a lie,” the Ungul said. “You have followed us. We have watched you for some time.”

  I shrugged. “You’re new here,” I said. “I’m curious about you. We don’t get many visitors way out here.”

  “You are curious about us?” he asked.

  “That’s what I said.”

  The two exchanged glances before the talker regarded me again.

  “Do you live in the town?” he asked.

  “No. I live in the country.”

  “What transpires in the tower?” the Ungul asked.

  “You mind putting away your gun?” I asked. “I don’t like having people aim those at me.”

  “Approach us,” the talker said.

  I came closer.

  The talker’s eyes narrowed. “Your clothes are a different style from those the town folk wear. You do not belong in this place.”

  “So what?” I said. “Neither do you.”

  “You will tell us why you followed us.”

  The gunman slid his weapon into a rig under his suit jacket. As he did, he stepped near, reaching for me with one hand and pulling out a small flat device with the other.

  “Z5 will use an agonizer on you,” the talker informed me. “He will inflict pain until I am convinced you speak the truth.”

  Z5 grabbed one of my wrists with a hot hand. I suppose he was relying on what he believed to be his greater than human strength. He moved fast, pressing the agonizer against my neck. It felt like being branded with a white-hot iron.

  I yelled and twisted my captured wrist with violent force, wrenching it out of Z5’s grasp. I think that surprised him. While he was stronger than a human, now I was, too. I swung at him as hard as I could, hitting him in the face. He catapulted off his feet, and his head snapped back against the ground as he crumpled.

  The agonizer fell from my neck. Z5 stirred on the ground, but he didn’t get up. The talker peered at me with dislike.

  I stepped toward him, slugging him the gut. He folded around my fist and went back several feet, staggering, but remained upright. He shoved his hand under his jacket, likely to grab his raygun.

  I followed him, grabbing the spring-assisted flick-knife in my pocket. My thumb pushed the tiny protrusion and the blade flicked into position. He drew his raygun. I stabbed him in the brain, the blade smashing into his cranium. He jackknifed backward, yanking the knife out of my grasp.

  The talker landed on his back and began twitching violently like a death-shot cat. He humped and twisted faster than the eye could follow, the raygun lying uselessly on the ground where he’d dropped it. A few moments later, the jerking movements subsided and he lay perfectly still.

  That’s when his flesh began to melt, tearing away at the business suit. The process happened fast until he was gray-colored, hairless and possessing large alien eyes. In its true form, the Ungul proved shorter than a human with bulges in odd places.

  “That just leaves you and me,” I said. I scooped up the agonizer, approaching Z5.

  The dazed Ungul made a buzzing noise and reached under his suit. Before I could reach him, I heard an audible click. He began to glow a second later. Three seconds after that, he disintegrated in a red glow, leaving fumy ashes on the ground where he’d been.

  Z5 seemed to have used a disintegrator bomb, apparently preferring death to interrogation. Unfortunately, that had also destroyed the raygun lying on the ground. I’d been planning to take it.

  I felt nauseous at witnessing the suicide. Repulsed, I hurled the agonizer as far away as I could.

  Who were these Unguls anyway? By the one’s appearance—as many people imagined aliens to look from various UFO stories and shows—it seemed other humans had witnessed Unguls in the past. But if Earth was a banned planet, what had the Unguls been doing here over the decades?

  Maybe this wasn’t the first time that aliens had searched the Earth for Polarions.

  I was tempted to turn around and hightail it out of here. I wanted to talk to Rax about what I’d seen. I would have also liked to get back aboard the Guard-ship.

  I recalled the hell-burner. The Organizer would do whatever he had to in order to get his grubby Min Ve hands on the ancient treasure. I hated the idea of more alien nukes hitting Earth. That meant I had to keep going.

  It was time to go to town and find out why this place had a gleaming white tower, and if that had anything to do with the mythical Polarions.

  -28-

  I walked past a regular-looking Nevada sign that said,

  Far Butte

  Population: 941 Elevation: 693

  I’d never heard of Far Butte, Nevada. But I’d never heard of thousands of small towns, U.S.A.

  It was clean. That was the first thing I noticed. The homes had pristine yards with perfect fences. I didn’t see any dogs or cats, though. Nothing barked at me. I couldn’t see any litter, any garbage, or peeling paint on the homes.

  In some ways, it felt as if I’d walked into a TV version of the 50s. Despite the white tower and the weirdness of the situation, the town itself felt good. In some ways, it felt as if I was coming home.

  I realized why a moment later. It reminded me of my childhood. I longed for the good old days. But maybe that’s what most people wanted as they got older. My dad used to tell me stories of what he’d done as a young buck, making it sound like it had been the best time to be alive. Had his dad, my grandfather, told him similar tales of his youth?

  Anyway, that was my first impression of Far Butte, a clean place with the old small town values, the America that had won WWII.

  My stomach growled, as I smelled steak, French fries and coffee. I could use plenty of all three. So I headed for the diner that was beside the hotel.

  I walked inside to the tinkling of an overhead bell. All the tables with red checkerboard tablecloths were taken. Most of the people looked up at me as the door closed, and the bell made its tinkling sound again. They stared as if I were a stray dog with two heads.

  Some of that good feeling evaporated. In fact, I might have backed out, but I noticed three Unguls at a corner table. They sat stiffly, each sipping coffee and studiously avoiding looking at me.

  Huh. If they served fancily dressed aliens pretending to be humans, they could serve me, too. I headed to the counter where there were two open spots.

  I sat beside a big man with rolled up sleeves. He had a cigarette pack in his front shirt pocket and hairy forearms. He had a brush-cut, seemed to be in his thirties and looked strong. He struck me as a handyman. He was eating hash browns and eggs and drinking a Coke.

  “How’s it going?” I said.

  He gave a nod and a side-glance before returning to his fare.

  “You’re in the sheriff’s spot,” the counter woman told me.

  “I’m sure the sheriff won’t mind,” I said.

  She stared at me. I figured she was in her upper thirties, early forties. She wore a dress, had brunette hair in a bun and a small restaurant hat, used too much makeup and had a nametag that said, DEBBY.

  “Do you have a menu, Debby?” I asked.

  “I’d slide over a seat if I were you,” Debby told me. “The sheriff won’t stand for you being in his spot. The deputy on the other hand…” she shrugged. “The sheriff will probably tell him to go check around while you eat.”

  “You got it,” I said, sliding over, sitting beside a rangy old guy wearing a black l
eather jacket that said BAR HOPPERS on the back. He definitely needed a shave. Sprouting white whiskers covered most of his sun-leathered face.

  “You chose a bad time to visit Far Butte,” Debby said, sliding me a menu.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Them,” she said, indicating the Unguls in the back.

  “What about them?” I asked.

  Debby stared at me for several seconds, almost as if it was taking time for her to manufacture a reason.

  “They’re…” she said, looking puzzled. “Everybody will be on edge while they’re here,” she blurted, finally getting out the words. “People will wonder if you’re an undercover agent working for them.”

  “Me? You’re kidding, right? I don’t like their looks any more than you do.”

  She gave me a funny stare before turning to go.

  “I’m ready to order,” I said. “I’ll have two orders of steak and eggs and three orders of French fries.”

  “The sheriff doesn’t eat steak,” she said.

  “Okay…” I said.

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing? Buying him his meal?”

  “No. I’m hungry.”

  Debby eyed me dubiously this time before finally smiling. It made her look years younger. “I’ll say one thing. You’re nothing like those three. They’re only drinking coffee. I don’t think they trust our cooking.”

  I nodded, and Debby seemed disappointed I didn’t add to that. She went to the back counter and spoke to the cook on the other side. The heavy man eyed me before starting on his next order.

  I propped my elbows on the counter and listened to what was going on around me. Debby talked a little to the various counter customers. There was another waitress for the tables. None of those sitting at the lunch counter said much to Debby. They ate, sipped their drinks and eventually pushed their empty plates away. Debby brought them their check. Most of them just signed it. She took that and pierced the check on a nail by the cash register. At that point, the customer left, soon replaced by another person coming in. It almost seemed as if people waited outside to come in to eat when it was their turn.