The Day That Aliens (Nearly) Ate Our Brains

by Tom McLaughlin

  “WHAT?” Sergeant West shouted back, hitting his head to stop the ringing in his ears. “Who’s been shot in the bottom?”

  Freddy galloped down the steps, but just before he opened the door, he took a deep breath. “Madam President, thank you for coming so quickly,” he said calmly, managing to say her name without adding any unnecessary words into the mix.

  “NO PROBLEM, FREDDY!”

  she shouted in a loud-no-nonsense-American-sort-of-way, but in a nice-loud-no-nonsense-American way if you see what I mean. “Sorry about your lawn. And sorry we’re late; the Sat-Nav was down so we went a bit wrong,” the President said, glaring at her security guard, who looked suitably embarrassed.

  “Oh no worries, I’m sure Mum and Dad won’t mind about the lawn,” Freddy said, trying to work out how on earth he was going to explain to his parents why a helicopter was parked in their garden. “Come upstairs.”

  Immediately, the two security guards ran up the stairs to make sure it was safe, before the President hurried after them.

  “Oh, by the way,” she yelled, “meet the French President and his translator. We were in a meeting; it was quicker to bring them along than explain what was happening.”

  “Cripes, pleased to meet you. Bonjour!” Freddy said, completely exhausting all the French he knew in one fell swoop.

  “Hello!” the French President smiled back, completely exhausting all the English he knew too, before saying something in the translator’s ear.

  “The President is very much liking to meet you and hopes that we can be stopping the world from exploding very soon.”

  “Did this guy and Alan have the same English teacher?” Freddy whispered under his breath.

  “My name is the Marc, I am a translating today. Today is also my first day as doing the translator. Is it always this exciting, little Freddy?”

  “Not sure – this is my first day discovering aliens from outer space. Shall we go on up?”

  Freddy bolted upstairs to his bedroom. It was quite a bizarre sight. There were two security guards by the windows, keeping a careful eye on the American President, who was doing an extreme selfie with Sal. Sergeant West was smacking his truncheon into his hand, guarding a cone with tin foil on it, and Captain McGill was wafting his trousers. The French President said something to his translator.

  “The President can smell a whiff,” Marc announced.

  “Oh, yes well…” McGill began to blush.

  “It is a fine cheese or something; we had no idea you were a connoisseur of the cheeses. What is it?” Marc asked politely.

  “Anyone know the French for ‘semi-digested cheese and onion pasty’?” Captain McGill asked.

  “I think I’ll open a window,” Freddy laughed awkwardly, “and let the whiff waft out of here.”

  “Let the riff-raff out?” Sergeant West piped up, still trying to shake the ringing from his ears. “Right you are son, get out you horrible lot!” he began, swinging his truncheon at the American President. “Enough’s enough!”

  The two guards pulled out their guns and pointed them at Sal’s uncle. “Put your baseball bat down, Sir, or I’ll blow you to kingdom come!” one yelled. It’s hard to know which one as they both looked the same – let’s pretend he’s called Julian.

  “Aargh!” Sal cried. “Don’t shoot my uncle!”

  “That’s not a baseball bat, how dare you!” A wild West yelled.

  “NO! STOP! SERGEANT WEST, NOT LET THE RIFF-RAFF OUT, LET THE WHIFF WAFT OUT. NO ONE’S GOING ANYWHERE. NO ONE’S GOING TO EAT ANY CHEESE. CAN WE ALL JUST STOP AND CALM DOWN AND GET ON WITH THE MATTER IN HAND?!”

  Freddy screamed, getting to the very end of his tether.

  “Stand down!” the American President agreed. “Always with the ‘kingdom come!’ Enough already.”

  “Okay, calm down, no need to shout everyone,” Sal said.

  “No one is shouting,” Freddy said, trying to calm down.

  “FREDDDY!”

  came a shout from downstairs. Freddy gulped. There was a thundering up the stairs. The door opened. There, with their hair full of twigs, leaves falling off their clothes and each clutching two bags of tulip bulbs, were Freddy’s mum and dad.

  “WHY IS THERE A HELICOPTER PARKED ON MY LAWN?” Mum bellowed before scanning the room. “Who are these people and what, for the love of all that is human, is that smell?”

  Freddy took a deep breath and, speaking in his fastest voice ever, said, “The lady over there is the President of America, she’s come to help save the world from an evil alien race that I sort of discovered while trying to watch the wrestling this afternoon with Sal. Oh, and it’s cheese and onion pasty farts.”

  “WHAT!” Freddy’s dad yelled. “YOU’VE BEEN TRYING TO WATCH THE WRESTLING AGAIN?!”

  “Bigger picture, Dad, bigger picture.”

  “Oh yeah, right. Sorry. Wait, did you say aliens?”

  “Yep.”

  “That would explain the crowds in the street and possibly that TV crew wanting to know about the end of the world.”

  “What did you say to them?” Freddy asked his dad.

  “I said that the spring had been particularly wet, but if we put the tulip bulbs in now, then we should see a decent bloom, certainly not the best, but not the end of the world either. I wondered why he looked at me funny.”

  “Sal,” Freddy said, “did you delete that selfie?”

  “Oooo, no, not yet – I mean I’m on it. GOOD GRIEF!” Sal yelled. “Okay, it seems that I’ve now got a few more followers,” he said, plugging his phone in.

  “Oh no, how many times has it been posted?” Freddy sighed.

  “More than three, fewer than twelve million,” Sal chuckled, slightly proud of himself.

  “Don’t worry, it was bound to get out some time,” said President Jones. “We have more important things to worry about now.”

  “YES THAT IS RIGHT YOU VERY MUCH DO HAVE, LIKE WHEN I TAKE OVER THE WORLD, THE HOME YOU CALL PLACE. SOON, HUMANS, YOU WILL BE DOING THE DYING AND I WILL BE KING OF YOUR BLUE SOGGY BALL OF PLANET. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ME NOW, YOU STINKY EARTH APES?”

  Everyone turned around, and there, on the screen, was Alan. His nap was meant to calm him down but he was awake and angrier than ever.

  “Wow,” said Marc, “his speaking the English is the very good.”

  The room was silent. Everyone stared open-mouthed at the TV.

  “Alan – is it Alan? Can I call you that? My name is Frances Jones, I am President of the United States of America. Can I say first of all how good it is to meet you. I hope that we can be friends. We have so much to learn from each other.”

  Just at that second, the door to Freddy’s room flung open again, and dozens of men and women fell in, speaking every language you could think of. Some of them looked like President Jones’ security guards. Freddy wondered if there was a place where they all shopped – a place that only sold black suits and sunglasses. The rest – from what Freddy could make out – were world leaders and probably translators.

  A bald-headed man with steely blue eyes pushed his way to the front.

  “Aha! I knew it. You were trying to claim all the glory yourself!” he said in a thick Russian accent.

  “Oh Vladimir,” President Jones sighed. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “We were supposed to be having a meeting when suddenly you and the French President dashed off in a helicopter. Don’t you think that you should have told the rest of us? You left us looking like nitwits. We should all have been here to see the alien man for ourselves.”

  “WHO IS THIS MAN WITHOUT THE HAIR ON HIS HEAD? I DON’T LIKE HIM, HE’S TOO SHINY IN MY EYEBALLS.”

  Alan said, covering his face.

  “This is the Russian President,” President Jones replied before turning to the man. “How did you find us?”

  Vladimir pulled out his phone. “Some guy called Sal tweeted it. #Freddyshouse.”

  “Hashtag, hell yeah!” Sal yelped.

  “We
ll never mind, you’re here now,” President Jones huffed.

  came several voices from the back of the crowd.

  “Okay, okay. Alan, the Russian, French, Italian, Chinese and German leaders are here too, as well as—” President Jones strained her neck— “the Spanish, Brazilian, Japanese, Nigerian and British prime ministers.”

  came the faint greeting from the back of the room.

  “Anyway, I think it’s fair to say we are all delighted to meet you and that all we want is peace,” President Jones said, smiling at Alan as if he were an angry toddler in danger of having a tantrum – a hungry angry toddler that is. The worst sort.

  “HA, YOU MAKE ME TO DO THE LAUGHING OUT LOUD AGAIN, YOU HUMANOIDS ARE SILLY IN THE WORDS THAT YOU SPOUT OUT.”

  “I can assure you that we mean it, Alan. We can learn from each other, and I don’t mean by eating our brains. Please – and I can’t emphasize this enough – please don’t eat our brains,” President Jones asked firmly.

  “I WILL DO AS I PLEASE, FOR I AM THE FEARSOME WARRIOR CALLED ALAN! WE HAVE BEEN DOING THE WATCHING OF YOUR PLANET FOR THE MANY YEARS, SEEING HOW YOU BEHAVE FROM THE TELEVISUAL SIGNAL THAT YOU HAVE BEEN PINGING INTO THE STARS. YOU DON’T WANT THE PEACE AND CUDDLES, YOU LIKE TO FIGHT AND ARGUE ALL THE TIME. YOU ARE ANGRY HUMANOIDS AND YOU NEED TO BE DISAPPEARED.”

  “That’s not true. Take it back or I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich!” Vladimir growled at Alan before ripping off his shirt.

  “Really?” the Italian prime minister hollered. “That’s the fourth time today!”

  “Oops, sorry everyone,” Vladimir said.

  “I can assure you we are a peaceful race. Yes, we have arguments sometimes,” President Jones said, glancing at the Russian President, “but we know that the best way to solve things is to talk, to share, to help each other. Surely it is better to be friends than enemies? Besides, I don’t understand, if you think we’re terrible people, why do you want to learn from us?”

  “FIRSTLY, BRAINS DO TASTE VERY DELICIOUS IN OUR BELLIES; SECONDLY, WE WANT TO LEARN THE SECRET OF THE MAGICAL SOUP YOU CALL RICE PUDDING; AND LASTLY, WE LOVE THE HUMOROUS FUNNY PEOPLE CALLED THE ‘CHUCKLE BROTHERS’, AND WE WANT TO LEARN THEIR WAYS. THE UNIVERSE WILL BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU. YOU ARE NAUGHTY SPACE ALIENS, ALWAYS SHOUTING AND GETTING ANGRY, YOU POISON THE AIR AND MAKE THE WATERS DIRTY. I’VE SEEN HOW YOU BEHAVE. THERE IS NO TURNING BACK NOW. WE WILL SEE YOU SOON.”

  The picture began to fade out, as if he was going through a tunnel.

  “WE ARE PASSING JUPITER, MY SIGNAL IS VERY MUCH GETTING WORSE. THIS IS THE LAST TIME ALAN GOES PAY-AS-YOU-GO … I SHALL SEE YOU SOON, THEN IT WILL BE DEATH O’CLOCK!”

  “Is there any way we can stop them?” President Jones asked the Russian President. Freddy looked at the two of them.

  “You mean with missiles or something don’t you?” Freddy sighed sadly. “Isn’t more violence bad?”

  “More violence is bad, but we don’t have much choice. We have to save ourselves. We have to do what we can to stop this invasion. No one wants violence but sometimes, when the chips are down, when someone flies from the other side of the universe to slurp on one’s brains, you have to fight back,” the President said.

  “You make a valid point,” Freddy nodded.

  “It’s no good, Madam President,” Vladimir wailed after speaking to one of his aides, “they’re too far away, no missile can get them, even when they get into our atmosphere, they’ll be moving too fast. Any missile that we fire will just miss and fall on us. We’ll cause more damage than good.”

  “He’s right,” one of the security guards said, handing her a phone. Her eyes scanned it quickly.

  “It’s from NASA, they say the same thing. We’re helpless.”

  “You join us live outside a local supermarket. This place was just a quiet ordinary shop only a few hours ago; now it’s on fire, all the windows are smashed and its produce has been stolen. It’s happening right now in front of my eyes. In fact, I may be able to get an interview with one of the looters. Sir, Sir … what’s your name?” The news reporter shoved his microphone into the face of an oncoming plunderer, whose arms were spilling over with all sorts of ill-gotten gains. All around him people were stealing what they could from the supermarket.

  “Yes, hello?” The looter smiled, struggling to hold the huge TV that he was carrying under his arm.

  “What’s your name?” the reporter yelled above the sound of sirens.

  “Reverend Ponsonby-Smyth,” the gent smiled again, straightening his dog collar and waving shyly into the camera.

  “Why are you stealing that big TV?” the reporter yelled again.

  “Well, I popped in for some milk and I overheard someone talking about the end of the world. That’s when chaos broke out and people started to steal stuff. I tried to tell the police, but they were too busy pinching sweets and chocolate to listen, so I thought, if you can’t beat them, join them. I mean, some frightful chap from far away wants to eat my brain, so I thought live a little. Get that dream TV I’ve always wanted. I can watch the cricket on it! What are they going to do, put me in prison? Tomorrow there’ll be no prison!”

  “There’ll be no cricket either! The world’s about to end!” the reporter shouted, a tad confused.

  “Oh, good point … I should have bought one of those recorder thingies, that way if I’m busy being eaten I won’t miss it.”

  “But you won’t get a chance to see it if you’re dead!” the reporter said, looking at the camera. “You do know what the end of the world means? It means that you won’t be able to do anything once it’s happened.”

  “Oh, you’re right, I feel silly for stealing this ‘ripen at home’ avocado now,” the Reverend sighed shamefully. “Want to buy a TV? I’ll throw in a free avocado?”

  “Not really…” the reporter muttered. “Have they got any DVD players left?”

  “Oh yes, loads at the back; in fact I think I’ll join you. I need to go back in – I forgot to pick up some custard for the weekend, my mother’s coming over.”

  “THERE ISN’T GOING TO BE A WEEKEND. YOU ARE LITERALLY THE WORST LOOTER IN THE HISTORY OF LOOTING!!!”

  “Oh yes, of course!” the Reverend said, determined to remember it this time.

  “Well it’s been quite a day for this reporter,” he said, turning back to the camera. “Humans have made contact with aliens and in about three hours all humans will be killed. It feels like the world’s collapsing. If it’s all right by you, I’m off to join the looters, bag myself a few freebies. With that, back to the studio … if there still is a studio that is.”

  Freddy turned off the news, it was just too miserable. It was a scene being played out all over the world. Where people were friends, they were now enemies, shops and houses were on fire and the world seemed to ring with the sound of police sirens. It was like something from a movie – a bad movie.

  “Rightio, who wanted the tea with milk, who wanted it with sugar, who wanted it with both?” Freddy’s dad said, offering around tea to the various world leaders now holed up in Freddy’s bedroom. “President Jones?”

  “One second,” she said, her eyes full of concentration, “does yours have a hat?”

  Vladimir stroked his chin, squinted at his card and, with a sigh of resignation, replied, “Yes.”

  “I knew it, it’s Bernard!” the President yelled triumphantly, before turning around to Freddy’s dad. “Thank you for the tea. I am, as I believe you say, parched! Do you have any of your English cookies, the ones that are pink and wafery?”

  “Pink wafers? Yep I’ll see what I can do,” Freddy’s dad said, handing out the last of the mugs.

  “I HATE THIS GAME, I’VE LOST EIGHT TIMES IN A ROW!”

  Vladimir screamed, before ripping off his shirt again.

  “Oh Vlad, put it away, no one wants to see,” President Jones said, not even looking up.

  “No wonder Alan thinks this planet is good for nothing except destruction. The world may be abo
ut to end and all we can do is fight and try to get one over on each other. I mean just look! People can’t even have a game of Guess Who without it ending in semi-naked violence!” Freddy shouted. “Look at yourselves! What is the answer?”

  “KerPlunk?” Vladimir suggested.

  “Maybe Alan’s right, maybe the universe is better off without us. We get angry at him because he wants to destroy us, but even if he left us alone, we’re more than capable of destroying ourselves,” Freddy sighed.

  “The boy is right,” the President of Russia agreed sagely as he velcroed up his shirt.

  “Wait, does your shirt have Velcro instead of buttons? Have you just been velcroing your shirt up?” Sal asked.

  “Yes, it was costing me a fortune every time I ripped it off; buttons aren’t cheap you know. So I had a bunch of them especially made up with Velcro … why are you all staring at me?”

  “You know, and I say this as someone who talks to fish, you are the weirdest bloke I’ve ever met,” Sal said.

  “Never mind that,” President Jones interrupted. “Freddy’s completely right.”

  “Well what do we do about it?” The British prime minister asked. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

  “Oh that is the answer you give for everything, tea, tea and more TEA!” Marc, the French President’s translator, said.

  “I didn’t see the President say anything to you … you weren’t even translating!” The British prime minister snapped back.

  “Oh, go have a cup of tea!” the German Chancellor chipped in.

  “And what’s wrong with tea?” the Chinese President interrupted.

  “Right, that’s it!” Marc the French translator yelled back, “no more mister guy who is very nice, it’s no shirt time!” he growled.

  “PARDON?”

  the actual French President yelled.