3zekiel (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “There’s your energy weapon,” Pretzel says as the sound of artificial thunder rolls over us. Several of the bolts lash out into the sky from machines down below the cliff, apparently hitting airborne targets. Whether those were planes or missiles, I’m not sure, but this is different to what we saw with the Russian aircraft. This is electrical power being released at staggering levels.

  “What are you looking at?” Garcia asks.

  “Lightning,” I say. “They’re producing lightning bolts, just like in Ezekiel.”

  Pretzel is quiet, but I feel that had to be said. Brother Mordecai was right about that at least.

  “They’re evenly spaced,” Pretzel says, observing where the machines are by the bolts hurled into the sky. “They’re maybe a mile or two beyond the blast radius, out in the middle of the jungle, but they’re stationary—for now.”

  Whereas our machines of war are thick and armor-plated, designed to survive a direct hit from opposing forces, the aliens appear impervious. Their mirrored canopies look almost fragile, like they’re made from glass. To me, at least, it seems as though they don’t feel any real threat from us.

  Pretzel says, “Their energy device makes a mockery of our guns and bullets, missiles and bombs. They’re displaying a mastery of physics and engineering well beyond anything we can accomplish.”

  “They’re sentries,” Garcia says. “They’re sending a message.”

  “What message?” I ask.

  “Don’t fuck with us.”

  “But it’s not an invasion,” Pretzel says, insisting on his previous point.

  “I admire your optimism,” Garcia replies, “but all invasions start with a beachhead. You said it yourself, that space elevator is capable of transporting tens of thousands of tons of machinery from orbit with little effort. They ain’t here for sightseeing, Doc.”

  As we’re sitting there, spindly legs reach from below the edge of the cliff, probing the rocks in front of us. We peer out from under a trunk that’s splintered and collapsed. Although the machine is standing beside the caves, its head is already well above the plateau we’re on. Starlight reflects off the smooth mirrored surface. Rather than being a perfect sphere, it’s oval in shape, as though it has been squashed slightly. With little or no effort, the mirrored-machine steps up onto the plateau. It passes above us, but not quite directly overhead. Garcia can hear but can’t see what’s happening. The slight tremble through the fallen trees is enough for him to realize what’s occurring, and, like me, he shrinks from sight.

  Pretzel stands. It’s almost as though he wants to be snatched by these creatures.

  “Get down,” I say. I tug at his trouser leg, wanting him to join us nestled into the underside of a log, but he stands there staring up at the machine as it walks on. He raises his hands, holding them toward the sky, reaching out and touching at one of the alien probes dangling from the craft. He wants to be taken. Dozens of legs hang from the underside of the machine. They’ve been retracted, but only slightly, not being as long as those used for walking. The extra legs drag over the fallen jungle, brushing lightly against the debris.

  Within seconds, the machine has moved on. I clamber out from where I was hiding, helping Garcia up.

  “What the hell were you doing?” Petty Officer Garcia asks.

  “Experimenting.”

  “Experimenting?” I ask, flabbergasted at the notion.

  “They know we’re here. They’re not dumb. They knew we were here when they took Jana. Why don’t they want us?”

  “You seriously want to be abducted?” Garcia asks, shaking his head.

  “It’s the legs that bother me,” Pretzel says in his characteristically absentminded manner. When he gets like this, it’s as though reality has ceased to exist. He’s in the zone, racing off on some tangent that—to me, at least—is entirely unrelated. His gentle voice, dark eyes, soft brown wrinkled skin and thin wisps of grey hair are hypnotic.

  “Why so many legs? And the way they dangle. From what I can see, it only uses three or four for locomotion, why are there dozens more hanging there like the tentacles of some exotic jellyfish?”

  Petty Officer Garcia faces the faint sound of the retreating alien machine. His hands grab at the thick limb in front of us. Seems he’s ready for the battle of Little Big Horn. Even though he’s blind and unarmed, I have no doubt he’d lead the charge at Gettysburg. No musket ball would dare fell him. Given the chance, he’d leap over stonewalls, brandishing a cutlass against cannons. Pretzel, though, seems to have the sum total of Indian wisdom and patience running through his mind following the alien encounter. As for me? I seem to be stuck somewhere in between these two extreme reactions. I’m still shaking. I have been ever since they took Jana. I want to ask Pretzel more about what happened to her. I want to know why they took her, where they took her, but I know what his answer will be—I don’t know. Seems scientists are never shy admitting what they don’t know when all I want is a little conjecture.

  Pretzel’s smart. If the numerous legs are a sticking point for him, perhaps it will lead somewhere. Perhaps like a jigsaw puzzle, we have to fill in what we know before we can see the whole picture.

  “Why does that bother you?” I ask, wanting to understand his reasoning as he stands there watching the alien craft walking back toward the distant space elevator. The legs of the alien machine reach out, probing trees as it walks on, touching lightly at them, while the elevator crackles with energy.

  “Machines are efficient. That’s why we build them. A plough being dragged by a horse is more efficient than a man with a spade. A tractor is even more effective again. At each point, we simplify and focus our design. We build machines to accomplish specific tasks. Everything has a purpose. No wasted parts.”

  “So?” I ask.

  “Why so many legs? You only need two to walk.”

  “Cows have four,” I say.

  “Four brings stability,” he replies. “Natural selection settled on two legs for us so our other two limbs could be repurposed as arms, allowing us to work with tools. Efficiency, see? It’s all about being efficient with what you have.”

  “But what about an octopus?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s efficient for its environment. Suspended in fluid, it can jet about, darting with astonishing agility. An octopus can manipulate clams and oysters to find the weakest point in their shells.”

  “And centipedes?” I ask. Here we are, in the middle of a burnt jungle with alien war machines firing lightning into the sky, and Pretzel is more interested in an intellectual conversation about the evolution of legs.

  “Ah, repeating segmentation. Centipedes have elongated bodies where the genes code for repetition, much like our spinal column. All animals have this, only when it comes to centipedes, their repetitive elements contain legs, but these are efficient for their environment, tunneling within rotten wood. You don’t see gazelles with a hundred legs.”

  “But the aliens?” I ask, knowing he’s working himself toward a conclusion.

  “Tall and thin. No need for a dozen or so legs. Two would do. Or if you don’t want to be preoccupied with balance, four—but not a dozen or more. No, those legs are probing the environment, acting as arms.”

  Garcia is content to listen.

  “So?” I ask.

  “So, we can conclude these machines were designed for a very different purpose. They may be acting as sentries, but that’s not their original role. They’ve been repurposed.”

  “What are the arms for then?” I ask.

  “It’s a guess,” he says, “but hopefully an educated one. You were right about comparing them to an octopus. All those arms or legs or tentacles or whatever you want to call them are not intended solely for locomotion, they’re designed for examining things, manipulating objects, sampling the environment.”

  “Jana,” I say.

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “That’s why you think she’s alive.”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; Finally, Garcia speaks. “Why did they leave us alone? They had to know we were here, right?”

  Pretzel shrugs. “Maybe because we pose no threat? Maybe because we weren’t moving around? Maybe because we don’t have any war machines like planes or tanks or guns. Remember, from their perspective, there’s not much difference between us and any other animal in the jungle.”

  “Why did they take Jana?” I ask.

  “Maybe she fired first.”

  “But she’s alive, right?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “We have to go get her.”

  “Whoa,” Garcia says. “Doc, tell me you think this is a crazy idea.”

  With his soft accent originating from somewhere on the Indian subcontinent, Pretzel says, “I think it’s a crazy idea, but it’s the only one we’ve got.”

  He pauses before adding, “I think it’s time we introduced ourselves to Ezekiel.”

  The Village

  Garcia reaches out with his hand, touching at Pretzel’s shoulder. It’s not only a means of orienting himself, but seems to bring him some comfort as well.

  “Hey, doc. I don’t mean to second-guess you, but are you sure that’s such a great idea?”

  “What’s the plan?” Pretzel asks, almost in mimicry of him as we start walking, picking our way through the debris. “What are our options? Walk fifty miles to the graveyard that is the battlefield to the north? Wait here until we die from dehydration? Surrender to the Russians? We might as well take the initiative.”

  Pretzel’s smart, using terms that appeal to a soldier.

  “We might find a radio at base camp,” I say, repeating a point Garcia made earlier, hoping to reinforce Pretzel’s idea.

  Petty Officer Garcia shrugs. “We’re dead anyway.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Pretzel says.

  Ah, that wasn’t quite what I wanted to hear.

  It’s dark, but the Moon has risen, casting light across the ruins of the jungle.

  “Take us home,” Pretzel says to me. My arm hurts, but the pain is dull. It’s persistent, an ache fading into the background. For now, I guess my body has accepted this as the new norm.

  Pretzel adjusts the strap on his leg. He’s trying to find the right balance between too tight—cutting off the blood flow—and too loose. As it is, the side of his leg is dark with blood seeping from the gash. He hobbles along as Garcia follows.

  I lead the way, changing direction, leaving the cliff behind and cutting in toward the village with Pretzel limping along behind me. Garcia follows with his left hand on Pretzel’s shoulder. For his part, Pretzel provides commentary as we walk on through the night, giving Garcia notice about each upcoming obstacle. They’re in-step with each other.

  “Broken branches, tightly bound,” and with that we step on an almost trampoline like mesh of twigs and vines and branches lining the ground. Whenever Pretzel crouches to go under a log or sits on a fallen trunk, swinging his legs over a downed tree, Garcia replicates the motion almost exactly, reaching out with his other hand to check for the obstacle.

  “Muddy rocks… Lots of crushed bushes. Stomp with your feet. Lift them high… Low hanging branches, shield your head.”

  Occasionally, Pretzel provides a little more by way of commentary.

  “There’s a dead leopard over there—such a shame… Birds—the ground is littered with dead birds… I can see movement on the elevator—things going up and down—capsules, maybe…”

  But for the most part, the hours pass with, “Slippery rocks.”

  Neither man questions my sense of direction. I think I’m going the right way, but I’m relying more on the lay of the land and the position of the space elevator than anything else. We see several more alien machines traipsing across the plateau, thin and tall, towering over the devastation, but Pretzel never comments on them. Thankfully, they leave us alone.

  When I first saw the machines, they filled me with dread, but not anymore. Even though I know one of them snatched Jana, I’m not afraid of them. I should be, but as they ignore us, I’ve come to accept them. There’s a surreal quality to their design. Stars reflect off their hull almost perfectly, so much so it is almost impossible to spot them when they stand still, even with their lanky legs. When they move, though, the stars shining against their slick, mirrored hull appear to go in the opposite direction. It’s as though a tiny portion of the sky is being played in reverse—which is magical to behold. I’m not sure if Pretzel feels the same way. He probably thinks of them in more scientific terms, but for me, they’re enchanting—graceful. Even though we all saw the bolts of lightning blazing out from them, their sedate nature when moving over the jungle gives me hope that Jana is still alive.

  Smoke drifts across the ground as we march on. Sometimes it’s quite thick, causing us to cough. Most of the fires have burned themselves out, but logs still smolder in the dark of night. Several trees have glowing coals at their heart, breaking through the bark as fire burns from the inside.

  I’m not sure how long it takes us to reach what’s left of the village, but the Moon has started descending to the far horizon. It’s funny, but I never realized the Moon casts shadows. I’ve watched them slowly arc around us over the last few hours, shortening and straightening before growing longer in a different direction.

  The bridge leading to the village is still standing. Glowing yellowish green gunk washes along the creek. Raka’s hut is gone. The burnt, mangled remains of his satellite dish have been caught in one of the few trees still standing—an old Kapok, easily two hundred feet in height. It has branches, but no leaves.

  An aardvark scurries past. We both jump, each equally surprised to encounter the other in this lifeless landscape. With its arched back, long snout and floppy ears, the aardvark is about the size of a dog. Jana calls them fourmi ours, or ‘ant bears' in French. Funny how something as simple as a chance encounter with an aardvark can bring my mind circling back to the loss of Jana. There are over two hundred languages in use within the Congo, but French is the most prevalent. We use English in the church, teaching the natives about the Bible, but most of the daily conversation within the village is French. I miss Jana. I wonder where she is and what she’s doing. I hope she’s okay.

  As I’ve come to a halt, Pretzel nudges me, but he’s not wanting me to move on, simply trying to get my attention. He points.

  Tentacles wrap themselves gently around the aardvark, lifting it into the sky. I never even saw the alien machine following us, but it’s towering over us, being taller even than the burnt Kapok tree. Mechanical arms entwine themselves, holding the aardvark as it struggles. Within seconds the small animal is twenty, thirty, fifty, a hundred feet above us and rising fast. We’re almost directly below the machine. Its remaining legs carry it on as it consumes the aardvark. I don’t think it’s eating it, as such, but it’s difficult not to arrive at that conclusion. The aardvark disappears into the darkness long before it reaches the vast dome that forms the alien craft. From below, the craft appears almost black. With barely any noise, it moves on, hunting some other creature but leaving us standing there in shock.

  “What?” Garcia whispers, wondering why we’ve come to a halt but not hearing the machine. “What’s going on?”

  I’m not saying anything. This is on Pretzel. He’s the alien hunter.

  “Nothing.”

  Garcia never says, “liar,” but I know he’s thinking it.

  I want to talk about what just happened, but Pretzel says, “Come on,” taking the lead and walking into the flattened remains of the village.

  My heart sinks at the devastation. My home is gone. Nothing is left, not even the floor, just a bunch of concrete supports reaching up to waist height. The church has been leveled, but curiously, one wall still stands. It looks surprised, as though even it isn’t sure why it’s still upright. There are four windows, but the stained-glass is gone, leaving an empty shell. The wood panels, originally painted white, are as black as coal.
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  Pretzel crouches, picking up the singed remains of a Bible. Several of them lie scattered across the ground, with their covers torn or burnt. Most of the surviving pages are black and curled. He dusts it with his hand. I wonder what he’s thinking. He must know what it is even though he can’t actually read any of the small text in the moonlight. I wonder if he’s thinking about Brother Mordecai and Ezekiel.

  “Has anything survived?” Garcia asks—anything, not anyone.

  “No,” Pretzel replies, tucking the Bible into the small of his back.

  We pick our way through the ruins. Charred bodies lie trapped under fallen walls and torn branches. I try not to step on them, but I can’t help it. In the darkness, it’s not until I’ve felt the soft squish of flesh rather than breaking twigs that I realize what I’ve stepped on, and I find myself taking double-steps, shuffling before planting my boots. I can’t help wondering who’s trapped beneath my feet. I knew these people. All of them. There’s nothing I can do for them, and that hurts. Tears roll slowly down my cheeks in the darkness.

  I stray away from Pretzel. It’s not deliberate, but we separate. I’m drawn to the areas I knew within the village, recognizing denuded trees, spotting burnt bits of clothing scattered on the ground.

  It’s funny the things that survived the firestorm. I reach down and pick up a china plate with ornate gold leaf running around its rim. It’s dusty, but otherwise immaculate. No chips, no cracks, no scratches. The plate is easily fifty feet from the stumps that mark the manse established by the Church. There’s a verse of Scripture on it, written in ornate calligraphy.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.

  This particular plate wasn’t ours, it was on display in a glass cabinet along with several other relics left by previous missionaries. I’m not sure when it was dragged through the mud and grime of the forest, probably hundreds of years ago when the church was first built. It seems cruel that something lifeless would survive unscathed when everyone around it has died. I don’t know what to do with the plate. I place it gently back on the ground, curious about what will become of it. Will someone else pick it up? Or will they just stand on it, finally breaking it into a thousand pieces?