3zekiel (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  I’ve often wondered about this plate. I’ve wondered who designed it, who made it, where it was sold, who cared for it and brought it into the jungle. I always thought there were other more appropriate verses for our home, something about love or hope, faith or belief. Given how much death we saw during a Cholera outbreak when we first arrived, it always seemed inappropriate to me. Thirty people died within a week. Back then, I’d have much rather stared at some obscure verse that didn’t remind me of death. Now, I hope it’s right.

  As I stand there looking at the ornate calligraphy just a few feet from my muddy boots, a tentacle slithers through the debris, slowly wrapping itself around the fragile plate, gently picking it up. My eyes follow the thin arm. It curls up through the air, bending over me. The alien machine is standing behind me, towering over me, silently watching but not touching me. The plate, though, is a prize. Without any noise, the machine moves on. Within seconds, it has disappeared beyond a clutch of burnt trees still standing in the lee of a hill. I’m numb.

  A soft whistle drifts on the breeze. I turn. Pretzel’s waving with his hand for me to join him over near a section of the jungle canopy that’s badly scorched but still standing. For a moment, I just stand there, still looking for the dark outline of the machine, but it’s disappeared into the night. Pretzel whistles again. I guess he’s trying to be quiet, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the aliens, but it’s apparent even he didn’t see the machine looming over me in the dead of night.

  “Josh,” carries as a whisper on a breeze, and I turn to join him.

  I clamber over burnt roofs lying on the ground, across collapsed mud walls and the rock we used as a datum point just yesterday. A helicopter lies on its side, with its skids in the air, set on an angle. Rotor blades stretch idly into the night, sagging slightly. The tail boom is mangled but the cabin is intact.

  Pretzel has seated Garcia on a rock and is circling the craft, trying to figure out how to get into it, but one side is crushed against the ground while the other is high in the air, not quite vertical but easily beyond 45 degrees.

  Clouds roll overhead. Thunder rumbles in the distance. A storm is coming, which will bring welcome relief from the humidity.

  “Must have been a rescue flight,” Pretzel says, and it’s only then I notice the chopper isn’t burnt. The smell of avgas is pungent, stabbing at my nose. I’ve been on enough flights between Ubundi and Kisangani to recognize the biting smell.

  “If we can get the cockpit door open there might be something inside,” I say. I can reach the handle with my hand, leaning up against the fuselage and keeping my injured arm from knocking against the craft.

  “I can probably climb up there,” Pretzel says, limping over to join me. Garcia doesn’t miss a thing. He may not be moving, but he’s assessing every action, listening to every word we speak, every sound we make.

  “Give me a leg up,” I say, ignoring Pretzel. Even with my arm in a sling, I’m nimble. I’ve always been a scrawny kid, easily blown away in a breeze. Perhaps now that will come in handy. Pretzel crouches with his back against the helicopter, allowing me to step up on his good thigh and then step off his shoulder to reach the upturned side of the chopper.

  “Careful,” Garcia says, which is out of character for him. He seems to sense what’s about to happen before either of us, which makes me hesitate on reaching the dark, open side door of the helicopter. I’m sitting on the cockpit door. There’s movement inside. A scratching noise. Not human.

  Suddenly, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Overhead, a machine reaches across the trees, towering above us, waiting, watching.

  The chassis of the helicopter rocks, swaying beneath me. Something crashes into the inside wall of the chopper, growling and snarling, beating at the sheet metal. I shuffle with my legs, wanting to drop clear of the helicopter, but only being able to work with one arm I’m slow and clumsy. From where I’ve climbed, it’s easily fifteen feet to the ground below, and I’m left wondering if I’ll fall down there only to be crushed by the helicopter as it topples to one side. Out of the darkness, something swings at me, an arm as black as the night itself. I sway, trying to get back down the way I came, but Pretzel has moved away from the helicopter.

  The chassis of the chopper groans, sagging, shifting. I’m so busy trying to hold on with one hand, not wanting to fall and be crushed beneath several tons of aircraft, that I barely notice the dark shadow looming beside me. Hot, heavy breath hits the back of my neck. A stench of foul air rushes past, causing me to recoil. I turn, there, inches away, is a fully-grown gorilla. Singed, matted black hair. Bloodshot eyes. Flared nostrils. Teeth bared. Angry. Roaring. Bellowing over the shattered remains of the village.

  “Lady,” I yell, edging backwards, starting to slide on the slick, cracked Perspex window lining the cockpit. “Lady, please.”

  The gorilla pounds its fists on the sheet metal, shaking the helicopter, causing it to shift beneath us. I’m not even sure this is Lady. In the dark it might be, but it could equally be any of dozens of other gorillas in this area—scared and hurt. I’m not even sure this gorilla’s female.

  I’m at an impasse. Large, canine incisors threaten to tear into my neck. Any sudden move could trigger an attack. I want to flee, to jump to safety but, there’s no doubt who would be faster, so as crazy as it is, I sit still—as still as my trembling body will allow me.

  “Lady. Jana, remember Jana?”

  Beyond that dark brow, somewhere deep beneath her black, leathery, wrinkled skin, behind those marbled hazel eyes, there’s a spark of recognition. Lady’s facial features relax, sagging.

  “Yes, Jana. Jana is your friend. Jana is my friend—our friend.”

  Lady raises her head, snorting softly, suddenly docile. Her lips turn down, while her nostrils shift slightly as she tests the air, looking for familiar smells. She turns her head slowly, but not as a human would. Her motion is more resigned, almost as if she’s expecting Jana to appear beside me.

  The alien machine has moved on, but its tentacle like legs are probing the trees, severing branches. Lady hasn’t seen it before now, but a spasm of fear ripples through her as she peers at the strange alien device. She slips back into the shadows, dropping inside the helicopter and hiding from sight.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t let them take you. I won’t.”

  It’s a promise I can’t keep and one she doesn’t understand, but it’s something I feel I have to say—something Jana would say.

  The helicopter rocks, shifting again under her weight and settling on the broken limb of a fallen tree, with the far skid now only about six feet off the ground.

  Pretzel is wary, edging closer to the helicopter. A light rain begins falling.

  “It’s okay,” I say, speaking to both him and the gorilla. Lady shelters at the back of the open deck, huddling in the shadows. The tempo of the rain increases.

  “She’s in shock,” Pretzel says, peering in before slowly climbing up beside me. Garcia feels his way along the helicopter, joining us as the rain cascades down, pelting the sheet metal on the chopper, making a racket.

  I slide across the deck, shuffling with my feet, inching toward her.

  Lady signs something. I’m not sure what. I should have paid more attention when Jana would talk with her, but that she’s signaling with her hands is positive. She recognizes us. She doesn’t see us as a threat.

  “Tiny,” I say. Even if I knew how, with only one good arm, I couldn’t speak to her using sign language, but I think she understands. “Tiny saved us.” Lady's eyes are full of sorrow. She doesn’t know quite what I’m talking about, but she recognizes the name of the male Silverback. She must realize we came across him in the jungle.

  Dark fingers flicker in the shadows. She’s signing, hoping I understand. I’m guessing, but I think she’s asking after Jana.

  “They—they…” I can barely speak, choking up with tears. “They took her. Jana’s gone. I—I’m sorry. No Jana.”

  Wi
th my good arm, I pretend to pluck something off the floor of the helicopter, accentuating my movement, lifting my hand vertically, wanting her to understand. “Those things—they took Jana.”

  Lady moans. She knows. Thick, clubbed hands reach for me, resting on either side of my neck. The strength latent in her arms is apparent, but she doesn’t hurt me, rather she gently draws me closer, resting her forehead on mine.

  My lips tremble. “Jana,” I say through the tears falling from my cheeks.

  Lady rests her head on my good shoulder, but her forearm is leaning on my injured arm, sending spasms of pain into my fingers. I want to pull away, but don’t. Like Garcia said back when we were clearing the landing strip, sometimes pain makes you feel alive. Right now, in the middle of the decimated village, with everyone I’ve known over the past few years either dead or missing, I’ve never felt more alive than I do in the arms of a wild gorilla.

  Lightning crackles through the sky. Thunder shakes the jungle. Torrential rain falls from the heavens. Outside, alien legs probe the mud, picking up logs and laying them gently on the ruins, searching for something, but what? Ornate china plates?

  Pretzel and Garcia remain by the cockpit, staying clear of the rain running over the floor of the helicopter. Lady and I are in the rear, hidden from the wind and rain circling within the open side of the chopper.

  Lady fusses with me, gently brushing my injured shoulder, recognizing the blood seeping from around the bandages. It’s strange, but I feel at peace. My dad would be horrified. Gorillas have roundworm, scabies, lice, fleas. The inside of the helicopter smells of feces so she’s been hiding in here for a while. Given my wounded shoulder, it’s hardly a sterile environment, but I don’t care. Lady cradles me, resting me on my good side, holding me with an embrace I’ve never known. Her fur is coarse, but her skin is soft to touch. There seems to be a common understanding shared between us. We’ve both lost someone. We need each other.

  With the wind howling through the ruins of the village and rain coming down in squalls, I drift off to sleep with the warmth of a gorilla imparting life.

  Stage III: Capture

  Cats

  Sweat drips from my brow. The morning sun streams in through the open side of the helicopter, creeping through the remaining trees and branches. Already temperatures are soaring. Pretzel and Garcia are in the cockpit, talking in hushed whispers. I’m lying beside rather than on Lady. She stirs but doesn’t wake as I creep forward.

  Two bodies lie on the ground outside the helicopter with the dark visors on their helmets pulled down to hide their faces. Already, ants are swarming over them. As they’re lying neatly beside each other, with arms folded over their chests, Pretzel must have moved them in the night. There’s no way he could bury them, so he’s given them as much dignity as he could, making sure their legs are straight, their combat uniforms cover their skin, their shoulders are square and their palms lie flat. Nature will consume them as it will all of us given time.

  Already the jungle is coming back to life. Saplings are pushing up through the burnt ruins. They’re probably not seedlings as such but rather plants that partially survived and are now reaching for the canopy as they have done for millions of years. Flies buzz through the air. Pretzel was right when he told Sergei his efforts were futile. As devastating as the explosion was, the jungle will not be mocked. It’ll take a few years to fully recover, but it will wipe away this stain.

  “Hey, Josh,” Garcia says from the copilot’s seat, hearing me moving about.

  Pretzel is fiddling with a radio and a large battery. “Good morning.”

  Even he doesn’t sound convinced by that. Pretzel is grumpy. With alien machines walking by just a few hundred yards away, I can’t bring myself to reply with anything even remotely approaching good. They took Jana. Thankfully, they’re ignoring us, at least for now, although I don’t know why, which confuses me.

  “What are the aliens doing out there?” I ask.

  “They’re busy,” Pretzel replies, without offering any more by way of explanation, but I notice the Bible he picked up yesterday is sitting on the cracked cockpit console. The pages have been dog-eared and the spine is bent. He’s been reading it, but not as I or my father would, not with a view to understand theology. He’s looking for clues. I’d like to ask him about it as I’m sure he’s reached some wild conclusion, even if that’s to ignore the concept entirely, but he continues fiddling with the radio.

  “About yesterday,” I say, but Pretzel cuts me off.

  “Sergei’s wrong.”

  That wasn’t what I was going to talk about, but I’m intrigued. The conflict between these two scientists seems deeply bitter.

  Garcia seems to pick up on that as well, asking, “How do you know he’s wrong? None of us know what the hell we’re dealing with. Who’s to say you’re right and he’s wrong? What if those aliens are carrying the celestial equivalent of the Black Death?”

  To his credit, Pretzel doesn’t take the point personally. I think he’s frustrated with the radio. He sets it aside, resting it on the center console so he can address our concerns. Just that act seems to calm him.

  “Nothing in life is black and white,” he says.

  “So he could be right? You might be wrong?” Garcia asks. It’s a fair question given how much we’re trusting Pretzel’s judgment, but it ignores his point, still only considering two possibilities. I wonder if reality is more complex. I don’t want to be responsible for some dumb ass decision that poisons the world, but Garcia sounds a little like the villagers wanting simple answers.

  Pretzel sighs, thinking for a moment before saying, “There’s wrong, and there’s wronger.”

  “That’s not a word,” Garcia says.

  “It’s a word,” Pretzel says in his defense, with a cheesy grin lighting up his face. Although Garcia can’t see him, he seems to grasp the cheeky attitude in the tone of his voice and smiles in response.

  “It’s really not a word,” I reply, trying not to laugh. “Although, I must say, I do like it.”

  “You won’t find it in a dictionary,” Garcia says.

  “You will if your dictionary is from the 15th century.”

  “Did they even have dictionaries back then?” Garcia asks.

  “Well,” Pretzel replies. “They had to have something as they knew the difference between wrong and wronger.”

  Garcia doesn’t even offer a comment in reply to that, simply shaking his head.

  “You understand it, right?” Pretzel says. “So it is a word. It communicates. It conveys a specific meaning—there’s wrong and there’s wronger.”

  I laugh.

  “Stay with me,” he says. “How do you spell cat?”

  I reply, “C. A. T.”

  I’d like to think I’m confident in my answer as there’s no way I could get that one wrong, although with Pretzel I’m never quite sure what I’m getting myself into.

  “But what if I spell it K. A. T?”

  “You’d be wrong,” Garcia says, keen to make that point.

  “Would I? Phonetically, my version is correct. And it’s better than spelling cat as A. B. C.—that would be wronger.”

  Garcia says, “I don’t see how this has anything to do with aliens landing on Earth.”

  “And that’s the problem. It has everything to do with what’s happening here in the jungle. Maybe I’m wrong about them.”

  I get it, saying, “But Sergei’s wronger.”

  “Yes. You see, I know for sure I’m wrong, as we’re still figuring this out, but Sergei can’t consider that he might be wrong—and that’s a serious problem.

  “When it comes to science, there’s no bigger problem than thinking you’re right. It’s too early to make a call on exactly what’s happening, but what I do know is Sergei’s wronger than me.”

  I’m not sure wronger will ever catch on as a common word, but I get what he means. Pretzel explains further.

  “We’re so used to treating life as if eve
rything can be described in terms of black and white. Aliens arrive and the only options we have are good verses evil, right verses wrong, Luke Skywalker fighting Darth Vader with his lightsaber, but what if it’s more complex than that?”

  I say, “What if we’re dealing with kats with a k?”

  Pretzel raises his finger. “Exactly. Now we’re getting somewhere my young padawan. What if we’re wrong but still actually quite close. What if the differences between us and them come down to spelling cat with a C verses kat with a K?”

  “So, we’re becoming less wronger,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  Garcia laughs. “That’s a terrible word. It’s so wrong. Not wronger, just plain wrong.”

  To which, Pretzel replies, “Sometimes it can be right to be wrong, as long as you’re not wronger.”

  “Oh, Doc,” Garcia replies. “You’re making my head hurt.”

  Pretzel laughs, picking up the radio again and fiddling with it, trying to get it to work. Casually, he asks, “Is Earth flat or round?”

  I know it’s a trick question, but I can’t resist. “Round.”

  “Wrong. It’s neither.

  “For tens of thousands of years, we thought Earth was flat—and if you’ve ever been to Kansas you’d still think that, but then we looked up at the Moon during an eclipse and saw the curve of Earth’s shadow. So then we said Earth must be round, but that was wrong too, just not as wrong as being flat.

  “We looked at planets like Saturn and Jupiter through telescopes and saw them spinning rapidly. They looked squashed so we called both them and Earth oblate-spheroids. Finally, we were right, or so we thought, but we were still wrong.”