3zekiel (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Pretzel takes one hand, Garcia holds the other. We all have our heads bowed, but the light is so bright it penetrates even our eyelids, saturating my sight with a blur of blood red veins. I keep my eyes clenched shut, but I can’t block out the pulsating white light.

  As suddenly as it came, the light is gone, only the darkness is a patchwork of blotches and neon shapes dancing before my eyes. They’re artifacts of the light, imprints on my retina preventing me from seeing reality. For me, it feels as though not only was the light cut off, but all sound was drained as well. Although I don’t remember any noise accompanying the light, the darkness is eerily silent.

  A low rumble breaks into words like distant thunder echoing off the mountains.

  “Noooooo-one-hereeeeee.”

  We keep our shoulders pressed hard against each other, all desperate for the reassurance that another human is standing beside us, hoping we haven’t unleashed a monster.

  “Wheeeeeere-issssssss-it?”

  Under his breath, Pretzel whispers, “These are our words. It’s repeating them back at us.” I’m not sure if Pretzel has opened his eyes yet. I’m still seeing spots. Slowly, I peer out at the darkness but I’ve lost all points of reference. It’s as though the hold of the craft is entirely empty even though I know it’s not.

  “All-around-ussssssssss.”

  “Why is it copying us?” I mumble.

  Pretzel ignores my question, whispering, “Keep it talking.”

  I don’t reply as such, but I’m thinking—Me? Why me? Why not the soldier? What about the scientist? How did the preacher’s teenaged son get tasked with First Contact?

  “Jana,” I say, raising my voice, putting on a show of bravery betrayed by my sweaty palms and trembling legs. “Lady… You took them. We want them back.”

  “Youuuuu… Weeeee…”

  “What’s it doing?” I whisper.

  “Learning,” Pretzel replies, his lips barely moving.

  “Lady. Jana,” I say, being quite deliberate in repeating their names, reversing the order, though, trying to show they’re distinct and interchangeable as equals. “Let them go.” But this alien intelligence wouldn’t recognize them by their names. It wouldn’t even recognize them by their species—human and gorilla. I’m tempted to move over to Jana’s pod to make my point clear, but I don’t want to leave the safety of our group.

  “Ladeeeeee… Jannnnnaaaaa”

  “It’s you. Isn’t it?” I say, again being conscious of my words, trying to provoke this alien intelligence into revealing something about itself. “You’re Ezekiel, aren’t you?”

  “Threeeeeee-zzzzeeeeekiel.”

  “Interesting,” Pretzel whispers. I’m not sure what he finds so fascinating, but that’s the second time it’s got the name Ezekiel wrong.

  “Ezekiel,” I say, blurting that name out with confidence, projecting from my diaphragm rather than simply shouting. The ancient Hebrew name echoes around us. The response is equally sharp and abrupt, but incorrect.

  “3zekiel.”

  “It’s broken,” Pretzel whispers. “It’s trying to repeat what it heard, but it can’t quite mimic us. I think it’s busted.”

  In unison, Garcia and I both say, “What?” But we speak a little louder than either of us intends as that one word slips from our lips.

  “It’s malfunctioning,” Pretzel says, somehow able to refrain from blurting that aloud, still talking in hushed tones. “Think about it. Back in the base station—we saw the silver head of a snake, then a bird, then a gorilla and a monkey before finally settling on a human. Didn’t that strike you as strange?”

  To which, Garcia replies, “Everything about this strikes me as strange.”

  Pretzel ignores his comment.

  “This is why they never contacted us when they moved into orbit. They couldn’t. The machinery didn’t survive the journey—not intact. Their mission was compromised. Perhaps by cosmic rays? Micro-meteor impacts? Faulty parts? After thousands of years, there could be any number of reasons.”

  “What do you mean?” I say, watching as spider-like alien robots swarm around our feet, encircling us. “I don’t understand.”

  “We do this,” Pretzel says, not noticing the tiny machines, still looking out over the hold of the alien vessel. “We have fail-safe modes for our spacecraft. Exploration modes. Communication modes. Sleep modes. Recovery modes. At each point, if there’s any failure, we do everything we can to ensure something still works, that something can continue. We have dozens of contingencies to avoid catastrophic failure so the mission can go on. Lose one antenna, reroute traffic through another. Stuff like that.”

  “Doc, uh—” Garcia says, but Pretzel is distracted by his own reasoning. He doesn’t see the machines circling us, slowly building into a swarm, forming layers, with the smallest machines barely a few feet away while the larger spiders clamber over nearby pods, positioning themselves to face us.

  “We design our robotic probes to gather whatever information they can, to transmit whatever they find. At each step there are fail-safes to ensure the mission isn’t a complete loss.”

  “Ah, Doc.” Garcia’s worried. There are thousands of alien machines surrounding us, moving in unison. “Did it ever occur to you they might interpret your little stunt as sabotage?”

  “Wh—” Pretzel never finishes his sentence.

  Back on Earth, our problem was that there was never a plan. It’s a fault we brought up here. At no point did we know quite what we were going to do on Cruithne or how we could ever hope to survive and escape from the depths of an alien spacecraft, and in this brief flicker of time, that realization strikes me with stunning clarity.

  Garcia knew there was no plan, of course. He was blind, but he wasn’t blind to that. He tried to warn us, but Pretzel, so rational and level-headed and scientific—he was blind to his own enthusiasm. Me? Up until the point the machines circled us, I thought there was hope. Now, as they swarm toward us, charging at our feet, I realize I was naive. It’s the first bite, the razor-sharp prongs tearing through my trousers and puncturing my skin that send those thoughts racing through my mind along with spasms of pain. There’s no way to rewind time, no opportunity to correct mistakes.

  Needle-like prongs punch through my trousers, sinking deep into my skin, reaching the bone.

  Oh, please. No.

  Pain surges through my legs, but my feet are numb, having already succumbed to the alien horde trampling over them, burying them from sight.

  No. This can’t be the end.

  I try to move, to pull away, but I can’t. My feet are stuck fast, trapped as though they’re held in a vice.

  I’m sorry, Jana. I’ve failed you.

  I try not to scream, but I can’t help myself, shouting out, “Ezekiel, no! It doesn’t have to end this way.”

  Wave after wave of alien machines race up my legs, clambering over my waist and tearing my hands from Pretzel and Garcia. I try to jump, wanting to spring out in low gravity and shake the machines from my body, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed, but not out of fear. Every inch they crawl across falls under their sway and I feel myself slowly dying, losing control of my body. Most terrifying of all is the large machines with their spindly, spider-like legs, working their way over the others, closing in on my head.

  Metallic probes puncture my clothes, cutting through the skin and plunging deep into my spine, tearing at the nerves. My head lashes back in response to the pain and I yell, “EEE—ZEEE—KIEEE—ELLL.”

  I twist with my shoulders, flexing my neck, struggling to break free, but it’s hopeless. Metallic tentacles wrap themselves around my throat. Icy cold metal squeezes my skin. The splayed body of a silvery machine rests over my face, nestling its soft underbelly against my mouth, choking me.

  A single phrase is spoken by the alien intelligence. As before, it’s a sentence echoing us in mimicry. I recognize not only the words but the context in which they were first spoken by Pretzel, just before we realized we were bein
g watched.

  Convulsions seize my body. Pain surges through my skull. Those few words, though, hurt far more than anything I feel. It’s something Pretzel said when we found Jana in the pod, just moments ago when he first realized we could never rescue her. Deep and resonant, these four words reverberate around us as I struggle to take one last breath. They’re cruel, mean, spoken with a sense of finality.

  “Thisssssss isssss the end.”

  I gasp, struggling to breathe.

  Darkness finally brings relief from the pain.

  Home

  Rain falls gently on the windowsill, tapping lightly at the glass, beckoning me to wake. My eyelids flicker. I was just thinking about something, but what escapes me. It was important, something serious and alarming, but now it’s gone. Dreams are like that. On waking, the concept has disappeared, having faded like an early morning fog drifting through the trees. I know that something held my mind with an iron grip, but I have no idea quite what it was. Lying there on my back in my warm bed, staring up at the ceiling, I don’t know why my heart is racing. I pull at the covers and a sense of comfort and familiarity washes over me.

  There’s something undeniably soothing about the steady rhythm of the rain, the constant pitter patter, the slight ebb and surge as the wind swirls through the trees, stirring the leaves.

  Normally, the jungle is subject to sudden, torrential downpours. I’ve been caught in plenty of African storms and they’re like someone dumped a bucket of water over my head. This morning, though, the rain is soothing. There’s no flickering flash of lightning breaking through the clouds, no waiting with bated breath for thunder to rattle the trees. Rather than being blasted by a firehose, it’s as though someone left the lawn sprinkler on outside.

  I roll over, pulling the bedsheet up over my shoulder, turning away from the window. A good night’s sleep is rare in the jungle. The humidity never ceases. Often, it’s a hundred degrees plus at midnight. This morning, though, is one of those rare times when even the monkeys take shelter under a broad leaf, shivering in the cool air.

  I close my eyes and bury my head into my pillow, tired, not wanting to stir. Light streams in through the open curtains, making it difficult to sleep, but I’m warm, comfortable and relaxed, sinking into the mattress.

  The wooden window shakes in the loose frame, rattling the glass. At first, I assume it’s the wind picking up, but a voice calls out, “Josh?”

  I twist, rocking onto my hip, opening my weary eyes to see Jana standing outside in the rain. Our house is next to the church, but my bedroom backs onto the grassy area behind the old wooden hall at the back. As the manse is raised up on concrete posts with metal caps to keep insects at bay, Jana has to back up on the grass to be seen from the bedroom. She waves with her arms, attracting my attention. Rain washes over her face, matting down her hair, causing it to stick to her neck, soaking her clothes, but she doesn’t care.

  I stumble to the window, pulling on the wooden frame, raising it up and feeling a cool breeze rush in. Spits of rain drift on the wind, landing on my cheeks, something that’s always welcome in the jungle.

  “What are you doing out there?” I ask, blinking, somewhat bewildered and still half-asleep.

  Jana has her arms out wide, with her hands turned up toward the sky, catching the rain. She twirls, relishing the cool relief a morning storm brings from the scorching heat of Africa. Give it a few hours, though, and the village will be a sauna. It’s not uncommon to see steam rising after a shower has doused the jungle.

  “Come,” she says. “Come and see.”

  “But my dad,” I reply, turning toward the closed wooden door leading to the hallway, expecting it to burst open at any second. I just can’t deal with him today. For once, I’d like breakfast without a lecture. Why can’t he just accept things as they are? Why must everything/everyone bow to his iron will? Who made him God? Oh, such heresy as I dare not speak.

  “Come on, Josh,” she calls out, twirling as though she were drunk—twisting and stamping at the grass with her shoes, dizzy with life, splashing in the puddles.

  I’ve got a shirt on, hanging down over my thighs, but no shorts or underwear. I could put on some fresh clothes, but I’m about to get drenched so I grab my crumpled-up underwear and pants from the floor.

  Stepping to one side, just out of view, I get dressed, tucking in my shirt and trying to look presentable for Jana—as though that somehow matters. I know it doesn’t. Not to her. I know she doesn’t care what I wear or how I look, even with my hair sticking out at odd angles, but I have a longing to be handsome—for her, at least. In some ways, I can’t wait to get wet so the punk rock impression on top of my head settles down.

  “What’s taking so long?” Jana calls out, laughing.

  I shove my pillow under the sheets, ruffling them, trying to make it seem as though I’m still asleep, hoping that’s enough should my dad peek inside the door.

  “Coming,” I say half-heartedly, not wanting to yell inside the house lest I rouse the beast.

  “Hurry,” she says with a smile lighting up her face. “I want to show you something.”

  It’s madness to venture out without shoes on, not even within the village, and certainly not in the jungle. Everything bites. As tempting as it is to jump out the window, I work to loosen the laces on my boots and put them on properly.

  Jana sings. Her voice is soft, barely carrying over the sound of the rain, but it makes me nervous, encouraging me to rush before Dad walks in. If I’m busted now, he’ll ground me for a month, which in the jungle means no heading off with my friends after chores. That would suck so bad. I want to call out to Jana, wanting her to keep quiet, but that could wake Dad. I’m torn between hurrying and not wanting to be heard moving around my bedroom.

  With my boots on, I stand at the window, pausing for a moment, wondering if I should go and spin some yarn to Dad and come up with a baloney excuse to go into the village in the rain. He won’t buy it. He hates it when I sneak out, but a brief adventure with Jana is worth a growling. I’ll plead ignorance. I’ll say I was going to the market to get some fruit for breakfast. Dad takes things too seriously. He’s compulsive. He has to know everything—every last detail. He’ll analyze the slightest frown with Freudian precision. Anything done without full disclosure is suspicious and, in his mind, more than likely evil. Privacy isn’t a word found in the Bible, or so I’m told, but neither’s micro-management. Defiance is its own reward and I can’t help but smile. Consequences be damned. I hoist my butt onto the windowsill and swing my legs over the edge.

  It’s a drop of about six feet to the muddy ground and I land with a splash. The rain’s growing heavy. Within a few feet, I’m drenched but it feels great. The thing about rainy days like this is they’re Sundays in the jungle. Well, technically every seventh day is a Sunday, but in practice people work seven days a week here. It’s tough for Dad to corral more than a dozen villagers for a few hours on a Sunday morning because there’s so much to do, but on those rare days where we joke about building an ark, it’s like a Sunday back home. People lounge around inside. Life slows down. It’s not quite lazing at the lake house on the fourth of July, but it’s close enough. It also means Jana and I are the only ones moving about.

  I grab a cinderblock and prop it against one of the stumps keeping the house off the ground, and stand on it, tiptoeing as my fingers reach for the edge of the window. Slowly, I draw the wooden frame down, leaving a gap of a few inches—not enough for the rain to get in, just enough for me to pry it back open later when I come home.

  “Come with me,” Jana says playfully, taking my hand and leading me on. She’s giddy, laughing. Like a flower in the rain, she’s embracing life. Jana skips along behind the church, leading me over to the river. I skip too. Skipping is cool. Skipping is fun. It’s surprisingly efficient. It’s a refusal to be glum. If more people skipped, the world would be a better place, I’m sure of it. It’s just not possible to skip and be mean or angry or anything b
ut full of joy, and I am drunk with Jana’s presence. I have no idea what the future holds. Dad thinks she’s using me as a ticket out of the village, but he sees what he fears. I see what I’ve found.

  Water runs down my face. Life has never felt so good.

  “I had this crazy dream,” I say to her, but in the context of skipping down a muddy track, trampling grass and splashing in puddles, it seems silly to bring up a dream that’s barely more than a few scattered fragments.

  “Me too,” Jana says, swinging her arms and drawing me into her rhythm. We pass beneath a Kapok tree. These are the giants of the forest, reaching above even the jungle canopy. Their roots spread out over the muddy ground, growing like blades of wood, long and thin, reaching down into the soil. Their bark is smooth. Water drips on us rather than raining down from the clouds, being collected by the leaves and channels formed by the branches.

  Jana takes to jumping in the puddles with both feet, splashing me with mud and laughing. Monkeys swing through the trees. Birds chase insects. Big leafy plants sag with water dripping from the canopy. We hop along the trail, laughing—at what, I’m not sure, at life itself, I guess.

  “I found her,” Jana says as we approach the bridge beside Raka’s hut. “It took some time, but I did.”

  The satellite dish on the roof is slowly filling with water. I doubt it’s designed to operate like that, but Raka probably hasn’t noticed.

  “Who?” I say, distracted by Raka’s hut. The shutters have been closed over the windows. In all the time I’ve lived in the village, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them shut. Raka was a bit strange like that. He said his home was always open to the forest spirits. Dad said he had mental health issues. To see those shutters closed is surprising, distracting and I wonder if he’s gone up to Kisangani.

  “Lady,” Jana says as we come around the other side of the broad Kapok tree.