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by Owner

  The Silver Spoon

  I tried hard not to roll my eyes and failed. Yeah, the Baker place had its troubles–Mr. Baker beating Mrs. Baker most of the time–but I had a feeling Sheriff Brigham was instead on the other side of town, paying a late night visit to Doc Heresford. Now, I could have been kind and told Dewey that he probably wasn't in any danger unless he'd broken open his own skin while punching the Observer. But no. He was still here and the alien with him. I leaned forward, laying my hand flat on the table, my fear forgotten in my desperate need to get them both out of here. Besides, nothing had happened. And like that idiot girl in a horror movie who finds an innocent explanation for the ominous sound she's been hearing, with every second that went by I became more confident that nothing would happen. But I still wanted that alien out of here.

  "Now listen, Dewey, you and I are friends, right?" I asked in a soft voice.

  He nodded, his left hand scrubbing his right even harder.

  "I didn't want to say anything in front of Sheriff Brigham, but I think maybe you should head on over to Doc Heresford's place, get him to check you out. After you drop...him off, of course." Dewey's eyes went wide with fear, revealing the whites, and I almost felt bad for him. Almost. "You think I should? You think I might have..." he lowered his voice, "caught something?" No. But it sure would be an interesting conversation when he bumped into Brigham over there instead of at the Baker place ten miles away. "I think it's better to be safe than sorry," I said. Then I straightened up and turned to go.

  A hand closed around my wrist, stopping me mid-step. I swiveled around, mouth open to ask Dewey what the hell he was doing, when I realized it was the Observer holding me in place. Dewey looked on, frozen in surprise, his napkin still pressed to his skin.

  My chest seized up, and the world dropped away. All I could 14

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  see was the Observer's face and his hand on my arm. I tried to scream, but I had no air. My knees began to give out, but he would not release me.

  "Go now. Go through the back door and to your vehicle," the Observer said. His voice was taut with an urgency that would have chilled me if every goosebump I owned wasn't already standing at attention.

  "Help." I tried to shout, but I couldn't get enough air in my lungs. His grip tightened on me, his hand warm and firm, not the cool, slightly reptilian texture I'd always imagined for no other reason than it was creepy, just like them.

  "Leave now," he insisted. The pressure in my chest increased like someone was standing on my lungs. I fumbled into my jeans pocket with my free hand, searching for my inhaler, all the while trying to pull free from the Observer. But I couldn't concentrate on getting away until I could breathe again. Of course, it didn't occur to me then that I wouldn't be able to breathe normally until I got away.

  "Let go of her, you....you fobber," Dewey said in a shaking voice. Fobber was a slur that had cropped up almost immediately after the landing. Obber was short for Observer. You can guess what the F stood for.

  "I don't...know what...you're talking about," I said to the Observer between gasps for air. "Now let ...me go."

  "If you don't leave, you will die," the Observer said. Things went downhill from there. Dewey managed to drop his napkin, get his gun from the holster, and point it at the Observer. The Observer pulled on my arm, bringing me only inches from his face. Behind me, the few customers that remained were moving to get a better look and whispering with that little edge of excitement that terror brings.

  "Dewey...put that...gun away. I...don't want...to get shot." I finally managed to free my inhaler and bring it to my mouth. I 15

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  almost bumped the Observer's face with it as I set it between my teeth and inhaled two quick puffs. He watched with a slight frown creasing his brow. The cut below his eye was now gone, only a faint pinkness and dried flakes of blood indicated where it once had been.

  As soon as the medicinal mist floated past my tongue, the pressure in my chest eased. I knew it was as much psychological as anything, Doc Heresford had told me that, but as long as it worked, I didn't care how.

  "Let go of me," I managed to say in a sufficiently loud voice. I was shaking from head to toe, but I didn't want to scream. Dewey might jump at the noise and kill us both.

  The Observer blinked, and the silver in his eyes retreated, leaving the brown unobstructed for a second. I was fascinated, drawn like a snake to a charmer, despite myself and the situation.

  "Please go. Now," he said. Then he released me suddenly, almost toppling me onto the table.

  I threw myself backward, stumbling into some chairs. Scrambling to my feet, I ignored the shouts and gasps from all those watching and ran to the counter to call the sheriff. Potential infection or not, Sheriff Brigham better damned well get back over here and clean up the mess he made by bringing an... That's when I heard the first and only scream. I turned my head in time to see Dewey's mouth hanging open, and the Observer, hands free from the cuffs, flying through the air toward me. I didn't have time to scream before he thudded into me, driving me to the ground, and tearing the phone off the counter. And then the world around me exploded with a bright flash of light and the sound of shattering glass.

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  Chapter 2

  The Observer's weight covered me, pressing my face into the faded linoleum floor. His arm protected my eyes from all but the brightest flashes of light. Even still, I struggled beneath him to get free. With him on top of me and the greasy smoke seeping into my nose, my already laboring lungs were forced to work harder, reminding me of the suffocation I suffered nightly.

  "Get off of me," I said. My voice was no louder than a whisper. It was all I could manage between coughing fits. But after a long moment, the weight on me shifted, then disappeared. I immediately shoved away, scooting far from him, cutting my hands and knees on the shards of glass and dinner plates littering the floor. I sat there for a second, cradling my now stinging hands, trying to catch my breath.

  He reached for me, but I moved farther back. "Stay away," I said, still choking on the smoke.

  He paused, then he slowly moved his hand toward me, palm flat and facing up, offering something. I squinted through the haze to see what it was. Small, white...my inhaler. My hand immediately went to my jeans pocket only to find it empty. I snatched it from his hand and promptly used it. I was only supposed to use it in emergencies, but I think this qualified. After a wary glance in his direction, I got to my feet. Other than the minor cuts on my hands and knees and a few bruises from hitting the floor, I seemed to be unharmed. But I couldn't say the same for the diner.

  My eyes watering and stinging from the acrid air, I looked out upon total and utter ruin. Through the smoke, I could barely make out where the front wall of the diner had been. Window blinds now dangled by one end in the far corner, and flames 17

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  gnawed on part of the eastern wall. The front booths were tossed and tumbled like mobile homes after a tornado, and the tables and chairs had been blown backward into the counter. Behind me, sparks still danced where glass from the front windows had speared the lemonade machine and the soda fountain.

  "Damnit," I whispered. Six years of my life, of my plans, gone in just seconds. Some days I'd hated that diner with a passion, but I'd worked it as hard as I could, knowing that success would mean a good selling price and freedom. But now... Frustration swelled inside me as I pictured the half-finished course schedule for Richards Community College sitting on my dining room table at home, just waiting for my return. I'd been debating between taking another psychology class or finishing off my gen eds. Now it didn't matter.

  Couldn't anything ever go my way? I wiped at the tears starting down my cheeks. It was just part-time at a community college, and it had taken me six years to get to this point. To find the right people to cover while I was gone, to rearrange everything so I'd have time to do the homework...to work up the courage to
go back to school after so long. Now I'd probably have to wait six more years. Time enough to restore the building, to hire new people to replace the ones who would quit, to build the business again. At the thought of starting over, despair crushed in on me. I wanted to run home and hide, curl into a ball and let the world pass me by.

  "God," I whispered, "why do you hate me?" I knew that wasn't true. Or, at least, I was pretty sure it wasn't. I hadn't exactly been to church in awhile, but I didn't think that basic tenet had changed. Yet some days, it sure seemed like someone was out to get me, make me crack, break my spirit, suck my soul right out. And just then, when I probably would have put my head down on what was left of the counter and bawled my eyes out, I started to hear sounds, people moving, crying, trying to get out 18

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  from under the debris. Guilt stabbed through me. I'd been so hung up on me that, for a moment, I'd forgotten there might be people out there far less fortunate than me. I started to move out from behind the counter.

  "Don't," the Observer said, startling me. Though I never would have believed it possible, I'd actually forgotten he was there.

  I turned back to stare at him, this alien, who had most likely saved my life by first trying to warn me and then pushing me to the ground. "There are people out there who need help." I started to walk away again.

  His hand closed around my wrist, jerking me to a stop and pulling me around to face him. In the next instant, a shock, like touching the metal end of an electric plug still in the wall, ran through me. Then, the strangest sensation took over. I could feel his hand still clamped around my wrist, fingers pressing into my skin, but I could also feel someone's wrist in my hand, a pulse beating quickly beneath smooth skin and small bones lying defenseless in my grasp. But I wasn't touching anything. I tried to pull free, but I couldn't move. A buzzing began in my ears, growing louder until it filled my head. White specks danced and skittered across my field of vision until my sight was no better than the worst television reception. I panicked, tried to wrench myself backward, but nothing happened. I was trapped in my own body.

  Then, through diminishing patches of clear vision, I saw the Observer take a deep breath, his face tightening in concentration like he was preparing to lift something heavy. Then his fingers opened slowly, as though against some great resistance, releasing my wrist. I fell backward, and his hand snapped forward again, snagging the collar on my shirt, his quick action the only thing that kept me from landing on my back in the debris. The weird insomeone-else's-body feeling disappeared. The buzzing faded, and 19

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  my vision returned. Now, I could see the Observer staring at me and hear the sounds of sirens approaching.

  "How did you do that?" he asked.

  "I didn't do anything. Now, let go of me," I said, my voice trembling. I didn't want to be afraid of him. I wanted to kick him out of what remained of the diner.

  He stared at me. "We must go."

  "What?" It was my turn to stare at him. But he didn't respond, just started dragging me off toward the kitchen and, I'm guessing, the back door.

  I dug my heels in, but that only slowed him down a little. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't know you. And you're...one of them." This was as close to my nightmare as I hoped to ever be. I started to reach for his hand on my collar but stopped just before touching him, remembering what had happened when he'd touched me only moments ago. I tried twisting away from him, but his grip remained firm.

  He paused and turned to look back at me, the silver in his eyes reflecting the dancing flames on the wall behind us. "If he finds he has not succeeded with this attempt, he will only try another way."

  That stopped me mid-struggle. "What? Who? What are you talking about?"

  "You are a threat to him, so he hired a human to kill you. The human detonated the charge meant to take your life–his mission was clear: eliminate you by whatever means necessary." He paused, eyes shifting to a point over my head, seeming to pull information from some other source. "The human sent here carries a picture of you in his coat, showing you as you are now, in clothes related to your occupation."

  Jeans and a polo shirt? I thought in a bizarre moment of abstraction. That's what I was wearing, what I wore most days, but it wasn't like a nurse's uniform or anything. 20

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  "He studied it often–he couldn't afford to make a mistake, not with an alien pulling the strings." His last words made no sense. He was an alien–why would he be referring to his own kind that way?

  My heart thudded hard and fast. Nuttier than a fruitcake this one. Why did the crazy one have to show up near me? I didn't need him. I was crazy enough for the both of us. "Look, the sheriff must have hit you harder than I thought. I am the owner of whatever is left of the Silver Spoon Diner. The only threat around here is maybe getting Salmonella from Lucy's coleslaw." I stopped talking and looked at him to see if my words were having any effect. But he wasn't even looking at me. He was staring at where the picture window used to be.

  I wasn't sure he'd heard me until he said, "There isn't time to explain now. Your sheriff is coming and–" That was all I needed to hear. I pulled forward hard and twisted at the same time, hearing a seam somewhere in my shirt give, but then I was free. The Observer reached for me, his hand closing on empty air an inch or so above my wrist. I stumbled back from him and ran like hell for the gaping hole in my front wall. "Over here, Sheriff Brigham," I shouted. I tripped over the debris, but I managed to stay on my feet and keep moving. I didn't look back to see if the Observer was following. I didn't want to know. I thought it might freeze me in place and leave me vulnerable, like a rabbit seeing the shadow of an owl overhead. That Observer was not going to kidnap me, not if I could help it, that was for damned sure. My nerves couldn't take it. I dreamed about aliens, I didn't get abducted by them. Though, hey, maybe that would explain a lot.

  "Zara? That you in there?" With the sheriff's words, the glow of a flashlight appeared only feet away from what used to be the diner's door.

  "Yeah, I'm here." I looked back to see how the Observer was taking the impending arrival of "my" sheriff, but he was gone. Thank God. The mother ship must have been calling. 21

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  Chapter 3

  "You okay over there, Zara?" Deputy Mike Packer's words pulled me from my thoughts.

  I'd just spent the last four hours at the Sheriff's Office drinking scorched coffee and answering the same questions over and over again.

  No, I didn't see anyone outside the diner.

  Yes, the Observer spoke to me. He said the explosion was meant for me.

  No, I don't know what he meant by that.

  But I hadn't told the sheriff about that strange moment between the Observer and me. I didn't need him thinking I was crazier than he previously thought. But remembering that feeling of helplessness at the Observer's hands made me shiver again.

  "Yeah, I'm fine." I gave Mike a weak smile. He nodded, never taking his eyes off the road. I'd known Mike Packer since grade school, though he was a couple of years younger than me. He was always intense and over-thinking everything, whether it was to have mashed potatoes instead of corn or how to get women to like him. Like right now, he was driving as if he expected an attack from all sides by an armored convoy of some kind. Though given what had happened at the diner earlier tonight, maybe I couldn't blame him.

  "You really think that Observer blew up the diner? Killed Dewey and Mr. Johnson?" He asked me as he turned onto my street. Of the seven people in the diner at the time of the explosion, Deputy Dewey Blakemore and Earl Johnson, a trucker, had been the only casualties, which was both amazing and devastating at the same time. Amazing that more weren't killed, devastating in that no one should have died tonight at all, not like 22

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  that.

  "I don't know. But," I added begrudgingly, "like I told the sheriff, if you're blowing up a building, I'd think the
last place you'd want to be is inside it." And why save me? Just me? Why save anyone at all? Why not just shout that the place was going to blow up and make everyone run away? The sheriff had been making fun of me when he mentioned the Observer making plans to take over the world, but freakier things have happened. I couldn't connect what happened tonight with any grander scheme beyond death and destruction on a relatively small scale, but who knows? I shook my head to clear it of all the questions I would never get answers to.

  Mike gave a thoughtful "huh" in response, then went on. "But don't you think–"

  I struggled to hang on to my last bit of patience like a drowning man wrestling with a slippery life raft. "Mike, I don't know what to think, okay? All I want to do now is go home and try to not worry about any of this for a few minutes." I yanked out my inhaler and sucked in another puff.

  "All right, Zara. I get it. Jeez, you don't have to take my head off." He slouched in his seat a little, his broad-brimmed hat tipping forward.

  When he pulled into my driveway, I jerked my door open before the car even reached a complete stop. "Thanks for the ride. I'll see you on..." I stopped myself. I wouldn't see Mike on Sunday because there was no longer a diner for him to have breakfast in while he eyed the church-going women. "I'll see you." I tried to make it sound like that was what I'd intended to say all along.

  "Yeah, I'll see you, Zara," he responded. I slammed the door shut, then trudged toward my front door. No diner meant no Sunday scoping time for Mike, but it meant bigger problems for me.

  I paused for a second, staring up at the dark, ranch-style 23

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  house in front of me. Besides the diner, the house was the only thing of value my parents had left my brother and me, but it was still being paid for. So, no diner meant no money for the mortgage or Scott's tuition. We had insurance, but the payout wouldn't be enough to keep us going for the next three years while Scott finished school.