by Ray Garton
. . . but the engine died.
Margaret felt sick with fear, so sick that she was unable to scream as they got closer and began to reach out their long, skinny arms.
When the first one wrapped his long fingers around her left arm, she let out a loud, high scream that echoed through the empty night, but it did no good.
The creature pulled her out of the car with surprising strength, then placed his other hand atop her head.
In seconds, the desert disappeared and her mind was filled with the utter blackness of the sky above it . . .
2
Thump — thump — thump . . . thump — thump — thump . . .
The sound came again and again, reaching her slowly through the deep, muddy waters of sleep. It seemed so muffled that, as she began to wake, Margaret was certain it was coming from some distance.
Before she even opened her eyes, she began to feel the stiffness in her body — in her back and shoulders and neck — and she realized she was sitting up, not lying in bed where she knew she should be if she were waking up. She winced as she leaned forward rigidly and opened her eyes.
“Ma’am?”
The voice made her jump and she jerked her head to the left, her eyes widening at the sight of a highway patrolman leaning down to peer at her through the window. He had hair the color of beach sand and skin darkened by the sun, in his late twenties, maybe early thirties.
She stared at him, shocked and mute.
“Would you mind rolling down the window, ma’ am?” he asked, voice raised to be heard through the glass.
She stammered as she hit the button a couple times, then realized the ignition had to be on. She turned the key, pressed the button, and the window hummed down.
“H-have I d-done something wrong. Off-Officer?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“I don’t really know, ma’am. I saw you on the shoulder here, your car in the ditch, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you okay?”
“Well, yes, I was . . . I-I was just sleeping.” It wasn’t until that moment that she realized it was just past dawn. “I was driving all night, see, and I . . .” She turned to look ahead on the interstate before continuing, suddenly feeling herself being clutched in the cold, razor-like talon of panic. It was gone. That colossal thing that had landed there in the dark of night was gone now, and from what she could see, there was absolutely no sign that it had ever been there. Forcing herself to calm down, she glanced at the officer as she continued, “. . . and I, um . . . well, I . . .” She glanced back at that place where the thing had been, just to make sure. What could she tell the highway patrolman when she wasn’t even sure what had happened? Had she dreamed the whole thing? Had she gotten so tired she’d pulled over to — yes, that was it. It would have to do for now.
“I got very tired,” she said, looking at him again. “There didn’t seem to be any rest stops or motels or restaurants ahead and I figured there wouldn’t be for miles, maybe hours . . . so I pulled over to take a nap. I guess I slept longer than intended.”
He nodded. “Have you been drinking?”
She flinched, offended by the suggestion. “No, of course I haven’t been drinking, I’ve been sleeping. I’m on my way from Los Angeles to Harlie to see my sister because she’s dy . . . she’s, um, sick. In the hospital. Very sick.”
He nodded again. “Sorry, ma’ am. I was just asking. That’s part of my job. You did the right thing, you know. Pulling over like that. You might’ve saved yourself and somebody else by doing that. But in the future, try to plan ahead so that won’t happen again. It’s a good idea to make sure you’re plenty rested up before you start on a long trip.”
She just nodded, not knowing what to say.
The patrolman stood. “You have a safe trip, now. And hope your sister gets better.”
He nodded with a rather tight smile, then walked away. She looked in her rearview mirror and saw him getting into his white patrol car, watched as he pulled the door closed with a muffled clump, and waited for him to start his engine. But he didn’t.
Margaret sucked in a deep breath and let it out sharply as she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms, then scrubbed her palms over her face vigorously. She lit a cigarette, took a deep drag as she started the Lexus, then backed out of the ditch. This time, it was easy . . . but she remembered it being impossible last night . . . if, indeed, that had happened at all.
Once she’d backed up, she heard the patrol car start. He pulled around the Lexus, waving as he got back on the interstate and drove away.
Margaret stared at the large section of ground that had — unless she’d dreamed it — been occupied by some gigantic, glowing craft the night before. She could still almost see it . . . a ghost-like memory of it, filling her windshield, swallowing her view of the desert.
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on the steering wheel, muttering. “What happened to me?”
After awhile, she took a deep breath, put the car in gear and pulled back onto the interstate . . .
3
Harlie was a small town about eighty miles east of Tucson. The biggest hotel in town was the Royal House, which was where the reunion was being held. She decided she wouldn’t be caught dead staying in the same hotel as some of her former classmates from out of town. As she drove around, she saw a Motel 6, the Cactus Flower Motor Inn, a ratty little joint called simply Desert Cottages, and a couple of bed and breakfast establishments that were probably overpriced. She finally settled on a Best Western Inn on the very edge of Harlie, near the freeway. It wasn’t exactly what she’d grown accustomed to on her frequent business trips as a successful woman in the high-pressure advertising biz, but it was a far cry from having to go outside in the middle of the night if she wanted ice.
The second her things were scattered over her bed, Margaret shed her clothes and took a long hot shower.
She took her time under the spray of water. Her body was stiff from sleeping all night in her car and she’d developed an industrial-strength headache during the remainder of her drive to Harlie. She’d spent that whole drive going over and over her memories of the night before. She assumed that was where the headache had come from.
She’d asked herself question after question, more often than not talking aloud to herself. Had she dreamed it? If so, why didn’t she remember getting tired and pulling into the ditch to take a nap? She knew she hadn’t done that — it had simply been a convincing lie for the benefit of the patrolman — so it was unlikely she would remember doing something she hadn’t done. She didn’t even remember going to sleep; one second, she’d been trying to get away from those creatures reaching for her in the car, and the next, she was waking up just after dawn to a cop peering into her window. So, if she hadn’t gone to sleep and dreamed it, what the hell had happened?
There was, of course, one glaringly obvious explanation, but she tried to resist even considering it. She had visions of sharing that particular explanation with someone in confidence, then going to the grocery store a few days later to see herself on the cover of the Weekly World News beneath the headline: ADVERTISING EXECUTIVE ATTACKED BY U.F.O. ALIENS! — Probed Rectally Then Impregnated By Elvis!
But could she honestly attribute it to anything else?
She’d heard several stories of so-called U.F.O. abductees. They seldom remembered what had happened to them at first. It usually came back to them later, either spontaneously or with the help of hypnosis.
But what else could possibly explain that huge flying thing? Or the creatures that had floated out of it and come for her?
Even there, under the hot, steaming shower, Margaret shuddered at the memory of those eyes, those faces without noses or mouths or ears, those long arms and oversized, bony-fingered hands.
She lifted her face to the water and scrubbed it, as if to wash the memory away.
But was it really a memory?
If that was indeed what had happened to her, Margaret decided she would tell no one. If
that was the case, she never wanted to remember what had happened to her during those hours of what had seemed like sleep, and she vowed to herself, there in the shower, that she would never do anything that might allow any deeply hidden memories to rise to the surface of her consciousness like some long lost, bloated corpse . . .
4
Having followed the directions given her by the old woman at the information desk, Margaret arrived at 4-East — the east wing of the fourth floor of the Sisters of Mercy Hospital — and froze. She stared with dread at the door of room 406 — Lynda’s room — as she walked toward it slowly. She stayed on the opposite side of the corridor, close to the wall, and her hands trembled with nervousness. She stood across the corridor from the door for a long time, holding her clutch purse tightly in both hands in front of her.
As she stared at that door, images of childhood flashed through Margaret’s mind, bitter and hurtful images that had been burned deep into her memory permanently. She knew that once she stepped through that door, she would be facing a sick and dying woman, and she would have to let go of that bitterness. She found the fact that it had not yet left her rather disturbing, and she was suddenly not quite sure that she could pull it off. But it was too late now.
“May I help you?”
Margaret started and turned to the young nun who was smiling at her with sparkling eyes slightly magnified by thick round glasses. The corridors of Sisters of Mercy Hospital were crawling with nuns like her, the new, modernized variety with white cowls on their heads, light blue smocks and skirts, and white stockings with sensible white nurse’s shoes.
“I’m sorry?” Margaret blurted, momentarily confused.
“You look lost. Can I help you find someone?”
“Oh, no. I’ve found her. Thank you.”
“Certainly.” Still smiling, the nun turned and walked away.
Turning to the door of Lynda’s room again, Margaret took a deep breath, digging her fingernails into her purse. She lifted her head, put a smile on her face, crossed the hall, pushed the door open and walked into the room.
She stopped just inside the room as the door swung closed slowly behind her. She’d expected some horrible smell, the odor of death and decay. Instead, she was met with the clean smell of talcum powder and soap. Maybe things weren’t quite as bad as she’d expected.
To Margaret’s right was a curtain wrapped around a bed. She knew that was not Lynda’s, though, and stepped forward. Lynda’s bed was on the other side of the room by the window. The curtain had been drawn to the foot of the bed and the television mounted high on the wall opposite the bed was playing, but with the volume all the way down.
Margaret stepped around the edge of the curtain silently and stood at the foot of the bed.
Lynda was lying on her side, fast asleep, making occasional quiet snoring sounds. At least . . . Margaret assumed it was Lynda. There was a large bandana wrapped around the top and back of the sleeping head on the pillow. Margaret could only see the left side of the face, but it looked so old and gaunt. The ridge of bone beneath the forehead seemed to stick out way too much, and the temple sunk inward as if it had collapsed. The cheek was hollow beneath a prominent cheekbone that appeared so sharp it seemed about to cut through the paper-thin flesh, which was a sickly yellowish-gray. The neck was impossibly thin, so thin that it might break beneath the weight of the head if the pillow were not there. An I.V. pole stood on the right side of the bed and a tube ran from the plastic bag of clear liquid to the inside of Lynda’s right elbow.
Margaret lifted a hand very slowly and touched her fingertips to her lips as her eyes became slits and the corners of her mouth turned downward, wrinkling the edges of her suddenly tight lips.
She turned away from the bed and placed her purse on the counter beside the sink. A sob was rolling upward from deep in her chest, but she fought it back. The last thing she wanted, after being apart all these years, was for Lynda to wake up and see her crying.
But Margaret was surprised to find that her reason was not a selfish one. It wasn’t because she was afraid Lynda would perceive her as soft after all these years of bitter silence, or even that she was afraid to show Lynda that she cared. No, it was that face lying on the pillow. If Lynda had gotten as sick as she looked, she didn’t need someone else crying. She needed smiles and casual conversation and quiet support.
Margaret had wondered if she would be able to swallow the bitterness she’d felt toward her sister for so long. Her question had been answered quite suddenly and unexpectedly, and she wasn’t even fully aware of it quite yet. All she knew at the moment was that she felt no animosity right now. She was aware only of the need for her to make herself available to Lynda for as long as she had left and to do what she could. Suddenly, all thoughts of everything that had happened between them in the years past were gone, as if she’d never had them.
Was it really that easy? Could years of resentment and hurt feelings and bitterness just crumble away after a few seconds in a hospital room?
She leaned both hands on the edge of the counter, elbows locked, and took some slow, deep breaths, then plucked a small paper cup from the plastic tubular dispenser on the wall beside the mirror and drank some water. She was halfway through her second cup when a ragged voice cried out behind her. Margaret dropped the cup into the sink and spun around, frightened.
Lynda was rolling onto her back and slowly sitting up, her face a mixture of searing pain and abject terror. Sitting up was quite a struggle for her, and Margaret went to her bedside.
“Another nightmare,” Lynda croaked, without looking up at her. “God, they’re awful. I . . . I dreamed I was . . . having surgery. Only the doctors didn’t give me any anesthesia, and they . . . they started pulling my insides out and showing them to me.” She lifted her head carefully. “Do you think I could have another one of those shots? I’m really hurting. I don’t think I can put up with . . .” She blinked several times and cocked her head. “Hey, you’re not a nurse.”
Margaret forced herself to smile, even as she looked into that deathmask of a face. “Hello, sis. How’s tricks?”
Lynda stared at her for a long, silent moment; her mouth opened slowly, farther and farther, until it looked as if her jaw might simply peel away from her face and plop into her lap. Then she grinned.
That was the worst. It was hard for Margaret to keep that smile. It was like being grinned at by a corpse that had just crawled up out of the grave. But she managed, smiling the whole time.
“M-Maggie?” she rasped, sitting up straighten. “My God, Maggie, is it really you, or . . . or am I still dreaming?”
“Oh, thanks a lot. What, you think I’m going to take your insides out without the benefit of anesthesia?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean . . . oh, Maggie, I can’t believe you’re really . . . that you came all this way to . . .” Finally, Lynda leaned her upper body on her and wrapped her arms around Margaret’s waist.
Margaret bent forward and returned the embrace, though she regretted it immediately. The thing in her arms, beneath her hands, was not the body of a living person. It was a skeleton with some kind of thin, clammy, tissue-like material stretched tightly over its bones to hold in the organs. She was starting to feel the pressure of the sob making its way up to her throat again, like a lump of bile, and she started swallowing rapidly to hold it back, still smiling, when she heard Lynda laugh.
She backed away from Margaret and looked up at her, still laughing, and it sounded like pebbles being dropped on a taut piece of paper. “Oh, Maggie, it’s so good to see you. I was just thinking of you yesterday because your high school reunion is coming up this weekend, but I didn’t think I’d ever . . . well, I figured we wouldn’t . . .”
“Stop thinking and figuring.”
Lynda grimaced and doubled over, groaning.
“Is there something I can do?” Margaret asked, trying hard to keep her voice steady. She’d never been around sickness, she’d never witnessed pain, and s
he did not know how to react to them.
Lynda sat up slowly and reached for the call-button clamped to the upper corner of her mattress. She pushed the button.
“I just need a shot, that’s all,” she whispered. “For pain. The nurse’ll be here soon. Then . . .” She looked at Margaret with a half-hearted smile. “. . . we’ll talk, right? I mean, you’ll stay for a while, won’t you? Please?”
Margaret took her hand — what there was of it — and grinned down at her sister. “I’ll stay for as long as you need me. And we’ll talk for as long as you want.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. We have so much to talk about. So much.”
She lay back onto the pillow, her face screwing up with the pain again. But she never let go of Margaret’s hand. In fact, she held it as tightly as she could . . . which wasn’t very tight at all . . .
5
Margaret sat in a chair at Lynda’s bedside thumbing through a month-old issue of People. Michael Jackson was sporting his latest bit of plastic surgery, Liz had just returned from her latest hospital visit and Cher had broken up with her latest much-younger man.
And Lynda was lying in her bed, still and peaceful, almost as if she had died. Margaret closed the magazine and watched her sister with an uncomfortable wince-like expression on her face.
Margaret had been in the room for ninety minutes at the most, and this was the third time Lynda had dozed off. They’d hardly been able to talk. It was as if the act of staying awake had become too overwhelming an effort for the fragile creature Lynda had become.
As she watched her sister sleep, Margaret wondered how much longer she had to live. Would she die this week? Next week? Judging from Lynda’s appearance, she could die today.
Would she die right in front of Margaret?
The reason Margaret had taken a couple weeks off from work was so she could spend time with Lynda, but . . . she didn’t know if she was ready to watch her die. She certainly hadn’t expected it, hadn’t even thought of it. So naturally, she had not wondered how she might react to it. She couldn’t imagine even now. All she knew was that she had a very odd feeling inside, a feeling that seemed foreign: that this sick, frail woman lying in the bed beside her was her sister. All of the anger and resentment and bitterness she’d felt over the years had made no difference; those bad feelings had not melted away, not by any means, but one fact remained: Lynda was still her sister and now she was dying.
