by William Bebb
“It's okay sweetheart. You can pee on the wall.”
His pants dropped to his ankles as if by magic. A mighty arcing stream of bright yellow fluid hosed down the bricks as several people turned to look.
“That's fucking nasty. Ain't you got any sense of decency?” A fat woman sneered. She was wearing a pair of tight neon pink spandex pants and low cut leopard print shirt, exposing a considerable portion of her large sweaty breasts.
Two middle aged men who had been talking while standing in line, quickly assessed the situation and nodded to each other. They ambled over and stood on either side of the boy and unzipped their pants. As three yellow flows splashed against the wall, the boy and men all sighed deeply in contentment.
With a head full of disturbing ideas regarding the little girl held in his arms, Thomas turned to get out of line and headed for his truck. What the hell would I do with a piece of shit Yugo anyway?
Before he could take a single step, he bumped into a short blonde haired girl and looked down in surprise.
Betty stood blocking his path. Her eyes seemed to flash an impossibly bright crimson for a moment as she stared up at him. “Who is that?” She asked, pointing at the softly snoring child in his arms.
Several highly implausible lies came to mind before he gave up and decided to tell the partial truth. “Don't rightly know her name. Her momma asked me to watch over her while she took her son to the bathroom. I'm just... uh holding her place in line so she can have a chance to win a car.” He found himself trying not to speak so fast or so much but discovered he couldn't stop.
“They're giving away a car today to whoever can guess the number of coffee beans in the big jug over there on the stage. I'm just helping out, that's all.” His face had gone slightly pink and his sore leg shuddered slightly as he looked down at his granddaughter.
Something about her scared him but what it was specifically he didn't know. He remembered the weird dream he'd had this morning where her head swiveled backward and her face had been stretched in an impossibly large and frightening grin.
“Where we're you taking her a moment ago?” Betty asked.
“What? I wasn't going nowhere,” he said looking away quickly as his face flashed bright red.
Betty looked at the girl and then at the old man for several long seconds as the line for the drawing slowly moved forward.
“I think I should hold the girl until her mother returns. Hand over the child,” she said with her arms outstretched.
“Nonsense, she ain't that heavy. I can hold on to her just fine,” the old man said, without looking at Betty.
The line moved alongside the small stage and Betty quickly climbed up and walked over to where the old man stood and whispered into his ear. “I wonder how the people in this crowd would react if I were to tell them you are a pedophile? What do you think?”
“I...I can't. What?” He stammered as his mouth and eyes opened wide in shock.
Jumping down off the stage, Betty smiled up and said, “Hand over the child or I'm telling. You cannot imagine how loud I can yell. I believe I should hold the child until her mother gets back. Don't you?”
Feeling numb, he handed the girl over.
Betty stood holding her and didn't say anything more as the line moved.
*****
Sitting in her car in an empty parking lot of a closed bank, Federal Agent Shannon Mendez listened to the dog panting next to her as she put Deputy Fulton's memory card into her laptop computer. She scrolled through the pictures and wondered briefly about the ones of women who were lifting up their shirts while behind the steering wheel of, presumably, their cars. The women were all pretty and ranged in age from about thirty to maybe sixteen.
One of the girls was the waitress from this morning's breakfast. She looked scared in the picture and Shannon gritted her teeth.
Interesting way to avoid a speeding ticket. Just flash your boobies for the nice deputy, she thought shaking her head.
When she reached the crime scene photos, where Orlando had been arrested, she copied them to her computer. She considered the memory card for a second before ejecting it, wiping it down and putting it back in Fulton's camera.
She expanded a photo of the fat dead kid and saw a trickle of blood and something brown in one of his ears. Shuffling through the photos, she finally found one that showed what she already suspected. The rear of a small brown roach was protruding out of his ear surrounded by blood.
Frodo whined as she stared intently at the screen.
“Just a minute pooch and I'll be taking you home,” she said taking out her cell phone.
After several rings, Amalia's voice mail announced her boss was unavailable but she could leave a message after the beep. She disconnected and tried her partner’s number. It also went to voice mail. She disconnected and tried to think as Frodo nuzzled against her.
“Okay pooch, let's take you home,” she said logging onto the map program on her computer and finding Jake's address. Looking at it, she pulled her brown notebook out and was surprised to see the farm where they were originally supposed to go was less than a mile away from Jake's house. “Just a coincidence?” She asked aloud.
Frodo offered no opinion on the matter as she started the car and put it in gear.
*****
Trevor stood beside Alice as Professor Anniston slowly wandered around his RV. The old man seemed deep in thought and Trevor doubted the worried look he saw was about the decorations. He saw the old man chewing nervously at his fingernail and knew something was really bothering him.
Looking at the decals of the large green dragon standing on its hind legs plastered on both sides of the rear of the RV and the basketball hubcaps on the tires, Anniston only nodded slowly while circling it.
Trevor noted the old man's expression never changed until he stopped where Alice and he were waiting.
Alice hadn't known him as long as Trevor, so her feeling that he hated the disguise was understandable but wrong. Black Beauty was still Anniston's home, just camouflaged.
When he stopped beside them he only nodded and said, “It certainly looks different.”
A long moment of silence grew and Alice looked at Trevor questioningly as the old man stared blankly at the RV.
A few of the college kids who had worked on the RV were drinking sodas and laughing near the large roll up door to the garage they were in.
Trevor had already paid them and wished they'd shut up or go away. Something wasn't right with his old friend and he was worried. He cleared his throat, but the old man seemed deeply lost in thought as he kept staring at the RV nibbling on a fingernail.
Alice walked over to him and asked, “Do you like it?”
“Hmm?” He answered seemingly from a million miles away.
“Professor, if it's a good enough disguise, what do we do next?”
The old man's eyes looked confused for a moment before he turned back to Trevor. “How much cash do we have on hand?”
“Um, about fifteen hundred thereabouts.” Trevor said, after a moment’s thought.
“Okay, let's go shopping and test our disguise. You two go in and get what supplies we might need for about a week living away from civilization. Use some of the cash to pick up a few disposable pay as you go phones too.”
He looked thoughtfully at Alice, before asking, “Dr. Weinstein, I'll understand if you want to take a taxi to the airport but there's something important I need to talk with you both about later. I can't begin to explain it now. In fact, I'm not sure I could.” He shook his head and looked much older than he had when teaching her to dance just that morning.
“James,” she said, taking his hand. “Aside from risking arrest by that dickless wonder Wilcox, I really want to stay with you guys. Unless, of course, you're trying to get rid of me?”
He smiled and hugged her briefly before turning to Trevor. “I'll work up a list of things I want you two to buy in addition to the phones. Alice, I suggest you think what femi
nine products you might be needing.”
She blushed as did Trevor before they both burst out laughing.
A few minutes later, Anniston excused himself to his bedroom as the RV joined traffic heading to the nearest shopping center.
*****
I'm dying. Of all the places I thought I'd die, right in the middle of Redneck Heaven would never have been my guess. It's all that bitch Shannon's fault, he realized while throwing up again. Some vomit splashed on the pavement as he leaned out the driver side door of the Pinto, but most fell onto the already badly stained interior's nearly threadbare carpet. His stomach was in full rebellion as he saw bits of partially digested hotdog in the foul mess.
The only thing Agent Simon Hicks felt thankful for was that he'd only eaten one of the two hotdogs someone had left in the car.
A large truck hauling freshly cut pine trees roared by on the winding two lane county road, and the driver blew his horn to show his appreciation for agent Hick's lack of parking ability.
He'd pulled over as the bubbling vomit erupting through his throat and into his mouth. The car was parked half in the breakdown lane and half in the narrow two lane road. His only thought as the truck sped by was Why couldn't he just hit the car and put me out of my misery?
The boiling feeling in his stomach lessened enough for him to sit back up in the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel tightly. Sweat dripped down his forehead and coated his face as he fought the transmission for first gear and drove on.
He briefly considered tossing the remaining hotdog out the window, but changed his mind when he thought of making Sonny James eat it. Gradually the little car sped up and he tried his cell phone again. The screen showed the words No Service as he burped and grimaced in disgust.
The stereo was playing a collection of country music by Tom T. Hall and Orlando ejected the disc as a song about liking beer began to play. Otherwise, the sheriff's sedan was comfortable and able to move fast as he cruised out of town.
Unsure of his next move, Orlando decided to head for the rural countryside and find a place to think. Looking in the rear view mirror, he saw his swollen shut eye and grunted as he sped up. All I wanted to do today was steal a few computers, sell them and go get high. Is that so wrong? Now I've been beaten all to shit and soon every swinging dick with a badge is going to be hunting for me. It's going to be open season on Orlando Duprat and that's a fact. What the fuck am I going do? And now look at this asshole, he thought, as an ugly little car in the distance swerved erratically all over the road ahead.
I won't be sick again. I am not going to do it. I'm-, Hicks positive thoughts were abruptly interrupted as he projectile vomited over the dash and windshield.
It felt like his throat was on fire and his stomach was a furnace channeling the very flames of Hell itself. Taking his foot off the gas pedal, he tried to find the brake but an intense spasm of pain made this typically easy task impossible. To make matters worse, he couldn't see through the windshield and flipped on the wipers which dragged loudly across the relatively clean and dry window outside.
Stomping his feet on all the pedals (hoping for the brake) the car bucked, jerked, and sped up as he took a hand off the steering wheel long enough to wipe at the nasty mess on the inside of the windshield. Through a small semi-clean streak of glass he saw a large white sedan speeding toward him.
“Shit!” was all he could think to scream while yanking the steering wheel, trying to get back in his lane.
The Pinto moved erratically across both lanes as Orlando slowed down and decided that whoever was 'driving' the other car could have the whole road. As they closed the distance, he looked at the side of the road for a place to pull off and let him pass by. There was a drop off of maybe a dozen feet from the roadway to the trees below, but there was a small strip of weeds he thought might be wide enough to just barely accommodate the big sedan. When he looked back, the little car had sped up and was only seconds away from slamming into him. He yanked at the steering wheel and tried for the narrow breakdown lane swearing.
Both cars turned toward the breakdown lane at the same moment.
On impact, Orlando's air bag deployed as he screamed and held on tightly to the wheel.
The Pinto hit hard and pushed the bigger car over the embankment before following it down a moment later. The sedan rolled several times as the Pinto crashed and clanged behind it.
When they stopped moving, the badly crumpled sedan was upside down with the little car sitting partially on top of it. The front end of Hick's car was crumpled like a crushed soda can and the burst radiator sent fumes into the air.
Neither man was conscious and all was still for several seconds before a small brown roach climbed out of torn apart dashboard of Hick's car. Its antennae moved slowly as it looked at Hicks.
*****
“This is really all a simple misunderstanding. You don't understand. I'm not your enemy,” Colonel Aswan explained, as Wilcox stood in front of him holding a long sharp knife.
He'd tried several interrogation techniques but the pig headed Aswan refused to cooperate other than to repeatedly say it was a misunderstanding. His first story about having been in a horrible explosion and a botched plastic surgery procedure could almost have seemed plausible had Wilcox not seen him change in front of his eyes earlier. Plus his long incisors and the mysterious glowing cube made it even less likely, and the mere fact he'd tried such a ludicrous lie only served to equally amuse and anger Wilcox.
Aswan quickly abandoned the surgery story and admitted what Wilcox already knew; he was an alien.
Leaning forward, Wilcox tweaked his snout. “How many of you ugly bastards are out there masquerading as humans?”
“It's not a masquerade. You need to understand we've been here a long time; a very long time. As to how many there are...” He paused briefly before saying, “there are a lot of us.”
“Okay, there's a lot and you've been here a long time. So why set off a nuclear blast here and now? What are you guys trying to do?”
“The source of the blast is every bit a mystery to us as it is to you. If it weren't for the odd elements found we would have chalked it up to another example of humanity's penchant for self destruction.
Now, listen Brad, untie me and we can work together to find who's really behind all this. You're not the first human to discover our existence. Believe it or not, we work with humans all the time and many of them know our secret identity. Untie me and you could join us. We're not evil. We aren't out to destroy the world. Hell, we live here too.”
“Give me a name. Who else is a pig man? Make it someone I might know, in authority. If they say you're okay and trustworthy we might be able to come to an arrangement otherwise... let's just say I'm kind of in the mood for some bacon.”
“We taste terrible or so I've been told,” Aswan said, with a small nervous smile.
Wilcox didn't smile as he stepped closer. “Bacon comes from a pig's stomach, I think,” he said lowering the knife towards Aswan's midsection. “You can tell me now or squeal later.” Wilcox smiled and chuckled as he poked him teasingly with the knife.
Aswan was sweating as he nodded. “Okay, stop that. Call Admiral Branson, at the Pentagon. He'll vouch for me and explain it all better than I could.”
“Is he a pig or a human?”
“He's... like you. It's complicated. Go ahead, call him and when he explains everything, I'm sure we can work things out. We're just different, not monsters.”
As they' been speaking Aswan's pig-like features were slowly transforming back to his prior human appearance. The changes were subtle and it took awhile for Wilcox to notice but finally he did.
“How do you do that? Your disguise, how does it work?”
“If Branson agrees, I'll tell you everything.”
Wilcox looked at the phone and considered. What the hell am I supposed to do? Call him and ask if he knows a pig faced alien? If not, he'll wanna have me put in a rubber room. If he does... he m
ight have me killed for discovering the truth. Damn it.
“Command post, Sergeant Reynolds speaking,” the cigar chewing man said, signing paperwork. He listened for a few seconds before speaking again. “Yes sir, she's still out here,” he said, looking at Amalia Armstrong who was drinking a cup of unpleasant tasting coffee and looking out a window on the far side of the busy room. “Yes sir, I'll send her in right away.” He hung up the phone and yelled to her. “Hey Armstrong! Colonel Aswan says he'll see you now!”
Amalia hurried across the room, finished her coffee and threw the cup in the trash. It's about time. Wilcox could be anywhere- doing God only knows what.
She grabbed her small leather briefcase and went through the door. The florescent lights in the narrow hallway buzzed loudly overhead as she stopped in front of a door with a placard on it with the words General Heller written on it. She knocked firmly and heard someone say, “Enter.”
Over the years, she'd been surprised in a variety of ways; some good, others bad, but finding Colonel Wilcox standing in the room pointing a gun at her was definitely one of the worst.
*****
Anniston watched Alice and Trevor walking into a mega store via the closed circuit camera before turning back to the television on the wall.
“Are you still there?”
'Yes.'
“I'm confused about several things. Are you saying humanity may be wiped out by your race because we are too dangerous to coexist with?”
'That's a bit of an oversimplification and nothing has yet been decided, but essentially you are correct. Not that all humanity would be eliminated. Our current projections could be as high as ninety-eight percent. Many of those chosen to live have already been inoculated.'
“Against what?”
'A virus engineered to only affect humans. The deaths will be quite painless if that's what you're concerned about.'
“Who are these chosen people?”
'The Earth has numerous groups of people who live in harmony with little or no violent tendencies and no overt signs of idiocy.'
