The Tiniest Invaders, Book One Coexistence

by William Bebb

  “I hope our appearance is not too much of a disappointment. We have monitored nearly every television broadcast ever made, as we journeyed here. The human imaginings of extra terrestrial life forms cover a wide variety of shapes and forms,” Betty said, as the feather-like shape on the screen flexed and vibrated in tandem.

  Alice was the first one to speak, albeit just one word and in a whisper; “Beautiful.”

  Betty smiled and spoke as the feather on the screen vibrated slightly. “Thank you.”

  “Is there a point to all this, or am I missing something? This feels more like an intervention for an alcoholic than anything else. Don't get me wrong, like Alice, I also think you're the most beautiful tiny invader I've ever seen but honestly why are you here? Not on Earth either, I get that, but why are you here?” Anniston asked, gesturing around his living room while barely able to keep from shouting as he stood up and walked over to stand before Betty.

  The girl removed her hand from behind the TV as it switched off. “It is awkward to admit, but we need your help,” Betty said, backing up a step from the old man.

  Everyone except Agent Mendez looked equally incredulous and doubtful. “It's the Ziffels or whatever you called them, isn't it?”

  “Yes. They are apparently deeply immersed throughout human society. They are difficult to discover and it is almost impossible to understand their motives. Worse yet, we have discovered our virus does not work on them.

  Thus, even if we killed every human on the planet we might have several million or potentially billion others who we do not know anything about to deal with. If however, you could be persuaded to help us learn more about them it would certainly add to the argument for allowing humanity to live. In short, by helping us, you would be helping yourselves.”

  “Oh really? Wow, where do I sign up?” Anniston asked sarcastically.

  “We do not require your signatures.”

  “Have you guys never heard of sarcasm?” Trevor asked, with a small smile.

  “Oh, I understand. Dishonesty is not something that comes easy to us. Sarcasm is the stating of something that is diametrically opposed to what is truly meant. If anything, perhaps we are too honest or direct. But lying has been a difficult concept for us to grasp.”

  “I don't see how we have much choice when it comes to helping you,” Alice said, shaking her head slowly. “If we help you learn more about the Ziffels that improves or reduces the possibility of your killing humanity off, right?”

  “Essentially yes. Plus, you will learn what they are up to as well.”

  “Before we agree to anything about this, I want a promise that the virus won't be released,” Anniston said, placing his hands on his hips and glaring down at the girl.

  Betty remained motionless for several long seconds. “For the sake of cooperation, it is agreed that we will not use it unless a global altercation makes it necessary.”

  “You mean as long as world war three doesn't break out, the virus is out of play?” Mendez asked.

  Again Betty remained motionless for several seconds before saying, “If it seems like such a war is eminent, we reserve the right to release it for the good of the planet and every living creature on it.”

  “Have we already been inoculated?” Trevor asked, as he thought about what the old man had said the previous night.

  “No,” Betty said and then added after several seconds, “Not as of yet.”

  *****

  Amalia regretted having sent Hicks in search of his partner as she carted the last of the files out to her car. Her back was aching fiercely as the pain medication began to wear off. Glancing over to where the infirmary tents had been, she wondered if there was any aspirin in her glove box. The parking lot of the small shopping center looked nearly deserted as she leaned back against her car and caught her breath.

  In the distance, she could hear cars honking at the perimeter as the noon hour approached. I don't blame them. I want to go home, too, she thought, watching a crane lift the oddly twisted remnants of the research trailer into a couple of large dump trucks the army had confiscated from somewhere.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Armstrong,” a voice called from behind her.

  She turned and was shocked to see Colonel Wilcox standing behind her, with his right arm wrapped in what looked like a cast. He appeared tired and ashamed and apparently unable to look her in the face.

  “Yes?” She asked, angrily. “What do you want?”

  “I-” He struggled to find the right words for a few seconds before blurting out, “I'm sorry.

  I know that doesn't amount to much but I really am. That bullet could have killed you and- I don't know what to say. You saved my life when you shot Aswan. And I just want you to know how much it means to me that you did that, even after I accidentally shot you.”

  She was sorely tempted to mention the fact that she'd meant to shoot him, and not Aswan, but didn't. “I heard about your arm while I was laid up. Is it broken?”

  “No, the doctors are trying an experimental treatment on what's left of my skin. They said if it works, I might be able to avoid skin grafting.”

  “Did you hear the president's speech?” She asked, laughing.

  “He's a politician, of course he's going to lie. I loved the part when he explained the explosion was caused by a wanna be terrorist group,” he said, as the remaining bits of the research trailer clanged loudly into the bed of the truck across the parking lot.

  “Are you worried?”

  “Who me, worry? We got pig faced aliens on the loose setting off nukes that the president says were actually just your garden variety wanna be human terrorist. What's to be worried about?” Wilcox said, as the dump trucks were escorted out of the lot by two military police Hummers.

  Where the trailer once stood, two men in radiation suits walked around in a crisscrossing pattern as they watched.

  “Think it's over?” Amalia asked.

  Wilcox laughed and said, “Over? No ma'am. Whatever is going on may be hushed up and white washed by the politicians, but no I don't think it's over. Of course, my part's over. They put me on medical leave or at least I will be after I'm debriefed in Washington.”

  “What about Heller, did he approve it?” Amalia asked.

  “That's another thing. I haven't been able to contact him since early this morning, before my little accident. When I called him, his phone just switched me to voice mail and the assholes in the Pentagon won't say where he is.”

  She heard the familiar tune of her cell phone as he was speaking and held up her hand as she answered it. “Amalia Armstrong, here.”

  Wilcox saw the men at the site of the research lab trailer taking off the heavy protective masks and radiation suits as they walked toward a van parked nearby.

  “Is this Mrs. Armstrong of the FBI?” Came the voice over the phone.

  “Yes. Who am I speaking with?”

  “My name is Sarah. My dad said to call you and no one else. His name is Captain Jim Rockford. He's sick but won't let me take him to the hospital.”

  “Can he talk?” Amalia asked, pulling out her small notebook and making notes.

  “He's sleeping now. The only thing he told me to tell you was that Branson and a couple of very dangerous men had probably killed Heller and his squad of military police before torching a whorehouse. I tried to ask what was going on, but he was barely able to say that before he passed out.”

  “Good God. I'm going to call some friends of mine in DC to come over there. What's your address?”

  After jotting it down, Amalia asked if there was anything else he might have said.

  “He told me to hide his notebook,” Sarah said sounding close to tears. “What's going on? Do you know?”

  “Is it just you and Rockford there?” Amalia asked, ignoring her question.

  “Yes. My husband already went to work. I called in sick because of my dad.”

  “Make sure your doors are locked and if you have a gun go get it. My friends shoul
d be there in about fifteen minutes, maybe thirty minutes. Check their identification before you let them in, okay?”

  “I don't understand,” Sarah said plaintively, as she started to cry. “Why do I need a gun? Maybe I should just call the police.”

  “No, don't do that. If your dad had thought they could be trusted he'd have gone to them first. I have to go, just hang tight and help will be there soon,” Amalia said, disconnecting the call before Sarah could say anything else.

  “What's up?” Wilcox asked. “I caught that bit about locking doors and getting a gun. What's happening?”

  The van with the two men who'd been checking for residual radiation drove past and turned onto the main road. The parking lot was now deserted except for them and Amalia's car.

  “Get in the car. I'll tell you on the way to Birmingham,” Amalia said, trotting to her car as she dialed the FBI building in Washington.

  As she drove and filled in a friend she trusted completely on the Rockford situation, Wilcox shook his head at the miles of cars lined up waiting to get back into Pinson. The dashboard clock showed it was noon. National Guard soldiers were removing the barricades on the road and the cars started streaming home as they headed for the city.

  Wilcox overheard that Heller and his security detail had probably been killed and felt embarrassed by a growing fear in the pit of his stomach.

  When she got off the phone they rode several miles in silence, both deep in their own thoughts.

  After a few minutes, Amalia asked, “This Admiral Branson guy, what do you know about him?”

  “Served in both Korea and the Second World War. Last thirty years he's been at the Pentagon working on a slew of top secret programs. Friend of mine told me he was not a very likeable man. He doesn't socialize much and was never married.”

  She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “That's all you know?”

  “He's old; very old. Some junior officers who work in Washington have wondered why he hasn't retired. When someone asks him about it, Branson apparently just laughs it off and says stuff like retiring is for old people.”

  “Do you know of any really big projects he's been working on?”

  “The biggest I know of was his spearheading the development of that accelerator thing over in Europe. He was the official top American representative from the beginning.”

  “You mean the Large Hadron Collider, near Geneva?” She asked suspiciously.

  “Yeah, I think that's it. Some sort of scientific boondoggle. Just a big waste of taxpayer money so eggheads can play with their computers and gadgets,” Wilcox said chuckling and shaking his head.

  “I did a research paper on the LHC in college. I only got a B on it but remember enough to be worried. It's the biggest and highest powered particle accelerator ever built. One of the reasons it was built was so scientists could investigate string theory. Kinda makes me wonder though,” Amalia said as they passed through the small town of Tarrant, which is right on the outskirts of Birmingham. She fell silent as they stopped at a red light.

  A few hundred feet off to the right there was a tall chimney stack that belched out a long bright orange continuous tongue of fire.

  He saw she was staring at it as cars behind them honked to helpfully inform her the light had turned green.

  She drove on and chewed absently at her bottom lip.

  “Okay, I'm not up on all the scientific stuff. So just tell me, what is string theory?” Wilcox asked.

  “It's a theory that alternate dimensions or universes coexist in an infinitely long string, or something like that. Some conspiracy nuts say the LHC, Large Hadron Collider could rip a hole between the dimensions. If it did we could theoretically travel there or whoever is there might be able to come here.”

  “A gateway? Maybe a way for more of the pig people to come here?” Wilcox asked.

  She nodded and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  *****

  Chomping happily on his second extra greasy delicious cheeseburger, Jake sat up in the hospital bed and typed quickly on his laptop computer. Between bites he glanced up and saw his dad and the red headed doctor talking excitedly in the hall just outside his door. He wasn't trying to overhear them but certain words caught his attention. Wondering what was so 'unprecedented, miraculous, or mysterious' about him, according to the doctor anyway, Jake belched and checked his email.

  There were over six hundred messages and all since just two days ago. Scrolling through them, he saw most were from people who'd heard he almost died. Shaking his head, he went to the message from his friend Tommy Owens with the heading message spelling out 'woof woof'.

  He opened the message and saw a digital photo of Frodo playing in the Owen's backyard and again wondered when they'd let him out of the hospital. It was hard to think about writing much of anything as he logged into his website and blog, but with over six hundred messages to answer it seemed the best way to thank them all for their concern at one time.

  At the top of his web page, he saw the banner with the words 'Living & Loving For a Better Tomorrow' and cringed inwardly. Back in fifth grade, when he'd started the web site, it hadn't seemed so dorky but now that he was a freshman in high school every time he saw it he felt like puking.

  His social studies teacher at the time had assigned each student to design and create a web page that would serve the community. Most of his classmates had made sites dedicated to television, movies, or music reviews. Others had done projects of recycling or anti littering, but it was his creation that had earned an A+, an award from the governor, and interviews on two different cable news channels.

  The funny thing about it was that Jake had no real interest in what the site's goals were.

  He considered it nice that people used the 'Helping Hands' section to ask for assistance and offer it but thought all the commotion and praise for it was really overblown. The visitor counter showed over five million hits since he'd put it online four years earlier and he felt a sense of accomplishment that so many people liked what he'd created, but to him it was just a hobby.

  After logging in his password, Jake began working on his newest blog on his injury and expressed his thanks to all those who sent messages of concern and support. He didn't describe the attack or give Orlando's name but felt tempted to.

  Entering the 'zombie zone' of writing as his dad called it, Jake became engrossed in his writing and quickly spilled his opinions on everything from the hospital's lack of fine dining to their mostly courteous nurses. He finished his blog by uploading a photo of himself taken with his laptop camera, and one of his dog who had performed like 'a truly heroic Hobbit in the face of a mad man who had nearly killed them both.'

  He checked Frodo's guest book web page and was a little jealous that the fur ball had nearly exceeded the number of guests who'd signed his own. “Guess it's his animal magnetism,” he whispered, while saving his updated website and uploading it.

  “Got a minute for your doctor?” Holly Irvins asked, walking in and looking disapprovingly at the ketchup stained sheets and a few stray French fries scattered on the bed.

  Jake smiled as he closed his laptop and set it on the nightstand. “Sure thing. I was just catching up on my email.”

  “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Sick of being cooped up in here, but otherwise I feel great now that my dad brought me some real food,” he said, wiping his hands over the sheets to knock off the remaining bits of French fries and other crumbs.

  “No headaches or stomach pains?”

  Jake burped loudly and blushed. “Sorry. No ma'am, like I said, I'm fine.”

  She looked at a chart and then back at him. “Lift up your gown for me, please. I want to check your stitches.”

  Jake grinned and hummed some jazzy stripper music as he slowly lifted up his gown.

  She rolled her eyes and moved over closer to examine where he'd been stabbed. The stitches were still in place, but something looked odd as she leaned closer and
pulled out her mini flash light to see better. She saw the pink area where the knife had gone in, but where the skin joined together there was just a hint of a three or four week old scar.

  Not believing her eyes, she gently prodded the scar with her fingertips. It's not possible for anyone to heal like that, at least not in less than a day, she thought, as Jake giggled and begged her to stop tickling him.

  She withdrew her fingers and looked at the boy thoughtfully. “Have you had your appendix removed or any other operations in the past?”

  “No ma'am. Why?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “No reason.”

  “So, when do I get to go home?” Jake asked, fearing she'd say a month but unable to resist asking.

  She said, “Tilt your head back and follow the light with your eyes. No, don't move your head, just follow with your eyes.”

  His reactions were all textbook normal and she pulled back again with a thoughtful expression on her face.

  Jake thought she might not have heard him the first time and asked again, “When do you think I can go home, doctor?”

  “Have you checked your blood sugar today?” She asked, looking at the chart again.

  “My dad forgot to bring my kit, but I feel fine. I'm not kidding.”

  “I'm ordering another round of blood tests and I'll be back in about an hour.”

  “I really hate needles, doc,” Jake said, rubbing his arm not connected to the intravenous tubes.

  “Me too. That's why I became a doctor. So I could be the sticker not the stickee,” she said smiling. “As to when you get to go home, maybe sooner than you think.”

  Jake grinned and flipped his laptop back open and started typing, as she turned and left the room.

  *****

  Georgetown is a quiet and much sought after suburb near Washington DC. It's well known for its beautiful townhouses, homes and numerous quaint parks. While crime is not unknown it was rare enough for Sarah and her husband to feel safe, under normal circumstances.

  But standing in the foyer holding her husband's shotgun in her trembling hands, Sarah began to realize today was anything but normal.