Dominant Species Omnibus Edition

by David Coy

  “None. No way.”

  “Could he have been target shooting . . . or . . . I don’t know . . . something else?” the youngest participant, Dean Something, asked. “There’s never been anything in the literature about a real physical confrontation like that. Never.”

  Two or three people groaned.

  “No. He wouldn’t be target shooting there,” George volunteered. “She already said he’s got a range up on the ridge behind the cabin. Right?”

  “Right,” Linda replied. “And Phil would never leave his spent brass on the ground like that. Never.”

  “Can we get the blood and tissue sample for analysis?” George wanted to know. “You said his uncle has them.” Linda thought about that one. Did she really want to pur-

  sue this thing further? Wasn’t that exactly opposite of what she’d set out to do here? Phil was gone. She couldn’t bring him back. She looked at George steadily before she answered. He matched her gaze as if he knew what she was thinking. “Maybe. I could try,” she said finally.

  “I think we should,” he went on. “The blood and the skin scrap may be the only tissue samples of an alien intelligence ever recovered. We want them if we can get them. We’ll have them analyzed at USC. I’ve got some good contacts there.”

  “What about the imprint in the gully?” a studious-looking Beth asked.“Can we go out and do some analysis on that?”

  “Don’t take this wrong, Beth,” George replied. “But for what? It’s just a big smashed down area made by something. We may know what we think caused it, and it makes real good collaborative evidence, but it’s not like you can compare it to a database of other UFO tracks and determine who made the UFO. No. Flying saucer prints just don’t cut it. They’re not very meaningful or valuable as evidence. They can be caused by other physical actions or created artificially. Look at crop circles, for instance. What we need are those tissue samples. We can make history with those.”

  The experience had exhausted her, but in the end, she’d painted a picture of such convincing clarity that even the most steely and objective had been hard-pressed to find any flaws in the story.

  Linda Purdy had done what she did best. She’d drawn from the facts and derived by logic alone the inescapable and awful truth of what had happened to Phil Lynch.

  * * *

  It was taking some effort to remove the cap on the object, but Phil was convinced it would be worth the effort. The contents of these things were important.

  Lines of alien writing was scribed diagonally on the surfaces of them like an ornate design. These were treasured items, and he wanted to find out what kind of things this horrible race treasured.

  The egg-shaped object was smooth and slippery and he had it down between his knees to hold it firm. He was fairly sure the cap was screwed on or would have to turn to be removed, and he was trying his best to turn it with both hands. The cap was an integral part of the jar with nothing to grab.

  “Christ,” Phil said trying to turn it. “It’s on tight.” He tried again but couldn’t persuade it. “You try it. Your hands are bigger than mine. I’ll hold it down.”

  Phil held the jar firmly with his hands. Ned went down on his knees and wrapped his hands around the cap and turned it with a grunt. When he did, the cap turned slightly and they heard a quick fitz like the sound of escaping gas.

  “Hey, look,” Ned said with a note of worry. “We don’t know what’s in here. What if it’s poison gas or something? I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

  “So we die by poison gas, so what?” Phil shrugged to make his point.

  Ned thought about it. “Yeah, forget it. Why not.” The logic was obvious.

  He turned the cap completely around with a grunt and he could feel that it was now completely loose and would come right off. “Okay,” he said.

  “Go ahead, open it up.”

  Ned slowly lifted the cap off and together they leaned over and looked into the jar.

  “Want a cookie?” Phil said with a grin.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. It is food. Gotta be food.”

  Ned reached in and gently pulled out one of the thumbsized objects and held it up. “They must eat these things. I’ve seen these as a kid, not this big—but I’ve seen ‘em. They’re uh . . . what do ‘ya call ‘em?”

  Phil plucked one out and held it up. It was dark brown and translucent. The shape of the undeveloped larva under the hard covering could just barely be seen.

  “These are insect pupae.”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Pup..a whatevers.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Phil said. “They’re harvesting these fucking things like peanuts. Then they preserve them in these containers to take back home. That’s why the room is so cold. That was probably some inert gas like nitrogen we heard escaping from this thing. They pack them in gas for added freshness.”

  Ned held one up between his thumb and forefinger and shook his head.

  “They must really be nuts about these things.”

  “Some cultures on Earth have delicacies that cost a fortune,” Phil said. “My guess is these things are worth a mint to them.” He put one in his shirt pocket and buttoned down the flap. “We’ll take one back. Close it up. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Ned put the lid back on, and they carefully sat the jar back exactly in the same place and lined it up perfectly with the others. Phil studied the object’s surface. It was covered with smudges and finger prints. Using his shirt cuff, he wiped and polished off the smudges as best he could, bobbing his head around the jar to catch any remaining smudges in the light. “Heck with it. Let’s go,” Ned said. “They’ll never notice.”

  * * *

  Mary took another drag on her smoke, looked over at Gilbert and wondered how a man like him had lived as long as he had. Why hadn’t someone killed him by now? Tom Moon was bad enough, but if she had to make a choice between Tom Moon and Gilbert as to which one to club to death first, Gilbert Keefer would win hands down. It was as if God or nature or whatever had compiled just the right thin arms, sagging face and lying eyes as a model of just the look to ignite feelings of repulsion in the onlooker. Over that disgusting physical foundation, He overlaid the thin, transparent veneer of religious hypocrisy, then smoothed it all down with a soft voice that twisted the truth and pulled it into shapes only he could use. Here was a man with no honor, no loyalty, no character and no real substance. Each time the man spoke, his forked tongue tore a thread from the fabric of truth, somehow. She’d have used the word serpent to describe the evil sonofabitch, but she refused to degrade the reputation of a far more noble creature by drawing such an unfair comparison to Gilbert Keefer.

  He was standing in the tube talking to Tom Moon, and Mary was sure he was aware that she was watching him. He was just paranoid enough to know precisely the location of everyone in his vicinity—and whether or not they might be able to hear what he was saying. He’d turn this radar on and keep it on just in case he might give something of himself away by accident.

  He’s so goddamned guarded. He’s hiding something. He’s dirty in ways I can’t even imagine. He’s carrying shit in his pockets. I’d bet on it.

  While he talked, he held one hand daintily to his chest like a woman.

  He’s a closet faggot, too. I’ll betcha money he checks his nails with his palm down.

  That thought turned a corner of her mouth up into a satisfying little smirk.

  When Gilbert turned and walked away, Mary could just tell by the way he walked that he’d planted some nasty little seed in Tom’s feeble mind. Tom Moon stood there for a second, then came over to Mary; and under her fixed and hostile gaze, offered up as friendly a smile as he could muster. Mary raised her eyebrows at him just once in greeting.

  “Thanks for the watches, there Tom,” she said. It was about the third time she’d thanked him. It was just something to say to him that she knew he’d understand.

  “Yeah, okay,” Tom said. “Say, Gilbert don’t think it’s
a good idea to go exploring around like they’re doing. He says it don’t look good and it’d probably get us in a lot of trouble if they get caught.”

  “So what,” she said. “Who gives a damn what he thinks?” Tom’s voice went into slow speed. “Well, he just said for me to tell you that, that’s all.”

  “What? He can’t tell me himself? You do whatever he says? You his slave?”

  “I do what I please.”

  “I bet.”

  “I do.”

  Fine.

  “He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already, anyways.”

  “So you think we should just sit on our asses. I find it funny that you and the holy roller there would wait until Phil and Ned were out before you started your little campaign of sabotage.”

  “It ain’t sabatatch.”

  “Why don’t the two of you just piss off. Go bone yourselves in the ass if you can figure out how.” She blew smoke in his face to add to the insult. “You do know how to fuck I take it?”

  Tom thought about it, and his weak mind worked over the possible answers with the force of a windmill in dead air. Quick retorts never blossomed freely from the thick husk of his mind. Unable to think of a snappy comeback, Tom shook his head slow as if he was disgusted, or hurt. “I don’t really care what they do, really. I’m just telling you what Gilbert said. I’m the one who gave the watches, anyways. I don’t know why you’re all mad at me.”

  Poor sonofabitch is stuck right in the middle. It’s Gilbert I’m pissed at and I’m lashing out at this idiot. He’s just the messenger. He doesn’t have a clue. If Gilbert told the musky fucker to jump off a cliff he’d do it.

  “Skip it,” she said.

  “I want those watches back, too. Later, that is.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Mary turned around and hoped that by jumping up into her hole, Tom would get the point and go away. It worked. She heard him mutter something as he walked away. She smiled and laughed a silent laugh. She hadn’t laughed or smiled in a long time.

  * * *

  Tom wondered why there were people in the world who didn’t have good manners. He’d lived out on the street since he was sixteen or so, and no matter how bad things got, he’d always found a way to muster up a smile and a hello. His daddy always said that was the best way to be liked. He wasn’t as good at being liked as his daddy had been and he knew he’d pulled some crap a time or two but you couldn’t never say he was mean to anybody. Not like that bitch, that’s for sure.

  I’ve known worst people than myself, he thought.

  Tom crawled up into his hole and flopped down on his bedroll. Gilbert was sitting directly under the light, reading his Bible. He had his skinny legs crossed like a yogi.

  “What did she say?” Gilbert asked, not looking up.

  Tom didn’t want to talk about it but figured he might as well. Gilbert wouldn’t like it if he didn’t tell him what she said.

  “She said for us to go fuck ourselves,” he said.

  Gilbert just stretched his lips into a thin line for a second.

  “That’s the kind of dirty talk I’d expect from a person like

  that.”

  “Yeah, I ‘spose so.”

  “Have you ever seen the dirt that collects in a sewer? The kind that you can smell and makes you want to vomit?”

  “I guess so.”

  I think he means the shit, Tom thought.

  “When people like that speak like she did, I smell that smell, did you know that?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s how much I dislike dirty words.”

  “Smells bad, huh?”

  “What else did she say?”

  “She thinks we’re trying to sabatatch the whole thing.” Gilbert thought about it. “Have you ever seen those pictures of the people in the concentration camps?” he asked. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Well those people had a right to complain but never did. Did you see what happened to them because they never complained? Is that what you want to see happen to us?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then we should complain if we don’t like the direction they’re taking us. I know how to deal with people like that.”

  “How?”

  “Have you ever seen those pictures on the wall of the Savior with the crown of thorns?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know what that crown of thorns means, and what we have to do to keep from wearing a crown of thorns ourselves.” Tom listened and thought what he was hearing made pretty good sense—mostly, but he wasn’t completely sure. Gilbert was confusing sometimes.

  Tom rolled over and drew himself in tight. When he thought about how mean Mary had been to him, it hurt. The more he thought about it, the more it hurt. She was just like his aunt Mercy, always yelling at him even when he tried to do something nice like cleaning his shoes real good. He wished she liked him. He mulled these things over until the thoughts were just empty pictures floating in the thin, bright fog of Mary’s anger. He mouthed silent words of angst, tailings of past dialogues between himself, his aunt Mercy, Mary and himself and he silently mouthed the word “galumpnuckler. ”

  That’s what he called himself sometimes.

  He’d called himself that since he was seven or eight years old, every time someone reminded him of what a dummy he was. His daddy had been fond of calling him not just a dummy but a damn dummy. Tom would just smile at him when he called him that and wonder why his daddy wasn’t nicer to him like he said he ought to be to other people. He’d gone to bed one night after being called a damn dummy a lot by his daddy and thought the word up then. He’d giggled himself silly over it at the time because it sounded so funny to say.

  He’d laughed so much over the funny word that he cried.

  The word stuck in his mind like a tough weed growing up through concrete.

  Galumpnuckler, that’s what I am. I’m a damned galumpnuckler.

  He felt his face start to twist up into a real hard laugh. He had to hold it in because he didn’t want Gilbert to know he was laughing. He had to bite his thumb, he wanted to laugh out loud so bad.

  The thoughts about Mary and his daddy and Mercy left him finally and he got up and went out into the tube. He wasn’t very tired or hungry, but he didn’t want to stay in the hole with Gilbert any more. He strolled down in the direction of the grocery, and just as he passed the short tube to the dump, the seam at the end opened. It was his lucky day. He could take a look at all the new stuff first and take his pick of the best of it.

  He poked his head into the opening and looked around before going in, just in case there was a big bastard in it. It didn’t pay to get around one of them for any reason at any time. The coast was clear and he walked in, looking at all the old stuff nobody wanted. At first he didn’t think there was any new stuff at all. But then he saw some blankets and a table lamp that wasn’t there before. He smiled at the table lamp.

  Big damn dummies, he thought. What the hell can I do with a table lamp?

  He picked up one of the better looking blankets. It was one of those ones that had all the sewing in it. He couldn’t remember what they were called. Apgans, he thought. That’s it, it’s a apgan.

  When he picked up the quilt, the cell phone rolled out of it and banged against his foot.

  Grinning broadly at his good fortune, he picked up the phone and with his eyes darting left and right for possible spies, stuffed it into the deep front pocket of his pants.

  Got me a damn cellulerc phone, he thought. This galumpnucklers got a cellulerc phone. Better’n a damn ‘ol watch any day.

  6

  I t had been George’s idea to go, so he’d offered to drive. Linda offered no objections. They talked about many things on the way up to Kernville; and despite her initial fears, Linda found George Greenbaum a likable, amusing and intelligent man.

  She’d talked to Sheriff Bob Lynch, calling him at home late Wednesday night and asked him for the samples of blood and tissu
e as George had suggested. Bob had resisted at first, but Linda knew Bob’s weak spot and punched it lightly with a smile, promising him a barbecued steak if he’d hand them over. The sheriff said she could “borrow” the evidence, but Linda had to promise that any tests Greenbaum would order on them would not completely consume or destroy them, and she had to return what was left. Bob warned Linda that he hoped to God he wouldn’t have to come looking for the samples later. Linda assured him it would be okay. She mentally crossed her fingers and hoped Greenbaum wouldn’t lose the samples, either. Bob Lynch had a bit of the proverbial country sheriff’s nasty streak.

  The last condition was that Greenbaum would provide documentation to the Sheriff’s department on the results of the tests. Linda and Greenbaum consulted about it briefly, and Greenbaum agreed. In fact, Greenbaum wanted as clean and solid an audit trail on the samples as possible. That made the deal balance just right.

  Bob Lynch didn’t say anything to Linda, but having the analytical resources of USC aimed at that sandy goop and little skin flap suddenly seemed like a good idea to him, especially in light of last night’s events. He’d never seen anything that brutal in thirty-five years of law enforcement. He was sure that the dismembered limbs they’d found out at the Gandonian’s were related to Phil’s disappearance. One of the many things he didn’t know was whether or not he wanted to go where all this was taking him.

  Linda had terminated their conversation with a renewed promise to the sheriff of a barbecued steak, and Bob Lynch had promised to eat it.

  “You know,” Greenbaum was saying, “Our little bridge group hears a lot of stories about abductions and UFO sightings and any number of other strange crap and bullshit. Yours is the first in a long time that held water under scrutiny. If you’d been a bullshitter, we’d have seen it in about a minute.”

  Linda took that as a compliment. “Thank you,” she said. “I just wanted to get it off my chest.”

  “It took a lot of courage to tell it.”