Yeah, I’d say he’s just fine.
“What happened?” I say and help him to his stubby feet.
“Those bastards shot us down is what. They’ll be here to collect me any minute now,” he says and dusts himself off. “It’s fitting, I guess, considering where we crashed.”
I sweep the outline of the horizon for any discernable landmarks. Nothing but a thick tarp of desert darkness.
“Where are we?” I say.
“Roswell, New Mexico, U.S. of A., idiot,” Dave says. “Where did you think I meant? Piccadilly Circus?”
That makes sense. Back in 1947, a “weather balloon” crashed in a remote stretch of Roswell, New Mexico. At least, that was the official story. Unofficially, something more otherworldly tumbled to Earth that June. Some even claim the U.S. military recovered extraterrestrial bodies from the wreckage. Some dead. Some living. Witnesses claim the military ordered several child-sized caskets to put the bodies in.
I size up Dave once again. His dimensions could pass for a child’s, save for the beer in his hand. Did the conspiracy theorists get it wrong? Was it U.T., not E.T., crashing down from the sky? Maybe I should just ask one.
“I can’t believe it,” I hear a woman’s voice call out.
A gaggle of what I assume are skywatchers approaches from within the darkness. These groups wouldn’t be uncommon for a place like Roswell, where there’s plenty of money to be made renting out land to those willing to spend hours each night watching the skies for strange activity. I’d say they hit the jackpot tonight.
I spot two men and two women, each clicking away at decked out digital SLR cameras. They’re dressed like retirees, from their socks with sandals to their khaki shorts. I imagine they’re mostly harmless, but I do not feel like dealing with their bullshit. Not now.
“Who the hell are you?” Dave says, skipping the formalities once he realizes none of them wear black suits.
The first woman is overcome at the sound of Dave’s voice. Her hands tremble and drop the camera in the sand. The others snake through the wreckage like a special ops team on a midnight raid, sweeping the debris with their cameras.
“Can you hear me? I asked you a question,” Dave says.
“Skywatchers 51,” one of the men manages to say under his breath. Then, looking up from his camera, “W…wel…welcome to Earth.”
“Hate to break it to you, pal, but I’ve been here a lot longer than you have. I should be welcoming you to my planet,” Dave says. “Now leave your cameras and get the hell out of here.”
The group keeps snapping photos. In the lowlight conditions, I wonder how well the evidence would pan out anyway, but I get that they don’t want to pass this up. The biggest criticism of paranormal photos is the grainy quality, from “blobsquatches” to little green men.
Frustrated, Dave turns to me and says, “I don’t care if they catch a photo of me, but I can’t have information about the craft, the UFO, getting out.”
“So let’s take their cameras,” I say and start for the nearest Skywatcher.
Dave stops me. “No. I have a better idea. Give me your gun,” he says.
I hesitate, but Dave insists. I slide the .45 out of its shoulder holster beneath my bush jacket and hand it over. I’m expecting him to work some trick with The Current to harness the energy of the gunshots to knock the cameras out of their hands.
I’m wrong. Very wrong.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Even in the dark, Dave is a peerless shot. Two men and two women, victims only of circumstance and an all too human curiosity I happen to share, barely have time to scream before pieces of their heads separate from their shoulders.
No!
Dave hands the gun back to me with all the concern of a schnapps bottle around a campfire. Part of me, no, most of me, wants to plant a bullet into his head for what he just did. But then I remember Ava and, perhaps even more persuasive, Dave’s “magic trick” back at the bar.
Outraged, I start and stop before finally getting the right words out.
“You can’t go around killing people like that, Dave. They presented no threat at all. You just as easily could’ve taken their cameras and scared them until they ran away,” I say, fuming. I’ve seen enough death and destruction to become desensitized to most of it, but this is crossing a line.
Dave raises a bushy eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? I know it’s hard for a glorified ape like you to wrap your painfully simple brain around, but try to reason your way through why this made sense.”
I point at the body closest to us. “They were probably married couples out having some fun with this skywatching thing. They weren’t Men in Black. They didn’t deserve to die.”
“Oh, come on. Nothing deserves to die. They just die when something else capable of killing them comes along. No one deserves or doesn’t deserve anything. That indifference is the closest thing to perfection you’ll ever know,” Dave says. “Besides, remember what I told you back at the alley. When it comes to your kind interacting with U.T., either your curiosity will destroy you, or you will destroy what your curiosity discovers. They chose option A.”
I re-holster the .45, happy it’s out of Dave’s hands and growing wise to his requests for it. If I take it out again, I’ll be the one pulling the trigger.
I barely finish buttoning up the bush jacket when Dave pokes me in the ribs and tugs on my sleeve.
“I’m not giving you the gun again,” I say.
“No. Look,” Dave says.
My eyes follow his shaking finger to the edge of the wreckage. There, standing in the moonlight, staring at us with faces more stoic than any statue, are two Men in Black.
What is it about the Men in Black that you’re afraid of, Dave?
I think these words and aim them at my stumpy companion, but I don’t get a response. Maybe it’s because we’re not in the craft anymore, where that tech made it possible to “read” my mind? Or maybe Dave’s too busy shitting his pants to care about telepathy. Regardless, I don’t get a response.
“Time to let’s go, Dave,” one of the Men in Black says with a throaty wheeze. They’re still feeling the effects of that Chase Baker Cocktail.
“Chase,” Dave says and moves behind me. “You can’t let them take me.”
I scan my surroundings to look for any other unexpected company. It wouldn’t take much to hide in this darkness. The thought occurs to me that we gained several hours of nighttime by flying west from Warsaw. It won’t be dawn for a long while. There could be hundreds of these Men in Black out there or on their way.
For now there are only these two, though, and I wonder if they’re impervious to a .45-inch-wide hunk of lead.
“I think not so, buddy,” I say, mocking the stunted way the Men in Black string sentences together.
Out comes the .45 in my hands, the front sight planted in the first Man in Black’s center mass. Makes me glad I applied glow-in-the-dark paint to the white dot, although it hasn’t had enough light time to charge into its usual brilliant red. No bother. I can pop this bastard with a faded sight all the same.
“Drop now,” the Man in Black says and puts his pasty palm up as if to block an incoming bullet. There’s no emotion in his voice, just that eerie stoicism. Then he repeats with all the soul of a fax machine, “Drop now again.”
My literary agent would have a hell of a laugh with your queries.
“I’m warning you. Back the hell off,” I say.
“Now drop,” he says, as if rearranging the words will make some sort of difference.
“No, you drop,” I say and pull the trigger.
What happens next isn’t quite what I expect, to say the least.
My loud shot misses his center mass, hitting the Man in Black’s raised palm instead. The bullet turns the hand to pulp and careens up his arm before exiting through his shoulder, leaving behind a trail of burger that dangles and drips onto the desert sand.
The Man in Black should be screaming in pai
n, but instead he calmly looks his shredded limb over and takes a step toward me. “Drop now.”
What the hell?
“They don’t feel any pain,” Dave says from behind me. “They won’t bleed out, either. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“What, so they’re like zombies?” I say and line up my next shot.
“I told you, Chase. They’re fucked up from all the experiments,” Dave says. “Give me your knife before they get any closer.”
“No.”
“Damn it, Chase, this is no time for games.”
“Exactly.”
I pull the trigger again, sending the Man in Black to the ground with a devastating shot to the knee. Of course, he begins to crawl with his good arm. I can’t help but admire his mix of desperation and dedication, but I’m not about to lose the precious cargo that is Dave. So I take an easy head shot and put him out of his misery.
Or so I think. The bastard keeps coming anyway. Maybe it wasn’t a clean shot to the brain? Maybe the pieces of skull that rocket out into the desert night and send my guts into my throat aren’t what they appear to be?
Why doesn’t Dave use The Current to help me? Is it that he can’t when the Men in Black are around?
I swallow and pull the trigger again. It’s a miss, but the next one isn’t. He’s done.
The climatic rush of killing doesn’t hit me like it normally does, and I’m not sure why. It’s not something that I talk about a lot, certainly not with my family, but a piece of me enjoys the release that comes with knowing the threat is gone by my hand. It’s like pulling out a sliver from your foot. I know others feel it, too, especially those I served with in the Army Rangers two decades ago. Could be why they don’t talk about what we did much. Half of it’s because of the usual reasons. The other half’s because of what they don’t want to admit.
But I don’t feel it this time. This packs all the emotional punch of shooting tin cans off a fence post. My gut tells me it’s because these Men in Black look like bad parodies of human beings. I think it’s right.
All the while, I’m left wondering why these Men in Black don’t carry weapons. What, exactly, was the plan? Walk toward me and spout off some poorly worded threat from a closer distance?
And why is the second Man in Black just standing there, watching all of this go down like a pile of old laundry?
No time to find out.
I unload the final two rounds from the .45 into the second Man in Black, blowing out chunky windows in his knee and head.
That was easy.
Popping in one my final two magazines to reload, I turn to Dave to ask him how he plans on fixing up the craft. I’m met with a karate chop to the throat instead.
I hack something fierce, staggering as I try to catch my breath. My throat swells and constricts from the blow, making me feel like I’m breathing through a straw. Looking up, I expect to see Dave standing there, his beady eyes cursing me out in one of his rants.
Instead, I see another pair of Men in Black. They must’ve slipped in from behind while I was busy with the first two. Worse yet is what I don’t see.
Dave is gone.
Like the previous incarnations, these Men in Black also don’t carry weapons. I’m still wondering why that is when a hand grabs the back of my neck and shoves me toward the ground. A knee to the forehead breaks my descent momentarily, and then the thought hits me as I’m violently introduced to the taste of sand.
They don’t carry weapons because they’re afraid of Dave using The Current on them.
So these Men in Black aren’t completely invincible to Dave’s technological powers, and vice versa. I’d ask Dave about that, but he’s missing and I can’t see through the rivulets of blood burning my eyes to look for him.
I try to roll away, but a swift kick to the kidney keeps me in place. A second volley stomps on my hand until my fingers are forced to relinquish the .45 or risk breaking at the knuckles. Rather than pick up the gun for himself, a Man in Black punts the .45 out into the black night.
“Who is you?” a voice says from above me.
Battered and bleeding, I wipe my face with a sleeve and twist to look up at my suited assailants. “I’m Chase Baker. Who the hell are you?”
A flashlight clicks on and delivers a piercing beam into my eyes. I have to shield my vision inside my arm. Clever trick. The burn in my retinas will keep me disoriented should I get up.
“How know Dave?” the voice says again.
“I’m Dave’s real estate agent, dipshit. We were looking at an investment property. In the middle of the night. In the desert. With a UFO,” I say. Not sure why I put it that way, but it’s the first thing that pops into my mind. I’m not trying to be a wise ass. I only needed something to keep their attention as I draw the ESEE knife in one swift motion and lash out at what I think is a set of ankles.
Unfortunately, I’m about five feet off. The Men in Black might have terrible grammar, but they’re not so dumb as to stand too close to me.
“You working for who?” the voice says.
“Your mother,” I say and start to get up, keeping my eyes squeezed shut.
Another blow, this one much heavier and harder, cements me back into the sand. Judging by the sound of it connecting with my back, I’d say it’s a sheet of stray metal from the wreckage.
At least they’re getting creative.
“You working for who?” I’m asked again. And once more, I reply with some wise crack, although I can’t remember what I say or if I even said it. My body aches in places I didn’t know I had.
“Eliminate this him,” the voice says.
I hear the swoosh of that metal sheet coming at me again, but this time I’m ready for it. I turn just in time to thrust the ESEE knife into it, planting the blade firmly into the metal. With a solid grip on the knife, I wrench the sheet out of the hands of the Man in Black. Using the full force of my shoulder, I slam into him as I rise to my feet.
The Man in Black staggers, but he’s not down quite yet. I charge at him, feeling my way forward with a combination of luck and memory, using the metal sheet like a shield to plow him into the side of the craft. The blade sticking out on the other side of the metal connects with the soft of his gut, and I hear the meaty suction give way as I back away. I manage to get another blow in before he plants a well-timed kick onto the metal, sending me back to the sand.
Adrenaline propels my sore body back to its feet, but I’m stopped midway with a kick to the back of the head. It’s damn near a KO. I’ll need more than adrenaline to get back up this time.
Out of breath, I spit the sand out of my mouth and look up at the slate-faced Men in Black staring back at me. The light of the moon illuminates their pale skin until the features of their faces seem to melt away, making them look nearly identical. Except there’s a lot more than two now. A half-dozen or so crowd around me.
But only one of them holds my .45 in his hands. The barrel lines up with the space between my eyes.
“Complete you being gone right now,” he says and pulls the trigger.
He might be right this time.
It’s a funny thing to be shot by your own gun. Not “peculiar” funny, but “ha ha” funny. The morbid irony of such a thing makes me laugh out loud. Or so I think. The ringing in my ears from the gunshot makes it so hearing myself think, much less laugh, is almost impossible.
But how do I know I’m laughing? Am I alive or dead?
An irritating beam from a Man in Black’s flashlight into my eyes gives me the answer.
I’m alive, but how? There’s no way that shot could’ve missed.
I run a hand over my face and body, feeling something damp at the top of my left shoulder. Blood. Between that and the sand plastered into the left side of my neck and face, I’d say that Man in Black filleted off a strip of my shoulder and nothing more.
For all the advanced technology these Men in Black seem to exude, there’s no getting around the laws of physics. Every action has an equ
al and opposite reaction. That .45 isn’t something a person can pick up and learn in a day. The recoil from the heavy-hitter loads I use kicks like an ornery mule. Earthlings, ultraterrestrials, extraterrestrials and everyone else would need to build up a muscle memory and tolerance to handle that kind of firepower with any hope of accuracy. These Men in Black don’t seem like they get a lot of range time in, and their wrists look better suited to calligraphy than gun-fighting.
That still leaves six more rounds in the gun, and I doubt they’ll miss with every one of those. I have to wonder why I’m not currently eating that lead, but then I remember the karate chop to the throat. I’d been loading in a fresh magazine and had just racked the slide when I got hit. Maybe I accidentally pressed the mag release as I staggered? That’d leave them with one shot in the chamber, the one they biffed.
I wonder if they’re as surprised as I am at this stroke of luck. Hard to tell with that flashlight in my eyes again.
“How you do that?” the monotone voice of a Man in Black says.
“Do what?” I say and cough.
“You have Current?” the voice says.
They think I pulled one of Dave’s magic tricks.
“No, I don’t have The Current. You’re just a shitty shot,” I say.
“You have Current,” the voice says. “He come with.”
Another lucky break, but this one is bittersweet. The Men in Black think I’m a U.T. On the one the hand, they help me to my feet instead of trying to break my back. On the other, they’re dragging me toward their own UFO-type craft. I can’t imagine this is going to turn out well, especially since my gun finds a new home in the suit pocket of a Man in Black.
After a 100-yard haul, they drop me against the side of the craft. It’s similar in appearance to Dave’s, except it’s not currently in 100 different pieces. Speaking of Dave, he doesn’t seem happy to see me. They’ve got him on the ground next to me.
“You dumb son of a bitch,” Dave says with a bloody nose that makes him sound like a duck in distress. “This is all your fault.”
Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7) Page 5
