by Brian Keene
“Don’t you know that it’s against the law to not wear your vest?”
The men laughed. Barnes continued.
“So what are you, cowboy? Seriously. United Nations? ATF? Eff Bee Eye? Black Lodge?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kaine said. “I was just—”
The rest of his denial was cut off as Henry’s steel-toed boot smashed into his mouth. Kaine’s lips were pulped. His vision blurred. Blood and drool dribbled down his chin. When his vision cleared, he glanced up at his captors’ faces. They watched with gleeful interest, as if it were a movie or a football game.
Henry grabbed Kaine by the hair and jerked his head up. Blood spattered to the floor.
“You think we didn’t see that black helicopter flying around up there? Country don’t mean dumb, you son of a bitch!”
“Henry,” Barnes interrupted, his tone calm, almost soothing. “It will be hard for him to answer our questions with a busted mouth.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Henry released him. Kaine sagged to the floor again. Barnes knelt beside him, smiling.
“You’re just a soldier,” he said. “Some of us used to be soldiers, too. They’ve brainwashed you the same way they do everyone else in this country. Why protect them? We’ve hurt no one. No one innocent. We just want to live our lives as free men, out here surrounded by God’s glory.”
He placed a finger under Kaine’s chin and lifted his face toward him. Kaine winced in pain.
“So,” Barnes continued, “why don’t you tell us why you’re really here?”
Kaine spat blood and teeth from the gaping ruin that had been his mouth, and then grinned at his tormentor. Ropes of crimson saliva dripped from his chin.
“Fuck you, scumbag.” Each syllable was excruciating.
Barnes flinched. His cool demeanor vanished. Kaine tried unsuccessfully to roll aside as the burly leader aimed kick after vicious kick to his kidneys, ribs, hips, and back. Kaine howled.
“You’re—full—of—SHIT,” Barnes shouted, each word punctuated with another kick. “Full of it! I’ll show you what we think of the people you work for.”
He delivered one more kick. Kaine shrieked, feeling something tear at the back of his throat.
“Owen,” Barnes said, “go and fetch me some rope. Y’all drag his sorry ass to the outhouse.”
Barely conscious, Kaine struggled weakly as they hauled him across the rough ground towards a small, rectangular shanty at the edge of the clearing.
Giggling through Skoal-stained teeth, Owen handed the rope to Henry, who tied a loop around Kaine’s feet, ignoring the agent’s frantic kicks. Another militia member opened the outhouse door. A noxious stench wafted out to them. The group of men winced.
“Boy, don’t that stink?” Owen laughed, holding his nose.
Barnes slapped a mosquito. “That’s nothing compared to what this Fed is about to smell. I figure a piece of shit like this belongs with his own kind.”
They shoved Kaine forward into the small outhouse. Even with his feet and hands shackled, he fought wildly. A stack of mildewed porno and survivalist magazines fell to the floor. His wrists, chafed raw by the handcuffs, grew slick with blood. He managed to dodge a wild kick from Henry, and sent a roll of toilet paper flying into the air. It left an unraveling trailer in its wake.
Despite his struggles, they managed to position him directly over the hole in the wooden bench. His head easily fit through the opening. Then they started shoving.
Kaine screamed.
He was a muscular man, and his shoulders became stuck. Henry pushed down on them with all of his strength. Kaine’s skin ripped and tore. His blood provided lubrication, and inch-by-excruciating-inch, Kaine slid through the hole. His ribs snapped. Then his pelvis. Then he was through the hole, suspended only by the rope. His muffled screams echoed from below. The group laughed, and slowly let the rope slip through their hands.
Beneath the outhouse, Kaine whipped his head back and forth, coughing as the stench hit him. Each cough brought a fresh burst of pain in his chest. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. He dangled head first, ten feet above the bottom of the pit. Below him lay a vast pool of feces and urine that had congealed into a partially solidified mass; toxic soup stewing amidst heaps of excrement and yellow pools. Clumps of toilet paper dotted the fetid landscape, as well as old leaves, flies, and mosquito larvae. The stink was overpowering. He gagged. Bile and blood splattered amidst the slime below.
Laughter drifted down to him as they lowered him closer. Kaine vomited again, trembling with nausea and terror. The putrid atmosphere solidified around him, pummeling his senses.
Above, Barnes pulled out a bayonet, displayed it proudly to the men, and then cut the rope.
Kaine plunged headlong into the sludge. Vileness coated him. It was in his hair and in his eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, and then it was inside him, filling his throat and lungs. He bobbed for a moment, and then sank below the surface.
His thoughts turned to Melissa and the twins. Then Barnes.
Then he thought no more.
• • •
The page crinkled as Owen turned it, drooling over Miss September’s breasts. He grunted, straining. Despite his tremendous effort, he produced only a small fart.
Owen was anxious to finish his business. It had been a week since the government man had been dropped below, but he still didn’t like taking a shit in the outhouse. Despite the numerous murders on his conscious, it still disturbed him to be taking a dump while a corpse rotted below. This confused Owen when he tried to figure out why it should bother him, and he didn’t like being confused.
There had been no further sign of government surveillance, but they hadn’t relaxed their guard. There was not one man in the camp who doubted that armed troops from the ATF or FBI could show up any day, clearing the way for the United Nations occupancy. All you had to do was watch the news to see what was going on.
Barnes was planning another bombing raid, this time at the FBI crime lab in Quantico. He’d been in touch with the other cells for the last week, meticulously going over the final details. Owen always grew apprehensive when a target date loomed.
He started to piss again, listening to his urine splashing into the pool far below. The sound struck him as funny, and he chuckled.
“Plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a relief it is.”
The trickle slowed, then stopped, and Owen decided that he was done. The hell with being constipated. He wanted to get back inside and finish his card game.
The swishing continued from below, even after he’d stopped.
Owen tilted his head and listened. His eyes grew wide. There it was again—a slithering noise in the darkness below. Rank air drifted up from the hole, followed by a bubbling sound. The foul stench grew stronger, and then there was a loud splash.
“Fuck this!” Grabbing his pants, he started to rise.
A brown tentacle exploded up from the hole, rushing between his legs and coiling itself around his waist. A putrid stink rolled off the thing, making him dizzy. Owen tried to scream, but the oozing tendril gripped him tightly. Only a terrified wheeze escaped his lungs as the air was pushed from them. Another, slimmer tentacle emerged, and wrapped itself around his head. Owen gagged, tasting shit in his mouth, and something else. Blood.
A third arm coiled around his flailing legs and pulled. Owen bent in half at the waist. The thing yanked again, the tentacles rippling with exertion. Strips of skin and hair were flayed from his body as it tugged him into the hole. Although he could not feel it, Owen heard his bones snapping. He screamed as the jagged edges poked through his skin.
Why can’t I feel it?
He screamed again, and then he was gone. His scrawny frame merged with the nauseating mass as it absorbed him.
• • •
Henry and another man were on watch when the shrieks rang out. They drew their weapons and turned toward the outhouse. The ramshackle building shook violently.
A thunderous rumble resonated below the ground.
“Go get Barnes,” Henry shouted.
Then the four walls of the building exploded outward.
The thing that that stood illuminated in the moonlight defied description. Its shape changed constantly, shifting and running together to form new and more hideous designs. It towered above them, a malleable mountain of shit and piss and blood. Bits of solid matter floated within the heap like obscene driftwood—toilet paper, magazine pages, jewelry. Bones.
The creature’s stench was overpowering. Both men coughed. Their eyes and noses burned from the gas.
“Go get Barnes,” Henry repeated. “Damn it, Neil, I gave you an order!”
The other man, Neil, simply stood there gaping in fear.
Exasperated, Henry shoved him with his rifle stock. Neil barely glanced at him. He fumble with his rifle, aiming from the hip. Henry took aim, as well. The two opened fire, the white flashes from their muzzles lighting up the night. The rounds hit the creature and disappeared. As they watched, russet slime flowed into the bullet holes, sealing them within seconds.
The lights in the compound snapped on, flooding the clearing with a sickly yellow glow.
The wind shifted.
Henry’s stomach revolted. He collapsed to his knees in the wet grass, vomiting.
Neil ran for the cabin, screaming for Barnes. Thick, ropy tentacles erupted from the middle of the thing and snaked across the yard after him. He shrieked as they twisted around his ankles and pulled him back toward the outhouse.
Barnes and the rest of the Sons of the Constitution rushed out of the cabin door. As one, they skidded to a halt, staring in disbelief as the thing sucked Henry into itself. Immediately, it swelled in size.
The assembled ranks dissolved in panic. Men dashed for the dubious safety of the trees while others blazed away with their rifles. The smell of cordite was quickly overpowered by the noxious fumes from the creature. One militia member was lifted off his feet as a foot thick tentacle wrapped around him and squeezed. He turned red, then purple. Blood burst from the pores of his skin. His screams turned into hoarse laughter as his eyeballs exploded from their sockets. Another man fired blindly, not spying the tendril snaking toward him until it was too late. He was whipped into the air, and smashed repeatedly into the hard earth. A third man was flung headfirst into an oak tree. His head burst like a melon.
Barnes shouted commands over the gunfire and screams. The rest of the men ran, leaving him alone. The thing shambled toward him on stumpy legs. Trembling, Barnes reloaded. He squeezed the trigger again, emptying the weapon. The bullets had no impact on the monster.
As he turned to flee, the creature fell upon him in one fluid motion, crashing overtop him like a wave, and crushing his body with its weight. Only his head remained free. He gasped, struggling in the quivering, putrid mass. His arms moved sluggishly, as if he were swimming in cement. Slowly, two tiny claw-like appendages formed. They wriggled towards his face, clamping each jaw and forcing his mouth open. His screams became gurgles.
The thing spoke. There was nothing human about the words it formed. The wet noises were created from flatulence. Each syllable had the gaseous resonance of a belch.
“NOW... YOU... ARE... THE...ONE... WHO... IS... FULL... OF... IT... BARNES.”
It slithered into his gaping mouth, and then, Barnes was full of it indeed.
TWO-HEADED ALIEN LOVE CHILD
Kaine worked for the government. This was not something he revealed when meeting women or starting conversations. These days, with all of the paranoia and conspiracy theories, it was best to keep silent. When meeting women and starting conversations, Kaine introduced himself as an appliance salesman from New Jersey.
He’d served the department for thirty years, watching it grow from a tiny office into a sprawling bureaucratic monstrosity with buildings in every city of every state. He’d watched administrations rise and fall, witnessed cover-ups and exposes. He’d seen other divisions like the CIA and NSA hide their tracks repeatedly, but his division had never been covert. It worked with and among the civilians it was designed to help. True, in recent decades it had become slower and less efficient, but it still never failed to get the job done.
Getting the job done was something Kaine took very seriously. That was why he sat here tonight, listening to Neil Diamond while the rain beat upon the roof of his non-descript sedan. Sitting on a quiet suburban street in Idaho. Sitting outside the home of Sylvia Burns, a woman who, like thousands of young, unwed, or divorced mothers before her, was burdened by evil.
A blinding flash burst silently above the house like a miniature sunrise. Kaine glanced at the dashboard clock. 12:47 a.m. Right on schedule. Then the clock flashed zeros as ‘Sweet Caroline’ dissolved into static. Outside, the streetlights dimmed, plunging the housing development into darkness. Kaine knew from experience that the neighbors would sleep undisturbed throughout the occurrence.
A ball of light appeared, soaring down from the sky and hovering just off the ground. A ramp descended and six diminutive figures walked out of the sphere. They approached Sylvia’s bedroom window, and vanished into the house. After a few minutes, they reappeared, carrying a comatose Sylvia between them. The gray-skinned beings disappeared into the craft. The ramp began to recede.
Pausing only to smooth his tie, Kaine crept through the darkness, clutching an unregistered semiautomatic pistol in one hand, and a black briefcase in the other. Swiftly, he leapt onto the platform. The figures had retreated into the depths of the vessel. Kaine shuddered as he recalled Sylvia’s description of the craft’s interior.
The hatch closed behind him. Kaine examined the dimly lit corridor. A distant humming reverberated off the walls and floor. A bluish-green glow emanated from a doorway at the end of the hall. He examined the strange symbols scrawled across the door. Kaine placed the briefcase at his feet and touched the cold metal. It throbbed from deep inside, as if it were a living thing. Seconds later, the door slid open, revealing a nightmarish scene.
His client lay naked on a table, surrounded by dozens of the alien beings. They were vaguely humanoid, with two arms and two legs, but their heads were much larger than the rest of their bodies and their eyes were huge, dwarfing their almost nonexistent noses and mouths.
Kaine had seen them before. His mind flashed back to a supermarket tabloid from ten months ago: WOMAN IMPREGNATED BY ALIEN ABDUCTORS. Beneath the garish headline had been a photograph of Sylvia. Two weeks later, Kaine became her caseworker.
“Nobody move.” He raised the pistol with one hand and unlatched the briefcase with his other. Kaine pulled a stack of papers out of the briefcase. The aliens cringed, fear flashing in their black eyes. Kaine held a document before him like a shield. “My name is Kaine. I am a Domestic Relations Officer, as well as the caseworker for the young woman you have strapped to that table.”
He flung the paperwork toward the tightly clustered aliens, and undid Sylvia’s straps. She clung to him weakly, as if waking from a dream.
“This, gentlemen, is a court order for child support. You are hereby ordered to appear in domestic court one month from today for a child support hearing. My client claims that you impregnated her; therefore, you are financially responsible for part of the child’s welfare. Bring whatever pay stubs and supporting documents you may have with you. Also bring a copy of your most recent tax return. If you can not afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the state.”
Still brandishing the gun, Kaine backed Sylvia towards the exit.
“The next time you decide to abduct and impregnate someone in my state, gentlemen, I suggest you remember that we do not go lightly on deadbeat dads. Good evening to you.”
The door hissed shut behind them, leaving the aliens to stare at one another in bewilderment.
“Shit,” said one. “We haven’t fucked up this bad since Roswell.”
STORY NOTE: Another very early story. I’m not sure where I got the idea. I think it ste
mmed from drinking a six-pack of beer while watching The X-Files.
BUNNIES IN AUGUST
One year later...
• • •
He shouldn’t have come here. Not today. Especially not today.
This is where it happened, he thought. This is where Jack died.
Gary stood beneath the water tower. It perched atop the tallest hill in town, right between the Methodist church cemetery, and the rear of the tiny, decrepit strip mall (abandoned when Wal-Mart moved in two miles away), and a corn field. The tower was a massive, looming, blue thing, providing water to the populace below. Every time he saw it, (which was all the time, because it was visible from everywhere in town) Gary was reminded of the Martian tripods from War of the Worlds. When Jack was old enough to read the graphic novel adaptation, it had reminded him of the same thing.
“It looks like one of the robots, doesn’t it Daddy? Doesn’t it? Let’s pretend the Martians are invading!”
The first tear welled up. Then another. They built to a crescendo. Surrendering, Gary closed his eyes and wept. A warm summer breeze rustled the treetops above him. His breath caught in his throat. He tried to swallow the lump, and found he couldn’t. Sweat beaded his forehead. The heat was stifling. His skin prickled, as if on fire. As if he was burning. The wind brushed against him like caressing flames.
Blinking the tears away, he glanced back up at the water tower and wondered how he could bring it down. He saw it every day—on the drive home, from the grocery store parking lot, the backyard, even his bedroom window—and each time he was reminded of his son. The tower’s presence was inescapable. How to erase its existence—and thus, the memories? A chainsaw was out of the question. The supports were made of steel. Explosives maybe? Yeah. Sure. He was a fucking insurance salesman. Where was he going to find explosives?
He hated the water tower. It stood here as an unwanted reminder, a dark monument to Jack.
