by Ben Adams
The science team was packing up, getting ready to take everything they’d found in Leadbelly’s trailer to Los Alamos to study it for the next fifty years. Several of them were collapsing the poles that held the tent over the trailer park. The plastic had already been folded and stored.
The crowds that had left were returning. Most of them had gone to bars or cookouts, been picked up by family or friends. The two that stayed, an older woman in a sea foam green housecoat and a ten-year-old boy, left alone all day with reality TV as his only entertainment, had called their neighbors, telling them to come home. They were angry and anxious, wanting to get into their trailers, wondering why they were forced from them so early.
Colonel Hollister ignored the clamor and protests of the half-drunk people in the street. They would never know what he did for them, all the work that went into protecting them. He accepted this long ago, the anonymous life, destined to be a small star on a large, gray wall. All that mattered to him was that Earth was safe.
Colonel Hollister hoisted himself into the Hummer and shut the door. The window was down, but he kept his elbow inside. Pink and blue clouds floated in the dusk. Soon it would be dark, and Colonel Hollister would have Al Leadbelly in custody and John Abernathy on his knees with a gun to his head. It was shaping up to be a good day.
John silently loaded the shotgun in the passenger seat. The walnut stock, buckshot shells. The black metal reflected the fading sunlight, streaking the barrel orange.
The sheriff took a circuitous route to the interstate, avoiding the burnt corpse of Leadbelly’s trailer. He drove through town, opting for side roads and residential neighborhoods instead of the major thoroughfares. To John, all the houses looked like Mrs. Morris’s, dilapidated.
The sheriff turned onto Hot Springs Boulevard and nudged John, pointing to a house. “Hey, John, guess who lives there? Rosa.”
“Really?” John tried to seem disinterested, concentrating on loading the gun, but he glanced at her home, trying to quickly memorize every detail. Rosa’s two-story brick home. Green shingles. A white storm door. New concrete steps leading to a front deck supported by white columns. A large, ceramic pot on the deck. Something grew deep inside it, but John didn’t see it.
Professor Gentry leaned over to Leadbelly, said, “John just found out he slept with an alien last night.”
“Hey, John,” the sheriff said, “I hope you don’t have asteroids on your rocket. I don’t think we got any radioactive penicillin in town.”
“You know, man, it might be worse than that,” Leadbelly said. “Hey, John, I gotta a telescope, man. We could check to see if there’s any rings around Uranus.”
“You know,” Professor Gentry said, “Uranus is a gas giant.”
The men in the car were significantly older than John, but they laughed and joked, having discovered a way to temporarily return to their adolescence.
“Whatever,” John said. They didn’t understand what his night with Rosa had meant, that it was the first time in his life that he’d known the tranquility that can be gifted from someone, and that he could give it back.
The sheriff looked at Leadbelly in the rearview mirror. “So, Al, I went by your place this morning, saw all that blood. Gave me quite a scare.”
“Sorry about that, man. I needed to throw some people off my trail.”
“Where’d you get all that blood?”
“One thing you learn working Vegas, man, is how to put on a show.”
“Yeah, that Hollister fella seemed pretty steamed you were dead.”
“Man, that kid I beat up the other night, he said Hollister’d been looking for me for years. I guess he finally caught up to me, man.”
“Hey, I gotta ask you,” Sheriff Masters said, “what was it like working for Elvis? I mean, was it all drugs and women? And why the hell are you wearing that jumpsuit? You look like a goddamn shiny peacock.”
“Oh, this? It was the only thing I had time to pack. Besides, man, it has a special purpose.”
“Yeah, what’s that? Does it call the mothership?” The sheriff laughed, slapping the steering wheel.
“Something like that, man,” Leadbelly said. “Being an Elvis body double was fun as hell. There were twelve of us. Man, there were nights when Elvis was too messed up to perform. He’d get drunk or high, and we’d take turns doing his shows for him. Man, a couple of us would travel with him. One stayed in Memphis in case he was needed at Graceland. A couple stayed in Vegas to do his nightly show. But that was just the first year. Man, after that, we didn’t really see him much. He’d always disappear for a couple of weeks. When he’d be away, we’d do everything, man, concerts, interviews, run to and from the cars and hotels. But towards the end, man, he stopped traveling. Just hid out in his hotel room, drinking, popping pills.
“Man, there was one night I was about to go on for him. This was back in ’74. I was going over the set list with the band and, man, Elvis came out with a pistol in each hand saying, ‘I’m the King. And the King’s gonna get him some aliens. I know one a y’all’s an alien, man. Now fess up or I’ll start shooting. T.K.O.B., baby!’ Man, Colonel Tom Parker had to run in with Elvis’s security and tackle him before he could shoot anyone. They wrestled the guns away from him. Elvis stood up and kicked at us, then got in one of his karate stances and said, ‘Don’t mess with the King, man. Hot damn tamale, I need a sandwich.’ Then, man, he collapsed right in front of us. Fell flat on his face.”
Sheriff Masters started laughing, slapping the steering wheel. “Holy shit! That’s funny. Why did he think one of you was an alien?” Leadbelly began tapping his foot.
“Because he is one,” John said, surprised they hadn’t figured out Leadbelly’s secret. “How do you think he’s stayed so young?”
“You put me in the back with an alien?” Professor Gentry scooted all the way against the door, as far away from Leadbelly as possible. “Are you crazy? You know what he’ll do to me?”
“Man, don’t worry. I’ll save the brain sucking till we get to Santa Fe.” Leadbelly winked at John.
“You’re joking, right?” Professor Gentry put his head between the front seats. “He’s just joking, right? He’s just joking?”
“Hey, Leadbelly,” the sheriff said. “Where were you when Elvis died?”
“I was in Memphis, man. All us body doubles were. He wanted us all there for some reason. Maybe ‘cause he had just announced a vacation, or something. I was downstairs shooting pool when his girlfriend found him. Man, that’s why people thought they saw Elvis at the funeral. It was one of us.”
John watched the road ahead as they left town, the spaces between buildings and homes growing, then empty desert. The sheriff turned onto Highway 281 off of County Road 23. Pink and orange colored the sky to their right. To their left, blackness sucked daylight, leaving only small, bright specks. A few stars showed, while the rest waited for the sun to leave the sky. The highway narrowed into a shoulderless, two-lane road, cutting through the small family ranches and dead grass. They passed an old, red pick-up driven by a man with a white beard, wearing faded overalls. He tipped his hat as they passed. John nodded back. And there was only the car, the men riding inside.
And the journal.
When John first read it, part of him hoped it was a hoax, like the photo, and he could return to Denver and gawk at a blank crossword. Another part of him longed for it to be authentic, the part that spent his allowance on comic books and had lunchroom debates over which was a better super power for seeing women naked, x-ray vision or invisibility. He trembled with elation and terror. This was not a tiny alteration, like getting a haircut, but a cataclysm that would affect every aspect of his life. John rubbed his hand, the skin that had split and then smoothly sealed, the final proof that the book, its cracked, leather spine, was real. But John had found something else in Leadbelly’s trailer, a connection between John and Leadbelly that extended beyond family.
“We need to talk about the photos you took,” John
said, turning to Leadbelly.
“Man, I always knew I’d be the one explaining that to you.”
“You photographed everything. Why?”
“Well, you see, when a man and a woman like each other, not forever, man, but for one night, and the man finds out that the woman likes to make home movies…”
“What?”
“They go back to the man’s place, and one thing leads to another, and the man winds up taking some pictures of the woman naked, bouncing on a Pogo Ball.”
“What the fuck are you…”
“Sometimes raspberry syrup’s involved.”
“I’m talking about these.” John slipped the pictures from the book and flung them at Leadbelly. The photos flew to the back seat, landing on Leadbelly’s shimmering suit.
“I guess this means those pictures of Wanda and me burned up. That’s too bad, man. That Wanda was one cool chick.” Leadbelly peeled the pictures from his suit, shuffled and sorted them.
“Why do you have those pictures of me?”
“Don’t worry, man, all your questions will be answered soon. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“You have them because…Wait. What?”
A bright flash. Glass reflecting the setting sun. Something clogged the thin highway ahead of them. John pulled the binoculars from the glove box. Two military Humvees blocked the highway. Two more waited in the culverts on either side of the road. Colonel Hollister stood between the two parked Humvees, watching John’s Saturn sedan drive toward him through a pair of binoculars.
“It’s the Air Force.”
“They’re behind us, too. Coming fast,” Sheriff Masters said, looking in his rearview mirror. “Everybody, buckle up.”
Sheriff Masters jerked the car off the highway, crashing through a small iron gate onto a dirt road leading into an empty field, putting a big dent in the front of the car. The Humvees followed. The sheriff yanked the wheel, leaving the road, driving into empty desert. A dirt cloud trailed them, obscuring the field behind the car, but through the dust, Humvee headlights shone, following close.
Leadbelly started pressing sequins on his oversized belt.
“What’re you doing?” John asked.
“Calling for help.”
The car bounced over small mounds and burrows. John pressed his forearm against the roof of the car, trying to protect his head as his body jerked.
Lights to their right. The Humvees that blocked the road angled to cut them off.
A Humvee bumped them from behind. They lurched forward and the Saturn’s back wheels left the earth, then bounced hard against it. The Humvee bumped them again. John braced himself, readying for another knock. But it never came. The headlights disappeared into the dust clouds, as the vehicles behind them slowed down.
Colonel Hollister had parked in the open field in front of them. Their headlights punctured the Saturn’s windshield, blinding the men inside. Instinctively, Sheriff Masters slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, sending a cloud of dust into the cool desert air. John shielded his eyes from the high-beams and he saw soldiers, protected by open doors and parked vehicles, aiming their rifles at the stationary sedan.
“We only want Leadbelly,” Colonel Hollister said into a megaphone. “Hand him over and you can go.”
“John, we only have to hang on for a few more minutes,” Leadbelly said, leaning between the front seats.
“Oh, we’re fucked,” Professor Gentry said, pushing Leadbelly out of the way. “John, we give them Leadbelly we’re as good as dead. We’re fucked.”
“No one’s going anywhere,” John said, confident Colonel Hollister was just trying to intimidate them, like when he broke into John’s motel room. John flexed his hand and smirked.
Colonel Hollister spoke into the megaphone again, “I’m only gonna say this one more time, hand over Leadbelly!”
“Eat shit, Colonel!” Sheriff Masters shouted, then chuckled.
“Yeah, that’ll convince him,” John said.
Colonel Hollister punched Corporal McGillis with his megaphone. He gestured to a soldier standing nearby.
“Hey, Sheriff,” John said, “isn’t that one of the guys from the bar?”
“That sonuvabitch should be in my jail.”
The soldier stepped forward and grinned as he raised his M4 assault rifle to his shoulder. He aimed it at the car, not like a movie villain with the rifle at his hip, or a handgun turned sideways, he held it at his shoulder, secure, like someone trained to kill.
“Get down!” John shouted, ducking under the dash. “Everybody get down!”
They flattened, shrank, crumpled among the litter on the car’s floor, hoping they were fully hidden and that no part of them remained exposed, no matter how small a target it might be.
The soldier fired. Bullets shook the car, miniature collisions at five thousand feet per second. The Saturn sedan screamed as metal was ripped apart, sacrificed for Colonel Hollister’s violent version of an Elvis obsession.
“That was just a warning!” Colonel Hollister said. “Next time, he’ll take out more than your engine.”
John peeked above the dash. The windshield was still intact. No bullet holes. Gray clouds floated from the front of the car, mixing with atmosphere, automotive souls escaping Earth. The sedan’s front was destroyed, metal punctured by faster moving metal. Fluids, some green, some clear, leaked onto the ground, smelling like a chemical fire.
Rooftop and John’s mom had bought the sedan for him as a high school graduation present, something for him to drive to Boulder and back. At first he was indifferent, the color and interior symbolizing weekend soccer matches and ten-percent-off coupons and PTA meetings. Over time, he grew to love the car for its normalcy, blending in at the shopping malls, an artist undercover in Middle-America. Looking at his wrecked car, John felt despondent, knowing he would never drive it to garage sales, flea markets, or comic book shops again.
“Holy shit! Is everyone alright?” Sheriff Masters asked, sweating, breathing heavily, like he’d wrestled a pig and lost.
The only time John had been shot at had been in video games, where health packs and cheat codes gave him extended lives. He raised himself onto his seat, shaking slightly, knowing there were no floating red crosses hiding between vehicles. The journal lay at his feet and John picked it up. He flicked a desiccated French fry from the leather binding and reminded himself of everything Archibald Abernathy had chronicled.
“Man, we just need a few more minutes,” Leadbelly said. “Then my ride will be here.”
“The cavalry isn’t coming,” Professor Gentry said. “We’re fucked.”
Soldiers rushed them from both sides, aiming M4’s, standing like heavily armed statues. Calm and in control, Colonel Hollister approached the car. “In case you didn’t notice before, you’re surrounded. Drop your guns or be shot.”
“John, Sheriff,” Leadbelly said from the backseat. “Man, I’ll go with them.”
“Don’t do it,” Professor Gentry said. “This guy’s our only leverage. We give him up, we’re dead.”
“It’s alright, man. I’ll be okay,” Leadbelly said.
“What about me?” Professor Gentry asked. “I mean us.”
“John here’s my great-great-nephew, man. You think I’d let anything happen to him?”
“You really want me to answer that?” John asked. He tossed his shotgun out the window and raised his hands. “Alright, Hollister. We’re coming out. Don’t shoot.”
A soldier opened the car door and yanked John out. They did the same to the sheriff, Leadbelly, and Professor Gentry.
“Get your goddamn hands off me,” the sheriff said, elbows flailing as he was pulled from the car. “I’m the goddamn sheriff in this county.”
“I don’t know these guys,” Professor Gentry said, as he was pulled from the car. “I was hitchhiking. They picked me up outside of town.”
The soldiers answered Professor Gentry’s protests by shoving him to the front of t
he sedan. John expected them to laugh or joke like schoolyard bullies hopped up on candy bars, Jolt Cola, and negligent parenting. Instead, they behaved professionally, quiet and courteous, as they ushered all four men to the front of the car.
One of the soldiers frisked John, finding the gun and journal hidden under his hoodie. He handed the journal to Colonel Hollister. The colonel smiled covetously, like it was a once-in-a-lifetime find.
“I’ve been looking for this for a long time,” he said. “I’d seen the entries Archibald Abernathy sent the Lincolns. We found them buried in the National Archives. He stopped sending them updates when he arrived in Las Vegas. When he reappeared in Denver, agents were sent to retrieve his journal. Everyone thought it was lost when his house burned, but I knew better. I knew this was out here.”
He stared at it, his eyes fixed on the fragile pages.
Watching Colonel Hollister turn the pages, the wonder in his eyes, John realized he never saw the sections of the journal written after Archibald arrived in New Mexico, the entries where he described his life with the Sagittarians, where he mentioned Rosa.
“And Rosa? how did you know about her?” John asked, glancing at the soldier from the bar.
“We’d been watching Leadbelly for several weeks, tracking his movements. He visited her quite often, sometimes at her restaurant, sometimes at her home. When you told me he’d left town, which, by the way, I knew you were lying, not very smart, I had to send my men to retrieve her, see if she had any information about him. I was sure she knew something. I don’t believe in coincidences, John.” Colonel Hollister gently turned the journal’s pages, touching only the corners, stopping on a passage mentioning Rosa. “And apparently I’m right not to.” He read for a moment, then carefully closed the book.
Rosa had a life before him. As John thought this, the fever of envy burned in his chest. He knew it was natural, that when you meet someone you never really know their past, that it becomes untangled the more you open up to someone, and they open themselves to you. He had wanted to learn all her secrets, discover everything he could about her. He had even anticipated having that awkward, ‘how many have you been with?’ conversation. But Leadbelly? The thought of the two of them together made him cringe and wonder if he should get tested. He trusted that Rosa was selective, had chosen him over the other men in town, including Leadbelly. Still, he couldn’t help resenting the man in the sequined jumpsuit for the shared experiences he had with her.
