Brain Stealers

by Rodman Philbrick

  “Okay,” cried Jessie as the tree house rocked. “We’re coming!”

  She stumbled toward the door. The Dad creature disappeared from view, revealing that the scary bloodred light was only the setting sun.

  Jessie cast a desperate look over her shoulder and started down. I crawled after her, the floor swaying and creaking at the slightest movement, like a boat in a storm.

  “I’m sure they don’t really mean to eat us,” said Frasier anxiously as he put one foot over the side of the tree house and looked down.

  I wasn’t so sure. All the faces below were turned up to track us as we descended. The slithering, alien presence in their eyes was more active than usual. It flicked across their pupils with the eager whipping motion of a snake.

  Drool dripped from the corners of their mouths in great gobs and puddled unnoticed on the ground.

  Mom wiped her mouth as Jessie reached the ground. She clamped her hand on Jessie’s shoulder, then Dad clamped a hand on my shoulder. Frasier’s father gripped him with both hands and began marching him away to their house.

  “Nutrients,” Mom said blissfully. “We-will-consume-nutrients.”

  An answering murmur went up from the mob of townspeople and they began to melt away in all directions, back to their own homes.

  Dad gave me a nudge and he and Mom started marching us home. My feet dragged but they kept moving.

  I always wondered why condemned men didn’t put up a fuss when they walk those last few yards to the electric chair. Now I knew. They’re too scared to do anything else.

  6

  Mom opened the back door and Dad pushed me and Jessie into the house. The air inside was murky and had an odd smell, like dirty sweat socks. Mom breathed deep, a smile on her stiff face. “Food!” she said.

  “Yes!” chimed in Dad. “The-body-needs-sustenance.”

  The door banged behind us with a sound as final as the slamming of a cell door. Then—

  SNICK!

  I turned, startled, to see Dad snap a new padlock on the back door and pocket the key. He looked at me in triumph and I shuddered as the slithering thing in his eyes glowed yellow with satisfaction.

  Our parents herded us into the dining room and then both of them went back into the kitchen. There was some more of that thick gargly noise. “It sounds like marbles rolling around in a bucket full of slugs,” said Jessie, her eyes darting nervously. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  But before I could ask how, there was a new sound from the kitchen. A sliding sound of metal on metal. It sent shivers of panic up my backbone. “They’re sharpening knives,” I whispered.

  “Big ones,” Jessie agreed.

  Without needing to say another word, we dashed for the windows. But none of them would open no matter how we strained.

  “Forget it,” Jessie said in a flat, resigned voice. She pointed and I realized the windows had been nailed shut! “This time they’ve thought of everything.”

  “But we can’t just give up,” I cried. “We can’t let them—”

  “Here-we-go!” boomed Dad, entering with a big platter of thick slices of bloody roast beef in one hand and a plate of bread in the other. Mom was right behind him, carrying an industrial-size bag of chips and a large, gooey chocolate cake.

  Back in the old normal days, about a week and a half ago, Mom was a nutrition nut. The only way we ever had chips was to buy them with our own money.

  “Would-you-like-cake-first, or-meat?” Dad asked, sitting.

  “Oh-cake-definitely,” said Mom, cutting herself a humongous slice. She disappeared back into the kitchen and returned a second later with two big cartons of vanilla ice cream. She scooped about half a carton over her cake. It ran down the sides and onto the tablecloth but she never noticed. She just sat down and began shoveling it in.

  Dad piled about a pound of meat between two slices of bread and crammed the whole mess into his mouth.

  I thought my stomach was too weirded out for food but I found I could manage a piece of cake and ice cream. Jessie forced down half a sandwich. Both of us were still eating when Mom and Dad sat back in their chairs and belched loudly.

  “I-needed-that,” said Dad.

  “Mmmmm,” said Mom.

  The platter of meat was empty. The cake was gone and so were both cartons of ice cream.

  Mom and Dad got up and carried their dishes back to the kitchen. Jessie shook her head. “I’ve never seen them eat like that.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone eat like that,” I said.

  “It must be the tremendous amounts of energy they used up working in the hills, clearing away the rockslide we rigged to bury the aliens,” Jessie suggested in a shaky voice.

  “Yeah. Or else the aliens are directly feeding off them,” I said.

  Jessie shot me a look but before she could speak Mom and Dad were back. They stood at the head of the table with identical smiles.

  “You-must-go-to-your-sleeping-cubicles-immediately,” said Mom.

  “You-must-sleep-continuously-for-ten-hours,” said Dad.

  “Huh?” said Jessie. “But it’s only seven-thirty.”

  “Tomorrow-is-a-school-day,” said Mom as if this explained everything.

  School? The word hit my brain like a splash of cold water in a hot frying pan. “School!?” I burst out. “You must be joking. It’s summertime, Mom. School is out!”

  “School-is-back,” said Dad. The thing in his eyes slithered. “All-offspring-must-attend-school-during-summer-season. There-will-be-no-argument.”

  7

  We were still in a horrified daze when our parents woke us the next morning. There was more cake and ice cream for breakfast. It was hard to eat with Mom and Dad standing behind our chairs watching.

  “Now-we-go,” announced Dad.

  At the same exact moment that Mom opened the front door all the other front doors on our street opened. Except for Frasier, there were no other kids our age on the block, but there were some younger ones.

  The Grovers and the Costellos and the Sadlers all herded their kids down the front walk and toward the bus stop. Everyone moved at the same steady zombie-like pace and all the adults wore exactly the same expression, that is, no expression at all.

  Even though it was about ninety degrees out, I felt chilled to the bone.

  Only the kids looked real. Most of them seemed confused and upset and a few had swollen, red-rimmed eyes from crying. We met up with Frasier and his parents at the bus stop. Everyone arrived at the same instant and a second later the school bus pulled up.

  A couple of the little kids whimpered as they got on the bus and Miss Ferris, the bus driver, frowned at them. I shivered as I saw the slithering alien flicker in her eyes.

  The three of us sat together in the back. “Why do they want us back in school? Any ideas?” asked Jessie.

  “Probably they just want us out of the way so they can finish helping the aliens do whatever they’re doing,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah?” commented Frasier, his shoulders slumped. “What makes you so sure this is about school? How do we know this bus is even taking us to school?”

  I blinked and my stomach did a slow roll. “Where else would it be taking us?”

  Frasier shrugged. “Maybe this is an easy way of turning us all over to the aliens. We know the aliens wanted Jessie. Maybe they want all the kids.”

  “But what for?”

  “I don’t know,” Frasier admitted. “But if we’re just going to school, why do all the windows have new locks? Isn’t that against the safety regulations or something?”

  Only then did I notice that every window was equipped with a shiny new lock. Unlike normal locks, however, these couldn’t be undone from the inside of the bus.

  We were trapped.

  8

  We needed an escape plan. Since we didn’t have one it was a serious relief when the bus pulled up in front of the school. The door snicked open.

  “Wow. A greeting committee,” said Jessie.
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  Two lines of teachers faced one another, forming a narrow tunnel leading directly from the school bus to the school entrance. The teachers stood as rigid as prison guards.

  We watched the kids ahead of us hurry along this human tunnel into the school, their heads lowered and their shoulders hunched. When it was our turn, we did the same. The lines were as solid as stone walls. There was no chance of escape.

  Inside the air was musty and stale. The teachers marched into the school behind the last kids, herding us along the corridor. Suddenly a voice crackled out of the loudspeaker system, so loud it bounced off the walls and gripped us like a fist.

  “Go-immediately-to-assigned-classrooms. There-will-be-no-noise-or-talking. Communication-between-off-spring-will-not-be-tolerated. Repeat. Not-tolerated.”

  The same message boomed out over and over again. It was our principal’s voice, Mr. Burgess. But he had never sounded like that. He sounded like he was bellowing into a deep well and we were at the bottom.

  Billy, a kid from my last year’s class, yelled in my ear over the sound of the loudspeaker, “What assigned class?”

  “There’s no seventh grade in this school,” I yelled back. “So it must be last year’s class.”

  “Sixth grade!?” he shouted. “That’s outrageous. I’m not going back to sixth grade. I’m not—”

  Billy’s voice cut off abruptly as a teacher-guard came up behind him and touched his shoulder. Billy’s whole body went rigid and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head.

  Another teacher came up and the two of them dragged Billy off, his heels dragging stiffly on the green tile floor.

  Kids gaped openmouthed until another teacher flicked her slithering, alien gaze over the crowd. Jaws snapped shut and all of us scurried to our classes as quickly as we could.

  The classroom was stifling. All the windows were shut and there was no air-conditioning since we never used the school in summer. I felt I could hardly breathe, the air was so thick and hot.

  As we took our seats there was an uncomfortable sensation between my shoulder blades. Something felt wrong. Well, of course, everything was wrong.

  I tried to shrug it off. It was hot, we shouldn’t even be here. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else, something even wronger than all that.

  Then it hit me. The silence. The stillness. The air in this classroom wasn’t even stirring. No one at all was talking. Not a word. Not a sigh. No one was even moving. Every one of us was frightened into total absolute silence.

  We all jumped a little when the door swung open. Mrs. Downey, our teacher, entered.

  “Good morning, kids,” she greeted us cheerily, walking to her desk with a bounce in her step just the same as always. My heart leaped. I’d always liked Mrs. Downey. She was normally pretty cool, pretty straight, liked to joke around with us kids.

  Maybe the aliens hadn’t got to her. It was our last hope. I tried to remember if I’d seen her out at Harley Hills with the other adults or marching around town like a zombie. With growing hope, I realized I hadn’t.

  Had we lucked out? Was our teacher the only adult in Harleyville who hadn’t had her brain stolen? Would she help us out of this mess?

  I raised my hand to ask, too excited to worry about what I was going to say. Her gaze swung toward me. That’s when I saw the slithering thing flick across her eyes like a whip.

  “Believe-it, earthling,” she snarled. “Believe-it-and-obey!”

  Then she walked briskly back to the door, locked it, and swallowed the key!

  9

  After swallowing the key, Mrs. Downey snapped down all the shades on the windows so we couldn’t see out. She gave us a fierce look. “Open-your-books-and-begin-to-read,” she ordered.

  Kids looked at each other uncertainly. Which book? Read what?

  Mrs. Downey sat down at her desk, folded her hands in front of her and—nothing. She stared straight in front of her into space.

  After a moment her eyes seemed to blank out, like a light being switched off. It was clear she didn’t want to be disturbed by any questions from us.

  Jessie shrugged, took last year’s social studies book out of her desk, and opened it in front of her. Slowly, other kids did the same.

  Mrs. Downey sat as still as a statue. Her eyes never blinked. It made my own eyes sting to watch her.

  Frasier leaned over. “I’ve got a theory,” he whispered.

  “What is it?” Jessie whispered back, glancing fearfully at Mrs. Downey.

  “The aliens are broadcasting messages. They’re up to something,” he said. “And her brain is tuned to their frequency.”

  Suddenly Mrs. Downey snapped out of her trance. Her eyes blazed. “You-three!” she commanded. “Cease-communication-or-you-will-be-punished.”

  But Frasier wouldn’t shut up. “Excuse me, Mrs. Downey,” he said politely, rising from his seat.

  Mrs. Downey’s eyes blazed wider. The slithering thing looked like a tongue of yellow fire.

  “What kind of punishment did you have in mind?” Frasier asked as if he was just curious.

  Mrs. Downey’s head froze in position. Her eyes blanked out as she slipped back into her trance, as if waiting for instructions. I nudged Frasier, urgently trying to point with my eyes to poor Billy’s empty chair.

  Then Mrs. Downey blinked. “Disobedient-offspring-will-be-kept-after-school.”

  I tugged Frasier’s shirt but he still wouldn’t sit back down. “Detention? For how long?”

  Mrs. Downey stared at him but not like she really saw him. “FOREVER!”

  10

  It was the longest day of my life. The sun beat down on the school and the air got hotter and hotter. But we were afraid to talk, move, or even to squirm in our seats.

  Mrs. Downey came out of her trance to pass out candy bars for lunch. That was the high point of the day. No, on second thought, the high point of the day was when the bell rang and Mrs. Downey upchucked the classroom key.

  That’s right. Early in the day she had swallowed the key. Now she puked it back up, right into her hand.

  “Eeew. Gross,” said Frasier and Mrs. Downey’s head snapped around. Her eyes locked onto his. Frasier’s jaws shut with a CLICK the whole class could hear.

  Mrs. Downey unlocked the door with the slimy key. Other teachers were waiting to help her herd us to the bus.

  At last we were out of school. We were free! We could move and talk and jump around. Even Billy joined us on the bus although he wouldn’t talk to anyone. We couldn’t wait to get home and do something, ride our bikes, play ball, anything!

  But when we got to the bus stop all the parents were there. They were standing apart from each other, hands at their sides, not talking or looking around or anything.

  They looked like store mannequins in a window, only their hair wasn’t combed and their clothes were a mess.

  Mom and Dad didn’t even ask how school was. They just marched us home and right into the dining room.

  “Consume-nutrients,” they said in unison. “Then-go-to-your-sleeping-cubicles.”

  “But we’ve been sitting all day,” I cried.

  “We need fresh air,” Jessie demanded.

  Mom and Dad just looked at us. Their faces were like plastic masks. “You-must-obey,” they said. “No-playtime. We-have-orders.”

  Part of me felt like screaming in fury. Jessie’s eyes flashed angrily and her fists bunched at her sides. But Mom and Dad stood like stone statues in the doorway. We’d never get past them.

  Jessie’s shoulders slumped. We sat down at the table. In front of us was our dinner—a mound of miniature marshmallows, a large slice of apple pie, and two carrot sticks. I was actually beginning to wish for normal food.

  Once we’d eaten, Mom and Dad escorted us closely up the stairs. On my bedroom door was a big, shiny new lock.

  “No,” I cried, backing away. “You can’t keep me prisoner!”

  Dad didn’t say a word. He just push
ed me inside and slammed the door. I heard the key turn with a final click. There was a faint echo. I realized it was Mom turning the key in Jessie’s new lock.

  Trapped. We’d been trapped all day in school. Now we were trapped in our own rooms.

  It was starting to seem like having my brain taken over by aliens might not be such a bad fate after all.

  11

  I don’t know how much later it was, an hour maybe. My mind was zoned out with boredom and worry. I was staring out my window. Nothing had moved in all that time—I never even saw a bird fly by.

  And then suddenly the street was full of people. Zombies.

  They were all adults, no children. Nobody spoke or looked at each other as everyone marched along with the jerky motion of puppets. I felt a cold hand seize my heart as I saw my parents join them.

  But they weren’t headed in their usual direction, toward the mothership buried under the Harley Hills.

  They were headed the opposite way. And a lot of them seemed to be carrying tools—shovels and picks and sledgehammers. The aliens were up to something new.

  I wished desperately that I could talk this over with Jessie. My sister always came up with good ideas and even if she didn’t it was better to be together.

  And then I felt something strange, like a nudge in my mind, and I heard Jessie’s voice, very faintly, like it was coming from outer space. “Walkie-talkie, walkie-talkie,” the voice was saying over and over.

  Weird. Why would I think of my sister saying “walkie-talkie”?

  I turned toward the window again feeling more alone and helpless than ever, when a thought popped into my mind. A couple years ago Jessie and I got toy Combat Talkers for our birthday. We used to talk between our rooms when we were supposed to be sleeping.

  Suddenly I was on my feet, pacing the room. Where had I put the stupid thing? I grabbed a chair to stand on and rummaged through the mess on the top shelf in my closet. No Combat Talker.

  I could have left it anywhere—outside, at a friend’s house, in the basement. I searched through all my old junk, flinging things every which way. I ran across some neat stuff that I’d forgotten I even owned but none of it was any use to me now.