Tales Of An Alien Invader

by Michelle Brown

  The beast of a player swings and slams the ball into the ozone layer for a home run. We’re down 4-0 and the other team hasn’t even gotten one strike yet.

  Luckily, after one more base hit, the pitcher finally finds his sweet spot and strikes out three players in a row. We’re up to bat, which means one thing. It’s catch-up time. To be quickly followed by domination time. Our first three players manage to get three nice base hits, and I find myself in the same position the block of muscle had previously been in. I can tie the game right here and now. Walking up to the plate, adrenaline dampens my forehead as a slick line of sweat forms at my brow.

  I pick up the bat and fall into my hitting stance. I’m ready to throw everything I have into my swing, and the ball comes to me in a perfect line, straight over the plate and in prime position. I bring the bat around, and I hear the smack of wood on leather, but instead of the vibration that always reverberates through my body upon impact, my arms feel like jelly, and the ball barely sails past the pitcher’s mound.

  I’m so startled for an instant that I forget to run. By the time I snap out of it and order my legs to run to first base, the pitcher makes an easy throw to the baseman and I’m out. In more ways than one.

  I’m out of time.

  The transformation must already be taking place, from the inside out. First thing to go will be the hardness of my human bones, turning back into the fluid-like insides of my kind. I have no idea how much more time I have, but I know I can’t just run away in the middle of the game. Michael shoots me a concerned look on his way up to the plate, which I barely see. Instead I scan for Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt on the bleachers. I find them clapping and shouting what are probably words of encouragement, but I can’t hear anything over the roar of the crowd and the rush of blood in my head.

  Izzy and Ned are sitting next to Uncle Matt and Aunt Shirley, each holding up part of a large sign with “GO PANTHERS!” printed in large, bubble letters. Underneath the words is a very realistic drawing of a black panther, compliments of Izzy, no doubt. A little ways away from them, I see Curtis and Cameron, doubled over with laughter, most likely at my expense. They also hold up a sign that says “MAKE WAY FOR THE BEAST!” The beast must be a nickname they have given to Michael.

  The game goes on, slowly. The only change I notice is the continued deterioration of my bone and muscle mass, which fortunately can’t be seen by the human eye. And I strike out. Again. And again. And again. Coach Pritchard squats down so he’s in my face and yells at me, flecks of spit hitting my cheek. Coach Lenoy comes by and pats me on the shoulder, gently asking what’s wrong and what he can do to help. I ignore them both.

  I’m consumed with self-loathing, mentally berating myself for my own stupidity. I should have left this morning. Or last night. I was foolish to risk exposing myself, to risk exposing Boptons in general. And now I might have to pay the price.

  In the ninth inning, I become aware of an insistent question being asked over and over again from the person sitting to my left. Michael.

  “Hey, man. Are you all right?” He actually seems genuinely concerned, not that it does me any good. A flare of anger rises in me as I remember his role in all of this.

  “My globe.” I mean to yell, but all that comes out is a croak. The transformation must be affecting my vocal cords. “You, Curtis, Cameron—I know you guys took it.”

  “Your globe? You mean that thing you used to wear around your neck? What does that have to do with anything?” Looking honestly bewildered, he stares at me with wide eyes.

  “I need that globe. It’s important. You wouldn’t understand.”

  My turn to bat arrives, and I shove myself off the bench. I can almost feel the disappointment of the crowd as I position myself at the plate. They already assume I’m going to strike out again. I miss the first pitch entirely, and stumble a bit forward from the swinging motion. It looks like the crowd may be right.

  The next swing isn’t any better, only this time I fall to one knee after I miss. Coach Pritchard is wildly giving me the sign for swing away, swing away. Glancing up to the scoreboard, I see we’re tied and it is the bottom of the ninth inning. I hadn’t even been paying attention. There is a runner on third, with his knees slightly bent as he gears up to run. The ball comes at me in the softest pitch yet, and I change my hold on the bat as it nears. Clink! The ball bounces a few feet forward as I bunt it to the right. I wobble my way to first base, barely making it in time. I don’t need to look back to see if the runner made it to home; the deafening shouts of the crowd tell me he did.

  My teammates swarm the field, several of them hitting me on the shoulder, which knocks me to the ground. They haul me up and go to hoist me on their shoulders, but I break away and run towards the school. Bursting through the locker room, a shuddering causes my whole body to shake. Panic, the type of panic a cornered antelope feels as a lion closes in, overwhelms me.

  My legs turn to mush, and I have to claw at the wall to keep from falling down. Forcing one jelly-like foot in front of the other, I make my way towards the side doors. There’s a wooded area not too far from the school. I need to make it there before anyone sees me.

  Hurried footsteps come up behind me, and I sink to the floor. No. I can’t make it. It’s too late.

  Michael jogs the last few steps to where I now sit, and I stare hopelessly up at him.

  “Here,” he huffs, holding out his hand. My vision is blurred so I don’t know if I can trust what I see there. It’s something metal. And circular. And it’s hanging from a familiar, shiny chain.

  My globe.

  “Curtis was in the crowd and I know he’s been carrying this around with him ever since he took it the other day. Anyway, I took it from him, so here.” He thrusts the globe into my shaky outstretched hand.

  “Man, you…you don’t look so good. Do you want me to go get someone?” Michael crouches next to me, his face alight with worry.

  “I want you to leave,” I rasp, unscrewing the globe. Michael just stares at me, unmoving. Through the blurred haze of my eyes, I see my left arm begin to morph. It turns an unmistakably inhuman shade of green, and my trembling worsens. Michael gapes at my arm, taking in a gasp of breath.

  “Leave!” I repeat, and this time he listens. I hear his uneven footsteps echoing down the hallway as I dribble the serum into my mouth. The effect is almost immediate as my arm resumes its former pinkish color. The shuddering increases for a minute, causing my body to convulse as my bones harden and muscles solidify.

  When it’s over, I remain on the floor for a moment, gasping through each breath, rubbing my arm in relief. Then I remember the look on Michael’s face just before he left. The horror. The revulsion. And, worst of all, the understanding.

  I may still be human, in the physical sense of the term, but I can no longer say my identity is entirely secret. And of all people to realize my secret, Michael Hughes, Curtis’s lackey, was not the ideal candidate. Michael and I, we’re going to have to talk.

  CHAPTER 16

  I spend most of the weekend concocting various explanations to give Michael about what he saw. Or what he thinks he saw. I debate whether or not to pull the whole, “You’re crazy. My arm most certainly did not turn into a green blob,” card, but I don’t think it will work. I pick up the phone several times to call him, but I always hang up before anyone has the chance to answer. I also spend a decent amount of time looking out the window, waiting for the men in uniform to arrive after Michael reports what he saw. Who do you even call to report there’s an alien imposter going to your middle school? The police? The FBI? I’m not sure.

  The weekend passes without an army busting down the door and taking me to a secret government location. I take it as a good sign, that maybe Michael will just pretend the whole thing never happened and I can go through the remainder of my time here in peace.

  Dreading every step, I slide through the front doors of the school on Monday morning, hoping to avoid Michael for as long as possible. Bu
t, of course, he’s the first person that I see, talking to Curtis and Cameron by the front office. Wearing an oversized t-shirt, his hair is sticking up in odd places and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks up at me for a moment but hastily looks away when I make eye contact. Saying something to Curtis and Cameron, he turns and hurries down the hallway.

  So much for acting like it never happened. But avoiding me is a close second, I guess. It’s definitely better than some of the alternatives.

  Ned and Izzy appear in front of me and both of them start talking at once.

  “What happened to you after the game?”

  “You didn’t answer my phone calls—”

  “What was going on with you anyway?”

  “I was worried.”

  “Are you all right?” they both finish in unison. Izzy gives me a worried glance, but Ned smiles at me, as if ready to dismiss all my strange behavior at any explanation.

  “I’m sorry guys,” I say, and I really am. I should have called them this weekend, but I was so distracted by my own problems. “I felt really ill during the game. Afterwards, I felt like I was going to throw up, so I ran inside. I spent all weekend in bed, but this morning I felt better, so I decided to come to school.”

  “I figured it was something like that,” Ned says, punching me in the arm. “No offense, but I knew there had to be a reason you were playing so lousy. I mean normally you can slaughter the ball, but on Friday it looked like you could barely hold up your bat.”

  If only he knew. Izzy doesn’t say anything, but just falls into a pensive silence as we maneuver our way through the crowded halls. She waves goodbye when Ned and I head into first period, where Mr. Blair is waiting by the door, handing out goggles. Good, an experiment. It will be nice to have something to distract me. Putting my goggles on, I walk through the door and immediately trip over something.

  “Watch your step.” Curtis leers as I pass. At least he’s acting like his normal, jerkish self, though a part of me would get the tiniest bit of pleasure if he had become scared of me.

  By lunchtime, Michael’s plan has become clear. He is going to avoid me like the plague. Though it doesn’t exactly put me at ease, I start to relax a fraction since it seems like he’s not going to announce what I am to the entire school.

  Heading out of the cafeteria line, a dousing spray hits me straight in the eyes. I blink rapidly, and shrill laughter surrounds me. Through the dampness, I make out Curtis standing in front of me, holding a fizzing pop bottle.

  “Guess someone must’ve shaken my pop,” he says, feigning surprise. One of the teacher supervisors comes over and hauls him away, presumably for the principal’s office. Michael and Cameron are left standing with their trays in their hands, Michael staring at his feet and Cameron bubbling with glee.

  Izzy marches up from behind them. “What are you looking at?” she snaps at Cameron, bumping into him as she passes. Cameron stumbles a few feet back, and Ned gives him a smirk as he walks by. Drenched, I follow, setting my tray down at the table.

  “I need to go change my shirt,” I mutter. “I have another one in my locker.” I peel the sopping material away from my body where it clings like a second skin.

  “Do you want us to come with you?” Ned asks, already halfway out of his seat.

  “No, you guys stay here and save our spot. It will only take me a second.” I speed walk out of the cafeteria, ignoring the giggles and stares as I pass. My locker isn’t far; I reach it quickly and dial my combination. As I pull open the door, a note flutters to the ground. Someone must have stuck it through one of the slots. Heart pounding, I stoop down to pick it up. I already know what it’s going to say before I even read the words.

  We need to talk. After school by the sports shed in the back field. Come alone.

  It’s not signed but there’s only one person it could be from. Michael. I guess I’m not going to get off easy after all.

  * * *

  At the end of school, I approach the sports shed with a feeling of trepidation. It’s at the far end of the fields, bordering both the woods and the end of the parking lot where no one ever parks. Well, at least Michael picked a place where no one will overhear us. The shed has a weathered, slightly dilapidated look to it in spite of a relatively new coat of paint. It’s used to store equipment for various sports so the coaches didn’t have to lug it out from the building every time they had a game.

  At first, the shed appears deserted when I arrive, but after a moment I hear a soft cough. I see the shadow of someone looming behind the shed, and I call out hesitantly as I make my way to the back.

  “Hey, Michael, is that you?”

  No response. I pause for a moment, listening for any movement. Every nerve in my body is suddenly on high alert, and some other sense I didn’t even know I had tells me to get out of there. Turning on my heel, I make it a couple of feet before I hear a shuffling behind me. Before I can break into a run, a hand reaches over my mouth and the pungent smell of chemicals fills my nostrils.

  Then darkness.

  Mental Observations:

  There is no feeling more disturbing than waking up

  somewhere and not knowing where you are.

  Fear has a taste, like sweat mixed with blood.

  It’s foolish to forget who your enemies are, even for a moment.

  Not knowing what time it is can make a bad situation worse.

  Fighting against being tied up only rubs your skin raw.

  Terror erases any sense of hunger.

  I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this.

  CHAPTER 17

  When I wake up, a feeling of disorientation makes me try to jerk upright. The moment my body realizes that it can’t, it fights even harder. Heart hammering and approaching hyperventilation, I force myself to close my eyes for a moment and focus on breathing.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  When my heart no longer feels like a bird beating against a cage and my breathing resumes a somewhat steady pace, I open my eyes. Clues, I tell myself. What you need now are clues. I’m in a basement. Or a cellar of some sort. Definitely underground. The only light in the room shines through a small, dirty window towards the top of the left wall. Through it, I can see grass but nothing else.

  I’m strapped to a wooden chair, with both my arms and feet bound. A gag is tied around my head, making the corners of my mouth burn. Boxes are stacked to my left and right, piled high against the wall. The air smells damp and musty, like mothballs and a wet mop. No one is in the room with me. Outside, I hear the faint sound of a sprinkler.

  The only wall that is not covered by boxes is on the opposite side of the room, next to a staircase. It looks like it’s covered with something, but it’s too dim for me to tell what it is. I wonder how long I’ve been down here. It’s still daylight outside, so most likely it has only been a few hours. Too soon for Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt to have called the police, though they’re probably pretty worried by now. And mad.

  The door at the top of the stairs opens with a creek. Is it Michael? Curtis? A random serial killer? I don’t know who exactly I’m expecting to see, but the two large booted feet tell me that it’s definitely not a kid. Which is bad. Very bad.

  The next thing I see is the butt of a rifle, tapping each step as it makes its way down, and cold, like a draft of wind, washes over me. It’s followed by long legs dressed in ratty jeans, then a faded plaid shirt. The face is one I recognize, but I’m startled when I see it anyway.

  Old Tom reaches the bottom of the steps. At first he’s hunched over as usual, but when he sees me staring at him, he straightens himself out for the first time, rising to his full height. Something dangles from the hand that’s not holding the rifle. When Old Tom steps forward, he brings himself into the small square of light coming from the window, and I can see what it is. My globe.

  He watches the understanding wash over my face, and he gives me a self-satisfied grin. Walking a few paces to
the left, he raises a knobby arm to pull on a long string that’s attached to a light bulb. The added illumination makes the objects on the far wall visible. Just like the closet at school, they’re all about aliens.

  “Surprised?” Old Tom asks me, leaning on his rifle. “Not who you were expecting?” He pulls over a stool and sits on it, a few feet in front of me. “I bet you thought I was that one big kid. Michael. After all, he was the only one you saw in the school after the game. But he wasn’t the only one who was there, was he?”

  Old Tom takes out a thick cigar and lights it, puffing on it a few times in quick succession. Billowy clouds of smoke float in my direction, and I attempt to suppress a tickling urge in my throat. Failing, I break into a coughing fit, while Old Tom watches me with assessing eyes.

  “I knew there was something funny about you the moment I saw you. Those bright clothes you wore. The strange way that you talked. At first, I figured it was because you weren’t from around here, but after a while my suspicions grew. I began watching you closely at your games and, though most people probably don’t notice,”—he gestures at me and nods as if it is all too obvious—“there’s something off about the way you move. Something not…human. And the way you were acting at your last game? It was clear that something wasn’t right. So when you took off for the school, I followed you. I almost took you then, but then that big oaf showed up with this.” He swings the globe back and forth in front of his face.

  “And then I watched your arm change. Watched it turn that hideous shade of green. And after Michael left, I watched you drink something out of this.” He twists the top of the globe and dribbles a few drops of serum onto the ground.

  I strain against my bonds without realizing what I’m doing. I need that serum. What if he pours it all out? What would I do then? That’s the least of your problems, another voice in my head reminds me. Looking into Old Tom’s crazed eyes, I can see that it’s right.