Women and Other Monsters

by Bernard Schaffer

  He hid in a cave for an entire day as they conducted their death rituals. He filmed them lowering the corpse into the ground and then covering her with piles of dirt and stone. L’aida chattered into his earpiece as she viewed the feed, shocked at the primitiveness of the act. He waited until long after the last lights of the settlement went dark, then exhumed the corpse and raced with it over his shoulder toward the portal.

  L’aida slit the female’s belly and removed the innards in one clump, setting them aside. She reached into the stomach with her tentacles and pulled the deceased infant out.

  Klatu looked away when she divided that small, grey-tinged creature into sections and compiled several smears from it, taking them to her analysis chamber.

  When he went to check on her progress, she was staring at a spinning hologram of intertwining cords. “What is that?” he said.

  “It is the building blocks of their make-up. These chemical sequences contain instructions for everything about these creatures. From how tall to grow, to the color of their eyes.” She pointed at the lowest tangle of cords, “This is group information, written into the data-stream from the species’ very origin. If you trace it far enough back it becomes simian. If you follow it to the top it defines them as individuals. Do you realize what this means?”

  Klatu stared at the holograms. “We can manipulate the sequences. We could grow a specimen in whatever way we desire.”

  “The military implications alone,” she whispered. “We could create an entire species of foot soldiers to be used with impunity. It is enough to get us out of this forsaken assignment, and with your evidence of The Sight, we will have the luxury of picking our next assignment.” She took a deep breath and said, “Ship, prepare a channel to the Consortium!” The ship raised an enormous antenna above the roof in preparation to transmit, and L’aida said, “Give the command, my love. You deserve it. Step into history.” Her face beamed with pride and she intertwined her tentacles with his.

  She was beaming with pride and had intertwined her tentacles in his. He stroked her face gently and said, “No.”

  ***

  The double-helix rotated on the display and Klatu looked it over, deciding it was imperfect. He rewrote a sequence on one of the strands, deleted it, and rewrote it again. He pushed away from the table in disgust and stood up from the chair, seeing that L’aida was watching him. They had not spoken in several days. “Do you need something?” he said.

  “They will execute you when they uncover your treachery.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “And me as well, if I do not report you.”

  “I expected that you already had.”

  “They will destroy this entire planet if they suspect we have tampered with the humanoids.”

  “As opposed to harvesting them for food or turning them into cannon fodder?”

  L’aida looked down at the molecules of repeating nucleotides on the screen and said, “The sequence’s structure will collapse if you do not wind it around the helical axis. You are doing this wrong.”

  Klatu watched her sit and begin moving strands of proteins and molecules into different positions. “There is something I have been thinking about,” he said. “I see a potential in these beings that would allow them to someday come to the Consortium on their own terms. Not just wait to be scooped up and used for whatever means we see fit. But they are lacking something.”

  He held up his golden box and opened the lid, removing the data card of religious texts. “They need to believe that anything is possible. I want to encode parts of this into the sequence.”

  ***

  Night fell. The desert plains were silent and empty except for sheep grazing in a desert meadow. Klatu scanned the village’s perimeter but only saw small reptiles slithering over the sand. He went to the first dwelling and let himself in.

  A female slept atop an animal skin in the first room. She turned over onto her side and he waited until her breathing slowed to deploy the syringe from his glove.

  He crept toward her, bending until his helmet was directly over her face. Her eyes opened and she gasped just as the tip of the needle slid into her neck. She struggled against Klatu’s invisible form until her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp. He undid her robes, revealing her milk white flesh as he spread her legs and aimed the device downwards.

  She moaned softly as the probes slid inside of her. Klatu fit a vial inside the device and took a deep breath as he coded the sequence to initiate the insemination process.

  The female reached up and touched his helmet.

  Klatu froze, held by the look in her eyes. They were dilated and glossed over from the narcotic, and she smiled when he lifted his helmet’s visor and revealed his face to her. She ran her fingers over his face, touching the dry, smooth surface of his skin in wonder.

  ***

  Joachim woke at the sound of his front door closing. He looked over at his wife and said, “If that boy was in her room, I will kill him. I do not care if they are betrothed.” He got up and went out to look, but saw nothing. He opened the door and peered into the night. “Joseph? Are you out there?”

  He shut the door and opened the curtain to his daughter’s room. Mary was sleeping soundly. “I suppose it was just my imagination,” he said before closing the curtain and returning to bed.

  Digestif

  I grew up in a converted farmhouse on the outskirts of Horsham, Pennsylvania. We were surrounded by open space—woods, corn fields, big sky, and a small airstrip down the street where Cessna’s and other light airplanes would fly in circles overhead for hours.

  There was a house at the end of the airstrip where Poppy and Mrs. Springer lived. Poppy Springer was born in the late 1800’s and had fought in the First World War. He wasn’t allowed to drive a car anymore, so he would get around on his riding lawnmower. Over the sound of chickens and airplanes, you would hear that thing’s engine puttering down the street toward you and know that he was coming to visit.

  Poppy Springer was missing a few fingers on his right hand from his early days as a machinist. He was an inventor and constant tinkerer, and had bought his house near the airfield because airplanes fascinated him. He told me he’d been born before the invention of the airplane, and could spend a whole day just watching them fly around.

  When Mrs. Springer died, my parents used to send me down to read to Poppy Springer, but I hated to go. He didn’t seem particularly pleased to have to endure the company of a ten year old and would either fall asleep or start talking about fighting in France during the Great War. He died a few years after that, and it was the first time I ever saw my father cry.

  Sometimes, I would stand on our front porch at sunset and look out over the fields and trees. A light breeze would roll in, carrying the scent of honeysuckles from the bushes planted along our front yard. I would look up and imagine an enormous space ship coming toward me over the horizon, its width stretching from one end of the sky to the other. I could imagine it so vividly that to this day I still know exactly what it would have looked like.

  At night, I would terrify myself before going to sleep by imagining monsters lurking in the woods and killers hidden in the corn stalks, ready to snatch me up the next time I ventured into either one of them alone. It occurred to me that every scary movie I’d ever seen was happening at a place that looked exactly like where I lived. Jason Vorhees never attacked anybody on a cul-de-sac. Serial Killers weren’t strolling down York Road picking off people coming out of Burdick’s Candy Store.

  Those fears disappeared in the daylight, though.

  My favorite place was a wide stream that ran through the woods across the street. It had large, moss-covered rocks all along its banks, and being in that place made me feel like one of Mallory’s Arthurian Knights. I would trudge through that stream like Sir Percival, searching for the Grail’s hidden location.

  I stayed in those woods until my father would come out to the edge of the driveway and unleash his world-
class split-finger whistle. My father’s whistle can stop your heart at short distances, and as kids we learned to return home at its signal.

  It had been his decision to move the family so far out into the boonies. For my old man, nothing was better than standing on the front porch drinking a beer, looking out across the open countryside.

  My mother was raised in Philadelphia and hated that we lived so far from civilization. She often complained that we should have lived in a residential development with sidewalks and other kids to play with. A neighborhood, where I had more to do than spend all day trekking through the Bower Farm’s fields getting chased by skunks. In my defense, I only got sprayed once. My dog got it too, and the two of us spent an afternoon soaking in a bathtub full of tomato juice.

  It was my mother who taught me how to read and then carted me around to used bookstores in search of hidden treasures.

  I cannot recall what kinds of books she read when I was a kid. It pains me to admit it, but I suspect they were of the Jackie Collins variety. We had an enormous seven-shelf wooden bookcase in the living room, filled with her books and some Time Life collections that my parents acquired through television commercial advertisements. My father had only two books on that bookshelf, and they were consigned to the very bottom right corner: I AM NOT SPOCK by Leonard Nimoy and CHARIOTS OF THE GODS? by Erich Von Daniken.

  My father has one of the most singular belief systems I’ve ever encountered. He will tell you that the Bible is the gospel truth and Revelations is upon us. He loves the NRA, America, Republicans, and Jesus Christ…except he also thinks we might have been brought here by aliens.

  Through the course of my life we have had many discussions about religion that ranged from gentlemanly debates to vicious screaming matches. Those talks normally end with him calling me a liberal and me calling him a delusional nutcase. In print, the word “liberal” just doesn’t have the venom it does when he says it. Imagine someone saying “Baby killing domestic terrorist intent on handing over everything we have to China” and you might be close. As far as right-wing maniacs go, he’s okay though. After every one of our arguments, we sit down and have a beer. At his house the beer is Keystone Light and I say, “What is this, piss- water?” At my house, the beer is Modelo Negro and he says, “I feel like I should be outside cutting someone’s grass when I drink this.”

  As I look back, “Nazareth” clearly originates from our family dinner table discussions where my dad described “Ancient Astronauts” coming to earth and teaching pre-historic man their ways. He’d always qualify the story by saying, “That isn’t what’s in the bible, though.” It was almost as if he was apologizing for having such radical thoughts that ran contrary to everything he was taught to believe. He’d be silent for a long time after that, and when everyone else left the table, he’d lean in real close to me and say, “But that sure as hell would explain a whole lot.”

  The house I grew up in was torn down and replaced with a custom-home that has a fire-pit in the backyard and two-car garage facing the street. The fields have all been plowed under and replaced by one of those developments my mom coveted for so many years.

  Old men with missing fingers don’t go riding a lawnmower down the street there anymore. Boys don’t spend their days walking in the woods anymore, and whatever ghosts and mysteries that used to inhabit that mysterious place are all lost to time.

  Sometimes I still dream of that stream and those moss-covered rocks, ever the questing Knight. I create these stories in that place, wondering what monsters are waiting in the woods for me. They wait for little boys that venture alone into the darkness.

  But this time, I had you with me.

  Acknowledgements

  The complete sage of Agent Sean Price is available in the Codename: Omega novella for just .99 on Amazon.

  To read the story deemed too explicit by Karen the Angry Hatchet, follow this link to view the Ancient Rituals (The Erotic Stories of Alejandro Flores) novella. Warning, it contains adults-only material.

  This collection was edited by Karen S., or as I affectionately call her, “The Angry Hatchet.” It is due to her patience, insight, and wonderful editorial advice that I am able to do what I do. Advice is a polite way to say insistence, which is also a nice way to say that Karen is a cruel and demanding taskmaster. But one I would never think to try doing this without. She is my Irene Adler, most aggressive critic, and most sincere friend.

  Even after reading my words of thanks, she insisted that I let people know how much she hates “Cold Comforts.”

  Frank Zubek encouraged me to publish a book on Kindle (Nook, etc). I wouldn’t have attempted this without him. Donna Laing provided invaluable help regarding life during Civil War times and over three decades of guidance both literary and otherwise. Tony DePaul, Angie Avilla, Kevin Stebner, and Brooke Rosen were the first to read these stories and provide feedback. I am eternally grateful.

  My beloved Izdehar and my children, Brandon, and Julia. Each of you suffers in your own unique way so that I can pound these things out on my computer. In my own fashion, I am doing this for each of you.

  And finally, to those who chose this book, whoever you are, wherever you are. I hope you enjoyed our time together.

  About the Author

  As a teenager, Bernard Schaffer starred in Nickelodeon’s “Don’t Just Sit There,” musical productions, television commercials, and a skit on Saturday Night Live. He left acting to pursue a career in law enforcement. Since 2000, Schaffer has worked as a patrolman, detective, and narcotics officer in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

  In 2012, he released a series of books titled SUPERBIA about a dysfunctional police department. As a result, he was stripped of his detective rank.

  Schaffer is the founder of the Kindle All-Stars. The project’s first release was an anthology titled RESISTANCE FRONT that starred Harlan Ellison and Alan Dean Foster. All profits from that book are being donated to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

  Connect with Bernard Schaffer Online

  www.ApiarySociety.com

  www.BernardJSchaffer.blogspot.com

  Official YouTube Channel

  EMAIL

  ApiarySociety@gmail.com

  Twitter

  @ApiarySociety

  The work of Bernard Schaffer is being assembled into Collected Editions to make it easy for readers to acquire. These new titles are the best place to start.

  The Superbia Collected Edition

  This volume includes the first two best-sellers as well as interviews with the author and the Way of the Warrior Essay. Available on Kindle for one low price of $4.99.

  Coordinates to Unmapped Places: The Collected Fiction of Bernard Schaffer

  This volume collects the assorted short-stories and novellas currently available, including the Guns of Seneca 6 prequel "Old-Time Lawmen" from Resistance Front, assorted stories from Women and Other Monsters, and the Kyoshi Scroll, Ancient Rituals, and Codename: Omega novellas. Available on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords for $4.99,

  Chambered Rounds: The Collected Non-Fiction of Bernard Schaffer

  This volume collects all of the essays and non-fiction pieces Bernard Schaffer has written about a wide variety of subjects. Includes selections from Knife Fights, Regarding Freemasonry, Way of the Warrior, and Resistance Front. Available on Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords for $4.99

  SUPERBIA

  $2.99 Kindle, Free on Amazon Prime

  "Ed McBain for the 21st Century." Matt Posner, author of School of the Ages

  "Schaffer is the very best independent author I have ever read...with Superbia, Schaffer has taken his game to an entirely new level." David Hulegaard, author of Noble

  “Step to the side, Joseph Wambaugh." 5-Star Customer Review

  "Schaffer's writing is top notch. He is funny, dark and tortured throughout. I was laughing at one page and then crying the next." The Book Nook Club

  A deadly shooting leaves police officer Frank O'Ryan with a sh
attered knee and a growing addiction to Percocet. Upon his return to duty, he is assigned to assist the most despised person in his police department, Detective Vic Ajax.

  Together, the two officers will encounter everything from drug stashes hidden inside dirty baby diapers to geriatric child molesters. They will journey into a world of madness, crushing isolation, and unsung heroism from which so few return.

  Superbia is the funniest, scariest, most brutal account of what police officers truly experience, written by the only author in the world who could take on such a task.

  Official Book Website with More Info, Links, etc