Aliens and Ice Cream

by Michael James

  Krista

  Krista had been digging for an hour. It was exhausting, filthy work. It took Martin six grueling hours to get through the concrete foundation to the soil behind, and now he was upstairs sleeping. She had tried to rest, but her whole body vibrated with tension. She was so close. Twenty more feet to go, barely anything.

  The hole in the foundation, combined with the debris and dirt, had destroyed the basement beyond repair. The carpet was ruined and fine dust from the drywall covered everything. Martin did enough work that they had a three-foot circumference to work with. Enough for them to operate in and squeeze themselves through. After he went to bed, Krista climbed in and started digging.

  The soil was a mixture of root, rock, clay, and hard-packed dirt. She needed to fight for every inch, every shovelful of dirt. The storm outside softened it a little, but not enough to make it any easier. Also, the tunnel’s limited circumference required her to sit cross-legged, hunched over. Any sort of decent arm movement was impossible, the best she managed was to scrape away one inch at time. She debated digging at the top, so she could sit up straight, but any time wasted on height meant time not spent on distance. Who cared if the tunnel was comfortable if it was functional?

  Blisters swelled on her fingers, the result of hacking away at the hard, packed dirt with nothing but a spade. She spent her days in an office, nothing that prepared her body for this kind of labor. Hours of work and not enough to show for it. She was exhausted already. The fire in her shoulders from keeping her arms up had long since stopped bothering her, now it was the persistent pain in her lower back and the hot fire of the blisters on her hands.

  Scrape, scrape, scrape.

  The pain was fine, the pain was good. It felt like penitence for all the shitty mistakes she’d ever made in her life, starting and ending with Martin. She’d take the pain happily because it meant she was doing something, she was working toward a goal.

  Her mind wandered with the mundane labor. How had she let her relationship with Paul go so amiss? Boredom and routine were the twin answers, but it didn’t feel like enough. In the early days of dating she was fearless, and it made for a good combination with the easily contented and down-to-earth Paul. It was a rush to pull him along on her adventures, whether it was skinny dipping at the public pool after hours or stealing a grocery cart to ride down a hill, only to have it tip over a foot later, both of them curling up with laughter around skinned elbows. It was magnetic, watching him flush, to see his eyes go wide with terror and excitement, and have him cling to her afterward, sweaty and breathless. All of which moved to the bedroom. For a while.

  Boredom and routine.

  A few years ago, out for her birthday, Paul stood up to give a toast. He tripped on his words to polite murmurs of encouragement from their friends, before finally completing with, “Krista’s the best of me.” Everyone clapped and maybe wiped a tear or two, while through her immobile grin that showed all her teeth, she screamed in her head.

  She never asked for that, the pressure of being everything. Wife, mother, employee, housekeeper, therapist, it was all too much, and she never agreed to be the best of them. That wasn’t part of their vows, the ponderous weight that stuck to her chest, that kept her sleepwalking through the years. She wanted the early days back, when they’d play and laugh and the only important decision they needed to make was Chinese or Italian.

  How much of that had she been able to recapture with Martin? His tongue in her mouth, soaked with the taste of earthy whiskey, mixing with the cranberry cocktails she had started consuming, at force, before dinner even started. Paul left early to take Abby to bed and there was a thrill in the sweaty wrestling with Martin, her heart pounding in time with his hips and even though it was wrong, and she was terrified, she was alive. She could close her eyes and feel something outside the circumference of emotions that started and ended with her kids, her marriage.

  In the hole, she made her hands into fists. Selfish bullshit masquerading as reasons. Nothing more. She didn’t recapture anything, there was no deeper meaning. She was a shitty wife.

  A large root stood in her way and she dropped the small spade and switched to the gardening shears. It was slow work, and the root was too thick to rip out. She sawed at it, barely able to find purchase in the confines of the hole. Under her breath, she muttered, “Come on, come on,” while she labored. She pulled and tugged at the root and got her nail caught underneath. The whole top half ripped off and she dropped the shears with a yelp.

  “Fuck!” Her finger went in her mouth and she tasted metallic blood. She couldn’t stand to be in the tunnel anymore and she backed out. As soon as her feet hit the ground and she tried to straighten, but her back screamed. She dropped to her side and lay on the carpet, only breathing, waiting for the spasms to pass. Curious to see how bad the damage was, she raised her hands in front of her. On two of her fingers, enormous blisters had formed, heavy with blood, like mini-water balloons. Her other one had blood running down the side from her ripped fingernail.

  She lurched to the bathroom vanity and soon had her hands in cool water. They shook. After a few moments, the worst of the pain subsided, and she dried them off.

  The truth pushed at her. The hole needed to be wider and taller; there wasn’t enough room to maneuver to continue digging forward. The thought of wasting time on circumference grated, but it would be faster in the long run. She did some quick math her in head and thought they might make it through by late tomorrow at this pace. Not as fast as she’d like.

  Martin had left the sledgehammer leaning against the wall, and when she picked it up, the weight surprised her. The damage to her hand made it difficult to grip it tightly, but she gritted her teeth, raised it over her shoulder, and hit the wall.

  The impact nearly made her drop it as daggers of pain stabbed at her fingers. It was like gripping hot coal. Still, each swing meant one step closer to Paul and then, somehow, her kids. So, with her eyes stinging with tears, she took another swing.

  And another.

  Liz

  Liz hid in the basement.

  She sat in the corner with her back to the wall, hugging her knees with her lips between her teeth. Occasional stomping noises from upstairs would cause her head to jerk up. There was never a perfect place to be when her mom drank, but after the attack in her bedroom, she hoped staying the in basement would keep her safe.

  Alexandra was blackout drunk again. Liz recognized the absence of thought in her mother’s hollow eyes. By the time the sun dropped, she was drinking vodka straight from the bottle. Over the years, Liz had become an expert in the flavors of her mother’s inebriation. Wine, for example. Wine wasn’t great, but it made her mom reflective and morose. There was still hatred, but it was directed inward. Wine nights left Alexandra crying about how she was a horrible mother, and she wouldn’t leave Liz alone until there was agreement that life was unfair, everyone else sucked, parenting was hard, and so on.

  Beer made Alexandra almost fun, or as fun as a destructive, violent alcoholic could be. She’d make goofy and stupid jokes, laughing loudly at her own comedy. If her mom was drinking beer, it usually meant Liz was safe, and the chances of her mom consuming enough beer to cause blackouts were low. Vodka was the worst. It produced an angry, sharp drunk, full of explosive rage. Alexandra on vodka meant slaps and punches, as the loathing her mom kept bottled up inside spilled out.

  So much of this was because of her dad, dead and gone now for two years. Her mom couldn’t deal with his passing. While Liz found it difficult, Alexandra found it intolerable. In the months after the funeral, she progressed from two glasses of wine with dinner to two bottles. With the increase in consumption, her mom turned into this new person. Dead and vacant during the day, wild and destructive at night. Liz developed a suspicion that the violence had little to do with the alcohol. It felt more like her mom’s genuine feelings. Liz was convinced that her mom didn’t love her. Or even like her. That hurt worse than the punches.

&n
bsp; So, she cowered in the basement, and to pass the time she thought about what else she could do to make sure they were safe. She cooked all the pasta and rice, like Mr. Cutler said to do. He was great and spent a lot of time with her on messenger, explaining things and taking all the time she needed. It was almost like having another adult in the house and helped relieve the pressure of being the only one who cared.

  She also spent time on the phone with Heather, although today was mostly tears, from Liz anyway. She had no idea Heather’s mom was that badly hurt. And Heather sounded close to breaking. Heather never cried, it wasn’t how she was wired. Liz was the one who would cry, she’d run to the tree house, just like she did after the iron incident, and Heather would be there to tell her it would be okay, that everything would work out.

  Nothing would be fine if they couldn’t leave their houses. They needed to figure out a way to get outside and come together as a group. She was sure if they could solve that problem, they’d be able to get through the rest of it.

  The doorway at the top of the stairs banged open with a crash and Liz jumped. She held her breath, trying to be as quiet as possible, and hugged her knees even harder. Maybe if she stayed mouse-like silent, she’d be okay. There wasn’t a reason for her mom to come down here, unless she was hunting for Liz specifically. But if her mom was actively trying to find her… this would be bad. So bad.

  “Liz,” her mom yelled into the basement, but Liz rocked back and forth and didn’t say anything. She prayed silently.

  Go to sleep. Please go to sleep.

  But the shadows falling down the stairs meant Mom was coming down. Liz stood up but kept her back to the wall, keeping her arms wrapped around her body. If there was anywhere else to hide, she couldn’t see it.

  Alexandra hit the bottom step and squinted into the light, closing one eye. She spotted Liz.

  “Why are you down here? What are you doing?” Her voice was thick and slurred, but Liz spoke fluent drunk-Alexandra and could understand perfectly.

  “Nothing, mom, I’ll get out of your way.” She hunched her shoulders and tried to walk passed, but Alexandra’s hand flashed out and grabbed her by the upper arm.

  “Did you touch his stuff?” Liz felt a wave of goosebumps ripple over her body. If her mom was asking about her dad, this was going to be rough. Alexandra did not suffer the memory well.

  “I didn’t touch anything, okay?” She tried to keep walking, but her mom’s grip was firm.

  “What’s this?” Alexandra pulled at the hem of Liz’s shirt, revealing the knife she strapped on earlier in the day. Liz had forgotten all about it.

  “It’s nothing, I found it on the desk, and-”

  “You can’t touch his stuff. It’s mine. It’s all mine.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, I’ll put it right back, okay?”

  Alexandra pulled her close and Liz could smell the stale, wasted vodka on her breath. Even so drunk that she was literally swaying on her feet, her mom was a strong woman. Liz didn’t say anything. She stayed as still as possible while Alexandra looked her over. She focused her eyes on a spot below her mom’s chin. If she looked away completely, it would piss her mom off worse. As would looking directly into her eyes. After a tense ten seconds, she dropped Liz’s arm and nodded.

  “Don’t touch his stuff.” The heat left Alexandra’s voice and Liz let out a small breath. She might get through this. The abuse might not materialize. Speaking seemed dangerous, so instead she nodded and started up the stairs.

  “Wait.” Alexandra dropped Liz’s arm and moved closer to her dad’s desk and opened one of the notebooks. “You erased it.”

  Liz had no idea what her mom was talking about. There had never been any writing in any of those notebooks. She’d never even seen her dad with a pencil in his hand, he was always typing on his computer.

  “I didn’t erase anything, mom, I don’t know what-” Alexandra turned to her and Liz’s mouth dried up, the words dying before she could speak them. Her mom’s eyes were wide open, and her nostrils flared. Her hands were clenched into fists so tightly that Liz could see white dots on her knuckles.

  Alexandra had arrived.

  Liz only had time to put her hands in front of her face before her mom attacked. Hard swinging punches came from every direction. A fist battered against Liz’s ear and she instinctively moved her hand to cover it. From the other side a staggering blow connected on her cheek and the world went blurry and indistinct. She reeled under the blows, yelling for her mom to stop, backing up toward the wall. Then Alexandra stopped punching and instead reached out to wrap her big hands around Liz’s throat, squeezing, cutting off her air. Liz clawed and scraped at her mom’s forearms, but it was like trying to tear at iron. Alexandra was right in her face, screaming at her.

  “You always hated him, you bitch. He always loved you more.” It made no sense, and Liz was past caring. Her mom throttled her, choking her neck, shaking her back and forth with enough force to bang Liz’s head off the wall. She tried to say something, anything, to get it to stop, but she couldn’t take a breath. The basement faded to black in her periphery and all that was left was her mom’s enraged eyes.

  Then it was over. Abruptly, Alexandra stopped, and Liz dropped to the floor, coughing and taking huge, ragged breaths. She was crying and gagging and could hardly think or see straight. A ringing sound filled her ears. Her ear and cheek hurt, and her neck was on fire.

  Her mom towered over her and Liz tried to curl into a ball in case more punches or kicks came, but it was so hard to do when her neck hurt so damn much, and breathing was like swallowing thumbtacks. She huddled on the cold, unfinished concrete of the floor, not sure where to put her hands to block the next attack.

  Liz braced, waiting for it to be over, one hand over her head, the other rubbing her neck. She closed her eyes and hoped it would be finished soon, but it was hard to think. Seconds passed while tried to hide herself. Then, footsteps on the stairs. Her mom was leaving. Up they went, until the door to the basement slammed shut. It was over.

  Shaking all over, she sat up and tried to explore the damage. Even a light brush against her ear resulted in a hot stab of pain. The back of her head ached, and she was relieved when her fingers came away dry.

  She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t-

  Sobs exploded out of her and she bit into her own arm, the unburnt one, to muffle the sound. She took the bottom of her shirt and balled it into her mouth and screamed, releasing all the fear and terror and adrenaline.

  After a minute, there weren’t any screams left and she hugged herself, crying. Everything hurt. This was getting ridiculous. Her mom was going to kill her. She needed to do something. Even running outside to the aliens would be better than this.

  Liz realized she didn’t even need to think to formulate a plan. She knew what she needed to do. She must have been planning this from the start, down in some deep level of her brain, because the whole idea sprang into her mind fully formed. Tonight would be the last night Alexandra would touch her.

  Alone, she finished crying and waited in the basement. As soon as her mom passed out, she’d get to work. It was going to be a long night. As Liz contemplated how she would move forward, the lights in the basement flickered, once, twice, and then gone. She sat in total blackness.

  The power was gone.

  Day 5: The Plan

  Matt

  Last night, between the alarms and his stress, Matt hardly slept. Again. That made four nights with almost no sleep. His thoughts came from a distance now, thick and covered in syrup. It was becoming harder to form a clear thought. Heather was similarly disoriented. After the upsetting talk with her mother that left her bent and brittle, he didn’t know what to do. What do you say after a person’s mom calls to say, “Hey, FYI, I’m fatally hurt?” Nothing in his limited experience had prepared him for this, so he hugged her when it seemed like she wanted it and held her hand while she stared out the window.

  Abby had fallen into a light doze on t
he beanbag chair, with Fuzzy Bear tucked close to her body. He and Heather attempted to find a comfortable spot on the floor and ended up lying down perpendicular with Heather’s head on his chest. The moonlight had reflected off her wan and pale face, and he tried to keep the conversation light. It started with stupid stuff, like favorite movies and favorite TV shows, but it careened from there. As they talked, he found himself playing with her hair, letting it trickle through his fingers like sand. She didn’t stop him. She’d pick up his hand and trace on his palm with her finger.

  It didn’t mean anything. They had both become more physical over the past couple days, probably as a reaction to the stress of the circumstances. It seemed seedy to think about romance or anything similar while she was unhappy like this.

  Instead, he told her things he’d never told anyone. How he was scared to raise his hand at school because of what the other kids would say. How he hunched his shoulders, so he’d appear smaller. He even told her about the lists he’d make in his head, which he’d never admitted to anyone, even Pete.

  On the flip side, she told him about her home life. How she felt pressure to be perfect and always on. How her Dad would treat her like a project, and all the expectations that came with it. How scared she was for her Mom. She didn’t cry though. If there was one thing he was learning about Heather, it’s that she wasn’t a crier. She was probably the most self-contained person he’d ever met. Eventually they fell into an uneasy sleep, broken twice through the night by the blaring alarms. Now the sun was rising, and it was day five and it felt like he hadn’t slept in a month. Even his arms felt heavier.

  The worst part of this experience was time. The crushing boredom. Minutes seemed sticky now, like when he’d take walks through the forest and emerge covered in prickly brown burrs. He couldn’t shake the minutes off or make them go faster. Each was a unique thing, with its own feel, its own flavor. And there were so many of them. Abby had the right idea. She curled up on top of the beanbag and dozed as often as she could. Sleep helped pass the time, but it was a double-edged sword. Getting an hour’s worth of rest was helpful, but not at the cost of being roughly jerked awake by the periodic alarms.