The Hidden Ship

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  I shut-off the Bobcat’s motor upon Jhally’s arrival. He seemed a bit short of breath.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I heard back from Marshal Grip.”

  “Really? How was that possible?”

  “He called . . . I answered the telephone attached to the wall in the kitchen.”

  For some reason, I’d never thought of that. That the aliens would use such a primitive means for outside communication. But then, what else could they use? Cell phones were one of the first means of communications taken away from Humans. Same with email and texting. landlines had returned to being our primary means of communications with one another.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He was intelligent, at least for an Earupitan. Aware that Human means of communication are monitored, so he spoke to me in a kind of code.”

  I had assumed some of our phone lines were sporadically eavesdropped upon, but not all of them. “What did he say?”

  “Basically, that the TBGLU tracking records from both HovT vehicles have been amended. Now, neither vehicle was ever here. Grip also removed the citizen complaint record that prompted the original dispatch. It never existed.”

  “What about the third directive?” I asked. “The designation of my property to Code 5?”

  “Grip had the most trouble doing that. Multiple sign-offs, so going farther up the chain of command was necessary.”

  “And?”

  “And he got it done. Grip is anxious for fresh orders. It seems our new Covert Actions Group agent is more than willing to prove himself as a valuable asset.”

  Climbing down from the Bobcat, I assessed my handiwork. It would take a few months’ time for pasture grasses to regrow over the dirt. I looked up at Jhally. “I think it’s time we bring the entire group together for a meeting. I can’t make the decision to have you become a member of the Takebacks alone. There are twenty-six of us. I’m sure some will resist the idea.” I thought about what I was proposing for later on tonight. Up to this point strict security measures had been adhered to by all of us to avoid compromising the entire team. So I’d kept the Takebacks isolated—separated into four smaller, individual cells. Members in one cell knew only the people in their own cell by name. Although they were peripherally aware there were other cells, they certainly didn’t know any names or what others’ duties or responsibilities would be. And no one’s actual name was used during meetings, which were always secret. Everyone used a pseudonym, preferably the name of some historical personality. Great lengths were taken to ensure they were conducted only when Gaps, or the Friends For Friends creeps, couldn’t possibly be around to eavesdrop. There was one exception to all that: Since the Takebacks were my brainchild, I, its leader, did know who everyone was. My pseudonym was Polybius, a Greek historian of the Hellenistic period, most known for his work, The Histories, a period between 264 and 146 BC. As a history teacher, I couldn’t resist using a pseudonym that held special meaning for me. Vetting of new inductees came under the responsibility of Polybius—me. Each vetting took a full six months. Truth was, there was no shortage of people wanting to fight back. But the price was high. Within that half-year time frame a new member was required to commit a serious crime against the Earupitans order—and they needed to get away with it. A crime the inductee had to videotape, showing him, or her, committing that crime. Most assuredly, it would bring them up on charges, probably execution, if caught by the EMS. Everyone needed to put real skin in the game.

  “Meanwhile, is there anything I can do to make myself more . . . palatable?” Jhally asked.

  “For the Takebacks?

  He nodded.

  Yeah, there is. You can get that fifth Shredder operational before midnight tonight.”

  “And what will you be doing? I could use your help,” Jhally said.

  “I need to make a brief appearance. Show my face in town.” I checked my watch. Almost 1:30 p.m., the parade had already started. “It’s Friends Unite Day. I have to be in town for that. Also, it will give me the opportunity to speak with Matt and Donny.”

  chapter 12

  Not participating—not going through the motions that one was in lockstep with the new order of things—would, sooner or later, be noticed. Noticed by the alien invaders. Even more likely, noticed by the scrutinizing eyes in the Friends For Friends society. The populous of Castle Rock was here en masse. Certainly not as a gesture of patriotism to the new order, but rather from fear of reprisal.

  I had to park several streets over from Wilcox, where the Friends Unite Day parade would be taking place. I found a parking spot behind Tami’s Antiques. After locking up the truck, I hurried past a few other stragglers heading in the same direction. When I arrived two blocks north of the B&B, the tail end of a high school marching band was just moving past. The music sounded off-key and lackluster. The kids were simply going through the motions as they passed beneath the orange, purple, and brown banners, with emboldened Earupitans Crests at their centers. Not ten feet to my left stood an armed EMS Gap. Farther off to my left, close to twenty feet away, stood another. Interspersed up and down the long sidewalk, the reptiles, garbed in cowboy hats, towered a foot or more above us shorter Humans. I saw one of them smile and wave at a passerby.

  Next, behind the marching band, were three side-by-side shiny new HovT vehicles, hovering two feet or so above the ground. Modified—their roofs now removed—they were like convertibles out for a midday summer joy ride. Six Gaps, garbed in their finest cowboy outfits, rode inside them. All six, in pairs, waved and smiled their creepy toothy grins. They were the Douglas County chieftains. Non-elected alien officials, they dictated how those living around here had to live their lives. Lining both sides of the street, the crowds of onlookers waved back with fixed smiles of their own. Their eyes held a kind of sadness, reserved for remembrance of how things used to be. How life in Castle Rock, and in similar small towns across the country, and around the world, was once real— once true. A life worth living because it was, with all its daily faults and messiness, theirs to live out with some kind of integrity and decency. I paid little attention to the parade. Instead, I continued to focus on the faces of my fellow man, blinking away the moisture in my eyes. Swallowing hard, I inhaled a deep breath then slowly let it out. I want to love my country again . . . I want to believe in my fellow man, in Humans. But there was only one way that would be possible. The alien invaders had to go. Leave Earth, or die . . . I didn’t particularly care which. One way or another, I would dedicate my life to that end. Those who got in my way, Gap or Human, would suffer the consequences.

  I spotted Matt and Donny across the street, weaving their way through the hordes of pedestrians. I waited for an equestrian ensemble of eight Human riders—twirling ropes over their heads, and then from side-to-side—to move past me before crossing the street. Catching up to them, I said, “Hey!”

  Matt looked back over his shoulder. “Hey Brian . . . we were looking for you.”

  Walking just ahead of Matt, Donny shot back a smile. “You heading to the fair?”

  “Yeah, sure . . . I guess.”

  The crowd now was dissipating, to the point we could walk together side-by-side. I spoke quietly, “There’s been a few new developments.”

  Both Matt and Donny looked at me, concern in their eyes.

  Developments?” Matt asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I had some unexpected visitors show up at the farm . . . then spent the latter part of the morning digging a deep trench with my Bobcat.”

  Donny, leaning closer, asked, “Like a . . . grave?”

  I nodded. “But it’s not all bad news. In fact, some of our bigger obstacles have been dealt with.”

  Donny glanced around, then grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a narrow alleyway between two small businesses. Matt followed close behind. Donny looked
as serious as I’d ever seen him. Kidnapping a badly wounded alien a year ago was one thing. Stealing junk Shredders was another. But killing one or more Gaps, well, that could change everything. Change our subversive gang’s behavior from more or less villainous to that of a bona fide threat. We’d become a legitimate force that would, undoubtedly, bring a lot more attention to the Takebacks than we were ready for.

  “Start from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out,” Donny said.

  I looked intently at my friends, matching their stares eye to eye. “It started when I heard a HovT coming down my driveway early this morning . . .”

  We stayed in that narrow alleyway for close to an hour, while I went through the course of earlier events. Afterward, Matt’s biggest concern was trusting Marshals Stone and Grip to keep their reptilian traps shut. Donny was far more leery of Jhally taking on a bigger role in our affairs. “He may not be an Earupitan, but is being a Mannarian any better? Gaps are Gaps . . . ,” he said.

  The walk to the fairgrounds took us about thirty minutes. We didn’t discuss what occurred earlier that morning any further. For the most part, we remained quiet, mentally working through the various complications in our own minds.

  Up ahead were tall twin pillars that supported arched timber beams. ‘City of Castle Rock Fairgrounds’ was stenciled upon them. The Gaps had added their own engraved line of text underneath, Friends United Across the Galaxy, but it didn’t quite mesh since the Gaps used a completely different font than that on the rest of the sign.

  Matt, Donny, and I fell in with the maelstrom of pedestrians—mothers and fathers escorting small children, and teenage boys and girls enjoying their first date—who were now all funneling into the fairgrounds. The carnival atmosphere here evoked a somewhat better mindset than the parade had. People were actually smiling, or at least pretending to be having a good time. The same attractions one typically found at a summertime carnival in the last century were all set up. There were the rides: The Zipper, the Tilt-A-Wheel, and the Carousel Horses for the little ones. Also a lot of booths: The Bottle Stand, and Balloon and Darts were popular. And there were games: Knock Over The Milk Bottles, and the Ring Toss. The aromas of cotton candy, popcorn, and hot dogs and mustard wafted up in the air around us. All the booths, the various game tables, even overseeing the numerous rides, had been strictly relegated to Gap marshals’ care. They looked friendly, even jovial. Combating melodies, coming from the different ride sites, only added to the surreal atmosphere.

  Donny tapped my arm. “Take a look at that.”

  Following Donny’s line of sight sat a towering red-and-white striped tent. A wooden plaque hung over the door:

  The Herculean Gap!

  “At least they’re not above a little self-effacement,” Matt said.

  A line of ten or twelve people waited to get in for the first show. Two Gap marshals stood playing bouncer at the tent’s entrance. I watched as a couple was allowed in, but the next group, a family of four, was turned away. Apparently, the children were too young. Then, I noticed the sign: 12 Years Old and Up.

  “What do you say . . . want to check it out?” Donny asked.

  I was reluctant. Felt I’d shown my face around here long enough so I was ready to leave. There was still quite a lot I needed to do back at the barn in preparation for the meeting tonight. Within five minutes, we moved up to the front of the line. The marshals, after giving us a quick once-over, let us inside. Dark within the tent, it took a few moments for our eyes to adjust. We made our way over to a six-level-high bleacher. Climbing all the way to the top, we took our seats. I sat between Matt and Donny. Across from us was a raised platform, like a stage. A solitary spotlight illuminated a hanging ten-by-ten mural—a picture of a bare-chested reptile wearing only a loincloth. The muscular alien held up a wide wooden plank above his head. Standing atop the plank were no less than ten Humans, all smiling. They appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. Although the feat of lifting ten people, weighing in excess of fifteen hundred pounds, was certainly impressive, the scale proportion intrigued me most. The Humans were about half the size of the big Gap, standing beneath them.

  I glanced over at Matt. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  “The damn aliens just don’t get it . . . they go to great lengths to be like us. But like we were fifty years ago . . . like wearing those mid-century TV cowboy outfits. And this carnival Tarzan sideshow bit—”

  “Hercules,” Donny corrected.

  “Whatever. It’s weird. Like their research on us was from a half century ago,” Matt said.

  “Yeah, like TV broadcasts from the sixties,” I interjected.

  As soon as the stands were filled, the last spectators in their seats, a pudgy man dressed in a ridiculous costume walked onto the platform. Something like you’d expect to see in The Wizard of Oz movie. Dressed in little green shorts, striped knee-high socks, and clog shoes, he also wore a white button-down shirt, with a red glittery bow tie. A green top hat sat perched atop his head.

  Donny, leaning closer, whispered, “No . . . just fucking shoot me. No way would I make such an ass of myself.”

  “Welcome to all!” the big munchkin-like man shouted dramatically from the center of the stage. “I am your master of ceremonies today. I am Leo. You will observe something that no Human, and only a few others across the universe, has ever witnessed before. A feat of strength beyond comprehension.” The costumed man then turned serious. “But I warn you . . . this demonstration is not for the meek; not for the faint of heart. You have been warned . . . Now please . . . be very still. When the show starts, be very, very quiet.” Leo looked across the audience, scanning our faces one by one.

  I wasn’t sure if this was part of his act, or if he was trying to warn us of something. “I present to you now . . . Dalm Mor Stroph, the strongest being in all the galaxy!”

  Everyone clapped as Leo left the stage and the overhead spotlight went out. We all sat silently in the dark for a full minute. When the light came back on, Dalm Mor Stroph stood before us. I recognized the Gap—the same ginormous reptile I’d seen just the previous day. The same giant who’d lifted poor struggling Barry Larson up by the top of his head in the middle of Wilcox Avenue. Dalm Mor Stroph, a marshal, was with the EMS. Like the alien in the painted mural hung behind him, Stroph, too, was bare-chested, wearing only a loincloth that covered-up his bulging privates. His musculature was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Pectorals the size of watermelons, cut in half. Quads the size of couch cushions, and those soccer ball-size biceps. When he began speaking—a low baritone gurgling sound—the audience leaned back as people instinctively do when confronted with something repulsive or disgusting. The sound of Stroph’s voice was both. “For my first feat of amazing strength I will need audience participation. A strong man in the audience.”

  I exchanged a fast glance with Matt and Donny. The huge reptile did not speak with the same level of finesse that the other Gaps around here did. He sounded, well . . . like he had a speech impediment. It made him sound as dumb as a tree stump.

  When no one volunteered to be Stroph’s stage prop, Leo came back on stage. He didn’t seem thrilled about the prospect for whatever would be coming next.

  Stroph lowered himself down, first onto his knees, then onto all fours. He gestured with a clawed finger toward a hand crank, affixed to a metal framework on the side of, and over the top of, the stage. Then we noticed a suspended wooden plank high overhead, hanging by four cables. It was about twice the size of a typical household door. Leo began to turn the hand crank. Around and around the crank turned. The overhead plank slowly descended. It took several moments before it became level with Stroph’s back. Only then did the big alien lower his entire body flat onto the stage. The crank continued to turn. Once the plank was down as far as it could go, supported fully atop the alien’s broad back, Leo stopped cranking. He next unhooked the four supporting cabl
es from the plank.

  Partial daylight streamed forth somewhere behind the stage and the hanging mural. Then came the heavy sounds of clopping hoofs, also out of view. A teenage girl appeared around the mural. Holding a rope in one hand, she led an animal farther into the tent—an elderly-looking Hereford bull, the big steer was a reddish-brown, with a white face. Having spent much of my life around livestock of every sort, I could tell the bull easily weighed 1,900 pounds, and that he was old. There was no fight left in the old boy. The teenager coaxed the bull forward, loudly clicking her tongue. “Come on, boy . . . come on up,” she urged. With Leo’s help, they prompted the bull to come onto the stage.

  “Do we really want to watch this?” Donny asked, a little too loudly.

  The answer was no. It was disrespectful to the old bull, as well as to the rest of us who’d spent our lives tending such livestock. I was sure I wasn’t alone in suddenly feeling sick to my stomach.

  “Maybe we can just sneak out,” Matt said, under his breath.

  Leo and the teenage girl somehow managed to coax the colossal animal all the way onto the wide wooden plank, which wobbled just a little, supported primarily on the alien’s back.

  Leo bent over and murmured something unintelligible to the alien, then stood straight and faced the audience. The teenager looked nervous, holding on tight to the rope. The bull looked equally nervous, as did Leo.

  “Whose damn idea was this?” Donny asked.

  I, too, was now getting angry.

  Leo then announced, “Meet Charles . . . nineteen hundred and twenty pounds of fine Hereford beef. Dalm Mor Stroph . . . are you ready?”

  I could see the Gap’s oblong head and broad shoulders sticking out beneath the plank. The huge alien nodded, expelling a grunting sound. Slowly the alien, the wooden plank across his back, and the ancient bull all began to rise. Inch by inch, nearly two thousand pounds of livestock was rising from the Gap’s prone position. It seemed impossible; the strength required unfathomable. It took a full minute before the Gap rose up to a kneeling position, the plank still perfectly flat and unwavering. The bull’s eyeballs loomed large, unaccustomed to rising into the air atop an alien’s back. But the steer stayed put, going along with the spectacle. Perhaps this was all a well-practiced trick. Maybe Dalm Mor Stroph, and Charles, the old bull, had spent days rehearsing this very same act.