Homicidal Aliens and Other Disappointments

by Brian Yansky

  I hurry down the mountain. I’ve walked a long way, though, and while it’s easier going down, it’s still not easy. There’s no trail. I slip and fall once and skin my hand and arm. The twilight gives way to darkness as I get to the tree line. Then it’s trees and bushes and undergrowth. I worry that I might be lost, but I tell myself I’m not. I keep going. Eventually I find a narrow trail that twists its way to the main trail, which leads to a place they’ve set up for eating. One of the cooks is gathering little packages of chips that I recognize from our raid on Taos.

  “Have you seen Catlin?” I ask.

  “Town meeting,” he says. “Down the path a little ways. Deciding whether we stay or go. I say it don’t matter either way.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “It does matter.”

  “It does?” He looks at me uncertainly.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You better get down there, then.”

  I hurry to the little clearing they’re using to meet. I see Catlin in the crowd next to Zelda and Zack and Sam and Michael, feel her more than see her. Can she see me? I try to send her a telepathic message, just her, a wall-to-wall type message: I’m sorry I’m so stupid.

  Several rebels look up, so I guess I didn’t do a very good job of making it one-to-one. Then I think maybe that’s not so bad because I owe everyone an apology. I think it again, and this time I don’t try to limit it to Catlin and I hear it like a loud shout that spreads out over the valley, like an echo. I’m sorry I’m so stupid! Confused faces turn toward me.

  “We can live,” I say to the man and woman next to me. He is tall, and she is short.

  “I thought we were living,” she says.

  “I’ve always been under that impression,” the man says.

  “No, I mean live live.”

  “What did I mean?” the short woman asks the tall man.

  “Darned if I know what the difference is between live and live live. You look alive to me, honey.”

  “Thank you, sweetie,” she says.

  “You have something to say?” Running Bird says to me from up front.

  “Just that you’re right, Catlin. I didn’t see it, but you are totally right. We can live.”

  “That’s right,” Dylan says, standing. “We can live. If we go to the caves right now, we can live.”

  “We can’t hide in the caves,” I say. “I’ve seen the future.”

  Dylan smiles in a condescending way. “You’ve been hanging with Running Bird too long. You’re beginning to sound like him.”

  He gets a few more laughs than I’d like.

  “I admit I don’t know for sure what we need to do next, but I do know you’re not the right choice.”

  His smile fades. “The people have decided I am. I’m going to lead them to Mexico. You’re not invited.”

  “This has not been decided,” Running Bird says.

  I can see that Dylan’s friends are spread out in the crowd, talking to people. They’re calling in favors. They’re saying it was Doc’s last wish that Dylan lead. They’re using everything they can so that when they call the vote Dylan will win. Maybe he will. That will be that.

  But I can’t let that be that.

  “You’re going to keep people safe?” I say. “Like you had Marta keep Doc safe?”

  It’s a guess, but not a wild one. I remember what I saw my first day in camp — Dylan whispering over Doc — and how Marta wouldn’t let Catlin see Doc and how Dylan was performing at the funeral and how much he wants to be in charge, and each thing by itself maybe isn’t much but all together they mean something. What they mean is almost too awful to believe, but I do.

  Everyone looks at Marta, who is up front near Running Bird and Dylan and next to Lauren and some of Dylan’s friends. Her daughter is next to her.

  “I don’t know what he means,” she says.

  I can feel her pulse quicken, see the way she looks beyond everyone, and I know.

  “Yes, you do,” Catlin says.

  “Crazy talk,” Marta says to everyone. “I don’t know anything.”

  She sounds convincing. She really does. Then Marta’s daughter mindspeaks, You need to tell them, Mom. I think she says this just to Marta, but I can hear it.

  Shut up, girl, Marta says. You shut your mouth.

  “I won’t shut up,” the girl says out loud. “I’ve shut up for too long.”

  “Take Marta and her daughter out of here,” Dylan says to one of his friends. “When New Bloods turn mothers and daughters against each other, we’ve got to do something.”

  “Mom,” the girl says, “tell them what he made you do!”

  One of Dylan’s friends grabs the daughter by the wrist. “Come on, girl.”

  “Let go of her!” Marta shouts. She turns back toward Dylan, and she looks scared. She looks like she would run if she could, but the crowd has closed around her.

  “He talked me into it,” Marta says. “It was just supposed to make Doc sick long enough for Dylan to get what he wanted. I believed him. We need to hide. I want my daughter to be safe. We’ll never be safe here. But Dylan increased the dosage after the last town meeting. He couldn’t risk Doc’s getting better.”

  People look at Dylan. I go into the past, which was the future the first time I saw the image — Dylan looking down at Doc on the cot. He’s trying to pretend he’s sad, but actually he’s happy. Dylan forces something down Doc’s throat. He says, “Good-bye, old man.”

  “She’s lying,” Dylan says now. “Can’t you see? They’re both lying. They’re in with the New Bloods.”

  “I should have been stronger,” Marta says with a sob.

  The crowd is silent. None of their usual murmuring and chattering. Shock, I guess. But something is building. I can feel it.

  “Stupid,” Dylan says, and a protective shield goes up around him as he pulls a gun. The element of surprise. Dylan has it.

  He swings the gun around and orders his friends to follow him. Then he backs away from the crowd and orders one of his friends to bring the healer.

  “We’ll need her,” he says.

  I feel time stop. Everything freezes except me. I run toward Dylan, pushing aside the still forms of people as gently as I can. I don’t know how much time I have, but I need to get the gun before Dylan gets away. And I almost make it. Almost. But I’m still a good two feet away when time starts back up again and Dylan doesn’t hesitate; he aims his gun and fires at me.

  A lot of things happen at once. The roar of the crowd starts back up. Dylan’s bullet comes at me. And I step out of the moment.

  I move to another moment. In that one I fall, dying.

  Wrong moment.

  I move into another. In that one I’ve turned so the bullet enters my side. Hurts. Maybe I’ll live, maybe not. Catlin rushes toward me, her expression horrified.

  Wrong moment.

  There are a lot of variations of these moments. I die, and I die, and I may or may not die, but I fall and am helpless in all of these. But then I find one where I don’t. Just one.

  In that moment, the moment in which I live, I raise my hand and use my mind to turn the bullet. And the bullet misses me. I choose that moment. I step back into it; the bullet misses me.

  But Dylan is not done with me yet. He takes aim again, and neither of us sees Lauren until it’s too late. She rushes between Dylan and me just as a second shot goes off. She stops so suddenly. I can hear the surprised breath catch in her throat. I will hear it for the rest of my life.

  I try to force myself backward, back to an earlier moment, so I can stop Lauren from jumping between us, but I can’t. I can’t force myself anywhere. I’m stuck in this terrible moment, one of the worst in many terrible moments since the aliens invaded.

  Lauren falls.

  Catlin gets to Lauren before I do and tries to pull her back from death, but I can feel Lauren going, slipping away, and I know even Catlin can’t help her.

  I try talking to the Warrior Spirit even t
hough I don’t even know if he’s there. I beg him to save her. I say if he’s a god and he’s really in me, then he will. Silence.

  I kneel by Lauren. I take her hand. She says something, but her voice is gone. I lean close to her and mindwhisper, You’ll be okay. You’re going to be fine.

  Liar. I can pick them, can’t I? A boy who’s in love with another girl and a boy who’s in love with himself.

  I want to say something that will make things better, but it’s too late for that. All I can do is kiss her on the cheek, a hopeless gesture that is too little and much too late. I almost loved her. Sometimes almost is an unforgivable word. You might as well say you were drowning and were almost saved.

  I guess I won’t be the first woman president after all, she mindspeaks.

  I smile. She smiles. It’s her real smile, her private one. And for a second it’s almost all right, and in another second she’s gone.

  I look up and see Catlin and Michael staring helplessly at Lauren. Another dead — and this time Lauren. Lauren.

  I stand, scanning for Dylan. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to make the world a better place.

  “Where’d he go?” I say to no one in particular.

  Michael looks around and sees what I see — no Dylan.

  “Gone,” he says.

  “I don’t see Running Bird, either,” Catlin says.

  I’m about to take off running, though I don’t know which direction to run in. But I don’t get a chance.

  I hear them before I see them. Not Dylan. Not his sidekicks. Too powerful. A second later the killing begins.

  Sorry for your loss.

  Sorry for your loss.

  Sorry for your loss.

  It’s chaos. People are trying to run away, but in their panic, they run into one another. I’m yelling with my mind for them to fight the way we’ve trained. I’m yelling at them to form groups, to join. The Hunter hears me. He smiles when he catches sight of me in the crowd.

  There you are! he thinks, like we’re old friends. So nice to see you again.

  I manage to get a group of three — two women and one man — to join. And Catlin and I join. And we attack. We attack the group of hunters that have made a little wedge into our camp, like an arrowhead, with the Hunter at the front.

  Surprise. The aliens are surprised by our strength and even more surprised when they’re shot. I look up the hill and see Running Bird and Michael firing rifles from between the trees. The aliens see them, too, and stop the next round of bullets in midair. Running Bird and Michael have automatic rifles, though, and they keep firing, faster than the aliens can stop the bullets. I see a hunter drop.

  I can feel that the Hunter is furious about the guns. He thinks of the guns as machines. He has the alien hatred of anything machine.

  Catlin and I kill a hunter who’s distracted by the bullets. The Hunter comes toward us then. He sends some kind of wave that knocks Michael and Running Bird back. I don’t know if it kills them or just knocks them off their feet, and I don’t have time to check because the Hunter is headed straight for me.

  He mindspeaks, Time to die. Past time to die, Dreamwalker.

  People are backing away, trying to retreat without full-out running. The Hunter’s focus on me takes it off them, and many make it to the safety of trees. The hunters chase after them in their awkward alien way but can’t keep up. They may be awesome fighters, but they run like ducks.

  Nearly everyone has made it to the trees. It’s just me and Catlin now, holding our ground. The other hunters have closed around us; we’re surrounded.

  Some movement from up the hill catches my eye. Michael and Running Bird are running down the hill toward us. I’m so relieved to see that they’re alive that it takes me a second to realize they’re headed for certain death. I mindshout at them to run away, but they don’t.

  The Hunter stands before me. You’re keeping everyone waiting.

  I need to make this stop. I try to freeze time again or move into another moment. Something. Anything.

  And then . . . I’m gone.

  I’m on the peak of a mountain, though not the one I climbed earlier. There’s mist all around, through which I can just see a valley below and other mountains, all thick with trees.

  Where in the devil’s home am I?

  Off to my right is one of those tall book stands. A book is open on top of it, the pages flipping in the soft wind.

  “It is all written,” says a voice from the wind.

  “Are you the Warrior Spirit?” I ask, though who else can it be, really? “If you are, you’re a crappy god. You didn’t help me when I asked. You didn’t save Lauren.”

  “It was written that she would die,” the voice says. “Is written, will be written. And I am not the Spirit of the Warrior.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  But the wind voice ignores my question. “You are the Spirit of the Warrior. Well, technically, the Spirit is within you. Read the book. All questions and all answers are contained in its pages.”

  “My friends —”

  “They are safe — for now. Read the book. Read the book and know.”

  I walk over to the book, wondering if any of this is really happening or if the Hunter killed me and this is some joke. Like maybe the angels and god or gods play this joke on everyone — look at that guy believing he’s really getting to read the book!

  The pages keep blowing one way and then the other. I put my hands on them to hold them in place. I try to read a few lines, but the words won’t stay in place. They fade and come into focus and fade again. I think they even change.

  “Everything is written, was written, and will be written,” the wind voice says. “But it is not written in stone.”

  I can’t focus. I force myself to concentrate. One line catches my eye. Just one. But I think the wind, whatever the wind is, means for me to see that one line.

  “That is my gift,” the wind says.

  “Nothing is written in stone,” I say because I feel like I almost understand. Then I think I do. “Nothing is written in stone, but everything is written.”

  I don’t have a lot of time to think this over. I’m back in my moment. The Hunter, swollen with power and rage, is right in front of me. Catlin, Michael, Running Bird, and I are surrounded and completely outnumbered.

  In this moment and in this place, we are about to die. It’s written. So, we can’t be in this moment and this place.

  “Explain to me how we got here again,” Michael says.

  We’re sitting on a cliff above the camp: me, Michael, Catlin, and Running Bird. But just a few moments ago, we were standing in the center of camp, surrounded by aliens.

  “I saw it in my mind. Then I thought of us here. And here we are.”

  “But how?” Michael says.

  “I read it in THE BOOK,” I say.

  “What book?” Michael says.

  “THE BOOK.”

  “That really clears things up,” Michael says.

  I describe it, then I say, “There was a sentence in it that said the four of us could move from the place of death to this place, but I would have to see it. Then the book showed me. I saw it was one in billions of possibilities — the only one we weren’t dead in. I only saw it because I saw it in the book. I couldn’t have found it on my own. I pictured this place in my mind the second I got back to the place of death, and we were there, and then we were here.”

  “But how?” Michael says again. “I’m not complaining — I’d rather be here than dead — but how could we be there one second and here the next?”

  “All is written,” Running Bird says, “but it is not for us to know the whole story. We are a few lines, nothing more.”

  “But not written in stone,” I say.

  Running Bird looks disturbed but thoughtful and, for once, has nothing to say. Michael looks more irritated than thoughtful.

  I look over at Catlin, who has been unusually quiet this whole time. Even in the dim light, I can
feel her eyes locking on to mine.

  There’s no talent for what you just did. None of the talented have ever done something like that, she mindspeaks at me. You have the spirit in you.

  You still have faith in me?

  Yes.

  I have faith in you, I mindspeak.

  She smiles. I wonder if she knows what I mean. There’s no doubt. There’s no almost.

  We lost some moments somewhere. Maybe hours. We realize this as we make our way down the mountain. We go to the clearing about a mile off, where Running Bird — wisely, it turned out — ordered everyone to meet in case of another attack. We’re relieved to see a lot of New Americans there. Some are asleep, some awake. They gather around us, thanking the gods that we’re safe.

  Running Bird asks how many were lost in the attack, and they tell us twenty-three were killed or are missing. Twenty-three.

  Also missing are Dylan and his friends, who ran off during the confusion. “Good riddance,” most people say — but not all.

  Some people say that they want to make a stand here or go back to our first camp, our home, and make a stand there. They want to fight.

  “They’re too strong,” I argue. “We barely got away this time. We were lucky. Any stand will be a last stand.”

  “So what do we do?” someone asks. “We can’t run. We can’t fight. What else is left?”

  “We need the Warrior Spirit’s third way,” Running Bird says.

  There’s some crowd noise, some discussion about what I do and don’t know.

  “There is a third way,” I say. “We have to put distance between us and the aliens now. That’s the first thing we have to do.”

  That all you got? Running Bird mindspeaks only to me. Need to be more theatrical and mystical, Warrior Boy. Need to give the people a show. You’re going to have to work on that.

  Running Bird says we’ll go south to Santa Fe after we bury the dead and pack up what we need. It’s about seventy miles through the mountains. We’ll be safer there.

  I volunteer to go back for the truck, but Running Bird says the aliens will be guarding the vehicles and the road. We need to travel through the forested mountains.