Ship Wrecked: Stranded on an alien world

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Irritated, he glanced around the familiar restaurant. Recognized a lot of the local patrons—most of them—not so much by name but by sight. Except for the guy at the counter. He was new, probably just passing through. He couldn’t imagine anyone coming to Larksburg on purpose.

  An audible hush fell over the café, heads now turning toward the large windows. At first, Cameron thought everyone was looking at him, but in the long mirror, on the other side of the counter, he saw the reflection of bright red and blue lights flashing. Turning fully around, he watched a police cruiser double-park in the lot. First one cop, then a second cop climbed out from the car. They wore matching heavy coats, their misted breaths white in the air as they spoke. Cameron knew them both. Both tools. Between them, they didn’t have the intelligence of a box turtle. The stationary cruiser idled behind a tan Bronco. Cameron recognized it—it belonged to the Carsons, who lived way the hell up the mountainside. He quickly scanned the restaurant for them. Bill and Maddy, a middle-aged couple, were always seen together—that is, when they weren’t in Florida, where they owned a winter condo in Fort Lauderdale. But they weren’t around now—not in the restaurant. So why was their Bronco parked outside?

  Chapter 3

  It wasn’t long before the Larksburg Stand sheriff was on the scene. He drove a late-model Ford Explorer—silver and blue, like the two matching cruisers. No less than seven parked cars were now blocked from leaving the lot. But then, a big crime may have occurred here. Local law enforcement pulled out all stops for minor traffic violations. Maybe they should call in the FBI, Cameron thought, smirking.

  He watched as the sheriff conversed with his two subordinates outside. At six-foot-six, Sheriff Bart Christy loomed over them. His mere presence was intimidating. Something Cameron was more than aware of.

  Heather arrived with his food, placed the plates before him, stealing quick glances out the window. “Oh God … What’s he doing here?”

  As if reading her thoughts, the sheriff—hands on hips and looking very much in charge—stared toward the window. Giving a definitive nod to his men, he headed for the door as Heather moved away.

  Losing interest, Cameron assessed the bounty before him: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and sourdough toast, plus a side of three stacked buttermilk pancakes. As he reached for the small pitcher of maple syrup, the door noisily swung open and heads turned in that direction.

  “Dad?”

  “Hey, Squeak …”

  Cameron, chewing a mouthful of scrambled eggs, watched the big man give his daughter a one-armed hug. To this day he didn’t know why her father called her that. Squeak, he assumed, was a leftover nickname from when Heather was a toddler. Something like that. She never volunteered the information, and he hadn’t asked.

  “What’s going on, Dad? What’s all the hubbub about out there?”

  But the sheriff, looking preoccupied, had already turned away, was scanning the interior of the Drake Café. Cameron, in turn, did the same, looking around to see whom the sheriff was after. Seated customers glanced around nervously; no one ever wanted to be on the sheriff’s bad side. Even Cameron felt guilty, although he didn’t have anything to feel guilty about … other than breaking up with the sheriff’s youngest daughter a month earlier. The sheriff’s sharp gaze eventually fell on Cameron, locking on him for several beats. Cameron raised his fork in a ‘hello’ gesture, but Sheriff Christy, giving him no response, turned and exited as quickly as he’d entered. Once outside, he began talking to his men.

  Moving on to his pancakes, Cameron glanced toward the counter. The stranger in the faded-green army jacket was gone, leaving behind several bills trapped beneath a water glass. Over the next few minutes, Cameron became lost in thought. Chasing an egg morsel around his plate, he took a final bite then sat back, fully stuffed.

  Heather, standing at the hostess podium, was busy sorting through boxes of crayons—diversionary frippery for bored young ones. Cameron waited for her to gaze in his direction. She didn’t—probably for the best.

  He stood, fished a ten out of his pocket and, like the guy at the counter, pinned the folded bill beneath his water glass. Before he left, he looked around for Heather, to wave a goodbye. He wouldn’t be back for a long while. Maybe never. But she was gone from sight. Intentionally? He wasn’t sure.

  By the time he reached his truck, another emergency response vehicle had joined the scene. A backed-in tow truck idled, its driver on his knees—his fat ass high up in the air. Fiddling, he was securing chains to the rear underside of the Bronco. Cameron tried to guesstimate if there was still enough room for him to back his truck out. One of the watching deputies, Kirk, was standing so close to it he might clip him. Only a year or two older than Cameron, Kirk was broad-shouldered and big chested. A dedicated upper-body weight lifter, working out in his basement, he failed to also work out his lower-body. He had these ridiculously thin, almost twig-like, legs, giving the deputy a weird, cartoonish, appearance, like his legs were meant for another person’s body—maybe a woman’s.

  “Hey … Kirk!” Cameron said.

  Kirk raised his chin without looking at him. As if the extra movement of his big head—actually acknowledging someone else—required far too much effort.

  “What do you want, dweeb?”

  “I’m pulling out.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’re standing too close to my bumper.”

  “That’s your problem. You hit me, you’ll be arrested.”

  “Can you move? Take one … or two … steps forward?”

  “Nope.”

  Cameron climbed into his truck and started it up. Slowly backing out, he kept his eyes glued on his side mirror and avoided clipping the asshole deputy by inches. Since the parking lot was entirely blocked going forward, Cameron continued to drive in reverse in the opposite direction. At the side-road connection, he shifted into drive and merged onto Horton, going in the wrong direction to leave Larksburg. He let a Toyota Camry pass him on the left before crossing over, intending to make a left U-turn at the next cross street. Then he saw the same counter stool stranger off to the right—the man in the faded-green army jacket. Snow was really coming down now, and the guy looked cold—wearing sneakers, the wrong footwear under such frigid conditions. The guy was going to freeze to death.

  Cameron hesitated for a brief moment, then suddenly turned the wheel, crossed back over Horton, and slowed into the far right lane. He slowed down even more and buzzed down the passenger-side window. “Hey … um … need a lift? It’s pretty shitty out there.”

  The man looked surprised. Shaking his head, he kept trudging along through the sludge.

  “It’s no trouble, man. I’m going this way too. Get in. Get out of the cold.” Cameron glanced at his rear view mirror and, noticing there was no one behind him, came to a stop several feet in front of him. The man seemed more irritated than conflicted, but he must have concluded Cameron was right. He nodded once and reached for the door handle. Only then did Cameron realize there was no place for the guy to sit. Shit!

  With the passenger door open, Cameron quickly began shoving the seat’s contents—a filled-to-the-brim laundry basket, a shoebox filled with dried Top Ramen noodle packages, and his X-Box console—onto the floor or in the narrow space behind the front seat. The stranger looked on in confused silence.

  “Sorry … I obviously didn’t think this through. Give me just a second …”

  An incredibly loud crackle, coming from behind, jarred Cameron to attention. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted the Larksburg police cruiser. Its flashing red and blue lights were so close he couldn’t see the front grill.

  The cruiser’s PA blared with a familiar voice: “Get moving, dweeb. This isn’t a parking lot,” Deputy Kirk ordered.

  Cameron waved the stranger inside. “That should give you enough room now. Hop in.”

  Moving quickly, the guy did as asked. Bonking his head on the doorframe in the process, he merely grunted.

  “
Bet that smarts,” Cameron commented, already putting the truck in gear. “My name is Cameron. Can you get that door shut okay? Thanks.” Cameron raised a hand up, so that Kirk—in his cruiser behind—could see it, then accelerated away. The cruiser quickly diminished in size as he put distance between them. Only then did Cameron look more closely at his passenger, whose cap now lay somewhat askew on his head. Cameron’s jaw fell open as he tried to rationalize what he was seeing. The man, sitting mere inches away, looked to be anything but human. His ear, although normal in shape and size, was nearly transparent. A membrane of sorts—like the stuff a jellyfish is composed of—where one could view inside the organism. Cameron could actually see within the guy’s head. In fact, he could see where daylight now suffused in from the other side. He could see the complete anatomy in there: inner parts of the ear, his brain, maybe even some skeletal aspects. Cameron couldn’t take his eyes away. He found it both disgusting and fascinating at the same time.

  There was another PA chirp from the cruiser behind. Kirk was getting impatient.

  Chapter 4

  The alien awkwardly tried to reposition his feet between the myriad of clutter strewn about the truck’s floor. Still—he was relieved, felt his rapid heartbeat slowly returning to normal. He did not want to take action. Action that would be both quick and lethal. Lethal for the uniformed one, driving the vehicle behind them, and also lethal for this young human, who called himself Cameron, sitting beside him. The alien glanced to his left and only then realized something was very wrong. He read the human’s expression: astonishment, disbelief—fright. Reflexively, he brought his hand up, sensing that his watch cap had somehow gone askew, exposing an obviously non-humanlike area of his anatomy.

  “Who are you? What … what is that?” the human asked.

  The alien contemplated killing him right then and there. He quickly assessed vulnerable striking locations, determining that a fast blow—a chop to the throat—would be most effective. Another vehicle honked its horn, jarring the one called Cameron to swerve back into his own lane. Just then, two dark-blue and silver vehicles, both with flashing blue and red lights, sped past them at a high speed. The alien noticed Cameron wasn’t so much frightened at this point as bewildered. Or amazed. That was understandable. He could work with that.

  “Not to be rude … but is that …” the human gestured toward his own ear, “um … some kind of … well … were you born like that?”

  The alien considered lying about it but shrugged, like he’d seen other humans do, instead.

  “So what are you telling me? Are you even human?” Cameron said with a broad smile as if the prospect of such a thing was too preposterous.

  The alien staring back intently at him, replied, “I am not human.”

  “Uh huh … right,” the human said, watching the traffic rush by outside. Clearly disturbed, the human was trying not to show it.

  “Let’s say for a second that I believe you, which I don’t. You understand my words. I just heard you speak English.”

  The alien nodded, then shrugged, as he watched Cameron’s expression change. His smile—his humor—was gone. His disbelief had turned to something else.

  “I’m not saying I believe you. What we’re talking about would be impossible. But if I did, you’re not here to hurt anyone … right? I mean I saw you at the Drake. It didn’t look like you intended to harm anyone as you sat there eating your breakfast.”

  The alien said, “The Drake …?”

  “Breakfast place. You know, where to eat.” Cameron raised an imaginary fork up to his mouth.

  “I not here … um … of my choice.”

  “Not by choice, you mean.”

  The alien nodded.

  “I asked you before. You’re … not here to hurt anyone?” Cameron asked.

  Again, the alien shook his head. “Not unless have to.”

  “Okay, I’ll play along. And look, I’m not going to rat you out. Tell anyone you’re here, if that’s why you’re still looking at me that way. But probably best you stop telling people you’re not human. I’m just saying …” Cameron said, giving the alien a quick glance. “I tend to talk a lot when I’m excited, or nervous, but I’m sure you’ve already come to that conclusion on your own.”

  The alien, after readjusting the watch cap on his head for the third time, asked, “Why you help me?”

  Now it was Cameron’s turn to shrug. He continued to drive, seeming to use extra care to stay in his own lane, often checking both the rear and side view mirrors. After rechecking the dials on the dashboard, he said, “I don’t know what your story is … what’s real here. And I’m a little freaked out.”

  The alien waited while the human went quiet for a spell.

  “When I was a kid … a child … I witnessed a … bad situation. It was where my uncle worked, a garage, where they repaired big rig tractors and trucks. It was in a different town … southern U.S., but I guess not too different from this one. Small. I was waiting for my uncle to get off work. He was watching over me for the day. Why? Well … that’s another story. Anyway, I was playing outside. When you’re six, everything around you is a toy: an old tire; a discarded cab seat, its springs and stuffing popping out; a rusted-out Peterbilt chassis. Anyway, an old station wagon rolled up … probably thirty, maybe forty years old. Its engine was making a terrible racket—its water pump, probably. There was a black family inside—a man driving, his wife next to him, and a couple of small kids in the back. I’d stopped playing. I never saw a black person before, except on TV. But even at age six, I knew what they needed. Their old car was on its last legs. Engine needed repair. I watched as three mechanics came out of the garage, one was my uncle. In charge, he was wiping his greasy hands on an old rag. They were drunk. One of those mechanics—who had arrived earlier—brought with him a twelve-can pack of beer. Probably why I was sent outside to play. The driver—husband … father—got out of the car. I wasn’t close enough to hear what he said, or asked, but his tone was kind. I remember that clearly. He was … nice. I watched as my uncle slurred something back at him. Sounding angry. The black man turned back, looking down at the hood of his car. As if staring at it would provide an answer to his predicament.”

  The alien tried to follow the human’s incessant babbling. He had just told him he was an alien—a being from another world—and here he was nervously going on and on …

  “I then saw my uncle slowly wrap that oily rag around and around the knuckles of his right hand. The black man didn’t even see the first punch coming. Striking his jaw, it staggered him. The second punch landed on his mouth, and that’s when I saw a spray of blood splatter across the windshield. The wife and kids, I could see their eyes growing wide—see the whites of their eyes. His wife screamed, trying to climb over the front seat to get to the kids in back. The other two mechanics were now taking turns kicking the man. He was on the ground … all curled up, not moving anymore. The passenger-side door was yanked open by my uncle who reached in and grabbed the woman by the ankles … She was just about over the seat, but not quite. He pulled her back into the front seat then yanked her all the way out of the car. She was screaming. The kids were screaming. And I realized I was screaming too. It was a horrible sight. Frightening, seeing my own uncle acting that way. Like a beast.” Cameron glanced over at the alien.

  “What transpired … next?” the alien asked, caught up in the story.

  “My uncle stopped when he noticed me standing on that Peterbilt chassis. Guess he’d forgotten I was outside. Didn’t realize I was standing out there, watching him the whole time. I saw shame, then anger, on his face. My uncle told his buddies to stop kicking the man on the ground—to put both him and his wife back in their car. Minutes later, they rolled down the big garage door—closed-up shop for the day. Then we all left.”

  “The family … injured humans?” the alien asked.

  “Well, they just left them there. I guess the next day they were gone. I don’t know for sure. The whole o
rdeal was never spoken about.”

  The alien slowly contemplated what he’d been told.

  Cameron continued, “You asked me why I should help you. I’ve seen how people, those who are different, can be treated. How cruel, we … man … can sometimes be, but not all of us. My six-year-old screaming out probably saved that family’s life that day. So, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. It’s not lost on me how important this … whatever it is … is. That a freaky alien might be sitting next to me. And I think you need help. But if you’re here to harm anyone …”

  The alien at first didn’t say anything, letting the human make his point. He then said, “Being here … me … our technology …cannot be discovered.”

  “Technology?” Cameron asked.

  “My spacecraft. How I arrived here …”

  “A spaceship! Holy shit … Why hadn’t I thought of that? Where is it? Is it nearby? Can I see it?”

  The human’s incessant chattering was becoming bothersome. “Best you do not know such details,” the alien replied.

  Soon he noticed the vehicle was beginning to slow, moving across to the far right lane. The brakes squealed a little as they came to a full stop. “Do you want my help, or not? It’s okay if you don’t. You can climb out now, and I’ll be on my way,” Cameron told him.

  The alien continued to stare straight ahead, wondering if he’d said something insulting. He wished he had a better understanding of their rudimentary language. Given enough time, he knew he would. His species was far more intelligent than that of humans. Far more. Learning languages came easy to his kind. He thought about the human’s story. Some portions seemed relevant—especially regarding what he called black people. Whoever they were. He’d gotten the gist of the tale, nevertheless; that this human regarded—accepted—varying life forms with tolerance. Still, to trust this human with his life, he was unsure if that was wise. He said, “My name is long, would be difficult for you to pronounce. You can simply call me Ramen,” and gestured to one of the packages of Top Ramen strewn about the truck floor. “I will trust you, Cameron. Do not make me regret doing so.”