They came for our dead

by Robert E Dudley II

  To my surprise, in a flurry of activity, Mr. Wilson began to undertake his own medical care. He flipped the box open, propped his foot up on the blanket, and began to dig through the medical supplies. He made quick work of opening fresh bandages and tightening them around his shredded leg, to help stop the bleeding. “Just drive,” he said. “This’ll do for now.”

  I was useless as a medic, so I hurried back into the driver seat and peered in my rearview mirror. Behind us, I saw another dead emerge from the rift. It suddenly occurred to me, not without a great deal of alarm, that I had lost track of the two that had come through before. I craned my neck to look in every direction, but I saw no sign of them. I spotted the one I’d run over, and it seemed to be seeping back together, mending itself somehow, slowly rising from the ground. Around it, piles of dark residue remained, but the rest of it rose, some of it transparent because my vehicle had done some pretty serious damage. When it was able, it released another howl, this one in an unearthly tone, and then it ran toward us again, slowly closing the distance.

  I floored the accelerator and drove over the plush, green lawn of the facility, until I met up with the road. I drove without any sense of direction, taking whatever side streets I could, and Mr. Wilson and I both breathed sighs of relief when I was finally able to merge onto the nearby expressway. All the while, my father just continued whistling, staring out the window with a smile on his face. His ignorance truly was bliss, and I almost envied it in that moment.

  Things did not look any better in the city than they did on the news or back at the veterans’ facility. Neon signs and lights flickered, the traffic lights no longer functioned, and I had to swerve out of the way of several unnerved drivers. Power lines were down, some of them smoldering and sparking on the ground. Worst of all, we passed several bodies, all brutally slain, some even in pieces. A few of those dark things prowled about in the distance, and I even saw one enjoying its own sick game of parkour, deftly leaping from rooftop to rooftop. All I could think of was my sweet Sue and our children, even our pets, and I had to get home to protect my family, until our useless government found some way to get a handle on the mess they should have done something about long ago.

  Really, though, my options were few. If the alien ships were every 120 miles or so apart, as the reporter said they were, I knew we would just run into another. My hometown, Ann Arbor, was two hours away, exactly 120 miles from where we were. Nevertheless, I drove on, occasionally looking over at my father, who hadn’t spoken a word since I shoved him into the seat. He just stared out the window, slack-jawed, ignoring a stream of drool that continuously flowed down his chin. Behind me, Mr. Wilson had quieted and stilled, and a cursory glance over my shoulder told me he was asleep, passed out from the pain and exertion. Fortunately, he was skilled enough to bandage himself properly, and the bleeding of his wounds had stopped.

  Desperate for a distraction and some intel on the situation, I tried the radio, only to hear nothing at all. FM, AM, and even satellite were all dead, offering no talk and no music. I tried to call my wife, but her cellphone didn’t even go to voicemail; all I heard was some otherworldly tone, an alien keening sound with hissing in the background. With no power and all communication down, all I could do was continue driving, carefully avoiding abandoned cars along the way and paying no mind whatsoever to posted speed limits, one of the few advantages of martial law.

  Several miles later, I pulled over to take a look at the sky. There didn’t appear to be any saucers or black creatures there. There was a rare large, grassy swathe on the expressway there, and we were sheltered by trees as other cars and trucks flew by, the drivers and occupants pale and terrified, like scared apparitions.

  I need to think, I realized as I sat in my SUV, next to my vacant father and in front of his sleeping blowhard roommate. Desperate to reach my family, to know they were okay, I tried to call my children, only to be greeted again by that odd, disconcerting tone. One look at the fuel gauge told me I needed to find a gas station soon. I climbed out and checked the tires, and they all seemed to be inflated enough, even the two I’d used to run over the creature that ripped off my car door. The side of my SUV was scarred, with long scratches in the metal, but nothing was pierced by whatever the monster was that had attacked us.

  “What are those things anyway?” I wondered aloud. I recalled Mr. Wilson saying it was someone he knew, someone who recently died. “How is that even possible…and why?”

  Knowing I would not have my answers anytime soon, I decided to check on Mr. Wilson. There was no use running the heater to warm everyone on the cool autumn day, since there was a gaping hole where the door used to be, but I did my best to cocoon Brian in the Army blanket. Other than a slight whimper when I gently checked his leg, to make sure he wasn’t oozing blood again, he did not stir; the pills he did cooperate in swallowing, coupled with the recent events, had enervated him. The poor man went through more excitement and movement in those terrible moments on the lawn of the veterans’ facility than he’d endured in several months, maybe even years.

  I turned my attention to my father. He appeared okay and even smiled at me and mentioned my mother’s name.

  “Yes, Dad,” I said, not able to bear to tell him the truth yet again. “We’ll see her in just a few hours.” I didn’t like lying to him, but the social worker told us that Alzheimer’s patients sometimes had to be treated that way. I had to agree with him; otherwise, he would only be mad and confused and start to fight, which I had no time or energy for in that pivotal moment. We were warned that the characteristics and personality our father had before the disease struck him would only be exacerbated by it, and while he was a wonderful father and husband, he’d always had quite a temper. He was always quick to anger, and he held sway over all his children until we left the home. He drove us with his martinet ways, drilling us repeatedly with multiplication problems, history, and finance questions. He administered corporal punishment if he found our rooms out of order or when we failed or refused to do our household chores. He was military through and through, a strict man whose fury flared at the slightest transgression. The house seemed to shudder with an air of fear when he came home from work, especially if anyone within it had dared to do anything wrong. Truth be told, I almost preferred him the way he was after the disease, because he was no longer scary, dangerous, or harmful. He was just a gaunt, slack-jawed, gray-haired old man, his body wasting away and his strict temperament forgotten. His thin arms were weak, lacking muscle.

  “It’s gonna be all right, Dad,” I said, then rubbed his back and made sure his seatbelt was on. I zipped up the yellow rain jacket he always wore and did my best to make him comfortable in his seat.

  I resumed my position in the driver seat and stared down the freeway. It was devoid of all traffic, entirely deserted, even at dusk on a Saturday night, in the middle of a global atrocity. It had only been an hour or two since the aliens descended, yet it was as if they’d already decimated the entire planet and everyone on it, everyone except us. “What the hell’s going on? Where is everybody?” I muttered.

  While I was sure it would do no good, I tried the radio and phone again, but I had the same results: I heard nothing from any of the gadgets. I was worried about my wife and our children, about my brother and sisters. I yearned to be with them, to protect them until the authorities showed up to tell us what to do and where to go. I imagined that the military was driving back the aliens, forming large garrisons to contain and protect us until the hell was over.

  I started the SUV, heard it roar to life, and eased back onto the empty expressway. Within minutes, I was cruising along at seventy miles an hour down the empty highway, checking my fuel gauge every minute or so, fretting that it was well below half-full and wishing I had filled up earlier that day. I still had almost two hours to go, and it seemed the little red line was on the quarter-tank mark far sooner than it should have been.

  Then, something occurred to me again: If the alien crafts ar
e every 100 miles or so, there must be one in Ann Arbor, or else I’ll meet one on the way. Feeling a new urgency to get to Sue, to save her from the shredded-flesh fate Mr. Wilson had suffered, I stepped on the gas, hoping I’d find a working fuel station soon, or at least someone who had the wherewithal to fill up some spare gas canisters before the disaster took hold.

  I drove fifty more miles and saw nothing but trees and mile markers flashing by, not one other vehicle coming from either direction. I left the useless radio on and plugged in my phone, hoping it would eventually work. “Can you hear me now?” I asked sarcastically, staring harshly at the cellphone. “Of course you can’t, you damn thing, but at least you’ll be fully charged if you ever work again.”

  I drove for another twenty minutes and finally saw another car coming my way. The driver of the blue sedan flashed his headlights repeatedly, trying to alert me that something was ahead. I flashed mine back at him and slowed, hoping he would stop and tell me what he’d seen, The driver was alone in his car, clutching his steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip as he passed me, looking straight ahead and gaining speed rapidly, till he was easily traveling 100 miles per hour.

  Again, I pulled over and stopped on the narrow shoulder, wondering if I should continue or just get off the highway and try to find a place to rest nearby. I certainly didn’t want to run into another flying saucer or any of those dead things.

  Once again, I got out to check on my uninvited guest. Brian had shifted and was now farther away from the opening left by the dismantled door. The blanket was wrapped even more tightly around his body, but I could see his leg, and still, no blood had dripped out of the injury.

  Around us, nothing moved. There were no jets or copters in the sky, no contrails indicating that planes were investigating the situation or looking for those who needed rescued. As dusk approached, I saw no more of the strange lights that had been puzzling all of mankind for months. It was strange that they were no longer up there, but it was even stranger that the sky now burned with an unsettling greenish color.

  I was frozen, not knowing what lay ahead and certainly not wanting to head back from whence we came. Either way, it was growing darker and cooler, and I had to make a choice. I did not want to be out in the open at night, as I was sure we would not be able to see the dark beings then, and the missing door of my SUV left us as sitting ducks.

  Suddenly, I did see lights in the distance, but they were only two, side by side, coming toward me from across the median. I wondered if it was the military, possibly coming from the large base in Lansing, Michigan. More lights followed those, and I imagined it could be a convoy of trucks, maybe even a tank. Not only that, but it appeared that something was flying above them, like a low-lying helicopter, keeping watch and offering extra backup.

  As the mass of lights drew closer, though, they coalesced, and I realized what I was looking at was merely an eighteen-wheeler. The large truck was white, but the advertising on the side of it was obscured, because the semi-trailer was wreathed in flames, the engine spewing smoke and fire. As it blew by us, I peeked into the cabin and spotted the driver, a middle-aged man with the typical trucker hat on his head and a look of absolute horror on his face. His windshield was cracked, and the metal walls of his tractor-trailer were ripped and torn. On the roof stood the culprits, two of the dead things, digging their claws into the metal, trying to get inside. While the driver kept one hand on the steering wheel, he had to use the other to try to keep the ceiling of his cab intact. Death danced in his eyes, as if he knew he was doomed, and I knew it too. Within minutes, the creatures would either rip through the weakened roof and attack him, or the diesel-fueled fire would consume him and the truck.

  Helpless to do anything to save the trucker, I hurried back into my SUV and sped away. I did not know if the creatures had seen me or not, but I did not want them to be able to come back for us if they survived. I took the next exit, which led to only a series of secondary roads, and I only left my running lights on, so as not to attract any unwanted attention with my low-beams. I had never traveled those roads before, but when I reached a split, I headed northwest and turned into an area of pastures and dirt roads.

  I pulled over again when I found a secluded spot near a clearing. As I brought the SUV to a stop, my father’s head thudded lightly against his window, fast asleep. Mr. Wilson continued serenading me with ugly snores from the back, and I felt exceptionally lonely, like I was the last living person in the world.

  As exhausted as I was, I was too nervous to sleep, so I gazed up at the sky. The greenish hue was still there, but I saw nothing else. Around me, as far as I could see, there was only darkness; no warm, welcoming lights glowed from any nearby houses, as we were literally in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea what to do. If I went to Ann Arbor, I was sure to encounter more aliens and the dead they brought back, but if I stayed, the creatures that had already seen us would eventually catch up with us. I had heard no explosion, so I was convinced the trucker met his demise in those cruel, tearing claws, rather than in the sweet release of a fiery, instant death.

  Questions still loomed in my head, questions that all the countless talk shows, endless news reports, pointless magazine articles, presumptuous forum posts, and internet fake news had been unable to answer. Why are they up there? What does it mean? None of the religious fanatics, scientists, conspiracy theorists, or psychics had even mentioned that aliens might come for our afterlife. The crazy, underwear-clad blob in the seat behind my father was the only one who even suggested that. Oddly, I trusted his judgment in that regard, and in that moment, I needed his strange perspective, his weird insights.

  “Brian? Mr. Wilson…” I said, hoping he might have a suggestion as to what to do next. I turned around and placed my hand on his shoulder with a gentle nudge. “Hey, I could use some help here.”

  “Hungry. Isn’t it dinnertime yet?” he replied sleepily. “Before we head to the dining room, I gotta pee.”

  I helped him out of the SUV, as his left leg was not working from the calf down. Steam rose from his forehead as he struggled to lumber under a tree to relieve himself.

  In the distance, while I waited on Mr. Wilson to do his business, I saw large flames lick up into the sky, as if entire cities to the west and east were being consumed. Distant explosions occasionally rocked the night, but where we were, it was cool and quiet.

  “Well? You got any grub or what?” Mr. Wilson asked as he pulled up his filthy underwear.

  “Not really. I mean, I just—”

  “Of course,” he grumbled.

  Hunger was quickly becoming an issue for us all, as was thirst. It had been hours since we left the facility, and I knew we had to find shelter and something to eat and drink.

  I helped Brian back to the SUV, and he leaned on the vehicle, nearly collapsing on the hood. “Did you happen to do any more thinking before you dozed off?” I asked, hoping to take his mind off his grumbling, rotund middle for a little bit. “Do you still think the aliens are after our afterlife? What about that dark hole in the sky?” I asked, keeping my voice low and monotone so as to avoid causing any panic. “I think you’re the only one who’s figured anything out at all.”

  He let out a dry, raspy cough, the moved his hands down to his damaged leg and winced when he touched the flayed flesh below his knee.

  I watched as he tried to find cigarettes in his pocket, not realizing that he was still in his underwear. I then reached in the back seat to retrieve the green Army blanket and draped it around his shoulders as he started to shiver in the cool air of the night.

  Mr. Wilson’s eyes glowed with the reflection of the running lights, and even as civilization was collapsing around us, at least as far as I could tell, he actually smiled. “I knew it! See,” he started, all too eager to lecture me, “them damn things just need to grab one of us. That would give them plenty of DNA to replicate everything they need to. That’s easy enough to figure out. Hell, even humans have been messin’ with DNA
for a long time, clonin’ goats and merging pigs with people embryos and all sorts of other Twilight Zone crap,” he continued, reconfirming that he was, indeed, crazy and that he had, indeed, read too many science fiction novels. “Our afterlife though? That’s the tricky part. What happens to us when we die anyway?” He licked his dry lips and went on, “Somehow, they’re bringin’ our dead back, sucking them back through those dark holes. My guess is they wanna study us, to see what we are and where we go when we die, so they can copy the process themselves. I can’t say I blame ‘em. I don’t know of one living thing that wants to die. Everything fights for life. They must be the same, looking for some solution, some way to live on once their bodies kick the space buckets or whatever.” He paused to look around. When he realized we were alone, surrounded by darkness only illuminated by those dim running lights, he asked, “Hey, where are we anyway? We oughtta head back to that veterans’ hospital. I’m getting tired, and they’ll be looking for me.”

  “I know,” I replied. “We’ll go back as soon as we can.” Even as I said it, I was sure it was a lie, but he’d lost a lot of blood and was hungry, and I was pretty sure he didn’t have all his ducks in a row in the first place, let alone after being attacked by some sort of dead former neighbor of his. “How many of our dead do you think… I mean, how many would you bring back to study if you were doing it?”

  Mr. Wilson ambled back into the SUV and looked out the window, taking in some lights that were now moving eerily across the horizon, a few miles away. “Why, just to be safe, I’d bring ‘em all back, every last one of them. That’s the only way to ensure 100 percent accurate results, right? They operate on pure science, complete and comprehensive, like I said before, with no room for errors or flukes. It would have to be a perfect study, so they would need all our dead.”

  “Are you saying they intend to bring back every person who has ever lived on Earth? All those souls will be jerked back here by the aliens?” I asked in horror. It was too much to wrap my head around. I eased myself back into the driver seat and closed the door as quietly as I could, so I wouldn’t disturb my dad, then locked the door for good measure, even though I knew it wouldn’t do a lick of good with an entire door missing behind me. “Do you think they can even do that, pull them all back?” I asked to the darkness behind me, secretly wishing and hoping Mr. Wilson had fallen asleep again, so he wouldn’t have to heap the cold, hard truth on me.