Aliens

SHF_SF12_KillingAliens // xxx

The Showdown

Gary was reading a novel in his bed. Which is to say, he was hynotized. He had not moved for a very long time except to turn pages. There was an uncomfortable pressure against his ribcage. Some part of him thought, "I could smooth out the bedspread or change positions," but he did not act on it. He could not. The book held him in a spell.

Then something unexpected and almost unbelievable happened. A voice spoke Gary's name, a voice that seemed to come from another world, faint but eerily real. Gary's body, which was already rather rigid, became more rigid. But he did not answer the voice. Some rational and panicking part of himself knew the voice could not be real. He waited for it not to speak again.

But it spoke again, this time louder, this time saying, "Hey, dumbass!"

Gary's arm, which included the paperback novel, dropped, allowing Gary's eyes to see, where the paperback novel had been, the out-of-focus shape of his brother. Ray was standing sideways in the doorway. The doorway was equally sideways, as was the entire room. For all Gary knew, the entire world had turned sideways while he lay reading. But then Gary's mind apprehended the truth. "It's because I'm lying sideways," he told himself shrewdly. It had taken a second or two, but his natural intellegence had snuck around the back way, climbed through a little-used window, and pulled Reality's pants down from behind, causing it to drop its mask. It was often that way with Gary's intelligence.

"That's my name, don't wear it out," said Gary in a retortful way. Almost as an afterthought he sucked in a string of what he identified correctly as drool.

"Elegant," said his brother.

"So what brings you hither, yon brother," said Gary, his wits only beginning to return. Gary had never drank more alcohol than he could safely spit back out, but it occurred to him this experience might be a little like that one. It occurred to him he did not like either of them. He missed his razor-thin intelligence, his crystalline wit, or however that went. He shook his head and spit drily at nothing in particular.

"Are you practicing for retard of the month, or what?" asked his brother.

"I'm reading," said Gary haughtily. "I guess you wouldn't understand about that."

"Not the way you do it," said his brother.

Gary, who had sat up a little, discovered that he was lying on top of his work boot. He tried to remove it but found he was still lying more on top of it than not, and gave up for the time being.

"Look," said his brother, "did you hear a funny noise?"

"Sure," said Gary wickedly. "Oh, there it is again. And again! Sure, I hear the funny noises, Ray."

Gary's brother looked at him wearily.

Gary laughed maniacally as his brother turned and departed. Still laughing that way, Gary collapsed. "Ouch!" he said, no longer laughing. With a mighty pull he extracted the boot and dropped it to the floor. "Forgot that was there," he muttered, and collapsed once again.

The surging inflow of his senses gradually abated, and Gary sighed. He felt deeply awake now, and the whole episode with his brother and the boot seemed like something from someone else's dream.

It was very strange. It was so very much like waking up from a sound sleep. But while he was reading the novel he had been anything but asleep. His mind had been--no, he had been--supremely present in some other world. He had been more alively alive than he could ever be in this world, leaping from one person's mind to another, living whole hours and days in mere minutes. Life in all of its raging variety had poured through him like floodwater pouring through a culvert, the fallen trees of life bashing their way through his mind, the roaring roar of life roaring inside his mind.

Gary realized that all that bashing and roaring was enough to make anyone feel stupid. Still, he did not like feeling stupid.

He sat on the edge of his bed and shook his head some more. He was clearly awake, now, and he realized how dopey he must have seemed to his brother. He vowed he would never be dopey again. He stood up, clearheaded and full of ambition.

It was still fairly early in the evening--only a little after nine o'clock. He could get something done, maybe work on one of his paintings for awhile, or get started on that history report for school.

"Wait a minute," thought Gary. "I have three weeks before that report's due, and I have my whole life for painting."

He lay back down and resumed reading. Some part of him  protested. "There's nothing wrong with reading," he told himself. "It's getting interrupted by someone calling you dumbass that's a problem." The feeling of something being amiss persisted, however. It was awhile before Gary understood what it was. He was lying on his other boot. But by then he he was immersed in the swift, roaring world of the novel again and didn't care.

*          *          *

“It’s time,” said the deep-voiced man.

“Are you sure?” asked the man with red hair, chewing his lip with apprehension. There was a burst of crackling, then an ominous silence.

“Do it now!” boomed the other. “For god’s sake, now!”

The red-haired man closed his eyes and pushed the button. There was a sharp click. Suddenly smoke filled the room. The two men staggered backwards, coughing. One of them managed to open a window. The other shoved his hands into a pair of silver mittens and reached almostly blindly into the smoking cavity.

“Careful!” said the deep-voiced man at the window. “It’s hot!”

“All right, already!” shouted the other. He shoved the smoking bundle towards a tabletop and tore one of the mitts loose, to use it as a fan. Jets of dark steam shot from the package in several places, and the thing continued to snap as if electrified.

“Open it, quickly!” commanded the deep-voiced man. The red-haired man tossed aside both gloves and, taking a deep breath, tugged the package open by its corners. Steam leapt into his face. There was a sizzling sound, and an odor filled the room.

“Smells burnt!” boomed the man at the window. “I told you, when it slows to five seconds between pops, it’s done.”

“All right, all right, all right!” shouted the red-haired man. He was already pouring the popcorn into large plastic bowl. “All we have to do is pick out the black ones. It’ll be fine!”

The man with the deep voice scooped a few handsful of air through the open window, then walked in his quick way to the other room. “Come on now, Eddie,” he said. “Our show’s about to start.”

The two men sat facing a large screen. The room was lit dimly, and soft music, possibly Vivaldi, was playing in another room.

“You know this is the night,” said the deep-voiced man.

“I know exactly what night this is,” said the one called Eddie.

“I’m just saying, there can’t be any more putting it off. We have to go through with it this time.”

“Frances,” said the other. “Did anyone besides the people who care about you ever tell you you’re officious?”

“No,” said Frances.

“Then let me be the first,” said Eddie.

As the men watched the dark screen, a sliver of blue light entered from one side. The blue sliver grew until it looked like two blue saucers glued together. A brightly-lit shape descended from the top of the screen and gradually came into focus, looking like the planet Earth viewed from space. The glued-saucers object seemed to be flying above the Earth-like shape. The man called Frances dug deeply into the bowl of popcorn.

“Do it,” said Eddie.

“We really don’t have a choice,” said Frances. “In a way, the choice has already been made for us.”

“Frances,” said the other man kindly, “just push the button.”

The deep-voiced man reached forward and put one large, buttery finger against a green button. He looked over his shoulder at the other man, then faced the button again. He pressed it.

On the screen the saucer-like object pulsed with bright light. It tilted, tottered a moment, then went sliding down towards the Earth-shape like a child’s snow-saucer heading for a frozen or not-so-frozen pond.

“Well,” said Frances, “I guess that’s that.”

The two men sat silently for awhile.

“I wish we hadn’t done it,” said Frances.

“It’s not as if the whole world gives a good goddamn about us,” said Eddie.

“No,” said Frances. “it’s not as if they do.”

*          *          *

"Okay, all right," said Gary. He was standing up. He was determined not to seem like an idiot this time. It wasn't fair the way they were always grabbing him by the nostrils, as it were, as he swam backstrokes down the sleepy river of the imagination, but he would deal with that part later. The thing right now, he felt certain, was to act as if he had a brain. "That's my name," he said. "I'm standing up."

"Stop that crazy shit," said his father, who was standing in the doorway of Gary's bedroom. It was the first time his father had been in that part of the house since that part of the house had ceased to be his beloved workshop and began bedrooms for his two sons. The man was scowling, but Gary saw the scowl turn into something darker as the man looked around the room. His face became that of a returning soldier who is seeing for the first time what the enemy's bombs have done to his hometown.

To turn things to lighter matters, Gary said, "Did you come down to yell at me about the tractor?"

"Wha'd you do to the tractor?" snapped the man, his vengeful wrath replaced by his everyday wrath, as Gary has hoped. He was sorry, though, that he had picked as a red herring something that wasn't actually a red herring.

"Oh, you know, something I might have done to it without knowing it," Gary said.

"Like what?" asked his father, trying to trick him.

"How would I know, if I did it without knowing it?" Gary pointed out, living dangerously. He heard his brother's sharp chortle of derision from the other room. As if the derision included him, which it did, their father exploded.

"I want both of you to be careful with those tractors. Those aren't toys, goddamnit, and I've seen both of you getting reckless. Now I mean it."

"Okay," vowed Gary in a humoring voice.

"Just last week one of the Hoffman boys over at Truesdale rolled an Allis-Chalmers on a hill and stuck the umbrella shaft all the way through his stomach. They couldn't lift it off because it would kill him, so they just waited for him to stop kicking and die. So be careful."

"Okay," vowed Gary without no voice whatsoever. His throat had become dry.

Suddenly his father was whispering. "I want both of you to come out on the porch. Don't say anything to Mom or the girls. ANd I mean right now." Then he departed.

Gary felt as if too many things had happened at once. His impulse at such times was too take a nap. But he had his orders. And he was curious to know what his father's whispering had meant. He had not known his father could whisper.

He was already dressed, but lost several minutes searching for his second boot. He knew the best way to find something he had misplaced was to sit down and think calmly. He sat down on the bed to do so. He had a eureka moment.

His brother, who had been painstakingly drawing useless parts for nonexistent machines as practice, was calmly putting his drafting tools into their thin cases.

"What do you think it's about?" Gary asked.

"I'm supposed to know?" said Ray in a glaring way. Gary leaned casually in his brother's doorway, pretending to yawn. He wanted to seem as uninterested as his brother.

"You lucked out," said Ray, sitting down to put on his own work boots.

"About what?" asked Gary, faking another yawn.

"You know what. That bent skid."

The difference between a fake yawn and a real yawn is that you can gulp during a fake one. Ray's unexpected knowledge of that damaged skid on the belly-mower had caused Gary to gulp. The effect was like having a full-sized apple in one's throat for a moment.

"Ouch!" said Gary. He touched himself tenderly on the throat and carefully tried out his jaw muscles, wincing in anticipation of further pain. None came. He noticed his brother waiting for an explanation with scornful amusement, and wished the pain had lasted just a bit longer. Gary did not like having to lie.

"It hurts like hell," he lied. "Laryngitosis. I was reading about it in a book on puberty. It's farily common."

"I think that was a book on female puberty," said Ray, and guffawed in his evil way. Gary thought his brother laughed like a serial killer.

"Just wait," Gary said. "You might get it too if you ever go through puberty."

"Oh really," said Ray. "Mister one-black-hair." He guffawed again.

"You laugh like a serial killer," said Gary.

"Yeah?" said Ray, standing up in a threatening way. Gary did not flinch, for his brother was always standing in a threatening way, causing Gary's normal posture when around him to already be one of half-flinchedness.

"Yeah," said Gary, ready to go into a posture of full-flinchedness if necessary.

"Yeah, and you're the one who ruined another skid. What were you doing this time, trying to knock hedge apples off a stump with it?"

Gary was indignant. "It caught a rock on a hard turn. You know how the right side dips down on a turn. It was a one-in-a-hundred fluke."

"You think Dad's gonna believe that?"

"He better believe it," said Gary. "He's the one who should get the hydraulic fixed so the mower doesn't hang down like that."

"Get out of my door," said Ray so that he could pass.

Gary followed his brother towards the porch. He was angry, now. Angry that his brother had accused him of something so stupid. Angry that after he getting him angry his brother had declared the conversation over. Staggering because of his brother's plodding pace, blinded by his broad back, Gary made a sudden vow. "I'm going to do a hundred pushups a day," he said to himself. He pictured himself holding Ray in a headlock, Ray's hands in the air in agonizing surrender. Gary almost wanted to drop to the floor right then an door pushups.

The two of them started up the stairs. The staircase wailed and and shrieked beneath their big boots like something being plodded to death.

"Knocking hedge apples off of stumps," muttered Gary. He tried to imagine doing something that stupid. He winced as he imagined the crash and the sudden centrifugal about-face of the tractor as one of the brush mower's stubby steel skis, skimming too low, caught the face of a stump.

Plodding impatiently behind his brother, he also reminded himself that he was far too skillful to let that happen. He imagined the satisfying whack he could give a well-teed hedgeapple if he were travelling fast enough. Third gear at half throttle would be about right.

It seemed to Gary that they had been plodding up the stairs for hours. He vaguely recalled a desire to do pushups, but realized with relief that it be would impractical doing them on the stairs. “Later, maybe,” he told himself. He also remembered his father saying to keep this mission secret. He tried to concentrate on plodding more quietly. How could someone as intelligent as his brother walk so slowly, he wondered. It occurred to him there might be an inverse relationship between thinking speed and walking speed. Gary tried to concentrate on walking more slowly.

With so much care given to walking quietly and slowly, Gary did not notice where he was walking. All at once, it seemed, they had come to the landing. He found himself doing a country-western back step as Ray operated the inward-opening door.

“Are you queer for me?” asked Ray.

“In your dreams,” said Gary.

“You ever do that again, I’ll knock you in the head.”

“Fair enough,” said Gary. “Now go through the door. I’m getting old back here.”

Ray delayed a few seconds longer to make it clear who was boss, then stepped out of the house. Gary heard a nattering noise and looked up the remaining flight of stairs. His sisters were ranged there, watching him. There were four of the girl animals, each one with its own distinct personality, each gazing at him with a different kind of boredom. More significantly, his mother was standing there. Her foot was not tapping, but the demand for some kind of explanation was inescapable.

Gary had never been able to lie to his mother. Yet he felt that the success of the mission lay with him. Even so, he had never been able to lie to his mother.

Yet it was obvious that something was up, which would not please his father.

But the fact remained: he could not lie to his mother. Goodness knew he had tried often enough.

Yet he thought he might go ahead and try again. “Ray ruined the belly mower,” Gary said. “Some kind of stupid game he was playing.” There it was. He had tried once again to lie to his mother, and once again he had failed. He was simply not the kind of boy who could be dishonest with his maternal parent. The maternal parent, as usual, did not seem in the least fooled. However, she did shake her head and walk away, which was just as useful. Gary started out of the door like a newly-freed convict who is late for a bank robbery.

Suddenly he was overcome with guilt. He turned back and faced his four younger sisters, their boredom a painful contrast to his own sense of impending adventure. He did the kindest thing he could think of.

“There’s a half-rotten monster out there with ten-inch teeth, looking for girls to eat,” Gary said.

All four of his sisters screamed, and the house trembled with a fading drumroll of bare feet.

“Whose making those girls scream?” demanded his mother’s voice with a rising volume that indicated approach. Gary saw only a portion of apron and one up-pointed toe before he was out the screen door and shutting it swiftly -- but quietly -- behind him. Somehow he had known his father would not want the screen door to bang tonight.

There were actually very few nights when Gary’s father wanted the screen door to bang. In actuality, there were none.

But on this night especially Gary’s father wanted a silently closing door. And Gary had known that instinctively. Despite the speed of his exit, Gary closed the screen door with only the faintest click. More of a tick, even, than a click.

“Goddamnit, Gary, be quiet,” hissed his father automatically. Gary heard the disdainful snicker of his brother. But that snicker was, in its own way, a whisper.

Whispering and hissing--from these two! A secretion of fear entered his bloodstream, mixing with and perhaps adding to--or perhaps spoiling--the excitement. Gary waited impatiently to know whether he was more excited or more afraid. He ached for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. And he positively yearned for a clue to what was going on.