Alien Days Anthology

by P P Corcoran

  “You bastard,” said Humm through gritted teeth.

  “I know. But, uh . . . if those soldiers find this ship, I'll have no reason not to burn off with the main thrusters. So, if you don't mind?”

  Humm wasn't happy about being marooned on a strange planet, but he had no desire whatsoever to be incinerated by a burst of super-heated plasma. Knowing the cloaked ship would block the soldiers' view, he used it as cover and ran, stripping off his uniform as he did so. Heading toward a small rock formation not too far away, he transformed himself to look like one of the rocks as much as possible. While he could drastically change the shape, color and texture of his skin, he couldn't do very much about his bone structure. Humm settled himself in for a long, uncomfortable night.

  The soldiers remained intent on the other hill for several hours. As the planet's moon set, the night became very dark. Humm could only see where the ship rested when it blocked the small lights carried by the soldiers. Without warning, the ship's atmospheric maneuvering system revved up and it lifted off, the faint wavering of its cloak disappearing quickly into the night sky.

  “Good luck, Humm,” Captain Rilga's voice said into his implant as the sound of the ship faded.

  “Eat shit, Captain,” Humm sub-vocalized.

  The sound of the ship’s engines departing had caught the attention of the humans. As the noise faded, Humm heard their shouts followed by several vehicles converging upon the spot recently vacated by the ship. He closed his eyes and made like a rock for all he was worth.

  The soldiers searched the area until sunrise. They found the hover sled, the depression where the ship had rested and his own hasty cover up of the gouge left by the ship's crash landing. However, they never came close enough to discover one slightly odd rock that managed to stay warm throughout the cool night.

  The Pleems and other debris had been loaded and taken away some time in the night. Finally, they cordoned off the area with ropes, posted a handful of guards on the first hill and everyone else departed.

  When the sun rose high and the heat began to climb, the posted guards sheltered in the shade of the sole remaining vehicle. Their backs were to Humm, so he stealthily crept out of his hiding spot and slipped behind the next low hill. With his uniform on and back in human form, he began walking.

  When he was safely away from the soldiers, he scanned in all directions. Seeing nothing, he pressed on away from the soldiers across the desert the rest of that day, through the night and into the next day.

  Humm wondered how humans could survive here despite their obvious dependence on water. He had always taken for granted his specie's independence from water when all others couldn't live without it. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all. Laughing at an image of himself as a god among these primitive beings, he topped another hill and spotted a vehicle raising dust on a distant road.

  After several more hours of trudging across the dry land, he found himself beside the empty road. He had only been following it for a short while before a vehicle stopped beside him and a human female asked through an open window, “You need a ride, sugar?”

  While a furry creature in the back of the vehicle yelled angrily at him in a language unknown to his translator, Humm fumbled with the door handle. After watching for a moment, the driver leaned across the seat and opened it for him. Wearing what he hoped was a sheepish smile, Humm got in and held on tightly as the vehicle sped down the dusty road.

  “You got a name?” she asked after a few minutes.

  Humm thought back to the stone over William H. Bonny's grave. It had other names on it. Accessing his implants, he recalled them and used his newly acquired ability to translate English. Rejecting Billy the Kid, and Tom O'Folliard, he said, “Charlie Bowdre.” The words seemed to come easier than when Rilga had supplied them.

  “So, where you from, Charlie?” the female asked casually.

  Humm searched the data banks in his implants, until he found the name of a community near the site of his abandonment. “Roswell.”

  - THE END -

  About D. B. Crelia

  D. B. Crelia is a US Air Force veteran. He has lived and traveled extensively in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, Central America and of course, North America. Born and raised in Central Texas, he eventually resettled and now makes his home there on five very rural acres with his wife, stepson, four huge dogs, one fat cat, two miniature donkeys and a constantly varying number of domestic fowl.

  After the military, he spent twenty mind-numbing years in the U. S. Postal Service. Throughout his life he has had a wide variety of occupations including ranch hand, burying (dead) dogs, serving ice cream, delivery driver, snack food salesman, landscaper, cook, painter, carpenter, arctic oilfield worker, county jailer and finally, coming full circle, ranch manager. His interests include photography, metal and wood art, snow skiing, camping, hiking, fishing and riding his Harley-Davidson Road King.

  A lifelong avid reader, he has been a fan of everyone from Hemingway to Heinlein. For most of his life he failed to live up to his own high standards as a writer, until at age fifty he was finally able to create “something I would want to read”. Realmswood: Caleb’s Mist is his first novel, offering many of the literary elements that have sustained his love for reading all these years. Science-fiction, and fantasy frame a story of human drama, crushing loss, love and hope. Book two of the Realmswood series, Better the Devil You Know continues the story that will conclude with the yet-to-be-written third installment. After that he will move on to another of the many stories that relentlessly vie for his attention. In addition to his novels, he also publishes serials and quirky musings on his weekly blog.

  DB Crelia spent ten years traveling the world as a Security Policeman in the US Air Force, followed by twenty going nowhere in the US Postal Service, until one day, he up and quit. For a while he tended horses and watched his already questionable social skills erode. He built outdoor furniture, most of which he gave to family and friends. He went to work in the oil fields in the Alaskan arctic and came home sick every time. He worked as a county jailer for only a short while but recommends it to everyone to put their lives into perspective. And all the while he was writing. Writing, writing, writing. Finally, at age fifty, his passion for writing aligned with his hard-earned life experience and he, at long last, completed a novel. Realmswood: Caleb’s Mist is the first book in a sci-fi/fantasy trilogy. Book two, Better the Devil You Know continues the story that will conclude with book three, which will probably be called A Chasm of Realms, or something close. He has also completed a psychological thriller entitled Finger, which takes place in the very familiar setting of small-town Texas. In 2018, he and his wife sold their rural Texas home and almost everything in it, bought a very long recreational vehicle and hit the road, towing a Smart Car. Now he writes on beaches, in mountain forests and even on the snowy Northern plains. With his wife and their puggle named Berkley, he will travel until he’s done, then settle somewhere . . . that isn’t Texas.

  Connect with D. B. here:

  www.castrumpress.com/authors/db-crelia

  Am I Alone? An Odera Chronicles Short Story

  By J.R. Handley & Corey D. Truax

  The pounding in Sergeant Alexis Monroe’s head was matched by the sound of boots marching across the tarmac of Homey Airport. The outside world called the place Area 51, but to Alexis, it’s where the military sent her to disappear. Shifting her duty belt, which was digging into her hips, Alexis trudged through another day at her new command. On loan from the Army, she felt detached from the sea of Air Force personnel.

  Alexis was proud of her service in the Army. A pioneer, she was one of the first women through the elite Army Infantry School. She’d idealistically enlisted into the Army after graduating college, seeking to strike a blow for female empowerment. Her quest for glory hadn’t turned out how she expected.

  Every phase of Alexis’s journey was marred by political correctness and cries of sexual bias from her peers. She believ
ed, beyond doubt, that when she graduated at the top of her class, she would garner an assignment that would bring her validation. Alexis had been sent to jump school, then to the Non-Commissioned Officer Academy. Her next step should have been orders to lead from the front. Instead, she was given duty as a rent-a-cop guarding a sprawling warehouse complex.

  Alexis swallowed her disappointment at night and chased it with whiskey. Every morning, hung over, she swore to go dry. She couldn’t seem to keep that promise. Her sunglasses became an unofficial part of her uniform, and none of her superiors cared enough to object.

  First, she’d been tasked with checking IDs at the dining facility. Then, she checked IDs at the gate. Now, she was assigned to check IDs at an old hangar that was turned into a warehouse. She’d been told not to look inside the warehouse, not to ask questions, and simply keep the stuff inside, inside, and those outside, outside.

  Her domain was the guard shack. Two doors, a tiny desk, an uncomfortable chair, an old rotary dial phone, and a legal pad were her only companions. The phone never rang, and she never had to log a name in the legal pad. In the month she had stood this watch station, no one had ever stopped by her post to gain entry. While boring, this did allow Alexis to covertly sneak a drink from the flask in her cargo pocket.

  Alexis had become bolder. Usually, she only took a sip or two once her twelve-hour watch was starting to wind a close. Today, she had started early. The more swigs she swallowed, the more interesting the forbidden door became.

  “No entry. Authorized personnel only,” said Alexis.

  She’d never actually said it to a living person. This time, she was saying it aloud to herself. With a chuckle, she locked the door leading into the guard shack and turned to the entry door into the warehouse.

  “Sergeant Alexis Monroe, respectfully requesting permission to enter this stupid warehouse,” she said aloud. With a quick pivoting action, she responded to her own request. “Permission granted!”

  The worn, brass colored doorknob she expected to be locked turned freely in her hand. As soon as the door pushed open just a crack, the doorknob ripped from her hand as the door sucked open. The sound of the door slamming against the metal warehouse wall was muffled by the many wooden objects inside of the sprawling expanse in front of her. Stacks of boxes, creating walls and aisles, stretched as far as she could see.

  Scared the guard on the other side of the warehouse may have heard the door slamming, Alexis pulled the door shut and stepped back into her guard shack. Her shaking hand pulled the flask from her leg and she took another long swig. The warmth of the fluid gripping her from the inside calmed her nerves. Looking to the phone, she flipped to the front of the legal pad. There were three handwritten phone numbers: base security, her guard shack phone number, and the other guard shack phone number.

  Alexis dialed the other guard shack. It took forever with the antiquated rotary dial phone. When she was finished dialing, she waited. It rang seven times before someone answered.

  “Good evening sir or ma’am,” — the person on the other line let out a long yawn — “this is Sergeant Owens at Guard Shack Sierra Two.”

  “This is Sergeant Monroe at Guard Shack Sierra One, did you hear a loud crash?” said Alexis.

  “Monroe, seriously, don’t wake me up again,” said Owens. “I’ve been standing this post for six months and nothing ever happens. No one ever comes here. There are never any noises. Just relax and catch up on your girlie magazines.”

  Owens hung up before Alexis could respond.

  What a dick, Alexis fumed.

  Turning back to the door, Alexis tightly held onto the doorknob as she turned it this time. When the door cracked open, air began to hiss before the pressure equalized. She gingerly let the door go and stepped into the dimly lit warehouse. The smell of musty wood filled her nose as she scanned the expanse in front of her.

  The mountains of crates in front of her varied in size and shape. Some were larger than cars, others were the size of shoe boxes. While the potential for an endless Christmas was piled in front of her, Alexis decided she would do some exploratory searching first. Shifting her M4 rifle onto her back and pulling her flask out to drink, she walked down an aisle.

  The deeper she walked the darker it became. The walls of wood boxes blocked the waning, yellow light shining from far above. Fortunately, the aisle she had chosen didn’t branch off. It would be simple to find her way back. A glance upward gave her an idea.

  If I can get up there, I can scout the whole place, thought Alexis. This place sure looked smaller from the outside.

  Tucking her black, metal flask into her cargo pocket, Alexis began scaling the mountain of crates. She chose a spot that looked like the world’s largest staircase. Some of the steps were waist high, but the one she struggled with was at chin level. Channeling her experience running Army obstacle courses, she pulled up, swung a leg onto the lip of the box, and rolled onto the top of the crate.

  Sweat beaded her forehead as she sat and regained her breath. Alexis figured she was about sixty-feet above the ground. Boxes surrounded her, creating a childlike fortress. Between the exertion and the whiskey in her blood, she felt strangely euphoric about this adventure. Her heart thumped happily as she dangled her legs over the side and took another long pull from the flask.

  Warmth pooled under her left hand as she sat. Not thinking much of it, Alexis looked down to see she had sliced her palm open on a nail.

  I must be drunker than I realized, she thought as she looked at the gash.

  Observing her bloody palm print on the box she sat on, Alexis watched the crimson imprint get smaller. It didn’t register as odd, at first. Panic rose in her stomach as droplets of blood began to float above the wood. Jumping to her feet, she looked down at the hovering drops. In an instant, the floating blood veered through the air and slipped through the cracks of a box sitting to her right.

  Alexis felt something pulling at her cut hand. Holding her hand out, palm up, blood began to raise up out of the wound and float into the box next to her. She closed her fist tight and fell to her butt as the cracks of the box began to emit blue light. The panic in her stomach turned to nausea. Before she could swallow, Alexis threw up.

  The vomit floated in front of her as if in zero-gravity. When the floating alcohol and bile comprising her vomit sucked into the crate, the blue light from within intensified. Not wanted to stick around and see what would happen, Alexis started scampering back down the side of the crates toward the floor. In her hurry, she missed a handhold and fell backwards.

  The air pushed out of her lungs as she impacted a wooden box below her. The smack to the back of her head caused the light around her to dim for a moment. Above her, the glowing, vibrating box exploded into splinters. Alexis closed her eyes.

  Drunk on duty, thought Alexis. Unauthorized access to a secured location. You’ve just lost your career.

  Opening her eyes back up, the glowing blue from the inside the box bathed her area of the warehouse. An object, perfectly spherical and sky blue, hovered above her. She could hear Owens screaming something from below. It was muted as she stared at the object. It spun faster and faster. As it continued to whirl, the air around her began to whip and whistle. Holding her hands up to shield herself, she screamed as her arms started to shred apart and get sucked into the sphere.

  The spinning projectile backed away and floated high above her. For a moment, she thought she would be fine. A thunderclap, louder than anything she had ever heard, obliterated the crates around her. Falling through the air in a shower of splinters, Alexis screamed. Before she could reach the ground, the object streaked like a meteor and impacted her chest.

  #

  Alexis awoke to darkness. Her head rested against metal, but it wasn’t cold. Warmth radiated from the hard, smooth floor. Without the ability to visually check herself for injuries, she began patting herself down hoping there were none. Her fingers traced her chest and felt for where the object had blasted her.
There was nothing. In fact, there was no pain at all.

  Sitting up, Alexis blinked. Unsure if her eyes were open or closed, she poked an eye with a finger. The pain and surprise of her own finger smashing her eyeball let her know she wasn’t dreaming. The silence was frightening. It was mute to the point where she couldn’t tell if her mind was creating those ringing and dinging noises or not. Mostly, she heard her own panicked breathing.

  Alexis began crawling. It was obvious she wasn’t in the warehouse anymore. The floor felt metallic, not the cracked concrete she remembered. It was cool to the touch but would quickly warm up if she left her hand in place.

  Is it reacting to me?

  When she heard the low clank of metal on metal, slowly moving closer to her, she softly spoke out.

  “Hello? Anyone out there?”

  Alexis was met with only silence, and the continued shambling of metallic clicks getting louder and louder. Screaming, as frustration got the better of her, Alexis realized the noise could be danger. Her infantry training began to kick in.

  Find a wall. Find cover. Find something, anything.

  Alexis crawled as fast as she could. When her forehead impacted a wall, she let out a sigh of relief. She was starting to worry she was crawling in an endless expanse. Standing, she began pacing out the room trying to determine the size and shape. Everything was metal. Like a prison cell or holding facility.

  I’ve been thrown into some sort of brig. They found me. They found my flask. Abandoning your post. Drunk on duty. Destruction of government property. They are going to throw the book at me.

  Before Alexis could figure out exactly how large the cell holding her was, she heard different noises, sounds she couldn’t quite place. They seemed to exist just below her consciousness, making her wonder if she truly heard or sensed them, or if she was imagining it all. Time seemed to pass, though she had no clue how long.