From Planet Texas, With Love and Aliens

by Pat Hauldren

  That was, most likely, the last conscious thought that Jackson had as Jackson. After that moment, the spirit – or whatever it was – had overtaken him, and the place where Jackson had been a moment before was supplanted by a totally different awareness.

  The weight of fleshy bodies was always a little uncomfortable, but it was a necessary evil to get its needs satisfied. For millennia, it had scraped by on the passing of hopping things and running things, living in a kind of dream-state torpor, but with the invasion of the two-legged, it had awakened more, and it was hungry. It fed as much as it could, but it was hungrier still. The hopping things, the running things, the burrowing things, the flying things, they were all consumed, and now they were nearly gone.

  But it was still hungry.

  Two-legged things had good food – the best. It couldn’t eat them all or it would run out, just like the other things. Two-legged things were practical creatures, for the most part, though, and they knew the need of feeding it.

  The four other creatures watched once-was-Jackson turn slack-jawed and strange. Once-was-Jackson stood up as though its body was on strings. It found that every two-legged thing was different to some extent, and it took a moment to get the hang of directing it. Once-was-Jackson stumbled around for a bit, finding its legs, and then it righted itself up and faced the opening of the cave.

  It paused.

  There was a brief flash of a something that flickered across once-was-Jackson’s face. Jackson seemed about to overtake it, to fight back, to take back its own body, but that was not the way of it. It returned to being once-was-Jackson quickly, and its shoulders hunched while its haunches prepared, crouching a little towards the opening.

  With a sudden burst of speed, once-was-Jackson ran out of the cave and leapt with a great jump into the air over the cliff. The snow storm was as vicious as ever, but from that vantage, the snowflakes fell towards the ground at the exact same rate as a medium two-legged body. Jackson and once-was-Jackson simultaneously enjoyed a perverse moment of joy at the unique and precious sight of flying within the rage of a storm, cushioned with ice crystals and dancing along the wind.

  All too soon, the nature of the universe made its inescapable law known, and the body of once-was-Jackson became irreparably damaged quite suddenly against both sharp rocks and a very solid canyon floor. The damage was, not surprisingly, incompatible with life, and the body expired.

  It viewed the carnage with the satisfaction of any type of predator, a clean kill with plenty of food for the day and beyond. With ethereal claws, it scooped out the soul-stuff of Jackson and pulled pieces of it apart, munching happily on the spiritual entrails of the two-legged thing. Two-legged things were by far tastiest, with different flavors and different feelings between them. No two were the same, and the variety was refreshing, almost addictive.

  It saved some of its prey for the next night, and it looked back up at the glowing entrance of the cave high on the cliff, the fire within a false blanket of security for the two-legged things inside. This one would only last it a few days, and then it would be hungry again. It wondered what kind of feast it might look forward to next. The cave dwellers might’ve been feeding it so far over the turning season, but it was going to be a long winter.

  ***

  Todd Glasscock has been published in the Mineral Wells-Index, Cleburne Times-Review, The City Review in Waco, Waco Today, Round Rock Leader, Austin American-Statesman, Book Page, 76107 Magazine, The Creatives, & Bewildering Stories. Todd was an editor at TSTC Publishing at the Texas State Technical College in Waco, TX, as well as the lifestyles and religion editor at the Temple Daily Telegram. He lives in Mineral Wells, Texas. @exileon9thst, Exile on Ninth Street.

  THE WATCHERS

  by Todd Glasscock

  A Vignette About an Alien Invasion No One Cared to Attend

  In the early part of the twenty-first century, there were people who believed we were being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s; those people were dismissed as loons, quacks who went out to New Mexico and watched for the Grays to emerge from Area 51.

  At the time, I thought such people were at the very least misinformed, pretty damn weird, and probably sold jars of lime Gatorade to tourists believing they were buying alien urine. So it goes.

  In my late forties, I decided to begin taking a morning constitutional on the advice from the books of health gurus—to some these gurus are quacks as well—and on one of these walks, on a crisp cloudless October morning, in a quaint middle-class neighborhood west of my flat, I passed by a nice red-brick house of a family I knew only slightly, when I heard a slight rustling from their hedges.

  I stopped and listened, thinking it was only a squirrel or a bird, or perhaps a lizard. But the sunlight dappling through the shade tree in the front yard revealed something else—an azure sparkle through the leaves. At first, I dismissed it as some piece of trash, a beer can perhaps, caught in the leaves.

  Later, after we knew the truth of the matter, some who saw the pictures I took with my camera phone said they heard hissing in the night sky. Others heard nothing, but reported a mass of comets shooting through the sky, an unusual enough phenomenon little reported by the media, which was too busy analyzing Kanye West’s decision to go into fashion design.

  Anyhow, I started on my way once more, but then the rustling in the hedges erupted again. I stopped and turned and watched. Something was rising steadily above the leaves and limbs. I brought my camera into focus.

  A glowing blue globe peeked from over the edge of the hedge. I trembled but felt compelled to approached, almost as if the Thing were laying some kind of Jedi-mind-trick on me.

  The Thing rose silently. There were no visible means of propulsion. Clearly, a technology superior to any on Earth—as far a we know (who, after all, really knows just what the frak is going on at Area 51?).

  I moved closer. It hovered in place over the hedge, like a lawn ornament. I saw no massive hole, no sign of impact whatsoever. It made no threatening moves, no sound, but I knew better. I knew from sci-fi flicks that nothing good could come of this.

  I knew the invasion was on, and at the moment, was its only witness on this too quiet street . . .

  ***

  Pat Hauldren (AKA Alley) has been published in Bewildering Stories, Paradigm, FYI Television, Rattle and Hum Sports, North Texas eNews, Romance Writers of America, & more. A retired Quality Control Manager & electronic technician, Pat’s editing work includes Lorelei Buckley’s Lighthouse: Midnight Road (Volume 1), Jaleta Clegg’s Nexus Point: The Fall of the Altairan Empire 1, Budding Poets II, & others. This story, “Catsup,” has been published in Bewildering Stories issue 346 and Best of Third Quarterly Review 2009 for Bewildering Stories. She enjoys Dallas Stars hockey, tai chi, ceramics, & traveling. @alleypat, www.pathauldren.net, www.editalley.com.

  CATSUP

  by Pat Hauldren

  Devy wouldn't be killing anything today.

  She held the receiver to her ear. The caller had long since hung up. She stared out tall kitchen windows to the back yard. Yellow butterflies alighted on purple morning glories. A muddied wasps' nest darkened a corner of the roof overhang on the north end.

  Gotta spray again, she thought, then quickly repented, crossing herself.

  She shook off the impending lethargy. Set the phone on the counter. She had to go shopping today. That was something to look forward to. A few hours at the grocery would be good for Devy, stave off the gloominess of avoiding the inevitable.

  Hubby never seemed to mind that dinner wasn’t cooked or that there wasn’t anything in the house to eat. He’d arrive home from a hard day at work and see no dinner on the table, no wafting aromas of stew or rump roast or even frozen chicken fingers. He’d smile and grab her around her waist, giving her his little welcome home kiss, then they’d head out the door for dinner. How could she be so lucky yet feel so deprived?

  Week after week, she’d drive to the store, determined this time she’d
fill the shopping cart with bags and boxes, select the best cuts of meat, use her carefully clipped coupons wisely, yet she always returned home empty handed. And depressed. Still on the prowl for food. She dared not talk to a professional, afraid she’d get locked up, told she was mental.

  Her sister gave her pills. Somehow, sis always had pills. Devy supposed that’s how her sister coped, how she led her idyllic life – PTA, monthly women’s book club, dinner for her husband every night, even weekend barbys. Pills seemed to work for sis, but not for Devy.

  After a few weeks, the medicated euphoria couldn’t dull her needs. She’d pace the house, cleaning until her fingers numbed. She’d jog, hoping exercise would suffice, and sometimes it did, most often, it didn’t.

  Strays still roamed the neighborhood.

  On the days she hit that joggers high, she found herself away from suburbia, further into town, where homeless stood begging on street corners. Sometimes, she get them to come home with her. She’d hail a cab, sweating and chattering all the way, happy to be a good housewife one more time.

  Outside, a tabby rubbed against a corner on the patio. Devy watched it, eyeing its thick muscled frame, a tom with a few battle scars interrupting his furry streaks. She remembered when she had cats. Kitty One and Kitty Two. She’d raised them from kittens, given to her by her sister, who had a mess of them in cages in her garage. Guess Sis felt sorry for her. Sis said to breed them, but they didn’t last that long. Pets in Devy’s house didn’t last long at all.

  Not that hubby ever noticed. He didn’t notice the cats when they were here. He didn’t notice them when they weren’t. He hadn’t paid attention to their dog either, a slobbery Rotty they’d rescued from the pound. He said it’d be a good watch dog, but Devy was the one doing the watching. Watching and waiting while it grew into a massive black and brown nuisance.

  One day, the dog was gone. Devy remembered that day clearly. It was one of those rare occasions when she had cooked dinner for her husband.

  A Texas cold front had set in with heavy bruised-bottomed clouds filling the sky. Not a lick of sunlight penetrated the bloated barrier. A chilly wind cut around corners and whirled down the chimney, stirring ashes she hadn’t cleaned in years. She was content to hide inside her ranch style house, wrapped in her mother’s hand-crocheted afghan.

  It had been a long time since she’d cooked. For weeks, they’d eaten at every restaurant and café within thirty miles, even done take-away. Hubby had entertained her with horror movies and popcorn, weekend trips to B&B’s, volunteered at homeless shelters and pet rescue centers, even toured a morgue at her request, but the dullness of winter crept into her soul. All she wanted was to be still, be quiet, be less alive long enough to ride out the cold front.

  That was the last day she cooked. That day, the dog barked, and kept barking, on and on, at every little thing – the blue jay on the fence, the crisp brown leaves fluttering across the winter-hardy Bermuda, neighbors’ trash blown against the sliding glass door, flapping as if it wanted inside. The Rotty barked until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  They’d had mutton that night, lean shanks marinated in homemade sauce and broiled in the oven. Scalloped potatoes and broccoli with cheese sauce. Hubby had enjoyed it, praised it, and for a few hours, she was content. She’d done her duty as a loving suburban housewife.

  Devy blinked back to the present. The tabby turned away from the back door, running off to its cat world. Too bad. Devy grabbed her purse, checking for her wallet. Shopping. She could do it. Simple. Get in the car, drive down the street, get out of the car, push a shopping cart, fill the shopping cart, pay and come back home. Wives did it every day. She fingered her keys out of the side pocket, gripping them tight till the edges cut her palm. Don’t panic. Stay calm. As much as she knew what she needed to do, she remained frozen, unable to leave.

  She looked around the kitchen. The fridge beckoned, hungry to be filled. The stove bulged, threatening to open its oven door and suck her inside. She knew she should have replaced the oven bulb.

  She swallowed a dry gulp. Something wet dripped down her hand. Blood oozed from her fist, collected and funneled through the creases. Orbs of bright red fluid fell, slowly, quietly, to the just-mopped linoleum. She laid her hand across the wood cutting board. A violent tremor took her. Tongue flicking, she licked her hand, then collapsed to her knees to lick the floor.

  Let hubby take her out to dinner. She wouldn’t be killing anything today.

  ***

  Grace Roeber, alias GRR, writes young adult speculative fiction. Her strong science-based stories are of younger protagonists who typically deal with darker concepts and which are set within an expanded Universe amid hints of the fantastic. The author holds a BA in business and is an active member of the North Texas Speculative Fiction Workshop (www.ntsfw.com).

  GAMBIT

  by GRR

  ‘Level-D dock, unsecured.’ A klaxon blared as Emily jerked alert, listening to the sounds of human screams amid the Argo’s dispassionate warnings.

  Marian. Sweat dotted Emily’s forehead as she watched flashes of blue energy, those of heavy blaster fire, halo the dark corridor. The deadly bolts ricocheted off the walls to her left, but Emily resisted, pressing her thin body against the lift doors. She wouldn’t run. She couldn’t leave Marion. She was…was the only grownup left. Emily stiffened. The gunfire, Marion, everything stopped.

  Hope tapped jittery fingers upon the holster that Emily wore. Marion had insisted she wear a weapon. Emily fingered a double-belted holster and the .44 S that the medical officer had wrapped around her slender waist. Slowly, she lifted the weapon from its holsters. Donovan, the Argo’s weapons instructor, taught every Argo kid how to shoot. Captain’s orders after first mutiny and Emily shuddered. The .44 was a shredder, a weapon usually issued to older kids like teenagers. Not to kids like her. A .44’s projectile bored a single tiny hole. The bullet churned and stirred until everything got all tore up on the inside of its victims. The .44’s were evil things, kept over from the ‘left behind’ time.

  Grating scrapes scratched against the Argo’s steely metal floor and Emily’s nostrils flared, her fear on edge. No, that wasn’t Marian. She had a nose and could smell the fishy thing that approached. Emily rubbed the hair of the soft doll that lay tucked amid the holster’s stiff coils, listening as the beast’s thick nails dragged. Its claws probably wet with human blood. Be brave. Look around the corner. Be sure it wasn’t Marian, walking wounded. No. no. Marian told her what to do. If she never came back.

  Leave.

  Emily turned and pressed a hand to the lift’s panel and an Argo sensor recognized her DNA and palm print. Both doors hissed aside while behind her, the alien’s steps halted. On, off, on, off. The Argo’s emergency lighting pulsed in tandem with her racing heart. Her father would never cut the Argo’s power. Not if there was any hope, but re-routing the ship’s environmental systems was a bridge command, so something was wrong. Had to be as her mother, Captain Augusta Revel, had often taken her daughter to the bridge. That’s exactly where the invaders must be. From down the corridor, the invader’s gritty steps quickened and Emily fingered a quick combination of commands. The lift doors closed and Emily ran. Let the aliens find their treat box empty. She’d go a different way up to the bridge.

  “No, no, no.” Emily slapped one palm against a wire mesh. She’d need an engineer’s EM kit to gain entrance into the ship’s locked air duct system. She rolled back against the wall and like a bad thought, the shredder caught at her hip. Emily shifted the weapon off her backside.

  Blue-white letters outlined CL-5, or ‘crew level five.’ Empty doorways gaped dark and waiting for the families who’d never return. The Gallant, the Argo’s secondary ship, had separated from the main ark several months ago. Now, only a small crew and their young families shepherded those colonists left yet in cryo-sleep, drifting toward a different kind of hope. Everyone at peace and asleep during an alien invasion.

  Emily wiped awa
y at her exhaustion. The nasties, those aliens, were probably too busy eating poor Marian to worry about finding her. Her throat squeezed-in tight as she tugged the doll loose from the holster. The little soldier’s beret was missing. But being out of uniform happened during battle. She smoothed a tight braid. Marian wore her hair just like her mother’s. But mom was gone, too. Her vision blurred, tears warped the vision of the tiny face in her hands.

  Captain Augusta Revel had volunteered her service upon the Gallant, but under duress. She’d return the mutineers to homeworld. Earth. Her doll was the captain’s going away forever gift. Emily tucked the toy soldier away. Don’t cry. Never cry. She’d promised her captain that much.

  Sweat dribbled down her forehead. The aliens like it hot or something? Emily rubbed a salty sting from her eyes. What other things did the invaders like, or not like? Emily stared at the writing along the corridors. CL-5. Would she know about letters, or reading, without school lessons? Her jaw dropped open and Emily smiled. So…all these funny squiggles wouldn’t mean much to those nasties. So, the aliens might still be learning about the Argo. Maybe, maybe they didn’t know about the ventilation system, yet. Or, all the secret ways to get around a generation ship. She had rank now. Emily stood. She was the last survivor and the captain’s daughter.

  “Zander,” she whispered. The Argo’s chief engineer would have an EM-kit.

  Emily maneuvered the gloomy corridors toward Zander’s living quarters but then jolted still. His doorway stood open though the chief engineer had been gone for months. Emily stepped toward the shadows. Slowly, she drifted into the dark of Zander’s life.