Terror from Outer Space

by Robert Vernon

  Though it was getting near closing time, the Last Chance Gas and Diner was still buzzing with activity. Grandma Fowler and her kitchen staff were just recovering from that evening’s rush of out-of-town visitors.

  Mike was expected to help out at the diner whenever things got to be too much to handle for the regular staff. And today had been one of those times. The diner was just starting to empty, and he was busy clearing away dirty dishes. Above him, in the corner of the room, the nightly news was playing on the TV.

  “Most people probably haven’t heard of the sleepy town of Ambrosia before,” the television reporter began. “But today that all changed. This is not only the nearest town to where this morning’s space shuttle accident occurred, it also happens to be the hometown of one of the crew members, Commander Ron Schaeffer.” The reporter took a dramatic pause and tried to look as earnest as possible. “His wife and children were here today when the tragedy occurred.”

  Mike set down his bus tray and wearily looked up at the television set. He watched as footage that had been shot earlier in the day began to play.

  The handheld camera zoomed in to focus on a grief-stricken Rebekah Schaeffer. She clutched her daughters as she tried to make her way through a sea of reporters. They were shouting questions and pushing microphones in her face. Sheriff Smitty was by her side, trying to open a path for her to gain entry into her home.

  “Get back . . . Get back . . . Please!” Smitty pleaded. “No! She has nothing to say right now. I said to get back! C’mon! Show a little decency!”

  Reporters pushed and shoved as they jockeyed for the best angle. In all the mayhem, little Chloe was beginning to cry. Rebekah kept her head down and tried to fish the house keys out of her purse. But before they could get into the house, a reporter shoved a microphone in Rebekah’s face again and shouted, “Mrs. Schaeffer! Mrs. Schaeffer! What were you thinking when you watched the shuttle explode?”

  Smitty lunged for the reporter, but before Mike could see what happened next, the television blinked off.

  “That’s enough of that!” Grandma Fowler looked at Mike and shook her head. “Disgusting.”

  As Mike went back to his work, the front door suddenly burst open. Ben, Winnie, and Spence rushed in, visibly excited.

  “Mike! Guess what! Guess what!” Ben yelled. All three kids ran over to where Mike was working. “Smitty wants to see us at his office tomorrow morning. And guess why!”

  “It has to do with Buchanan and the stolen goods we recovered!” Winnie couldn’t help but spill some of the beans.

  Mike looked up from his work. The expression on his face was both tired and disheartened. “I’m kinda busy right now, guys.”

  “But, Mike!” Ben was practically dancing with joy. “We’re gonna be rich! Filthy rich!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘rich,’” Spence clarified. “But it turns out that there was a reward being offered on some of the items we recovered.”

  “Bet you’re not too busy now.” Ben rubbed his hands together, obviously thinking of all the comic books and candy he would buy.

  “Maybe we should meet tomorrow before we go see Smitty,” Winnie suggested. “What time sounds good, Mike?”

  Mike began clearing the table again. “I can’t make it.”

  “Oh, I get it.” Ben assumed Mike was teasing. “Why pick up a huge reward when you can make a few quarters here at the diner, right?”

  “Listen, I appreciate that you delivered the message. But, like I said, I’m a little busy right now. Okay?” Mike pushed his way past them.

  “Okaaay . . .” Spence said with a puzzled look on his face. “I wonder what’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know,” Winnie said with a shrug.

  Mike could still hear Spence and the others, but he kept working.

  Ben suddenly brightened. “Hey! Do you guys feel like a malt? Let’s start spending some of our reward money.”

  “We haven’t got it yet,” Spence reminded him as they sat down at a table.

  At the other end of the diner, Smitty entered, looking beat up by the day’s events. He waved a weary “hello” to Pop and Gail, who were at the cash register.

  “Smitty!” Gail waved him over to join them. “We just watched what happened at Rebekah’s house. I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, that’s one of the reasons I dropped by.” Smitty removed his cowboy hat and sat down on a stool at the counter. “As you can imagine, Rebekah and the girls are having a tough go of it right now. And I was thinking—it would sure be nice if you all could come alongside them and offer whatever support they might need.” Smitty paused and awkwardly studied the brim of his hat. “Since your family has, well, you know . . . been through something similar.”

  Gail didn’t hesitate. “Of course we will, Smitty. Since tomorrow’s Sunday, I was planning to drop off some breakfast at Rebekah’s house and see if she wanted to go to church.”

  “That’s perfect. I really appreciate it.” Smitty got up and headed to his usual booth. “Gail, can you set me up with whatever’s on special tonight?”

  “One chicken-fried steak coming up!”

  Gail walked back to the kitchen and set the order on the ledge of the pass-thru window. Mike was nearby, making a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Mike, did you hear what Smitty said?” his mother asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you come with me tomorrow morning? Perhaps you could talk to Rachel. You know, she looks up to you.”

  “I don’t think so, Mom.”

  “C’mon, Mike. I think it might really help the girls if you—”

  “What would I say?” he interrupted.

  “Well, I think,” Gail started to respond.

  “I mean, really. What could I possibly say that would make them feel better? Or give them any hope?” Mike let the question hang in the air for a moment before leaving to resume his duties.

  He’d seen the deep look of concern on his mom’s face, but he kept moving. He approached Smitty’s booth and set a cup of coffee down in front of him.

  “Thanks, Mike. I—” Smitty’s police walkie-talkie suddenly sounded its alert tones, followed by the voice of Arlene.

  “Sheriff Smitty, come in.”

  “Go ahead, Arlene,” Smitty responded.

  “Smitty, I just got a call from the Wilsons. You know, that hippie couple that lives out near Indian Springs?”

  “I know who they are. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, Skye said that—get this—a spaceship landed in their front yard.”

  “Come again, Arlene. Did you say ‘spaceship’?”

  “Yep. That’s what she claims. She wanted you to come out there right away. She also said something about aliens. And she wanted me to warn you that they were the acid-for-blood kind. What do you make of that, Smitty?”

  Smitty pushed the cup of coffee away and put on his cowboy hat. “Oh, who knows what kinds of herbs those two have mixed together this time. I’m on my way out there, Arlene. Smitty out.”

  Smitty threw a couple of dollars onto the table and turned to Mike. “Tell your mom to put a hold on that special. This sounds like it might take a while.”

  Mike had heard the radio call, and he figured that Winnie, Ben, and Spence had overheard some of it too from their nearby table. Once Smitty had exited the diner, they approached him.

  “Mike, is this a case right up our alley or what?” Winnie exclaimed.

  “Spaceships? Aliens? I don’t know,” Spence said skeptically.

  “But if it is the real thing, this could be HUGE! This calls for an emergency meeting.” Ben nudged Mike in the ribs with his elbow. “Right, Mike?”

  “Like I said, I’m busy!” Mike turned his back to them and returned to his work.

  “What is wrong with you, Mike?” Winnie asked. “Are you playing some kind of game or just trying to be rude on purpose?”

  Mike spun around to face them. “Look, I don’t know how much clearer I can make th
is: Leave me alone!”

  The words rang out louder than Mike had intended.

  At the far end of the counter, Pop looked up from his newspaper. He watched as Mike disappeared into the back kitchen, leaving his friends standing in the middle of the room, with hurt and bewildered expressions on their faces.

  When Pop entered the kitchen, he found Mike busy washing dishes. Pop picked up a dish towel and joined him at the sink.

  “Got a feeling I know what you’re going through.” Pop took a clean dish out of Mike’s hand and started drying it. “Been there more times than I care to admit.”

  Mike made no reply and continued to wash the plates.

  “It’s okay,” Pop assured him. “You don’t have to talk right now if you don’t want to.”

  They both stood there, silently working for several minutes.

  Mike finally looked up. Pop could now see that his grandson was fighting to control his emotions.

  “Why’d He do it, Pop?” Mike asked.

  “Who?” Pop wondered.

  “God. Why does He sometimes take dads away from their families?”

  Pop paused and looked Mike in the eyes. “I—I don’t know, Mike. I honestly don’t know.”

  “Me neither,” Mike said softly.

  “But I can tell you what I do know,” Pop continued. “God is holy. That means He’s great and completely good. There is no evil in Him. In the book of Lamentations, it says that God does not enjoy hurting people or causing them sorrow.”

  Mike stared down into the dishwater, listening.

  “I also know that we can absolutely trust God because He loves us,” Pop said. “And we can take whatever trouble we’re facing to Him in prayer because He wants to hear from us. He’s our loving, heavenly Father.”

  “I pray to God every day, Pop.” A sad expression came over Mike’s face. “But He won’t answer.”

  “Well, Mike, sometimes it just takes time for us to see—”

  “I’ve given Him time!” Mike’s sadness had turned to anger. “But it’s been years!”

  A plate slipped from Mike’s hands and crashed to the floor. Instinctively, he tried to grab it but winced as a sharp edge cut his finger.

  “Ooh! Let me see that, Mike.” Pop examined Mike’s hand. “Yeah, you cut yourself pretty good.”

  “Aw, it doesn’t hurt much,” Mike said.

  “We’d best wash it and get a bandage on there, so it doesn’t get infected.” Pop grabbed a nearby first-aid kit. “Now let me see that finger again. And hold still.”

  Pop began to bandage Mike’s finger. He glanced up and saw tears welling up in Mike’s eyes. “Am I hurting you?” Pop asked.

  “No,” Mike assured him. “It’s just that—I’m not asking God for much. Just an answer! All I want to know—one way or the other—is if my dad is still alive. Pop, why can’t God at least tell me that much?”

  Pop had tears in his own eyes as well. “Mike, you’re not the only one who lost a loved one when that fighter jet went down. He was your dad . . . but he was my son.” Pop quickly wiped his eyes and then went back to treating Mike’s finger. “But I get through it. And do you know how?”

  Mike shook his head no.

  “I focus on what I know is true. Second Corinthians 5:7 tells us that ‘we walk by faith, not by sight.’ I don’t pretend to know what God is doing all the time. But I do know that I’m supposed to trust Him. Even when it doesn’t make any sense. That’s called faith. And so—even though it’s not always easy—that’s what I try to do. Day by day. Hour by hour. One step at a time. And as much as it hurts, Mike, that’s what you’ve got to do too.” Pop finished wrapping the finger and ruffled the boy’s hair. “There you go. Change that bandage once more tomorrow and it should heal nicely.”

  Mike looked up at his grandfather and wearily smiled. “I will, Pop.”

  Chapter 6

  SHERIFF SMITTY’S TRUCK still sported the angry scrape down its side where it had been sideswiped. Smitty had managed to temporarily reattach the door so he could drive the truck. He planned to take it to the collision repair shop after things in town calmed down. Smitty peered intently out the windshield as he tried to quickly—yet safely—navigate the dark, deserted dirt road ahead. He knew it was his duty to respond to 911 calls as fast as he possibly could—even if they sounded crazy; what police call a “5150.”

  Smitty had never had trouble with the Wilsons before. But aliens? Flying saucers? It sure sounded crazy.

  It was hard for Smitty to gauge exactly how far he had driven. In the desert, the landscape could all begin to look the same—especially in the dark. But he figured he should be nearing Indian Springs and the Wilsons’ trailer home any time now. Unless he had somehow already gone past it.

  Smitty pulled his truck over to the side of the road and examined a topographic map of the area. The map indicated that Lonesome Butte should be directly east of his current position. He doubted he would be able to see the butte in the dark, but he looked out the window anyway. Outside the window, a greenish fog was rolling in around the truck.

  “What in the blue blazes?” Smitty said. “What’s fog doing out here?”

  Fog wasn’t completely unheard of in the Southwest desert. Sometimes it would appear in the winter months when the air was cool. But those occurrences were rare, and the fog never grew very dense. It was now late spring, and the weather was already hot. It would be impossible for fog to be here now.

  Without turning off the ignition, Smitty stepped out of the truck to investigate. He immediately noticed a strange odor in the air. A smell he couldn’t quite place. The fog continued to thicken. Even with the headlights of his truck on, Smitty could only see about seven yards ahead.

  Smitty hadn’t seen fog this thick since he had been in the Marines. Back in 1969, Smitty, and the platoon he led, were fighting in the northern mountain region of Vietnam. For almost an entire week, the fog had become particularly thick. They tried to patrol the mountain trails, but most of the time they couldn’t see where they were going. Several times they stumbled across enemy Vietcong guerrilla soldiers—only becoming aware of their existence when it was too late. The sudden panic, gunfire, and bloodshed were horrific memories he had tried to forget.

  Smitty was about to climb back into his truck when he saw something dart through the headlight beams of his truck. He didn’t get a good look at what it was—but it appeared to be a man.

  “Hey! Who’s there?” Smitty called.

  There was no answer.

  Smitty reached into his truck and turned off the ignition. With the engine off, his ears were able to make out what sounded like nearby voices, whispering back and forth.

  “Lyle? Skye Wilson?” Smitty grabbed the flashlight he kept inside the truck and pointed its beam to where he last heard the whispers. The fog was so thick that the flashlight beam almost made things worse.

  “This is Sheriff Theodore Smitty of the county sheriff’s department,” Smitty called into the fog. “Identify yourself!”

  Once again, there was no response.

  Smitty slowly crept forward through the thick mist. He panned the flashlight back and forth, not sure of who or what he would find. One thing he was sure of: He wasn’t alone.

  Smitty stood silently, listening for almost an entire minute before he decided it would be best to return to his vehicle. The fog was so thick he could barely make out the truck’s headlights. But as he moved forward, he suddenly saw the silhouette of a figure move between himself and the truck.

  “Hey you! Stop!” Smitty stumbled forward. The figure disappeared again, but Smitty could hear running feet so he chased after the noise. He was running almost completely blind, but it seemed that he was catching up to whatever was in front of him. With each step he grew closer until he could just make out the shape of a figure running in front of him. Smitty lunged forward, grabbed the figure by the shoulder, and spun it around.

  Smitty’s jaw dropped open in disbelief. The skinny man he
had captured was wearing a conical Asian rice hat. Ammo belts crisscrossed his khaki shirt. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. Smitty knew immediately what he was—a Vietcong guerrilla soldier.

  Smitty was in such shock that he didn’t try to stop the man as he pulled away and disappeared back into the fog.

  None of it made any sense. The fog, the enemy soldier . . . This was the good ol’ USA, not Vietnam. The war had been over for twenty years.

  Smitty thought that maybe he could regain his bearings if he returned to his truck. He could still just barely make out the headlights and headed in that direction.

  The man he ran into must’ve alerted others because Smitty could hear more footsteps and multiple angry voices. Their dialect was unmistakably Vietnamese. The sound of their voices and footsteps came from all directions, closing in on Smitty’s position.

  Smitty reached his truck and tried to carefully open the door without making a sound. But the moment he unlatched the door, the “key-in-ignition” warning chimed loudly. As if in response, a volley of shots rang out. The truck’s windshield and side mirror exploded in a hail of gunfire. In one quick move, Smitty dove away from the truck, pulled his service revolver, and rolled to a prone defensive position.

  “I’m a police officer!” Smitty called. “Put down your weapons! I don’t want to hurt anybody!”

  All was quiet for a few moments. Then Smitty heard voices whispering again and the metallic “ping” of a pin being pulled. A grenade bounced out of the fog and landed only a few feet away. Knowing he had only seconds to escape, Smitty jumped to his feet and began to run.

  Grace Church of Ambrosia sat right on the edge of the city limits. The white-steepled building could hold up to three hundred people. This Sunday morning it was almost entirely full.

  The Fowlers were seated near the front, next to the Schaeffers. Winnie, Ben, and Spence were in attendance with their families as well.

  “I see many new faces here this morning,” Pastor Tom Givens said as he looked up from his sermon notes and studied the congregation before him. “I’m sure many of you came here looking to make sense of yesterday’s tragedy.”