Aliens - The Truth is Coming (Book of Aliens 1)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  “What’s your point? You’re using up my valuable time.”

  “Busy eh?”

  “Yeah, busy.”

  The smile turned sarcastic. “So when was your last case, Hanson?”

  “Thanks for the coffee.” I stood and grabbed my coat from the back of the chair. “Now, if I’m not under arrest -”

  “Private First Class Bannerman, remember him?” the big one, White, asked.

  I sat down. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “What happened to Bannerman?”

  “Killed, like a lot of guys on that beach.”

  “What happened to his body?”

  “How the hell do I know? It was four years ago; I don’t remember much about it.” You liar. You remember everything. It was branded, red hot, into my brain.

  “He was found, halfway up the beach,” White said, “tagged, ready to be buried, and that’s the last anyone saw of him.”

  “That place was a mess.”

  “Maybe he never died.” Morrison said.

  “I saw him go down,” I answered. “He was dead before he hit the ground.”

  The third cop moved in. Short guy, dark hair, neat, cigarette jutting from his lip, blowing smoke in my face. This was Desoto. He dropped a report in front of me. There was a photo.

  No doubt about it. The face staring up at me was Rick Bannerman. He wore a suit. There was a woman beside him, in a bridal veil.

  “His wife, Angie, reported him missing five days ago.” Desoto shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense, seeing as you saw him die in ‘44.”

  “This is some kind of mistake.” I tried to be sceptical, but I was unnerved.

  Morrison shrugged then sat down opposite and offered me a cigarette.

  “What do you want from me, Morrison?” I said as I lit up.

  “To find your old war buddy.”

  “Why me? You’re the cops.”

  “You’re a PI. And we’re too noisy. He’ll hear us coming.” Morrison leaned back. “Besides, you were his friend. He’ll talk to you.”

  I shook my head. “Find another sucker -”

  “Interesting choice of clients you’ve had lately, Tom.”

  “My clients are my business.”

  “Not when their activities are police business, which makes your business,” Morrison leaned forward and fixed me with a hard stare. “Our business.”

  He was right. I’d stopped being fussy about clients. These days it was anything that made enough dough to pay my rent, alimony and bartender.

  “And when I find him?”

  “Get him to tell you what the hell is going on.”

  “You think this is some commie plot?”

  Morrison smiled an alligator smile. “Maybe its aliens from outer space. You going to do this?”

  “Do I have a choice?” I asked.

  2: Cellar

  The cops gave me an address.

  Rick’s bungalow was on the side of town that even looked nice in the rain. There was no car and no sign of life. You could tell, even before you rang the doorbell.

  I waited in the car until dark then hugged shadows all the way to the back of the house. I had keys that could get me into most places. I should have handed them in back when I swapped police-blue for khaki in ‘42, but it slipped my mind.

  Inside. Flashlight on. The kitchen and dining room were impeccable. The sink, however, was full of dirty dishes. Lounge; neat as well, except for the mug of congealed coffee and a mouldy sandwich.

  I shivered, but not because I was cold. I had begun to feel that I was not alone in here.

  Scared? Just like that morning on that beach? You were a real hero that day, weren’t you…?

  I moved on into the larger of the two bedrooms. The bed was unmade, men’s clothes strewn over the counterpane and floor. Someone had left in a hurry.

  A sound. A feeling.

  I wasn’t armed. I never carried a gun, not anymore.

  I ducked behind the door, waited. No one came.

  Sweating now, I went back out into the hall. There was a heap of unopened mail on the floor. It picked a handful of it up and took a look. Most of it was for Mr R Bannerman and Mrs A Bannerman. And then there was one for Miss A Willcott; Angie’s maiden name?

  An idea, a long shot, but sometimes long shots come up with the goods.

  I found the basement door in the kitchen, opened it and shone the flashlight down into the thick, solid black. My mouth was dry and I was scared. Yeah, I’d known that before, only the last time I felt that kind of scared, it was bullets. A million Kraut bullets, slicing through our ranks on Omaha Beach. That was real. That was blood, hot metal and screams. This was nothing but dust, spider webs and trash.

  The flashlight beam pushed back the dark to reveal a narrow set of steps that lead to a pair of dented and bruised filing cabinets. There were also boxes of documents heaped on an old table that had been stashed down there because, I guess, no one could bring themselves to throw it away. Nothing for it, but to take a look. Down there. I set off, taking it slow and steady. Didn’t want a broken ankle, I wanted to be able to get out of there fast if I needed to.

  I made it into the cellar intact and started pawing through the paperwork; invoices, letters.

  And school reports for Angie Willcot, yellowed with age.

  Okay, a lead, but finding what I was looking for meant staying here a little longer. And I didn’t want to that because -

  Something had followed me.

  That was bull. There was no one here but me. I had to pull myself together. I was acting like a frightened kid.

  Things moved in the dark.

  Hands shaking, I leafed through the reports. And found what I was looking for; the school kid Angie Willcot’s address. It was local, only a few blocks away. It was worth a shot.

  Because where do you go when you’re hurting? Back to mom and pop. If they are still alive, that is.

  I tore out the page and put it in my coat pocket.

  And saw ... figures, in the torch light.

  Ghosts.

  Shadow- men, wearing helmets, battledress, holding rifles.

  Christ…

  Them.

  I stumbled back, bumped into the table and went down, and then they were all over me and I could feel them, cold and whispering and oozing through me and telling me that it was my fault they died. Their voices were the roar of explosives and hot pounding of bullets and all I could taste was cold sand. I shrank back against the table, whimpering like a dog.

  Panic twisted me round to reach for the dank, crumbling basement wall. I had to get out, now, because if I didn’t, I’d end up back in the same crazy house they sent me to when they scooped me off Omaha Beach, ranting and pissing my pants.

  I’m sorry, guys…I’m sorry…

  They weren’t listening. They were ice in my blood, electric shocks in my nerves. They were pulling me inside out; they were smothering me.

  I saw the steps, ran for them, and scrambled upwards on all fours. Their silent voices clawed at me and tore away my strength.

  Wait for us, Sarge, don’t leave us....Christ...help us...HELP US...

  3: Ashes

  Angie’s address was a non-descript apartment block in a non-descript street. Non-descript, except for one thing: the place was a burned-out hulk, squeezed between two others that looked to be occupied, even though their facades were scorched from the smoke and heat of their neighbour’s demise.

  One thing wrong though, one thing that stopped me turning tail and giving up on this lead.

  There was a light in one of the windows, up on the third floor, flickering, weak, yellow.

  Angie’s mom and pop’s address was on the third floor.

  I didn’t need to ring the bell this time. The black hell that was once the foyer stank of ashes and rain. Debris crunched under my feet as I picked my way to the stairs.

  Out of breath and shivering
like a scared puppy, I made it to the third floor landing. There was a short passageway. The flickering yellow light spilled weakly from the apartment I wanted. The fire- blistered door was open a crack. I pushed at it and, as I stepped through, heard someone breathing, hard and fast.

  She was in the smaller of the two bedrooms, huddled against the wall. A candle flickered on the floor beside her. Then the dark was ripped apart by a noisy, yellow-white flash. I threw myself down, rolled, gathered myself into a crouch and threw myself at the woman.

  Angie Bannerman, nee Willcott, held the gun in two hands, shaking and screaming. I grabbed her arm and swung the weapon away to her right. The gun clattered on the floor. I held her until she went limp in my arms.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. There was little warmth in her voice.

  “Someone who’s on your side.” Was I? It felt like the right thing to say. “Tom Hanson, I’m a Private Detective and I’m trying to find Richard Bannerman.”

  “It wasn’t him, anymore,” she was urgent now. “He’d never been cruel before, not like that.”

  “Did he slap you around, Angie?”

  “He didn’t want to. He had to make me go away. I see that now. He was scared. People were watching us.”

  “Who was watching you?”

  She didn’t answer. She had gone rigid, and was looking over my shoulder. The fear in the ravaged lines of her face made my skin crawl. She gasped a single word.

  “Mom…”

  I spun around, and there they were.

  A man and a woman, featureless, shadow-formed, both of them whispering. I couldn’t make out any words and realised quickly that the voices were in my head, scratching around, not meant for me, meant for Angie. The smoke smell grew stronger, made it hard to breathe.

  “Go away,” Angie whispered. “Leave me alone.”

  I scrambled for the gun then up onto my feet.

  And more of them boiled into the room through the dead mouth that was once the doorway. I knew the others, Christ, I knew them well. They moved closer, spreading out to surround me, to press in with their cold, dead-hate.

  Angie surged to her feet, the candle in her hand, and thrust it towards the ghosts. They swirled back on themselves, like blown smoke, then reformed and rushed at her. She cried out, more in grief than fear, and held the candle as a vampire fighter in a movie would brandish a crucifix at Dracula. For a moment we were engulfed, and autumn night turned to June daylight and the air was filled with the hot tearing of machine-gun bullets and the whine of mortar shells, then the darkness was blasted outwards, over me, through me, cold darkness that sliced me open like a stiletto.

  And was gone.

  I grabbed her and hurled us towards the door then out onto the landing and downstairs where there were more ghosts. I forced myself through them, each touch, a memory, a darkness revealed.

  ***

  “Let me out!” Suddenly frantic, she slammed at the car door as I drove.

  “Angie,” I yelled. “For Chrissakes.”

  I headed downtown, towards light and people. But even here, among the bars, diners and all-night drugstores, there were still plenty of gaps and dark spaces.

  “Are you one of them?” she screamed at me. I smelled booze then, mixed with cigarettes and stale perfume.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

  “Let me go, Jesus, please let me go.”

  She collapsed into helpless, exhausted sobbing.

  “Who do you think I am, Angie?”

  “A watcher, a follower.”

  “One of those ghosts?”

  “No, not them. We were being watched and Ricky was going mad and he started an argument, over nothing, shouting and throwing things around. Then he slapped me…” The sobbing took over. That’s when I slowed the car and steered in close to the sidewalk. Lowlife swirled around us in the gaudy neon pandemonium. Not a good place to stop, but now I had the gun.

  “Had he hit you before?” I was gentle again.

  She shook her head. “Of course not. He loved me.”

  “Who were these watchers?”

  “How should I know?”

  I lit up.

  “Can I have a cigarette?”

  She took one from the pack. I held my lighter to its tip, the brief flare illuminated her face and showed me desolation.

  “Are the ghosts part of it?”

  “Not then.” She shuddered, sighed. “Not until I tried to find him. When I called…I heard whispering on the phone. Then they came. I ran away, home, I didn’t know where else to go, I was too mixed up – how do I know trust you? Let me out of this car.”

  I reached inside my jacket pocket and drew out the gun. Angie gasped, scrabbled for the door handle, until she saw I was holding it out to her, grip first.

  “It’s still loaded,” I said.

  After an eternity, she reached across and took it from me.

  I said; “You say you called someone. Was it Rick?”

  “I thought I knew where he had gone. But when I tried to drive there the ghosts were in the car. Mommy, Daddy… only it isn’t them, it can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you really trying to help me?”

  “I have a client who wants me to find your husband.”

  “A client?”

  “The cops. They know about the watchers. They think they’re agents, Soviets.” Mostly a lie, but I needed her on my side.

  “Why would the Soviets want to hurt Rick?”

  “I don’t know. He was a war hero. We were in the same outfit.” I was his sergeant. I let him down and he died. “Look, you can get out of this car any time you like. I’ll even take you to a hotel somewhere.”

  A pause. A moment. Then:

  “My parents died in that fire. Five years ago, before I met Rick. I was a hellcat. We had a fight, I made my mom cry, and broke pop’s heart. I stormed out. When I came home, drunk, it was too late…I saw the fire from two blocks away…”

  I waited a decent time, before asking; “You know where Rick might be?”

  “No. I don’t trust you.” Angie grabbed at the door handle again.

  “Go ahead.” I shrugged. “You’re not my prisoner.”

  I heard the door click, but she didn’t move.

  4: North

  There was a bungalow, a few miles upstate, on a deserted beach where Rick and Angie stayed when they wanted to get away from the city. It seemed like a good place to start.

  So, we headed north, and we were followed. The cops, watchers, ghosts, hell if I knew. They seemed one dark mass of harm, boiling into our wake and reaching towards us. The engine droned and the wipers fought their losing battle against the rain. Occasionally another light would burst out of the murk, drench us in white then fade away.

  “We have to stop,” Angie said. “I’m hungry, and I need the bathroom.”

  Stop? We can’t stop, they’ll catch us…

  But the idea of company, hot food and coffee was a good one. And rest. Christ, I needed a rest. My eyes were burning.

  We found a diner. Lonely, not quite deserted. It was warm and comfortable. I wanted to stay here forever. We sat by the window. I faced the door. We ordered coffee and two steak sandwiches. Angie disappeared into the restroom.

  A car pulled up outside. I peered out but it was too dark for detail. The lights stayed on and the car didn't move. Why didn’t they go, or come inside? Why the hell were they just sitting out there?

  Unless they were waiting.

  For us.

  But who really meant us harm? The cops were the watchers, I was sure of that. And they needed us to lead them to Rick. The ghosts? They didn’t drive cars. Did they?

  The car lights went out. A moment later a couple entered the diner. The pair of them were rain-wet and laughing, like kids. They were good-looking but middle-aged, which should have rung alarm bells. Middle-aged couples didn’t laugh togeth
er like that.

  They sat at the counter.

  The sandwich arrived. I ate it like a starving man.

  Angie was back. She picked at her food.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I said. “You need to get your strength up.”

  “You sound like my Pop.” She smiled for the first time since I met her.

  She gave up on the sandwich and curled both hands around her coffee cup.

  Rain pattered at the window.

  The middle-aged couple laughed.

  “Rick…What kind of a guy was he?” I asked.

  “You said you knew him.”

  “In the army, the war. That leaves a mark on you. Changes a guy.”

  “He was kind, quiet, romantic. I felt protected when I was with him. Is that the guy you remember?”

  “Pretty much, except for the romantic part.” And it was. Even on that beach, when his sergeant was belly-down in the sand, blubbering like a baby and the US army was being cut to ribbons before they could get more than a few yards from the tide line. He was the kind who just got on with his duty, and died for it.

  Only he didn’t.

  “He was a good guy,” I said.

  “Was?”

  “Is.”

  “Were you a cop?”

  “Before the war. Couldn’t do it no more once I came home.” And the department doesn’t employ anyone who’s spent time in the crazy house.

  The couple were making me antsy. They had brought something in here with them, something I couldn’t put my finger on, but it was cold and it was wrong.

  A second car pulled up outside. The place sure was busy for the time of night, and the locality.

  I tore at the last of the sandwich.

  ***

  The further we drove, the worse it got.

  The radio whispered big band music and Angie went to sleep, head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her. She was a client, she was a witness, she wasn’t mine, but at that moment, driving towards God knew what, I was glad of the warmth of her.

  Sometime, in the dark hours before dawn, I glimpsed the ocean. It glowed a little, no moon, cloud-hidden sky, but I could see it and I could smell it.

  Angie must have sensed it as well because she stirred, then started awake and slithered away from me as if I was a snake. She didn’t say anything though. Just yawned and asked where we were.