“Can you watch the register while I’m back there?” Cecil asked.
Bubba nodded. “Yeah, I know the drill. Ain’t the first time I’ve covered for your sorry ass,” Bubba said, taking a detour at the soda dispenser. He grabbed a large cup and put a little liquid from each nozzle into it.
“Why are you still being so sour?” Cecil asked.
“Cause you’re too mean to live at times, man,” Bubba said, securing a plastic top to his drink and sticking a straw through it. “It gets awful tiring.”
Cecil couldn’t argue with the big man. He didn’t like being so agitated. It was just who he was. Bubba had known him a long time. Why the sudden surprise? “You come out to the garage and get me if you need something,” Cecil said, leaving the store.
Cecil stepped outside into the night. He saw the dark woods on the edge of the lot, and he could hear brisk traffic on the Jacksboro. He spotted the van, pulled up next the garage doors.
“Hey! Cecil McGee!”
Cecil turned back toward the woods. He faced a small crowd of trick-or-treaters, spear-headed by the pirate and ninja turtle he had run out of the store earlier. They let loose at him with eggs.
“Son of a mother fucker!” he screamed, covering his face as the eggs pelted him and the store windows.
The kids laughed and scurried into the shadows.
“You little pricks! I know who each and every one of you is! I’ll eat your parents and screw your dogs!” Cecil shrieked after them.
“Happy Halloween faggot!” one of them called back from the darkness of the woods.
“I got a gay cousin, man! That’s a hate crime!” Cecil shouted at them.
He could hear their laughter growing fainter. He looked at the store windows. They were a mess. “Who is gonna clean that shit up?” Cecil wondered.
They had only caught him once but it was a good one, right in the center of his chest. He wiped at the mess and flicked egg whites off of his fingertips.
“God damn, I hate Halloween,” he muttered to no one as he walked to the van.
Cecil dug out his store keys and unlocked the bay door of the garage. He rolled it up and leaned in, switching on the fluorescents. He climbed into the van and saw that the key was stuck into the ignition. The vehicle was clean. Cecil figured it was a rental. There was a plywood barricade behind him that hid the contents of the back.
He turned the key and fired the van up, revving the engine. It stuttered and sucked at gas. Cecil pulled the van inside and cut it off. The engine coughed and shook before the vehicle fell silent.
“Yep, you’re ailing, darling,” Cecil whispered, climbing back out and shutting the van door.
He pulled the rolling garage door down for privacy. He also didn’t want to encourage more sickly vehicles this time of night. Cecil took a thick red rag from the tool counter and cleaned his shirt. He tossed the rag aside and looked for the handheld diagnostic reader. Cecil didn’t know all of the codes on it, but there was a manual for it buried somewhere in the garage.
Although he was allowed to do little more than oil changes and air filter replacements, Cecil was sure he could cure the van. It was either the carburetor or fuel filter; these were the suspects he was eyeing. But God damn the garage was a sty. He looked for the reader, spreading the oily tools around on the counter that ran the distance of the double garage on the far wall.
No one ever cleaned or put anything away when they were done with it, and Cecil knew his Daddy would make this mess a project for his son. He had told his father to make work stations for all the mechanics and he was sure his suggestion would bring order and accountability on the men. But although Daddy would climb up Cecil’s ass for the slightest infraction, the man never said boo to his technicians. Cecil was going to fix that God damned van and prove to his father that he was a horse worth betting on- win, place or show.
He looked and looked, his hands getting filthier as he dug around. Cecil could feel that temper of his heating up again. Nothing pissed him off worse than not being able to find something.
His mouth opened and his lips stood ready to pour some creative obscenities on this predicament when he felt something.
He froze.
Cecil felt a tickle in his brain. He turned slowly, focusing on the van. Taking a battery-operated screwdriver from the messy tool counter, he walked to the rear of the vehicle.
He inspected the padlock. Lifting it up, he inserted the small flathead tip of the screwdriver into the lock. Cecil turned the electric tool on and shoved the tip further inside the padlock. He burrowed around for awhile, and then turned the tool off. Cecil tugged at the lock, but it held firm.
Something inside of him revised the plan and Cecil took the screwdriver to the security hasp. He took the screws from it. Cecil then hammered on the lock with the handle end of the electric screwdriver. The lock and hardware fell to the ground. He no longer required the tool in his hand. He relaxed his grip and it bounced against the concrete floor.
Cecil grasped the back door handle, and opened the door slowly.
The cab light came on, and Cecil stared at a metallic cylinder. It looked like a coffin. Cold came off of it and Cecil could see his breath suddenly materialize.
He crept in, hunched over, and scooted to the object. He ran his hands down the cold metal, and he could feel it vibrating and humming beneath his touch.
Cecil found a keypad, illuminated by a faint blue light, at the top front of the container. The buttons on the control keypad were engraved with the numbers one through nine with a zero that must have represented ten. Cecil stared at the keypad for several seconds, and then his hand quickly began pressing a series of numbers. His fingers moved so fast that the keypad was actually beginning to heat.
Cecil pushed the enter key and stood back. The keypad flashed three times, and then the top half of the container opened slowly. A thick, cold fog seeped out, and filled the van quickly.
A grey hand that was tipped with tendrils emerged slowly from the fog. The tendrils attached themselves to Cecil’s face. When this happened, the cab light flickered and went out. Cecil could suddenly feel his vitality slip away as the clutch on him strengthened.
A vision erupted in Cecil’s head. He stared through eyes that were not his own. He was in a strange place. A city was in ruins. Dead bodies were strewn everywhere. Buildings burned and crumbled downward. The smoke in the heavens was so thick that the day sky was blackened and red clouds sounded off in the air.
Something gripped Cecil’s leg. He looked down and stared into the dying face of a child. It was humanoid, but the face alien. Its skin tone was bright yellow and its big bug eyes burned with fright. It said a word in a tongue Cecil had never heard. But he understood.
Why?
Cecil reached down with the tendril fingertips that were feeding him this knowledge. He tenderly caressed the alien child’s face, and then he sucked out what little life was left. The child collapsed, and joined the ranks of the dead. Cecil turned and began walking toward a space craft. He stepped over ruins, pools of alien blood and corpses. Turning back to regard the quiet, dead planet once more before boarding his craft, he snickered evilly.
He drove his craft from the planet and steered into space. He glanced into the rear view screen, and he saw what little light and life the planet held dim. It quickly became as cold and barren as a moon. Cecil looked ahead to his next destination.
The controls of the alien ship were composed of colored radiance and they sparkled in front of Cecil’s face. His hands swiped at the projected reins that danced in front of him, and the stars blurred as the ship moved at an incredible speed. A tendril stirred another set of controls and a holographic map appeared on the view screen in front of him. The alien fingers began to enter information on what looked to be a keyboard made of light. A destination enlarged on the screen, and Cecil plotted a course.
Suddenly, a screeching alarm sounded. The ship lurched and shook. An emergency control stick popped up from
the seat that Cecil sat on. His alien fingers pulled back on the manual lever and the rush of hyperspace settled. The stars froze and the craft fell into a new galaxy. Still the alarms sang. The console of light blinked and disappeared and the cockpit grew darker. The ship’s power flickered on and off.
Cecil spotted a blue planet in the distance and pulled the manual steering device toward it. More malfunctions chirped but the ship sped toward the planet.
He wrestled with the failing controls as the craft entered the planet’s atmosphere and fell toward its soil.
It was night, and very little light shone on this quiet little world. Cecil tried to level off the vehicle and scrape its belly rather than bury its nose into the surface. He shot over a small gathering of buildings and the lights on his ship illuminated a sign that read:
Pleasant Storm General Store
He fought with the strength of both arms against the steering lever, but still his vessel struck some large trees and flipped. The ship crashed into the earth. The vehicle caved in all around him and Cecil’s body was slammed hard by the impact. The lights of the ship died altogether, and Cecil was plunged into darkness.
His body felt tremendous pain and he couldn’t move. He became as still as the dead, and he lay there. His flesh became cold very quickly.
Cecil heard voices, and felt things being moved around. Hands were on him, and his body was unstrapped from his seat and pulled from the remains of his ship. He was put down on soft, moist grass, his unblinking black eyes staring up at the night sky. A column of smoke spiraled upward.
Curious and scared pink faces crept into his eyesight. The men, three of them in all, studied him with great fascination. They wore antiquated and dirty garments. One was middle-aged and heavily bearded. One was a much younger man, school-aged still, perhaps. The last of the trio was a male much older in years who wore the attire of a holy man.
The preacher scowled at the alien corpse on the ground. “What do you suspect it to be, Robert Hartman?” he asked the bearded man.
“I couldn’t wager a fair guess,” the man replied, his eyes never leaving Cecil’s body. He gripped a lantern and pushed it closer to get a better look. Cecil could feel its heat on his cheeks.
“It’s a man from space,” the youngster realized, pointing to the night sky. “It came down from the clouds.”
“It don’t look like no man to me,” the preacher said hatefully. “It appears to be a servant of the devil. A more hideous thang I have never beheld.”
“What are we going to do, Judge Hartman?” the young man asked the bearded one.
The one called Hartman, who must have been the leader of these men, pondered on this. He stroked his beard as he did so.
“We are going to bury this strange being,” Hartman finally concluded.
“You ain’t bringing that thang into my church, Robert Hartman,” the preacher insisted.
“No time to arrange a service, padre. We are burying him tonight.”
“But, why?” the young man asked, peculiarly. “People should know about this. This is wondrous news.”
“We are a small, God-fearing community, Sherman Noel,” Hartman replied, addressing the youth by his name. “How do you think our townspeople will take this? I don’t want to alarm the others. They’ll panic, if they know creatures like this exist. And I won’t see this corpse become a sideshow oddity. It could very well be one of God’s children. The beast deserves a proper burial.”
The preacher scoffed. He pulled a flask from his jacket and warmed himself with a drink.
“Gather some men. Ones we can trust to keep the silence firm on this,” Hartman instructed Sherman. “Bury the pieces of that flying craft in the woods. If any of it can be given new purpose, deposit it behind my barn.”
“What about the… visitor?” Sherman asked, motioning toward the body.
“The preacher and I shall commit it to the earth,” Hartman replied.
The preacher shook his head and held up his scrawny arms. “What assistance can I be, Robert Hartman? I have too much age on me to dig a hole.”
“And too much spirits in you as well, as one can gauge by your breath. I’ll dig the grave, old man. You put your scripture on the proceedings,” Hartman said. “It will have a Christian burial.”
“Fine, but put it nowhere near the cemetery, you hear me? I won’t have it foul that sacred dirt.”
“Where you gonna bury it?” Sherman asked, as Hartman took off his jacket.
“No offense, son, but the fewer that know the location, the better,” Hartman said, covering Cecil’s face with the smelly coat.
Cecil felt himself hoisted once again and carried. He was put down, in less comfortable soil. He lay there, willing his limbs to move. But he was helpless and still. Finally, the jacket was taken off of him.
Hartman’s face, sweaty and dirtier than before, poked toward Cecil’s and the judge scooped him up once last time. The alien was dropped into a hole, the judge shrinking from Cecil’s vision as the alien’s cold form fell. Cecil’s eyes stared at the mouth of the hole. The preacher stepped into the light of the lantern; its handle hugging a tree limb. The old man read from his good book as the judge shoveled in the earth.
“The souls of the just are in the hand of God and no torment shall touch them,” the preacher’s voice, which had more strength in it than his frail old body, shook the darkness. “They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace…”
In little time, the grave was filled, and the voice of the preacher could barely be heard. And then everything was quiet and dark and the creature quaked inside, though its cold flesh gave no movement or indication of the rage and fear that burned. What little malevolent energy it still had slipped from its pores and contaminated the earth that held it. And then it slept, and it was a dreamless sleep that seemed to last forever.
Light finally came and the creature was tortured by it with eyes that could not close. The light moved away and a hand rubbed mud from Cecil’s face. Two men looked down. It was a moonlit night, and the shadowed faces came into focus. The FBI agents who had brought in the van stared down at the creature.
Bennetts smiled and moved the flashlight around, studying the alien body. Hanson stared silently. Behind the men, a pair of shovels stabbed the earth and their jackets rested on the handles.
“Shit, I didn’t think it was real,” Hanson confessed. “And I figured we’d be digging up a skeleton, if it was. This thing looks like it was buried yesterday. There isn’t any decay on it. How can it still have skin on the bones?”
Bennetts shoved a piece of gum into his mouth, rolled the wrapper into a silver ball and flicked it away into the darkness. “Maybe it doesn’t rot at the same rate that we do. I got to tell you, though; the condition of this thing more than doubles the value. Do you know how much money we’re going to make on this caper? Millions. I got a buyer in the Middle East who will throw half of his harem in on the deal.”
Hanson suddenly looked a little concerned. “We’re not going to get caught, right? I mean, you have been doing this a long time. I’m just starting my career. I’m still fresh out of the academy.”
“And you’ll retire as a rookie. I pulled a lot of strings to get us partnered up. Trust me, kid; the pension at the end of this rainbow is shit. You’re going to risk life and limb and you’ll still end up taking a mediocre consultation gig in your golden years to pad the retirement. If you don’t get killed in the line of duty, that is. I’m doing you a favor,” Bennetts guaranteed the young man.
Hanson still looked unsure. “This is just so weird and new to me. Six months ago, I didn’t even believe stuff like this existed. And now I’m profiting off of it.”
Bennetts’ tough face smiled and frowned at the same time. “Kid, I have been peddling paranormal weirdness like this for twenty years. It’s my specialty. I have a fat offshore retirement acc
ount that is chump change compared to what this haul will net. I’ve been tracking this one for a long time. This is the Holy Grail. Quit worrying. Once we get paid, we’ll have enough to set up anywhere we want. Pussy, cars, mansions. We’ll have it all. You could spend your whole life chasing a lotto ticket like this one.”
Hanson took it in, and then he found yet another concern. “How in the hell are we going to get it on a plane?”
“I’ve got friends with the TSA. Expensive friends. Don’t worry. Nobody is going to mess this up. Things will go without a hitch, if we all stay cool on this.”
Hanson nodded, a little more confident and he stared back at the alien. He reached toward its eyes and drew back a slimy hand.
“Shit,” he cried.
Bennetts laughed softly and brought out a handkerchief. “What happened?” he asked, handing his young partner the cloth.
The Night is Long and Cold and Deep Page 7