The Tiniest Invaders, Book One Coexistence

by William Bebb

  The old man’s eyes closed and his head tilted down to his chest as he snored softly.

  She spotted the erection in his underwear and tilted her head very slightly. After several seconds she placed her hand on his leg where the bone had snapped.

  They remained like that for nearly twenty minutes before she slid her arms around the old man’s body and lifted him over her shoulder. Carrying him easily down the hallway, she opened the bedroom door and walked inside.

  The cat standing on the open windowsill hissed at her as she slid the old man into the bed.

  “He is unharmed, Mr. Sawyer,” the girl said, pulling the quilt up over his snoring body. Quietly, she turned and walked back into the hallway before closing the door behind her.

  *****

  The stars were still bright as dawn crept closer. An owl hooted softly somewhere in the distance as a dog, a combination German Shepherd and all round mutt, slept on his back on the porch of a small rustic house. Quietly whimpering, its legs moved rapidly in the air as a light came on inside.

  Jake Carver opened the backdoor and carefully stepped over the slumbering dog. He walked down the steps carrying a metal bowl filled with dog food. Turning on a spigot, the boy filled a bucket with water and set the bowl of food next to it.

  “Hey Frodo, are you dreaming of chasing rabbits or orcs?” He whispered. Leaning back with his hands on his hips, Jake stretched and yawned.

  Dressed in his track and field uniform, the boy walked toward the chicken coop. He climbed over the three foot high wire mesh fence and opened the lid on the plastic container and threw out some of the dried corn for the still roosting birds. After checking that there was clean water in their trough, he climbed back over the fence.

  Wiping chicken shit off the bottom of his shoes, Jake shuffled his feet across the grass and began his stretching exercises. While warming up, he heard Frodo’s collar clinking against his bowl as the dog ate. Lazy dog. Typical of a Hobbit, Jake thought, as he set the timer on his cell phone and started jogging down the driveway toward the deserted two lane road ahead.

  A minute later, Frodo was bounding along beside him as the promise of dawn made the stars dim slightly on the eastern horizon.

  It was late October and Jake Carver breathed deep the crisp morning air as he ran. To him it smelled like a subtle perfume devised by a madman. There was cow and horse manure mixed with a generous portion of pine trees. After almost two miles, the country road lined with trees opened up and Jake could see the sleepy rural town of Ragland beyond several acres of pastures and farmland.

  He wondered briefly if he was the only one awake when a pair of headlights appeared in the distance. There was a light fog making the town seem kind of spooky. Jake smiled and shook his head as he followed the winding country road back into the trees. It’s sort of like a ghost town except nothing weird ever happens here, darn it.

  After several more minutes of running, from around a curve in the road, he heard a monotonous squeaking sound growing louder. The familiar shape of Allison Taylor pushing her rusty grocery cart, filled with a collection of treasured items, came into view. She smiled and waved. Jake waved back and kept running.

  Frodo had been trotting along with Jake until he heard a noise a minute later. It was faint but insistent. The dog stopped running and looked at the thick jungle of trees and kudzu plants. The sound grew a little louder and he barked.

  Jake stopped running and walked back to the dog.

  What is it? You see some orcs? Maybe it’s some tree-ents?” He rubbed the back of the dog’s head and clicked his tongue. “Come on you goober. Let’s go,” Jake said, before whistling as he ran and after a few more barks Frodo sprinted after him.

  Behind them, a small silver ball cleared the trees and swiftly rose into the dawning sky.

  *****

  “Doctor Anniston, what are you doing?” A young lady asked, as she entered the computer lab and saw him stuffing tobacco into his nearly antique elaborately designed pipe. “You aren’t actually going to smoke that thing in here, are you?”

  The old man looked at the digital clock on the wall and saw it was nearly five in the morning. He gave the young woman an irritated look and struck a wooden match. After lighting the tobacco, he puffed on his pipe and smiled. “Would you prefer I go outside and smoke, young lady?”

  She tapped a fingernail against a sign tacked to the wall. It had quite large red letters on a white background that read, NO SMOKING!

  “You would send an old nearly decrepit senior citizen, a veteran no less, outside on a bone chilling morning such as this? Where I would perhaps catch a stray germ or virus? Perhaps to fall ill at a time when the very existence of all mankind could hang in the balance? You would exile an old man to the cold unforgiving gulag of the Pigs Pride parking lot?” He sucked on the pipe, and stared at her through his thick glasses while thoughtfully stroking his neatly trimmed gray beard.

  Sighing, she shook her head and sat down her workstation. “I just don’t want to get in trouble with whoever is in charge of this project.”

  The old man chuckled softly as he puffed on his pipe and leaned back in his thickly padded leather office chair. “My dear, you are precious. Who do you suppose chose you to come out here to the wild, exotic lands of northern Alabama in the first place?”

  She turned her head slightly to look at him. “You?”

  He nodded and looked over several pages of the latest email messages spread over his desk.

  An awkward silence filled the air as he scribbled on a notepad for a few seconds. The old man paused and looked as if he’d fallen asleep. The pipe sagged at the corner of his mouth and she was about to ask if he was alright when he opened his eyes and continued to write rapidly.

  She turned back to her keyboard and entered the Algiers Paradigm Computer Program. He’s in charge? Who would have put a man his age in charge? I bet he’s never even touched a computer, she thought, running the latest intercepted email messages through the system.

  “Alice? May I ask you a question?” Anniston asked, as he leaned back in his chair.

  She saw the program was running computations and turned back to him. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you believe these are messages from aliens?” He asked, standing up and walking slowly to a small wooden bookcase.

  His tone of voice was neutral and she couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or serious. “Well, sir, the question of who they are is sort of irrelevant isn’t it? Whether they are from aliens from another planet or a group of nuts planning on setting off another nuclear device is beside the point, right?”

  The old man switched on the stereo and smiled as he turned back to Alice. “At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I believe you are dead wrong. It makes all the difference in the world.” A big band swing tune began to play through the speakers as he continued. “If these messages are originating from a sinister group of our fellow Earthlings, desiring to wreak havoc, it raises two issues that trouble me.” He swayed as he walked, in an almost dancing fashion, across the computer lab.

  Alice was surprised to see her foot tapping along in time to the music as she swiveled her chair and watched the old man gracefully half dance- half walk and continue to speak.

  “If the people we seek are human terrorists they are damned peculiar ones. First, they build and detonate a low yield nuclear device in a rural area with an extremely low population.

  Secondly, the messages themselves are as queer a duck as ever waddled out of Aunt Gertrude's garden pond. There’s no discernible pattern to them, at least none that this nearly ancient human can perceive,” he said, and stopped to look out of one the windows.

  He stood motionless as the next song began to play.

  Alice waited for several seconds before turning back to her computer and checking for any progress.

  “I’d like to offer you a wager, young lady. If any of these splendidly designed deciphering programs manage to ever decode even a small portion of one o
f these messages, I shall never again smoke. But for the sake of the wager let’s put a time limit in place, say forty-eight hours. At that time, if no progress has been made you must honor me with a dance. What do you say?”

  “You want to dance with me?” She asked, smiling and blushing slightly.

  “Of course, my dear, but you missed my point entirely. I’m willing to wager my last remaining vice, namely smoking, that we’re barking up the wrong tree. If these messages are of an extra terrestrial origin we will most likely never make any sense of them. Maybe they aren’t messages at all.” He walked back to his chair shaking his head. “No, that’s not precisely what I mean to say. They are obviously messages, but the meaning may be as nonsensical to humans as whale song or dolphin chatter.”

  Alice felt tempted to point out some researchers had already deciphered a small portion of those aquatic languages but let it slide. Mainly because she had been considering the same possibility since the first dozen different deciphering programs had failed utterly to make any sense of the messages.

  “So is it a wager?” He asked, walking back to his chair.

  “No, and not because I wouldn’t dance with you,” she said smiling. “Truthfully, I believe you may be right, but if that’s the case why are we bothering to try to figure out the messages at all?”

  Leaning back in his chair, the old man sipped from his tea cup and smiled. “Because my dear, we could be wrong. If that’s the case, our efforts may be the only thing standing in the way of more disastrous events in the future.” His smile faded as he turned back to his notepad. He had just started to write when he heard a small scream behind him. He looked up and saw the woman run toward the door then stop and stare wide-eyed back at him.

  “I’ll be right back. I have to get some bug spray,” she said, before opening the door and running down the small hallway.

  Looking across the room, he saw a roach scurrying up the wall and into a crack where the ceiling intersected the wall. He shook his head and looked back at the notepad while puffing meditatively on his pipe.

  CHAPTER FOUR: As the crow flies

  “Do you like biscuits?” Sally asked as she turned from the stove and toddled over to the refrigerator.

  “I am not hungry,” Betty said looking at the old lady’s collection of ornate spoons and tea cups she had decorating one of the walls of her kitchen. “Why do you have so many of these items?”

  Sally glanced over and then went back to looking through the refrigerator. “Oh, I collected them things my whole life. All the really precious ones are in my curio cabinet in the living room. I used to travel a lot when I was a youngster and just sort of picked up some of this and that. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now but when I wasn’t much older than you, I was quite the free spirit. Even hopped a few freight cars and went wherever the train took me.

  I was a wild child, Miss Betty, and that's a fact. But eventually trouble caught up with me,” she said carrying over a package of bacon and a carton of eggs. Lifting an iron skillet, the old lady shook her head and smiled a little. “Truth be told, you remind me more than a little of myself when I was your age.”

  “What sort of trouble caught up with you?”

  “I met up with a scoundrel. He was good looking and had a greased silver tongue and knew well how to use it,” Sally said giggling, as she laid bacon into the skillet and gave her a wink. “He worked at a carnival guessing people’s weight. If he got it right you’d lose, but if he was wrong he’d give you a prize.”

  “Is that a common occupation? Estimating how much people weigh?”

  Sally laughed as she poured a cup of coffee. “You say the darnedest things, Miss Betty. Sakes alive, no. It was just a hoot, for giggles and fun. Haven’t you ever been to a carnival before?”

  “No ma’am. I believe your pig meat is burning,” Betty observed, pointing at the stove.

  “Pig meat?” The old lady said and laughed again, as she hurried over to the stove. “It’s called bacon, sweetie. You’re not one of those animal rights fruitcakes, are you? Don’t get me wrong, believe whatever you want just don’t get between me and my-” she smiled and continued, “pig meat. Bless you, child. I haven’t laughed this much in years. Although, you mostly sure are a quiet one. And why don’t you smile more? You’re a pretty young lady. If you're gonna get along in this crazy old world you need to smile more. Smile like you're large and in charge.”

  Betty grinned hugely as Sally got up.

  “Is this better?” Her lips stretched up and out in an almost wolf-like smile. The corners of her lips stretched back and up just short of her ears.

  The old lady had her back to her as she flipped the bacon over and missed what happened next.

  Thomas came in to the kitchen, wearing his tattered red and black plaid robe, and stood behind Betty leering at the back of her head. The old man was disgusted that he squandered an opportunity to play with his new friend last night and planned on making up for lost time. He placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders and bent down to smell her hair. It’s the color of golden honey, he thought, sniffing deeply while gently squeezing her shoulders.

  Betty quickly swiveled and tilted up her head without moving her neck or torso. Her hyper-extended smile remained on her face as she looked up at the old man.

  “Gak,” was the only sound Thomas managed to make as he quickly backed across the kitchen and into the hallway. His face lost its color and his eyes were open wide as he tried to speak. But the girl’s extremely disturbing face and neck swiveling robbed him of the ability to think or speak.

  “Did you say something, sweetie?” Sally asked, as she transferred the bacon onto a plate.

  Betty turned back around and returned her facial expression to its usual form. “No ma’am. I think it was your husband.”

  “About time that old sack of bones got out of bed. It’s nearly six in the morning. How that man can sleep so much is beyond me.”

  Thomas made it back to the bedroom and locked the door. He trembled uncontrollably as he tried to understand what was happening. I must be dreaming. That’s got to be it. I’m still asleep. No one can move their head like that, and no one’s face could look like that. I’m dreaming.

  The old man climbed back into bed and pulled up the blankets over his body as he closed his eyes.

  Tom Sawyer, the cat, watched him from where it sat on top of the dresser. It saw the man shivering in the bed, looked back at the locked door, and resumed licking its fur.

  Sally set the plate of bacon on the table and went back to the stove. Cracking eggs and pouring the contents into the sizzling skillet she hummed tunelessly but with great happiness.

  Betty looked at the bacon intently for a few seconds then lifted a small piece. As she opened her mouth a small roach climbed out and quickly climbed into her shirt. The girl bit down on the bacon and set the remaining piece on the plate.

  “Anyhoo, tell me Miss Betty, where do you hail from? You sound almost foreign. Like maybe, I dunno…“ Sally paused as she flipped the eggs over. “I can’t rightly guess. Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to wallop you with my skillet?” She asked, giggling.

  “Please do not… wallop me. I will tell you, once you sit down next to me. It is complicated,” Betty said, as bits of bacon fell out her mouth onto her shirt.

  “Child, I was just teasing with you. I’d never hurt you.” She brought over the plate of eggs and placed it next to the bacon. Sitting across from the girl she sipped from her coffee cup and looked excited.

  Betty stared at the old lady and her eyes started to glow softly.

  “Do not be afraid of me. Eat your food before it gets cold. Just listen to my voice and look into my eyes. Do you know a boy named Jake Carver?” The girl asked, as her eyes rapidly flashed brilliant white and blue lights.

  “Oh, yes. He lives with his father, just down the road a ways.”

  “Thank you. Now, eat your breakfast and listen carefully to everything I say.”
r />   “Yes, Miss Betty,” the old woman said, as she sat and ate her breakfast.

  *****

  A very bored national guardsman smoked a cigarette and leaned against the wall of Finches restaurant in Pinson, wondering when he’d get to go home. They call my division up and order us to secure the perimeter. Okay, easy peasy nice and easy. We ran the cabling for the watch posts, helped hook up the cameras and other equipment all around the blast site. And now how do we fill our days and nights? Wander around, keeping the press and any other lookie-loos out. But when do I get to go home? He finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the parking lot without looking.

  “Morning, Private,” Colonel Brad Wilcox said, as he walked across the pavement. He was wearing a freshly laundered uniform and walked stiffly.

  The private stood at attention and said, “Morning, sir.”

  “What's your name soldier?”

  “Private first class Dwight Sandberg. Sir.”

  “Who's your commanding officer and what group are you with?”

  “Captain Jessica Wyzoski, north east perimeter patrol.”

  “Smoking is a nasty habit,” the colonel observed, looking at the discarded cigarette at his feet.

  “Sir, yes sir,” Sandberg said, with a slight tremble in his voice.

  The colonel shook his head as he looked at the young soldier before him.

  “Know what makes me sicker than a smoker, Sandberg?”

  “No sir.”

  “I served four tours in Iraq. I've seen the torn bloody remnants of young children blown all to shit by some sick bastard with a backpack full of C-4. One time I had to hold in the intestines of an unlucky soldier who's Hummer hit an improvised explosive device. On more than one occasion I had to release terrorists I caught in the act of planting bombs. But son, even after all that, nothing makes me sicker than a damn litter bug.