by David Coy
“Get me another beer.”
“Ohh . . . ho..ho . . . yer gettin’ drunk,” Gail said with a drunken smile.
“I ain’t drunk.”
He kept driving until he thought he was in far enough and stopped the car. He jumped out, took a staggering step or two away and started to relieve himself.
“When I turn around, I want you nekked,” he said over his shoulder.
She smashed a mosquito that landed on her bare arm with a quick slap, then looked behind at the hole in the convertible top where the back window should have been. The side windows were gone, too. The only thing that remained of them were some little square pieces of glass she hadn’t gotten up off the floor.
“Honey, there’s skeeters in these woods . . . ”
“Hell with the skeeters. Do what I said do.”
Gail knew that tone of voice. It was his mean voice, not his real hateful voice; but she knew what she’d be in for if she didn’t do what Buddy wanted. He’d get his way one way or another. She wasn’t exactly all hot to do it at the moment, but it might be okay. She reached behind the seat and pulled two more beers up out of the bag, twisted off the caps then pulled off her top. A skeeter buzzed her ear before she took her first drink and she slapped at it.
She didn’t enjoy the sex because the skeeters bit her ass and the backs of her arms while Buddy pumped her. He wanted it too bad to mind the skeeters but they were driving her nuts.
“Buddy . . . Buddy, honey these damned things are eating me alive.”
“Shut up . . . ”
Gail slapped and slapped at the skeeters on her legs and butt and when one landed on Buddy’s neck, she slapped that one, too.
“God damn you!” he said. He jumped up and slapped her so hard and so fast she saw stars and yelped like a puppy. “Don’t you ever hit at me!”
“But it was a . . . was a skeeter Buddy . . . ” she whimpered, trying to cover up for the next blow.
“Shut up!” he yelled and slapped hard at the hands covering her face. The attack stopped as quickly as it started.
“Aw shit! Git dressed!” he yelled so loud it hurt.
He climbed off her and standing outside the car, pulled up his pants, hissing and puffing like an adder.
“Git me another damn beer,” he said.
He pulled the flattened remainder of a pack of Camels out of his pants pocket and lit one up. He spit the first puff of smoke out his mouth with a speck of tobacco and when a skeeter landed on his neck, he slapped it hard.
After she got her clothes back on, Gail curled up tight against the passenger’s door and sulked, smacking an occasional skeeter. She wished she had one of those little portable phones so she could call her mama. She’d asked Buddy to buy her one in the mall in Lexington, but he said they needed one of those like another asshole.
It was dark now, but she could see Buddy pacing slowly up and back and caught the smell of his cigarette from time to time. She couldn’t see him do it, but she knew he was running his free fingers through his black hair with his cigarette hand. She heard the little grunt when he threw it and then the sound of the empty beer bottle flying through the brush and hitting something with a hollow ponk.
“Want another beer, honey?” she asked, and reached into the bag behind the seat.
“Git me another beer,” he said.
“We gonna spent the night here, honey?”
“Shut up.”
Gail let him take a few more swigs and a few more puffs.
“Well, are we?” she asked again as nice as she could.
She was used to Buddy not answering her right away and she wasn’t surprised when he unzipped his fly and started to pee instead of answering right then. He got back in the car and handed the beer to her.
“Hol’ ‘iss. We gotta git further in off the road.”
He pumped the gas pedal once’d and turned the key. The engine turned over several times but didn’t start. He closed his eyes and Gail knew he was building up steam. He turned the key again. Gail could hear the starter as it wound down.
“God damn piece of god damned shit,” he said to the windshield. “I oughta blow you to pieces.” He reached under the seat and got out the gun then he got out of the car and slammed the door so hard the door handle popped right off it.
“Get out of the god damn car, Gail!” he hollered.
Before she could get out of the car, she heard the clicking sound of the big pistol as he checked to make sure it was loaded. She hurried around the car and up behind him with quick little mincing steps and hunkered there. It wasn’t a good idea to be between the car and the gun when Buddy was shooting the car.
“God damn piece of god damn dog turd,” he said lifting the gun and cocking the hammer.
Gail pressed her palms hard against her ears to block the blast of the huge pistol. When it went off she felt the concussion pop her in the face even where she was. Buddy shot the doors this time and when the bullets hit, pieces of body patching dropped off the holes that were already there. He was careful never to shoot the windshield or the engine compartment because he didn’t want to cause himself any problems that he’d have to spend money on. It didn’t matter much if he shot the doors or the trunk—they were already filled with thumb-sized bullet holes.
Buddy’d been in jail on and off his whole life and Gail knew it was because of his temper mostly. He’d robbed a liquor store or two in his day and he shot that boy in the gas station once, but it was his temper that landed him in jail. When he lost his temper, he’d do stupid, reckless things like this or punch somebody over nothin’. Buddy was kinda big and when he hit somebody with his fist, he’d hurt ‘em bad.
Buddy shot all six shots into the door and the front seat then ran up and kicked the door once just for good measure. Gail never could understand why Buddy would want to murder his own car so much. He’d got it from his mother when she passed on and it was in good shape then. He’d just neglected it and tried to kill it once in a while ever since he got it. The only thing she’d ever seen him do to it to improve its appearance was slap some body putty on the bullet holes with a flat stick. It used to be such a pretty car.
Buddy shook the empty bullet shells out of the gun then pitched the gun into the trunk. “Git in, Gail.”
When he turned the key this time, the car started right up..
“You’d better start you sonofabitch,” Buddy said to it.
“Guess you showed it a thing or two,” Gail said.
“Shut up, Gail.”
He put the car in gear and when he pressed down on the gas pedal, it lurched forward a foot or two then stalled.
“Well I’ll be a god damned son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch!”
Buddy turned the key again and the car cranked a time or two then started, saving much time and anger.
“Man o man,” Buddy said. “I hate this fuckin’ car . . . ”
When she heard the smack, she thought at first that Buddy had smacked a mosquito, but Buddy said “Ohh . . . ” like he’d just stubbed his toe or bumped his funny bone hard.
He reached up and felt the sharp spines of the burr and a shock of horror went through him. He turned on the interior lights real fast then turned his face to Gail and reached up and turned the mirror so he could see at the same time.
“What is this on me, Gail.” His voice had a scared, shaky sound to it.
When Gail saw it, her brow knitted tight and her face scrunched up as if she’d just seen a toad with three heads.
“I don’t know what it is, Buddy!” she said, “What the hell is it, Buddy!”
“That’s what I said, goddamm it! Pull it off me!”
He looked in the mirror and tried to take hold of the sharp spines. As he tugged gently with his thumb and forefinger, he suddenly slumped forward onto the steering wheel like a corpse. She’d studied for a while to be a nurse’s aide until Buddy’d told her it was a waste of both of their time. She’d stayed with it long enough to learn how to take a p
ulse, though; and she reached over and checked his now. It was strong and fast and she couldn’t quite figure why a big man like Buddy’d faint like that.
When she saw the big monster lumber into the car’s headlights, she thought at first it was a man in some kind of monster suit. When she realized it was a real monster, all she could think about was getting away from it. She screamed and jumped out of the car and ran about two steps when she felt the sharp sting on her back; a step later, she felt another. She made it maybe fifty feet down the road, then, unable to move her legs another step, fell on her face.
She hoped if when the cops came they wouldn’t find the body of the old woman Buddy’d robbed and killed. Her body was still in the trunk. They’d put him in jail for sure for that.
* * *
It was deathly quiet in the tunnel. The twenty or so holes along its length gave him the feeling he was inside a flute.
“Hello!” he said.
No voice came back to him. The rubbery walls sucked up his sound like thick felt. He heard the faint, dampened sound of a cough coming from one of the closer holes, and moved near it. He cocked his head to hear better, but heard nothing more. He leaned against the sides of the opening and peered in.
The man inside was about thirty years old and so black in complexion it was hard to see him against the background of the walls at first. He was lying on his side on a pile of blankets, unmoving. He stared blankly out at Phil with the same dead, lifeless eyes of Fred “something” in the other chamber.
“How long have you been here?” Phil asked.
The man just stared at him.
“Do you speak English?”
The man only stared then finally replied, “No. No English.” His voice was soft, musical and so low in volume, Phil barely heard it. The accent was African.
Phil moved down the tunnel and picked another hole at random. The woman inside had the same lifeless, used up look as the other abductees he’d seen. She was asleep and Phil thought better of waking her up.
He continued down and stopped at the tunnel’s dead end. The wall at the tunnel’s end had an irregular seam down the center of it running top to bottom and the composition was different than the rest of the tunnel, much lighter in color and striated vertically. There were two raised, circular patches about the size of dinner plates on either side of it. Phil reached out and touched one and although he couldn’t be certain, he thought the wall moved or twitched. He tried to replicate the effect by touching the spot again but couldn’t.
“It’s a door,” the strong woman’s voice behind him said, “and there’s no way humans can open it.”
Phil turned around and saw Mary Pope squatting in the opening of her chamber. Unlike the others he’d seen so far, she had a measure of strength and defiance left in her face and her steady eyes told Phil she meant what she said.
“I guess you’ve tried,” Phil responded easily. He turned back around and took another look at the mechanism.
Mary studied the newcomer before answering. He stood there with his hands on his hips like the pneumatic systems instructor she’d had for a class once and liked a lot—all full of confidence and brains but not condescending. His hair was wet so she knew he’d come out of the soakers. He’d been though the hell of incubation and extraction, but wasn’t disoriented and seemed in control of his faculties, which was a real surprise in a first-timer. The fact that he was in control of his senses enough to try to get out was especially encouraging.
“Some, but not much. We think it’s safer here than on the other side.”
“That could be a reasonable assumption. How many others are there?”
Reasonable, Mary thought. Now there’s a word I haven’t heard recently.
She dug out a pack of cigarettes from her shirt pocket and shook one out and offered it to Phil. Phil looked at it and thought about it. He hadn’t smoked in years. He took it and lit it up. The first puff made him reel.
“There’s about twenty incubators in this tube alone,” she said. “There’s more in different pockets of the ship. We’ve seen them when they move us. No one knows how many for sure. The ship is full of tubes and holes.” She pointed with her cigarette at one of the raised plate-sized patches on the wall.
“Incubators? Those are people, I take it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I call them.”
“By the way, that’s an opener,” she said, pointing to the button. “Every seam has a set of them like that.”
“One closes—one opens?”
“Right.”
“So . . . one’s a ‘closer’?” Phil said one-eyed.
“Yeah,” Mary grinned at the childish logic.
Mary felt herself wanting to tell Phil everything she knew, to spill it all. This wasn’t Tom Moon or Gilbert or the gook brothers, but someone who spoke English and had some sense.
“How do those big bastards open these seams?”
“Goons. They just put their big ass palms on them.”
“I made it twitch when I touched it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I’m sure of it. I bet it works by detecting some electrical potential. Just the right level or enough voltage or amperage or both, some shit like that. How much do you weigh?”
Mary thought about it. “When I was first taken I was about one-sixty—I’m maybe one-fifty now—I don’t know.”
“Go get somebody else, another person, anyone who can walk.”
Mary went in and came back shortly with Bailey, still looking shocked and confused. Mary helped her down to the tube’s floor.
“What’s on the other side of this seam?” Phil asked.
Mary thought about it before she answered. She had a quick vision of the people in the milk bottles and of the place she called Dr. Mengele’s Party where the only things recognizable were the human body parts.
“I don’t have words for everything they do,” she said.
Phil reached up and put his palm on the left opener. “Take her hand. Hold it—and keep your fingers crossed.”
Mary put Bailey’s hand in hers. Without knowing at all why, except that she’d been told to do it, Bailey crossed her fingers.
Phil reached out to Mary with his right hand. “I’m Phil Lynch,” he said.
Mary took Phil’s hand and shook it firmly. The seam parted with a slight, wet, tearing sound revealing three tubes going in different directions on the other side.
“I’ll be damned,” she said.
“Maybe not yet,” Phil said then reached over and put his hand on the other button.
The seam squeezed closed.
* * *
When Buddy woke up he thought he was in hell. It had to be hell because he could see the demons right there in front of him. Buddy Davis’ view of the world had never been sullied by any real empathy whatsoever for another living thing because like all sociopaths, he wasn’t capable of feeling the pain and suffering of others—only his own.
He was getting a full dose of undiluted, Buddy-only pain now. He hurt all over and knew it was because the demons had
beat him with hickory sticks while he was unconscious.
He felt a buzzing chatter against his skull that rattled his teeth and knew that the demons were trying to cut into his head, maybe to eat his brains.
It was when he tried to open his mouth to holler for mercy that he discovered that his head was encased in some rubbery shit that kept him from opening his mouth all the way. When he lifted his hand to try to feel what it was that covered his face, he saw that his hand and arm were about four times the size they should have been, swollen like the feet and hands of some giant side-show freak. He turned his hand around and tightened it into a fist and thought about how he could beat the shit out of these god damned Hell demons with a fist the size of that honker. He could pound them into mush with a hammer like that.
You just wait ‘til I get up offa this table.
The vision of his now giant fist squashing their
heads flat was the last violent thought Buddy Davis would ever have as a human. As the alien probes, as thin as hair, entered his brain and delivered the fluids to just the right places, few thoughts of any consequence to the former Buddy Davis lived. The fluid contained chemicals that dissolved synaptic connections by the billions upon billions. Buddy perceived the erasure as a cacophony of images, sounds and scents that flashed and exploded in a storm. Then, suddenly, gone were the memories of his drunken father, his bedraggled and abused dog Copper, the taste of fried chicken, the first girlfriend he ever clobbered, the look on the face of the first person he ever killed with a knife, the memory of his first blow job, and the feel of his cock in his hand.
The probes flushed away all that Buddy Davis was and left only a tiny kernel of cognition. It was a deep memory of dark waters and warmth and Buddy floated securely in it. Then the probes pulled slowly out of Buddy’s brain and were replaced by others, slightly larger, that squirmed and sought with wiry, alien persistence and dug down deep into the folds of his brain to release their chemistry from microscopic polyps that oozed it like oil. The material these living probes delivered clung to the synapses and rebuilt them into diffuse memories alien and impoverished, of wetness and the smell of acid mold, of still, shallow seas teeming with life, of life so dark and crawling it overcame the last red coal of human memory like worm-filled mud.
New memories coalesced from nothing. Suddenly it knew when and how and where to move the frail ones, when to kill them, when to pull them apart. It knew where to put the waste parts and when to put them down the holes. It knew how to operate the many tools to feed and find and fly. It could do all this as easily as a spider could weave a complex web or a bee dance out the location of nectar to its sisters.
It could do all this and more without thinking, because strictly speaking, it could no longer think at all.
* * *
“I’m a heavy equipment repairman,” Mary was saying, “or at least I used to be. What about you?”
“I teach social studies.”