by Jeff Abugov
The new Frank, the Dweller Frank, had designed his human skin and drafted his persona years earlier with the help of his younger brother and sister. He would be goofy-looking and dim so as not a threat to anyone, but not so ugly or stupid that he would ever stand out. He would be affable, pleasant, laugh at everyone’s jokes, and tell a few bad ones of his own. He would be the type of man that everyone was happy to have around but never noticed when absent. He would be there but not there, liked but never missed.
He became fluent in English, Spanish, Russian and French (the latter of which he flaunted just before murdering Jean-François) to prepare himself for any appointment, but he was thrilled when he was assigned to the United States because that was where the most challenging parts of the extermination were to take place.
It had been easy to wormhole unnoticed into dead Frank’s room that night so many years ago. Two vessel-mates removed the boy’s corpse, and the new Frank went straight to work—that is, right after he took a few deep breaths to soak in the natural Earth air and chug down a glass of natural Earth water.
He packed up a few of the real Frank’s belongings—including birth certificate and Social Security card—and placed them in the real Frank’s backpack, then snuck out of the house while the real Frank’s foster parents were asleep. Just another teen runaway. He walked to the local bus station and caught the first bus out. No one in Frank’s hometown would miss him, and no one in the new town would know him.
He got a small apartment with the cash he had been given by his handler, spent the next two years in an array of odd jobs—paying his taxes to lay further track of a human past—and made new friends as he perfected the art of being “liked but not missed.” He got a driver’s license—the first government issued photo ID in the name of Frank Hatteras, making him the “real” Frank once and for all. In 2001, he enlisted in the Army as planned, and was shipped off to Iraq where he met Harve.
He could tell that there was something special about the soldier because of how the other members of the division responded to him. Even as a buck private, low-level officers and noncoms were struck by young Harve’s strength and moral certitude, asking him advice on both military tactics and life. Frank knew this was someone to latch on to, and he set out to make himself the Kentuckian’s best friend.
He could also tell that Harve would be easy to manipulate—not because he was dumb, but because he was smart. All Frank had to do was plant the seed of a good idea then back off and let Harve come up with it on his own.
Frank had been an instrumental part of the team that had laid the explosives that blew up the South Dakota Army Base, but to make his way off-site before the detonation, he needed Harve. He scoured the logs for an excuse until he saw that Johnny had never returned from leave, then brought the information of the AWOL to his Sergeant’s attention by “thanking” him for letting it go and giving them an easy evening at home. As expected, the stalwart MP insisted they find the absent soldier the moment he learned about it, allowing Frank to bitch about the “hassle” for the rest of the night.
He had employed a similar tactic just the other day. Although it was Frank who had informed the Dwellers on which rooftops the human snipers would land, he knew he would have to find a safe way back to base because his usefulness to the cause was growing exponentially. He just couldn’t be the one to suggest it.
“I don’t get it, Sarge,” he had said as he fired his M16, grazing the lower arm of his brethren, a minor wound by Dweller standards but enough to guarantee that no human would doubt him. “Why aren’t they exploding the chopper? They’re just leaving it right there in the open. It’s like they’re giving us a way out.”
It was less than a minute before Harve came up with the plan that Frank had wanted all along. He then volunteered to be the Sanchez boy’s decoy in order to get out of sight just long enough to let his Dweller comrades know that he was one of them. He instructed them to let the helicopter fly away safely, that he and the pilot (his ride) were not to be harmed, and that the others were expendable.
It had been nothing but a stroke of good fortune when his best friend was charged with the investigation of the alien spy. Frank had already laid the groundwork for Harve’s ill feelings toward Johnny so it didn’t require much to move the Lieutenant the rest of the way. “Maybe the bugs missed us on purpose ’cause they didn’t want to kill their inside man.” This, of course, was true, but it had nothing to do with Johnny.
The moment Harve took the bait, Frank did a fast about-face and leapt to the pilot’s defense, countering Harve’s suspicions as he prodded him along, insisting that Johnny must have killed some bug soldiers only so he could add, “I did, you did, the girl did.” This was an outright lie for Frank would never kill any of his own kind, but it sounded good, and who had been watching?
And with Johnny’s humanness soon to be uncovered, Frank had every intention of using the wrongful arrest as a personal validation since he had been the one to tout the pilot’s innocence, during which he would plant the seeds of his next bogus suspect.
But how could he have anticipated that he’d be sprinting along some Florida road to deliver some stupid note to some stupid major, and that he would come face-to-face with his own brother and sister who had helped him design his human skin?
He knew his end was near the instant he saw them—either they would fire upon him to protect his true identity, or Harve would figure it out and kill him. And as he lay bleeding on the ground, preparing to become One-with-All-Matter, his final thought was of regret. He had come to like his Sarge over the years, and he was sad that the little human had to learn that he had been duped for his entire adult life.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Julius lay on the gurney scarred, burned, branded. He panted heavily, and his striking naked body was soaked in sweat. With dread, he awaited the next experiment to be performed, his next torture. It had been almost twenty minutes since the last one, and the bugs rarely gave him that much time between sessions.
Mary was in debate with one of the lab-coat-wearing aliens, one who had been a particular thorn in her side from the start. Julius had witnessed these smoker-cough arguments before but he was finally coming to understand them.
“The sun-weapon is successful,” coughed the subordinate. “Supplemental experimentation on the vampire is wasteful of resources.”
“The retreat is inconclusive,” Mary answered all business, all ditziness gone. “They may acquire new skills, heightened immunities. Much to be learned remains.”
“I urge we wait for instruction from superior.”
“Your urge is ignored. I am chief. We experiment onward.”
“If it makes any difference,” Julius piped in weakly. “I’m okay with waiting for superior.”
Mary and the others turned to him in shock.
“You understood us?” Mary asked as she moved toward the gurney. “You learned our language? So fast? OMG Sunshine! That’s amazing!” She pulled up the stool and sat down next to him. “Say something in it. Pleeeese?”
Julius stared into her fake blue eyes with an icy-dark look of death in his own, and he coughed. “I shall end you.”
“Well you don’t quite have the larynx for it, but your grammar and vocab are like dead-on,” Mary said with an impressed smile. “Say s’more. This is awesome.”
“You will lose this war, Mary,” he coughed softly, the pain of his torture having taken its toll. “Because there is something about vampires of which you know not.”
To the aliens, this was nothing short of a miracle, another scientific enigma. But the more the vampire coughed, the weaker he became, the softer his voice grew, so the other aliens, not permitted to leave their posts, had to lean in to hear him.
“Something that has been kept from the lore and the legends,” the vampire continued, his coughs now barely a whisper, the aliens leaning in ever further, the soldier by the window now blocking a small piece of the sun.
“From a time be
fore history began, when man had yet to be born.”
The soldier by the window leaned forward to such an extent that he blocked the sun completely, shielding Julius, which had been the vampire’s plan all along. In a flash, Julius transformed to mist and flew through the leather straps that bound him, soaring straight at the alien by the keyboard. He knew he’d lack the strength to hold his mist for long but all he needed was enough to kill four bugs, three of whom had no military acumen, and he had the element of surprise on his side.
He held the bug in place with one arm while his sprouted fangs sucked her dead, using his free hand to type the command to engage the window filter at full strength, typing faster with one hand than the bug had with all four. The room went dark. The new nourishment gave the vampire a touch of added strength. The soldier by the window whipped his modified rifle off his shoulder and took aim, but Julius was already behind him, tearing into the bug, siphoning out the green pus of his life.
The other two bug scientists screamed a ghastly cry akin to the wretched sound of gagging and vomiting. Julius ripped his fangs into one, growing stronger with each suck, while holding the other in place by her scaly insect neck. After the first went down, he drank only enough to kill the second one because Mary was by the door, banging frantically on the keypad to unlock it, making her getaway.
The door clicked open for but a second before Julius slammed it shut. He towered over the terrified girl in his solid human form, staring down upon her with fury, his fangs dripping saliva and green blood as he savored his revenge.
“But I thought we were like bff’s,” she said innocently. “Seriously. I mean, like I love you. I said so a ton of times. I thought when we were done here we’d like go grab a smoothie or –”
“Will you please . . . just . . . STOP . . . TALKING!!!!” the vampire shouted then bit into her hard and fast, sucking out every last drop. She howled and struggled as she shed her human skin, then at last collapsed to the floor, emptied.
Julius panted, satiated, as he watched her lie motionless and still. Silent.
“Finally,” he said to no one at all.
*****
“Hmmmmm. Mmmmmm. Hmmmmm.”
Julius sat naked on the floor in a lotus position as he uttered the soft, low vibration. His mind had entered a timeless state that could have lasted minutes or hours or days—he didn’t know. But when it was done, his full strength had returned, and his scars and burn marks were gone—only the black imprints of the silver crucifixes remained, permanent reminders of the torture he had endured.
He got his clothes from the shelf on which the aliens had kept them neatly folded and got dressed. He transformed to mist and flew through the space under the doorway to find himself in some kind of corridor, consistent with his earlier assessment of an East Coast building. He flew through the space that separated the elevator doors, down the shaft, and into a lobby. The glass front door and windows showed the sun shining brightly, but it had no effect on him so he flew outside.
He came out of what appeared to be a ten-story brick building. A building within a ship was odd enough, but what he saw next he could not believe at all. He reverted to his corporeal form because it made no difference, and he just stood there gaping, taking in his surroundings in bewilderment.
He was standing in the heart of Manhattan, across from the Flatiron Building on the tri-corner of Broadway, Fifth and East Twenty-Second Streets. Aliens were everywhere, many wearing human skin only partly fastened, their human heads flapping on their backs like hoodies. Some looked fully human, some looked fully alien, but all acted like typical New Yorkers. They walked quickly with purpose, they drove cars and yellow cabs in bad traffic, they sold hot dogs, and they yelled at each other for no particular reason. It was NYC to a tee, a perfect replica, except that Julius could see the bridges from where he stood. On the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge lay Paris, across from the George Washington stood Tokyo. The ceiling was a hundred feet high, electronically painted as a perfect blue sky with a golden sun.
Julius was aghast.
Now what? he wondered.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Johnny awoke from the anesthesia confused as to why he was in a hospital room, and why the door was open. They had put him under before regaining consciousness from Peyton’s right cross so the brash Californian had assumed he’d be waking up in some cell. He was unaware of the surgery that had been performed on him, unaware that the aliens had rendered the vampires irrelevant, unaware of the existence of zombies, unaware that he had been the subject of a brief yet highly charged civil-rights debate, and unaware that he was going to be a very rich man.
His jaw was stiff and sore, which made sense to him, but what he couldn’t understand was the excruciating pain that shot through his belly when he tried to sit up. He looked at it to find a large patch of gauze covering the center of his midriff. He peeled back the tape to see that he had been cut into, far and deep to the bone.
Of course, he thought. That’s how they had proven that he wasn’t an alien. That’s why the door was open, and why he wasn’t shackled. The bastards.
And that had been the precise topic of the debate.
White House counsel, JAG Corps attorneys and the Chief of Staff in D.C. had pleaded over the speakerphone for Peyton to rescind the order. Peyton had taken the call in the St. Vincent operating room while the military medical team stood perched over Johnny’s anesthetized body, awaiting their Commander in Chief’s final instructions. (All the civilian doctors and nurses had refused to participate.)
“Mr. President, we cannot do this,” the Chief of Staff had pleaded. “It violates every civil-rights law on the books.”
“If he’s a bug, he has no civil rights,” Peyton had insisted.
“That’s not how it works, sir,” a lawyer had countered. “Unless he’s proven not human, legally speaking, it must be assumed he is. Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Then tell me another way to figure this out,” Peyton had shot back. “X-rays and MRIs don’t tell us squat. If he’s the spy, we’ve got to know. Yesterday.”
“That’s not the point, sir. Under the law –”
“I don’t have time for the law!”
“Mr. President, if we cut into this boy and it turns out he’s human, he is going to have a massive lawsuit against us.”
It took Peyton but a moment to respond. “If we cut into this boy and it turns out he’s human, pay him.”
*****
Johnny could not have been angrier as he braved the searing pain in his bandaged gut, moving through the hospital corridor toward his desertion.
It was the incident all over again, he told himself, and he had been so sure it would be different this time, so sure that he was somehow making amends for the terrible thing he had done, and that the military had turned a new leaf. He had drank the Kool-Aid and risked his life for them—had actually felt good about it—only to have them randomly cast him as their villain, again, and cut into him while he slept.
“Fool me twice, shame on me,” as his grandmother used to say.
His plan was to steal a jeep, then find some remote spot where no bug or human could ever find him—no matter who won—and if he could convince some hot babe to tag along, all the better. But first he had something to get off his chest.
Harve lay wheezing on a gurney in the hospital lobby, his squad having raced him back north the moment he had been shot. (They informed the head of base security about Frank’s true identity shortly thereafter.) The triage doctor diagnosed Harve with a collapsed lung and a ruptured pulmonary artery then tagged him black, the color for “deceased.” Harve may have had a chance if they had had a full medical team available to operate for hours into the night like on TV, but hundreds of other soldiers would have died as a result. Harve was just another grunt, and the doctor’s job was to save as many lives as possible. The fact that the Lieutenant had lasted this long was only a testament to his strength of will.
Joh
nny had heard that Harve had been wounded, and had every intention of laying into him. “What the hell did I ever do to you?” he planned to say. “What kind of bogus, cockamamie horse crap led you to the moronic conclusion that I was a bug? ’Cause you didn’t like me? ’Cause I don’t buy into your idiotic religion? That’s a reason to lock someone up and cut them open? You stupid, bigoted, Christian freak!”
Of course, once he saw the extent of the injury, saw the soldier dying on the gurney, he knew he would say none of it. And before he could utter any word at all, their eyes met and a wave of shame swept over Harve’s face.
“Johnny,” he said weakly, barely audible. “I . . . I am so sorry.”
Johnny could feel the depth of the sincerity, appreciated the shame, and he was touched. But it wasn’t enough. “It’s okay,” he lied.
Harve flashed the tiniest of smiles, relieved for the absolution before meeting his Maker. “Go get your new orders, my brother.”
“Thanks anyway, but I’m done with the military. I just came to say good-bye.”
Harve sighed sadly. “Coward.”
“Coward?!” Johnny said, barely able to contain his anger. “I’m a coward?”
“Army needs you. You run. Yes, coward.”
“Let me tell you something about your precious army,” Johnny said with venom, suddenly motivated to kill the dying soldier’s faith in the institution he so admired. He grabbed a stool and sat, knowing full well that he wasn’t allowed to repeat his story under penalty of life in prison—but who could Harve possibly tell?
“Back in Afghanistan, I was flying Apache Longbows—attack helicopters, best there are. We got orders to take out an al-Qaeda training camp in Pashtar. Blew ’em to bits. Only someone goofed because it wasn’t an al-Qaeda camp—it was just some impoverished village of widows and children. But someone had to take the fall.
“I spent the next six months rotting in some cell waiting for my court-martial. But the army didn’t want a court-martial—it didn’t want any record of the incident at all—God forbid it went public and someone forced actions to stop such things from ever happening again. So instead they made me an offer. I could insist on a trial that was already rigged for me to lose and spend twenty years in Leavenworth. Or, I could sign a confession stating that I had gone rogue, and that no faulty orders had been given. I’d get a mild reprimand, bumped down to private, and oh yeah—spend the rest of my life in the service so they could keep an eye on me just in case.