Dejectedly, he surveyed the surrounding area from his perch. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a plastic-wrapped piece of birthday cake. A bit stale, but he didn’t think the fairy would notice. Smoothing out the plastic wrap, he pushed the squashed cake toward the edge of the rock. No, he had better put the cake closer to him. Standing, he eyeballed the position of the cake. Still not liking it, he stood to move it again, a bit more to the middle. Turning, he glanced at his seat and gasped, doing a double take. There was his fairy, sitting in the spot he had just vacated.
Thumping down hard on the rock, he stared at the fairy’s eyes. They made him dizzy with their pulsing golden rainbows leaving him speechless and mesmerized. Neither one moved.
“Are you a fairy?” Scotty finally demanded an answer, getting no response. “The fairies in my fairy book don’t have tails. How come you do?”
He felt pressure, his mind filling with a strange aura. He stared at the fairy, who just stared back. “I am an Oolahan.” Scotty heard the words whispered in his mind, the aura bright with color.
“Did you say your name was Lula?” Scotty wondered why the creature, um, Lula, hadn’t moved its mouth. He’d heard it speak quite clearly. The aura and colors had formed mind words; weird.
“Do I get a wish?”
“What do you mean, young Brother?”
“My wish. Everyone gets a wish from a fairy.” Scotty grew agitated. If everyone got a wish from a fairy, he wanted to make sure he got his before it disappeared again.
“Brother, I do not have a wish for you. I am here for a mission. I have chosen you. You will be The One.”
Huh? The boy scratched his head. He stared at Lula.
“I want to pet you, Lula.” Standing, Scotty walked toward his new friend. Walking past the cake, he bent down to pick it up to give to Lula. Being the clumsy little boy he was, he tripped. Caught off balance, he crashed down, head first, rolling near the edge. Dazed, he sat up, perilously close to the drop. Still maintaining a hold on his gift to Lula, he stepped back and fell straight over the edge, landing in a broken heap on the sharp pile of rocks at the base.
The Oolahan scurried over to the edge and looked down. She saw blood, lots of blood. The boy’s head sat at an unnatural angle, but she could tell he still lived. Unbidden, her tail shot up in the air, directed down at the boy. The air filled with pressure and the smell of sulfur as her tail extruded its membrane to do its miraculous work.
Unfortunately, the meeting had failed to produce the results she had hoped for. The unexpected disaster had changed everything. Sighing, the creature spun her head in frustration, trying to contain her disappointment. Lamenting the frailty of human offspring, she realized her mission must wait. Even though the boy had appeared to be a good choice, at the moment his youth disqualified him. She should measure her expectations carefully next time. Remembering the young of humans took twenty two years for their brains to mature, her mistake shamed her.
Life worked more efficiently for her species as all young were born with their birth parent’s genetic memory. The fact that humans had not evolved this necessary trait was a severe disadvantage. She would love to know what the Elders had thought they were accomplishing when they handicapped this life form. A simple adjustment to their enzymes during evolution would have turned the trait on. She knew the Elders rarely made mistakes. Perhaps they had done it deliberately. She promised herself to ask the Womb.
Now, forced to rectify the situation the only way she knew, even though it might cause more problems, she must leave the boy alone. Sadly, she climbed down the rock, wobbling over to the boy. She watched his eyes flutter, bringing him back to consciousness. Hurrying, she reached out to grab the cake, still remarkably intact, clutching it tightly under her arm. She wobbled over to the cairn of rocks that marked the way to the Hive and disappeared.
*
Scotty sat up slowly. What am I doing on the ground? He could feel the rough edges of the cold rocks digging into his tender skin. He picked himself up off the chilly rocks and made his way back to the glen he usually played in. Looking around, confusion made him dizzy. Shaking it off, he stretched and yawned, freakishly feeling vigorous. Deciding to return home, he wondered if Abby was back from the doctors. She was so tired of late and he needed to help move Mom’s stuff from her bedroom to get ready for the Diaz family. Trudging back down the hill, he wondered what had happened to the piece of birthday cake he had taken to the woods with him.
*
Deep inside the cavern, the creature blinked her golden eyes, curled up in her chamber, golden tail wrapped protectively around her furry body as she contemplated the shrinking piece of cake in front of her. She did not take it to eat, not having that capability. Curiosity had compelled her; it had belonged to the human Brother. Maybe it would help with the sadness she felt, knowing he could have been The One. The only reason the Womb had allowed the healing was because she had caused the incident. The humane solution called for the creature to have let him die in the fall. Sadly, even though he now lived, the human would confront a troublesome road.
She ached with the knowledge that the only thing she envisioned for herself was the unremitting loneliness of passing years. Reaching out with one of her long golden leathery fingers, she stroked the tiny piece of cake and closed her eyes.
Chapter 4
2037 AD
Jose hardly remembered his birthplace. At fifteen years old, his height outstripped the average teen from Costa Rica, a lush country known for its riches, lovely people and diverse topography: mountains, volcanoes, wet rainforests, dry rainforest, hot springs, mud baths, coastlines on two different oceans and rich fabulous wildlife. Unfortunately, he now lived in New Jersey with his adoptive family. A singularly ugly state of cement, asphalt, exhaust-filled highways, billboards, high security prisons, massive tenements and poverty.
He couldn’t bear to think about his beautiful mother, yet he continued to torture himself with the pain, knowing he would never forget. She was found in the garden of their home in San Jose, where his father worked as a police officer.
His father had been found that morning, in his car in front of his favorite breakfast place. He stopped there every morning, without fail, on his way to the station. He just loved what they could do with a few leftovers and some fresh eggs. He knew they were fresh because he personally knew the names of the chickens in the back of the restaurant. He liked to stick his head in the backyard and say hello to the old mama that fed them. That morning, his head had been found sitting in his bloody lap, neatly detached. No one confessed to witnessing a thing.
The town, ruled by the Para Militar who had merged with the FARC from Columbia, knew survival meant silence. They used to have a mayor and a police force which enforced the law. Now, everyone answered to the drug cartels—cartels who had created their own army, the Sicario, the assassins. They wore snappy green and black uniforms and applied the laws the police used to enforce.
Of course, now the laws were full of a few kickers. And they frequently changed depending on the whims of the cartels. The country belonged to them. They controlled much of Mexico, all of Central America and most of Northern South America. Life moved on even with the cartels in charge; the mass murders of fifteen years ago well in the past. Citizens were weary of the blood spilt in almost every family. But once the cartels stepped into the breach and took power they, unsurprisingly, started to resemble the previous corrupt politicians and leaders. Some ruled through democracy, some through intimidation.
The people learned to complain in whispers and behind closed doors. The cartels never gave up their infamous habit of silencing detractors with a well-placed bullet or the more soundless stiletto. The occasional rape of a detractor’s spouse or youngest daughter was also a very effective tool.
Jose wondered what had brought the Garcia family to the attention of the cartels. His poor papa knew to keep his mouth shut. His law enforcement job had evolved over the years to traffic enforcement only.
He didn’t even carry a gun. His parents were renowned for their generosity and well-bred gentility. They had made a very striking couple.
The hot afternoon drew to a close as he made his daily after-school stop at Senor Brooks’ house. Senor Brooks lived in what used to be his best friend, Juan Bastida’s, family home.
A year ago, Juan’s father had mysteriously disappeared, leaving the house available for Senor Brooks to lease. He was a fine retired military man; a gringo who loved the wildlife of Jose’s country. He had lived near the Garcia family for about a year, getting to know Jose very well and enjoying his company. He never minded whenever Jose stopped after school to play with his small collection of primates. In fact, he encouraged it.
Senor Brooks’ collection consisted of two African vervet monkeys, a pair of howler monkeys, and a pair of white-faced monkeys. Jose loved them all. He could not get enough of their tiny wise furry faces; so vulnerable, so human and so capricious. Senor Brooks often sat and took tea with Jose as he played with the primates, asking him questions about school and sometimes commenting on Senor Brooks’ past life in the United States. He told Jose how lucky he was to grow up in a country filled with such natural beauty, not spoiled and paved over as in the States. He talked of the great slums and poverty in the U.S. He often inquired into the health of his parents, noting how they never seemed to be ill—an odd remark, Jose thought in retrospect. His parents were blessed with excellent health, except for the polio his mother had contracted while pregnant with Cara.
Senor Brooks always perked up when he mentioned Jose’s baby sister. At nine months old, Jose loved her desperately. From the top of her head all the way down to her tiny feet with the purple half-moon on her tiny big toe. He would actually have nightmares about their house catching on fire and his desperation to save her. The nightmares haunted him, magnifying his subconscious anxiety for her safety.
*
He did not go directly home that day. He hurried from school, walking quickly down the unpaved stone street, the burning sun sucking the moisture from anything touched by its withering rays. He turned off the intersection to the country road leading to his home.
Normally, he tried very hard to help his mama with Cara, but Senor Brooks had asked him if he wanted to hold the monkeys while he cleaned their cages; always an ordeal. But it was a nice chance to hold the monkeys and distract them with play while Senor Brooks cleaned the big ornamental metal cages. Helping Senor Brooks with the monkeys left him feeling special. He liked knowing the monkeys needed him. They were significant to him. He knew they waited for him after school. He didn’t ever want to let them down. Mama and Cara would still be there when he eventually got home.
Leaving Senor Brooks’ house, he arrived home about sixty minutes later than normal. He walked along the red dirt road, three houses away, scuffing his feet in the hot dust, when he saw two men emerge from the metal gate in the front yard of his home. Their demeanor appeared suspicious. One of them carried a bundle in his arms. Jose noticed black and green pants under the man’s serape. Glancing up at the sun, he wondered who in their right minds would wear a serape in this weather. It could only be the black and green uniform of the dreaded Sicario.
Jose noticed they stared intently in his direction. He quickly ducked his head and looked down at his sandals, managing to observe the bundle, clearly wrapped in an afghan with a maize design and a bright turquoise border; the design original to and crafted by his mama. Jose continued walking past his house until he could no longer see the two men.
Doubling back to his home, he let himself in by the gate. He ran through the house in a panic, calling for his mama. Stepping out to the terrace, he saw his mama fast asleep on her chaise longue. Her leg, encased in the ever-present metal brace, had fallen off in the lounge, her hand draped inside Cara’s baby carriage. He relaxed, relief instantly flooding his small body.
Running over to his mama he called her name, laughing and chattering on about Senor Brooks and his monkeys. Rounding his mama’s chair he stopped in his tracks, his stunned eyes unable to comprehend the meaning of the thick bib of blood congealing down the front of his beautiful mama’s chest, or the drying crimson slash across her throat. The same chest he remembered cuddling up to as a toddler. He would be seven years old tomorrow.
Things happened quickly after he began screaming. He remembered Senor Brooks lifting him up in his strong comforting arms. His screaming abated as he was carried into Senor Brooks’ garden where the monkeys lived. Reduced to whimpering, he felt himself carried upstairs and tucked into a bed in a strange room. Senor Brooks stretched out Jose’s vulnerable arm, inserting a needle. He tried to open his mouth to ask for his papa, but couldn’t make his thick, sluggish tongue work. Gently, he slipped off to another universe, where his beautiful mama and Cara waited with incandescent smiles, his mama’s ugly brace gone; her leg straight and healthy, alongside his handsome papa who called to him.
He heard his papa call his name again, sounding far away. He struggled to wake up, his eyelids felt loaded down with sludge. He could feel Papa helping him out of bed. He dressed slowly, his limbs insisting they belonged to someone else. Papa told him they must go to a funeral. He felt himself being carried down a staircase. He must not be at home; they had no stairs in the house. Coming to a stop, he forced his eyes to open. He recognized the garden where the monkeys lived, their cages open and the monkeys gone. I must find Senor Brooks, he thought to himself, sluggishly. Someone made off with his monkeys. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but failed.
Helpless and unaware, hands tucked him into a car and drove off. Unable to stop himself, he slept. Feeling the car halt, he woke; his sight wavy and indistinct, objects faraway as if underwater. The car door opened, a hand assisted him out. Dozens of eyes pinned him down as he struggled to stand. A priest appeared, his silent mouth moving, hands gesticulating. Jose shrank back, confused and disoriented. His eyes tried to focus on the big hole in the ground and the coffins sitting nearby. Two coffins.
He wondered who had died. Where had his papa gone? He cast his eyes down, searching for his papa’s big feet in the crowd. His drooping lids identified the men that papa worked with, all tall and somber in their official uniforms, his neighbors grouped behind. He spotted Mama’s lady friends, many sobbing. The urge to lie down fought with his rising panic. Noticing a coffin being lowered into the hole, he looked around for his family. Faltering, he slipped. Struggling to his feet, he screamed for his mama and papa. Hands reached out, trying to restrain him. Hope flared as Senor Brooks stepped before him, arms opened wide. He hardly felt the sudden pinprick on his neck. Gratefully, his eyes rolled back in his head as he was sucked into a deep soundless sleep.
*
Jose woke on an airplane with Senor Brooks and a splitting headache. By commercial standards, the plane looked like a mosquito, but to Jose it felt like a monstrous metal creature sporting a cold steel stomach that had somehow swallowed him up. Scanning the empty seats, he wondered where everybody was.
Turning to Senor Brooks, his sleepy voice begged to know the whereabouts of his papa. Senor Brooks calmly revealed the horror, his voice tinged with impatience.
“Jose, you know your papa and mama died in an accident. Remember the funeral? Everyone attended. Your parents’ honor turned out quite a crowd. Yes, yes. So tragic, Cara too. Now we must move on and meet your new family.”
“I don’t want a new family. I want to go home, please.” His quivery voice made no dent in the recitation of the plans Senor Brooks had made for him. As the words washed over the sound of the engines, they began to sink in. His heart tripped with panic. “I think I need to go home now, I don’t feel too good.”
“My boy . . . let me get you something. This will help.” Passing Jose a cola, he inquired if he cared for something to eat. Jose gratefully nodded. The pretty lady who stood next to his seat returned with a wonderful lunch for them both. Jose couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.
Sipping h
is cola, he thought it was unusually sweet. Maybe it was a different brand then the one he usually drank. Finishing his lunch he turned to his friend. “Can we please go home now?”
Senor Brooks put his arm around Jose, squeezing his shoulders. “Come on now, champ, you need to make your papa proud. He would only want the best for you. He wanted me to take you to the best place I thought you would be safe, be happy and excel. Do you know what he told me before he died? He made me promise to take you to the U.S.A. And that is exactly where we are going.”
“But the U.S.A. is a bad place. You told me yourself. Bad people live there. Everyone is poor. I want to go home.”
Senor Brooks didn’t hear him. He picked up a magazine and began reading as if the short conversation was over.
Jose sat, silent with confusion. He was happy to be with Senor Brooks, but too much change frightened him. Where were his mama and papa? He did not believe they were dead. Had he remembered to tell Senor Brooks that someone had made off with his monkeys? Everything confused him. The United States—why would Papa want me to go so far from everything I know?
His translucent eyelids slipped heavily down. That’s all he seemed to do, sleep. As he drifted off, he thought he heard the cry of an infant. It seemed to be coming from the back of the plane. Or maybe it was just an old memory. He slept soundly the rest of the way, immersed in the happy memory of Cara spitting up all over his papa as he tossed her in the air, making him and his mama laugh hysterically.
*
Jose did not adjust well to his new family. His sorrow for his own family turned to anger, leaving him a bitter shell, just going through the motions. It was especially difficult as he did not fully understand English. He had learned a little in grade school in Costa Rica, but not enough to blend in. Even though his new family was Hispanic, they did not speak the language. Spanish used to be taught in American schools, but, like most things, it had fallen to the absolute knife of budget cuts. As a result, he felt foreign and different; just what a child recovering from severe trauma did not want. He became the strange new kid in school. No friends, no real family.
Alien Species Intervention: Books 1-3: An Alien Apocalyptic Saga (Species Intervention #6609) Page 20