Analog SFF, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The basement was silent for a moment.

  Then beeps and a low hum crept in, the cold, stalking sounds of electronic equipment working. Red and blue lights flickered from consoles along the far wall. A monitor displayed an image of a bulbous craft, maybe a deep-sea submersible or a car at an amusement park. My skin prickled with the sensation of cool air moving, and I noticed a small oscillating fan on the corner desk.

  I found myself helpless, alone, and—I admit—fighting the rawest fear I could ever imagine.

  * * * *

  The Fergusons worked at a frantic pace. Tomas went outside. Willie worked upstairs, coming down occasionally to check on me or to fiddle with one of the machines.

  The chair was hard against my tailbone.

  If I could get to my phone, I thought. Or maybe just manage to get a quick-call button pushed—but I had no idea how the phone was situated, so I didn't know where to push. Even if I did, the tape around my arms and legs was too tight. I couldn't get to it.

  Without much else to do, I took in the room.

  A worn purple throw-rug covered the tile floor. The walls were paneled with a light-colored composite that made the room feel bigger than it was. The far corner was piled with newspapers and fliers from local businesses. To my right, two chairs, much nicer than the contraption I found myself in, sat before a long table that was clean and unblemished, a gently stained ash or oak with noticeable grain. A computer sat at each station, and a scanner of some type sat between them. A large glass screen with a metallic sheen stood behind the scanner, maybe five feet wide and three tall. I leaned forward and saw a set of concentric circles, each intersecting a dot to make the whole thing look like a small solar system or an eccentric atom.

  I found I could scoot the chair a little, and if I didn't do too much too soon I wouldn't make much noise. I worked my way toward the center of the room and looked back at the display. Yes, it had to be the solar system—I saw Mercury and Venus and us. The mapping used a log scale that brought Jupiter and Saturn into view. The asteroid belt was tagged with a pink coloring, and various items inside it were marked with a mosaic of multi-hued triangles and squares. On the whole it looked like a collaboration between Piet Mondrian and Andy Warhol.

  I noticed papers on the desk—a report of nuclear testing in Korea, a table of troop strengths in maybe forty countries. A report in Spanish listed energy resources around the globe. There was something else in Kanji, but I couldn't read it.

  The computer gave a sharp tone that made my heart jump.

  A box expanded across the display, graphically linked to a point in the asteroid belt. A woman's face filled the box, and a collection of text filled space beside her image. She spoke in the Fergusons’ guttural language.

  I scooted back to my starting place as quickly I could.

  Willie Ferguson rushed down the stairs, and with only a quick glance at me sat down in a computer chair. She pressed the screen. The woman's comment played again. Willie rattled off a long discussion, interspersed with typing on the keyboard. It didn't take genius to see I was the subject of the conversation.

  When she was done, she sat back and gave a fatigued sigh.

  I worked the tape around my mouth so I could speak. “I didn't mean any harm,” I said, through my failed gag.

  "It doesn't matter what you meant."

  She fed a page into the slot in the scanner. It ran through silently.

  "Who was the other woman? What are you going to do to me?"

  Her eyes stayed on the screen. She fed another page. It took a few minutes to finish scanning the reports.

  The woman on the other side left her station, but other people stepped into and out of the background. No—it finally registered in my consciousness that there were no other people in the asteroid belt, these were other beings.

  Right?

  No government or conglomerate in the world could manage to get a space program of this size funded without attracting attention, correct?

  I looked hard at Willie.

  Her legs were longer than they should be, her fingers thinner. Her eyes were wide-spaced and open, gorgeous in a myopic way, but I could see now they were spaced too far apart to be human. The skin was smooth, which I had noticed before but assumed she just looked naturally young. Each feature was different—the turn of her nose was off, the curve of her ear lobe seemed too long, the way she sat was slightly too stiff.

  The communication box buzzed again, and the voice came. Willie nodded and spoke. She pressed the display, spoke more, then pressed the screen to sign off.

  "Don't go anywhere,” she said with an awkward smile.

  Then she stood and went upstairs.

  * * * *

  Willie's footsteps were a constant sound upstairs. Tomas went outside and did not return. I heard rumbles and thumps and the screech of packing tape.

  The door slammed often.

  I began to lose feeling in my hands and feet. I twisted one way and another, pulling hard with both arms. The movement got blood moving, but didn't affect the tape. Frustrated, I let out the loudest, longest scream I could muster.

  The door upstairs slammed again, and the heavy sound of Tomas Ferguson's gait came on the steps. The knees of his pants were stained with grass and brown soil, and his shirt was wrinkled. A smear of dirt crossed his forehead.

  "You filled in the hole?” I asked.

  He knelt to check my binding. “Are you all right?"

  I didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of a reply.

  He felt my hands, and I took the opportunity to snare him around the wrist.

  "What are you doing, Tomas?” I said. “Who are you?"

  He twisted his arm free.

  Willie appeared on the steps. “Is he well?"

  "Get him something to eat,” Tomas replied. “Then make him a real gag.” He turned and walked up the stairs, wringing his wrist where I had touched him.

  My stomach told me it had passed lunchtime.

  Willie fed me a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water. When she was done, she placed a small wad of gauze in my mouth and taped over me several times.

  Five minutes later I felt the first effects.

  I should have known better than to eat something they gave me. Pretty soon I was in la-la-land, conscious, but totally without care. I tried to focus, tried to scoot my chair, tried to look at reports. Why are they here? What are they doing? But nothing stuck, and I found it all to be merely humorous.

  The police came that evening.

  I tried to imagine how worried Ness and Mercy must be, but all I could get was their faces smiling together like they did in the picture on the living room wall.

  No, officer, I heard Ferguson say. We've been at work. Sorry to hear that. Is there anything we can do?

  The cops left and I hummed a little tune.

  The rest of that evening is foggy at best.

  I remember the blue van. I remember Tomas and Willie disconnecting the display and pulling stuff off the walls. I remember the smell of exhaust, and the hard-hard sensation of my cheek pressed for too long against a vibrating wall. I remember lights. I remember stars out a moving window against a crystal-clear black night.

  * * * *

  The strength of my memory begins with the sound of tires on the road and the awareness of a sharp pain in my back. It took considerable time before the pain fully registered, but I remember it clearly now. I opened my eyes a slit. Willie was driving. The road was dark. I was on my back. My head hurt, and the gag was a gauzy paste in my mouth. White streaks of passing headlights bathed the ceiling above me. The passenger seat was empty, which I remember seemed odd at the time.

  I twisted to relieve the pain, but when I relaxed it came again, the ache of a sharp edge pressing against my kidney. It was probably part of a machine, a corner left exposed due to hasty packing.

  Sometime thereafter the thought struck—could I use it as a blade against the duct tape? Enthused, I moved my wrists up
to it and sawed. After a little experimentation, I felt it pierce the restraint. It was all I could do to keep from crying out. I pressed on silently, though, using the vehicle's vibration to help me sweep the tape against the blade. The sough of the road and the motor's whine covered what little sound I made.

  It took five excruciating minutes to cut the tape away.

  Willie's phone rang just as I felt blood in my fingers again. I kept my hands behind my back and pretended to sleep. She answered, glanced back at me, then shook her head and spoke further. A moment later, the vehicle slowed, turned a few times, and came to a stop. She shut the ignition off and opened the door. A blast of fresh air filled the cabin. She got out and slammed it shut.

  Were they stopping for gas, or perhaps hitting the rest room? Aliens had to use the john, too, right?

  I rotated just enough to keep my hands hidden beneath me. I kept my eyes shut and stayed as limp as I could. The machine dug into my back.

  The van's bay door slid open.

  After a moment, Tomas said, “Let him sleep,” using a voice loud enough that anyone around would take it as a sign of companionship.

  They shut the door, and their footsteps retreated.

  When I couldn't stand it anymore, I opened my eyes and found we were at a 24-hour waffle place. They were eating. Maybe I had a little time.

  I pulled my feet up. Everything hurt, but I pressed the metal edge against the tape around my ankles and they were suddenly free. I started to work on the gag, but realized it could wait. Instead, I pulled on the sliding door to find it locked. Keeping my head down, I crawled to the front seat and pressed the button that controlled all the doors. A solid clunk came from each lock.

  I eased the side door open, stepped out, and closed it behind me.

  I saw the highway a distance away. A gas station and a mini-mart were nearby, both closed. Three other cars were in the parking lot. A large move-it-yourself truck was parked beside the van, and I realized that's where Tomas had been. They had too much equipment to move in one vehicle.

  A single lamp illuminated the parking area, but it looked like wooded area beyond that for as far as I could see.

  I moved to the rear of the van and took a few deep breaths to calm myself. I flexed my aching hands and wriggled my sore toes. The vehicles would provide cover as long as I stayed low.

  So that's what I did. I stayed low, and I ran.

  When I hit the woods I ran farther. I ran until it hurt to breathe through my nose.

  I stopped and felt the tape around my mouth, frantically ripping it away, unwinding four times before the last turn pulled hair and burned skin. But it was gone. I breathed freely, gulping fresh air.

  Then I ran farther, and farther, continuing until I couldn't run any more.

  * * * *

  I checked my phone. It was quarter-past five in the morning. The sound of cars on the freeway came from a distance to the east. When I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my fingers grazed the small chunk of wrapper skin I had stashed while I was digging. It was soft to the touch, slippery. Its metallic sheen made a paisley pattern in the earliest light of dawn.

  Yesterday seemed so far away.

  I put it back in my pocket.

  I rested a half hour, listening for footsteps in the woods. It was cold, and my entire body was cramped and stiff. The woods creaked and popped with unfamiliar sounds. I heard birds. I heard scampering that I thought might be the Fergusons but turned out to be squirrels.

  I walked toward the sound of the highway, then stayed in the trees and followed the direction of the traffic. Before long I came to the exit the Fergusons had taken. I saw the gas station and the mini-mart. I saw the waffle place. The van and the truck were gone. Still, I thought it best to avoid the waffle place, and the mini-mart was just opening. So I went there and got a cup of over-cooked coffee and a box of cinnamon crisps.

  The woman at the counter was rail-thin and wore a stained golf shirt with the mini-mart logo on its breast.

  "If you don't mind my asking,” I said, “where the hell am I?"

  "Pardon?” Her accent was southern.

  "What's the closest city?"

  "Rockwood."

  "Thank you,” I said. “And the state?"

  She stared at me like I was a crazy man, and I'm sure I looked the part.

  "You're about a half-mile from Rockwood, Tennessee."

  I smiled and paid for my food with a credit card I'm sure she thought was going to be denied.

  Then I stepped outside and called Ness.

  * * * *

  She cried, and asked if I was okay. Then she came and got me.

  I squatted on the stoop in front of the mini-mart, drinking coffee, waiting, and wondering how I was going to tell her what had happened. I was angry and embarrassed. I felt grimy, a dirtiness that went well past the sweat and soil that lined the wrinkles in my skin and made me feel sticky and oily. How was I supposed to talk about this? Who the hell would believe me?

  As time passed, Ness's impending arrival began to feel like a time bomb waiting to go off. Until then I was safe. No one had to know anything. But I owed her the truth, and I felt the countdown as a physical thing, every second passing with a nearly audible click. I stood and paced.

  But I didn't leave.

  She pulled into the mini-mart three hours after we spoke. She was hungry and I hadn't seen any sign of the Fergusons in the time I had waited. So we went to the waffle place, and I sat her down and I told her everything I could think of to tell her.

  She took it in, stopping me at times to ask questions. Mostly, though, she was quiet.

  "Do you believe me?” I asked when I was finished.

  She put her fork down on a finished plate of eggs over-easy. “Well, it makes sense."

  "Seriously?"

  "I noticed the shovel was out of place when I got into the garage last night."

  I laughed. It was probably the first time in our history together that her precise memory of where everything in the house was supposed to be actually brought us closer together.

  She leaned in. “What are you going to tell everyone?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I won't say anything."

  She just looked at me.

  "People will say I'm insane. There's a lot to lose here."

  She was still silent. I felt embarrassed. Finally, she spoke. “I love you. Do what you think is right."

  A sense of relief washed over me.

  I reached out to touch her hand.

  * * * *

  When we got home, I picked up the phone and called the CIA.

  You have to start somewhere.

  * * * *

  That was two months ago.

  I know things now that I didn't know then. I know Tomas Ferguson dug up the three holes in his back yard, and filled in the dirt. I know they were renting, and that the real estate agent was surprised to find the place so thoroughly cleared out. It seems the Fergusons travel light.

  I also know that both the CIA and the FBI are condescending assholes who think I'm a loon, and don't plan to do a damned thing. SETI is interested, but they're too unorganized to do much more than ask folks to point telescopes toward the asteroid belt. My story just gets lost in the frightful buzz at the various extraterrestrial web sites, though they still send me e-mail every day.

  I now know there's a branch of psychoanalysis reserved completely for those of us who report alien encounters. One snide doctor actually said to me: “Did you know it runs in families? Maybe I should talk to your daughter."

  I know people in Martinsville get quiet when I come around, or they make jokes about tightening their asteroid belt or give me any of several other inane shots I've heard since the media firestorm passed. If I hear “Preparation H will get rid of that pain in the asteroid” one more time, I may just bust a gut.

  And I know I'm at a loss for what else to do. Who else is left? Drug lords? The Mob? Hamas? No, thank you.

  Finally, I know Ness and M
ercy have had a hard time because of my story, but neither has made it a problem at home. Mercy in particular suffers because she gets it from teenagers who have yet to learn the fine art of buffering their disdain.

  On the other hand, sales of my last book shot through the roof, and I've got a contract offer to write about my abduction if I want to do it. It may be all that's left to try.

  Again, all these things I know.

  What I don't know is where Tomas and Willie Ferguson are today. What neighborhood are they watching? What information are they sending their cohorts? What are those cohorts planning to do?

  I think about these questions every day, and as with so many other things, it's what I don't know that scares me.

  So, you might ask, why am I writing this? Why now?

  It's like this:

  Today I took Mercy and some of her friends to a mall in Indianapolis. I've taken to enjoying Indy because it's big enough I can go places without creating a stir. The girls paraded through the mall. I know the rules—it's un-cool for a parent to actually be seen with a flock of teenage girls, so I trailed a distance behind. I didn't mind. It let me watch and absorb, which is what writers do best. The girls laughed and looked brilliant and young and lithe and glowing. I had just smiled to myself when a man coming the other direction turned to his wife and said: “Wish the damned spics would just go back to Mexico."

  I can blame lack of sleep or PTSD or whatever—I had, after all, heard these things hundreds of times before. I am a white male. People speak freely with me in the room. But this time, before I could stop myself, I punched the man square in the jaw. He stepped into it and went down like a sack of flour, gazing upward with wide, boggling eyes, and with blood gushing red from his lips. His wife screamed. People reacted. I stood over him, shaking and muttering something about never saying that again and what the hell did he think he was doing. I kicked him ineffectually. Then security pulled me away.

  They let me go after a long discussion.

  Mercy was, of course, completely embarrassed. Ness cried when we got home.