Doc’s still betting on broadcasts that leaked into space like spilled ink.
The lead pilot says, “No harm.” Its voice a gravely burp. It points to itself and then the two pilots behind it with slender fingers. Says again, “No harm.”
None of the men are scientists. None of them think scientifically. Only practically.
Doc asks once, “Are you sure you understand the words I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“I say ‘fight’ or ‘run’ or ‘kill’ or ‘scared’ you know what those words mean?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are the creatures on your ship fighting and killing us?”
The pilot rolls its disc head. “No... Not...” Cracked voice like it’s been smoking for three hundred years. “They. Meant for battlefield. War.”
“What war? War here?”
The pilot stomps its foot.
Whitmore brings his M4 up.
Miller holds his corporal back. Says, “It’s frustrated. That’s all. It can’t find the right words. Relax. Imagine what language problems you would have if you were on an alien world surrounded by a bunch of pissed off locals—not counting the dogs.”
Whitmore lowers his gun. Grunts.
Doc looks back at the men. “Yeah.” He looks to Ackerman, who’s fingering his chainsaw a little too enthusiastically. “So let’s all stay calm.”
Ackerman sneers. Thinks, Doc’s right again. Of course. Gonna be fun to chop all these alien pricks apart. How many I killed now?
Swift catches the sneer and pushes Ackerman into the hallway outside. “Maybe we should have a little chat. Discuss intergalactic diplomacy and all.”
The pilots watch the exchange. Turn back to Doc. The lead alien says, “War. Yes. War. War there.” It points up to the ceiling.
Doc says, “A war on another planet? Some other fuckin planet and you...You just crashed here? By accident?”
“Yes.”
“It was an accident?”
“Yes.”
Doc rubs his face. “You gotta be fuckin kidding.”
The pilot has no reply.
Miller steps forward. Says, “The things that are killing us, they are soldiers?”
The pilot looks to Doc.
Doc nods back. Gestures to Miller. “He’s fine. Please answer.”
The pilot says, “Yes. Soldiers.”
Miller says, “So you guys were transporting troops to some other fight?”
“Yes.”
“If that’s the case, then they know their enemy. Why are they killing us? And why are they launching strikes? They hit and then run back to your crashed ship.”
“Because...” The pilot searches for the human words. It looks back to its compatriots. They offer it the equivalent of a shrug. The lead pilot finally says, “Engineered.”
Doc says, “You made those things?”
“Yes.”
Doc scratches the back of his head. Shouts, “Fuck” once and hard.
Rubin sits. The dogs in the locked office go silent.
Doc grabs Miller. He hisses. “Christ. Their military’s as clueless as yours. They were hauling insane shit and they crashed here. And now that shit is out. And I don’t think even they know what to do.”
Miller says, “Hey, thanks for the insult.” He looks to the lead pilot. “Why do they attack and why do they always head back to the ship?”
“Designed. Designed to protect area around ship. Not...” The pilot looks around again. Trying to find inflection for words. “They designed to protect area not designed to invade.
“Not invade till area clear.”
Miller says, “Define ‘clear.’”
The pilot points to all the humans in the room. “When you all dead.”
* * *
Ackerman says, “What? You gonna believe the crap comin outta the mouths of those things? How many people have they killed?”
“I get that,” Swift says. “But your mouth is too loud and your trigger finger is too itchy.” Swift sighs. “Think about it. I don’t know what the hell’s goin on. Neither do you. But these blue bastards? What’s wrong with talking to em?”
“I wasn’t doin anything.”
“No but you had a look. Like you might.”
“Tom, I’m smarter than that. You know I am.”
“Not tryin to be a dick just... Quit making people nervous.”
Ackerman lets the chainsaw fall onto its sling so that it hangs by his side. He says, “All right. I’ll quit being twitchy.”
Swift says, “Sam.” He locks eyes with the old logger. “We need to keep a level head here. Even with all the crazy shit.”
Ackerman thinks, Idiot. This was all an accident? Them crashing here? Bullshit. I’m sure Kong would be thrilled to learn that.
* * *
Ackerman walks back into the main room where Doc is hashing out some kind of plan alongside Miller and Whitmore.
Swift is right behind him.
Fiske and Mosshart and Gordy and Mags watch the exchange with stupid awe.
Ackerman thinks, I was the one who saved you.
* * *
“Most important thing,” Doc says, “Is figuring out how to—”
The lead pilot turns.
Everyone in the room hears Ackerman’s Stihl roar.
The lead pilot raises a hand. There’s a tremendous blue discharge from its palm.
Ackerman’s head evaporates.
The humans jerk back and away.
A moment of stunned silence.
The pilot says, “He meant harm.”
Everyone looks to the smoking husk that used to be their compatriot. The charred thing that used to be Ackerman.
Swift curls around the doorframe, over the corpse.
Whitmore and Miller don’t bother raising their weapons.
Doc says, “Holy shit.”
Mags grips Gordy like a vice. She whispers to him, “They’re gonna kill us all. They’re gonna kill us and then their mutant whatever invasion force’ll move south and they’ll wipe us all out and—”
Gordy pulls Mags’ talon-like hands off his jacket. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“And how the hell do you know?”
“I just know.” He smiles at her.
Mags doesn’t like the smile at all. It’s too eager. Too happy after what’s just happened to Ackerman. A rugged logger that maybe none of them loved, but they sure didn’t hate him either.
And these things ended his life like they were swatting a fly.
She scoots away from Gordy a little.
She looks to Fiske. He’s bug-eyed.
Gordy watches the pilots. Serene.
29.
Gordy closes his eyes and listens. He can hear them. When the pilots talk to each other, his brain prickles. Like there are little electrical sparks shooting across his mind. He can’t pronounce any of the words—if they are words—but he understands them.
He thinks back to when the radio exploded. That discharge.
Must’ve happened then. Some kind of connection opened up.
He wishes he could scratch the pink meat of his brain.
But there’s no time for that.
The pilots are talking about the next steps. The plans.
They need to keep the humans alive.
If they don’t, the warmachines will spread. The Hroza might wake up its brothers. Might release that horrible parasite.
When they’re done with Earth, they’ll return to the pilots’ home world.
And lay it to waste.
The bio-things are rogue. The crash destroyed the neural limiter and the neural restraints. All that equipment gone in a flash. Maybe the discharge was an impulse blast from the neural limiter going up...
They’re already working to repair the ship.
The pilots know this. So Gordy knows this.
30.
Swift sits next to Ackerman’s corpse. The site manager hasn’t moved for ten minutes.
> He’s not crying. He didn’t like Ackerman that much. He’s in shock. He stares, unbelieving. The alien weaponry. How Ackerman’s head turned to dust.
They can’t fight the pilots. He understands that. Damn things know as soon as you want to hurt em. Then you stop being alive.
So...?
Gotta trust em.
But it’s so fuckin hard, knowing what they’ve done.
Swift reaches for Ackerman’s Stihl. There’s chunks of burrower flesh and gore in the teeth. A small, stinking abattoir.
He stands and slings the chainsaw over his shoulder.
Fiske would like having the Stihl. No reason it should go unused.
Could keep it for the next job.
If there is one.
* * *
Mosshart stares at the pilots.
He approaches their leader. Extends his hand.
The pilot takes it.
They shake.
Mosshart says, “You got any idea how many movies I watched when I was a kid? Stuff made you guys out to be saviors or the end of it all. The Thing From Another World. The Day The Earth Stood Still. We always wondered, but we never knew. Too worried thinkin the Russians were gonna blow us up. That’s what all that shit was. Afraid of our neighbors.”
The pilot nods. Doesn’t want to talk unless it has to.
Mosshart says, “So you my friend or my foe?”
The pilot taps its chest with withered fingers. “Friend.” The two behind it mimic the motion, but don’t speak. One of them says “Fr—” but it stops. Can’t finish the word.
“Even with what you sonsabitches did to Ackerman,” Mosshart says. “I guess he was kind of an asshole... But you guys are supposed to be smarter. Christ. Next time? Less than lethal force is all right.”
The pilots look to their feet. They shuffle them a little like kids caught in the cookie jar.
Mosshart says, “But you need names. If we’re friends—” He gestures with his arms outspread “—then I need to know what to call you.”
A kind of smile appears along the shark mouth of the lead pilot. It speaks. Spouts a lot of noise that Mosshart can’t decipher. The two behind the lead pilot do the same.
Mosshart nods, even though he can’t understand em. “All right. How about we make this a little bit simpler? I’m gonna give you names us puny humans can understand. That all right?”
The pilots nod.
Mosshart points to the leader. He says, “You’re Bugs.” Mosshart points to the back-left pilot. Says, “You’re Wile E.—like Wiley.” He looks to the third pilot, “And you’re Daffy.
“Goddamn Looney Tunes.”
* * *
Doc and Whitmore haul Ackerman’s body outside. Neither’s sure what to do with it. Neither’s sure what to say.
They lay the logger down. Gentle as possible.
Without a word, they head back in.
31.
Doc, Miller, and Whitmore sit at a long table next to each other.
Miller says, “So what do we know?” Says this while trying to push Winston away from his lap.
Whitmore points to a map they’ve laid across the table. “The ship crashed here.” He taps a mountain range just north of Sugar Tits. He moves his finger. “Logging camp was here.” He moves his finger again. “This is Wiseman.” He takes a compass with a number two pencil in it. Stabs the base arm into the mountain where the ship skidded to a halt. He adjusts the arm of the compass and makes s circle. “Seems like they hit everything within twenty-five miles of the landing zone.” Wiseman sits just inside the circle, at the edge.
Doc hangs his head for a second. Imagines the other settlements stuck within that circle. The nightmares wiping out all human life cuz they had the dumb luck of being inside the aliens’ crash zone. “So if the pilots are telling the truth, then till we’re dead, they’ll stay in this area.” He rubs Rubin.
“Right,” Miller says. “They aren’t programmed—or whatever—to invade till the area is under control. They have to secure it before they move on. Which makes sense, from a military perspective.”
Whitmore says, “Then what’s the plan?”
“Stay alive,” Miller says. “Us being alive keeps em from moving on.”
Doc wonders how he came to this position. More dumb goddamn luck. It is what it is. He pats Rubin. “Cocksuckers want our planet? I like it here. They’re gonna pay for every inch.”
“Every inch,” Miller echoes.
Whitmore nods. “Every goddamn inch.”
* * *
Gordy goes into the souvenir shop. Rummages through the clothing. There’s a white shirt that says ALASKA and has an American flag in the background. He grabs it. There’s a black one that reads I Heart AK in white. He grabs it.
Child size, on account of the pilots are so skinny and everything.
He looks for a third thing. Maybe not a shirt but a baseball cap.
That’d work.
* * *
Gordy walks up to the pilots. He hands Bugs the American flag shirt. He gives Wile E. the heart shirt. Daffy he hands a baseball cap that reads LIPSTICK ON A PIG.
He stands back. Smiles. “Put em on.”
The aliens look to one another. Eyeball the garments in their slender blue hands. Utterly fuckin confused.
“Like, y’know,” Gordy mimes putting a shirt on.
Mosshart says, “Son, why in living dick would they know what putting on a shirt’s like? Or any clothes at all. Don’t even have dangly bits, far as I can see.”
Mags laughs. She’s calmed down a bit. Getting to be herself again.
Mosshart smirks at her.
Fiske says, “Maybe they’re grown in vats or somethin.”
The lead pilot says, “No. No vat. Have parents.” Bugs brings his hands together and locks his fingers. “Male, female. Join. Selection. Make gene pool bigger. Better. Survivors mate. Best able mate. Increase veracity of species.” He points to Mosshart. “Dangles. Genitals on inside. Come out when ready to breed.”
“Don’t need to see that,” Mosshart says. “Keep it inside.”
“Got one up on us though,” Fiske says. “These guys get kicked in the crotch there’s nothin to hit.”
Mags says, “Humans do have some design flaws.” She leans back against the couch. “Well, the men do at least.”
Gordy grabs the flag shirt out of Bugs’s hands.
The pilot hmpfs.
Gordy squeezes into the shirt. “Like this.” He stands with his arms out.
Bugs crosses his arms. “Why.”
“It’ll help us know who’s who. Listen. It’s a good thing.”
Daffy tries to fit the baseball cap around his head. Can’t. He snaps it open and lays it across his eye. The hat slips and tumbles to the ground. Frustrated, the alien scoops the cap up and burns a hole through the top of it with its blue beam and wears it as a bracelet.
Bugs shakes his head at the shirt. Says, “Fabric will get caught. In fight.”
“Nah, it’ll tear. Shit’s all made in China anyway.”
Bugs points to the American flag. “China?”
“No. America. China just owns most of our stuff.”
* * *
Doc walks out of the meeting room. Rubin strides with him. He sees the pilots. Says, “Is that a goddamn alien wearing an American flag?”
Part Four: The Second Night
32.
Miller says to Doc, “You guys had a good plan with the electric fence. See if the old dude can set it up again. We’ll do whatever we can to assist.” He points to himself and Whitmore. “Tell the Looney Tunes they need to take perimeter watch.”
Doc says, “You think I can just tell em that?”
“Jesus, Doc. Explain it to them, please.” Miller waits a heartbeat. “And I’d like your dogs to be out there too.”
“No.”
“They’re the best warning system we have.”
“No. You try to put my dogs outside the fence, I’ll kill you.”
Miller protests. “The risk of a few dogs—”
Doc’s Colt is in his hand. Like fuckin magic.
Whitmore points his M4 at Doc. Doesn’t want to pull the trigger, but he will.
Miller breathes out once and heavy. “Oooookay—so the dogs are staying inside.”
Doc holsters his Colt. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I got a thing about the dogs.”
* * *
Doc explains the idea of patrolling to the pilots. He uses a wide variety of hand gestures, very few of which are obscene. Once he thinks they’ve got it, the gangly blue beings set off out the front doors for a sweep.
Doc’s never really seen em in action. Moving.
He’s blown away.
The pilots are gazelles on amphetamines. The speed is incredible. They pump their legs and bound. They leap twenty, thirty feet at a time. Both vertical and horizontal. Smooth, fast arcs. Powerful and agile.
Doc tempts fate.
He allows himself to hope.
33.
Swift puts the Stihl beside Fiske.
Fiske says, “That supposed to make me feel better or something?”
“Thought it might,” Swift says. He sits on the arm of the couch, next to the greenhorn. “How’re you feeling?”
“Swell.” Fiske shifts on the cushions. “I saw two people die today. I can barely walk. We’re back to playin defense. Gordy’s gettin weird. And who knows what the pilots are really thinkin.”
Swift scratches his chin. “Been wondering about that myself.”
“Gordy says he can hear em. When they talk in their own tongue. And he swears he can understand em. You believe that?”
“Considering what we’ve seen the last couple days? I might.” He wishes he was drinking with reckless abandon. Getting sloshed somewhere. Anywhere but here. “Yeah, I might.”
34.
Mosshart, Whitmore, Gordy and Miller gather materials from the big garage next door. There are no big posts to plant fencing. But there’s a spare generator. And plenty of cabling.
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