An Alien Rescue

by Gordon Mackay

  “Uh-huh,” he answered sheepishly, knowing when he’d been caught at his own game.

  “What is ketchup?” asked Phyllis.

  “You’ve really got to be kidding me?” exclaimed a wider eyed Scott.

  Stretching over to her, he took the bottle from her grasp, reading the label. “Heinz Tomato Ketchup?” He leaned backwards, coming to rest on a worktop edge for support. His mind was trying to work it all out. Human food, in packets, on the planet Mars, stashed underground in a secret base, in a kitchen that appeared human in its origins and awful smell.

  “Hang on,” he said. “This can’t be right?” Stepping closer to the cupboard, he reached in and removed another packet. He laughed loudly as he read the box’s label. “Spaghetti Bolognese ... with extra parmesan cheese ... Holy-macaroni!”

  “Is this something we can eat?” asked Belinda. “Because if it is, I strongly suggest we make something soon before I die of starvation.”

  “And also before we get caught!” Phyllis thought it worthwhile to add.

  “I must be dreaming,” he said. “We’re on Mars, for Christ’s sake, another planet. And here we are considering making ourselves a plate of spag-bol or chilli-dog.”

  “Wait a moment, Scott,” Belinda jumped in. “What is this spag something? And what was it you said about a dog? I … we know what a dog is, and we do not wish to seem ungrateful but dog is not on our menu for eating, nor is any other kind of meat. We do not eat meat! It is just the way we are. Anything else is fine, but not me … and definitely not dog!”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Scott. “To begin with, there may not be any meat in these packets, and there definitely isn’t any dog either. And that’s a promise!” It didn’t stop him picking up the packet of chilli to check though, just to be certain.

  “But you just said the word dog in one of the meals you thought we could eat.”

  “Erm … yes, you’re right about that. But it is just a name.” He was stumped to know exactly where the word, dog, came from with regards to the chilli. “I’m sure it’s an Americanism from god knows when,” he added. “There is such a thing as hot-dogs, and they’re only pork sausages. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for the names though, somewhere from the dim and distant past. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if some unscrupulous cooks were selling stuff made from dogs at some time in history.”

  The faces and shoulders of both women dropped at the thought, their body language showed they were not at all happy with what might be on offer.

  Scott raised the spag-bol packet, studying its list of contents. “Hey, are we not the luckiest diners in the universe tonight. It’s made from Soya-bean flour, with a few additives and e-numbers. Recommended for vegetarians,” he insisted. “We’re eating in style today, compliments of Knorr.”

  “Who is to be chef?” asked Phyllis, looking from one to the other.

  “Me!” smiled Scott, while holding the packet high.

  “Well, get on with it then,” encouraged Belinda, still wondering what a spag-bol might actually be. “I am … as you might say … bloody hungry, for the sake of Jesus!”

  Scott could only stand speechless for a moment, before almost collapsing into fits of laughter, trying to hush himself when realising the din he was making and before the others had the opportunity.

  Phyllis gave Belinda a friendly elbow knock to a shoulder. They were becoming more like Earth humans by adopting his behaviour.

  Their frivolity ended abruptly with a slight scraping sound from the other side of the door. Their smiles disappeared as did their laughter, both dying a very sudden death. Scott hurriedly looked around for another exit, but there wasn’t one. The faint noise repeated itself, sounding like something brushing against the door outside. All three backed away, the packets of food suddenly forgotten about. Scott picked up the bottle of ketchup, recognising its potential as a weapon. Belinda picked up a pot, Phyllis wanted to but couldn’t.

  They watched from a distance, waiting and listening, wondering who or what might be outside. Scott ensured the women were behind him, shielding them with his body and glass bottle. He would use it should a battle ensue. He was their first line of defence, the front line to meet the enemy head-on, ready to charge … with his bottle of fifty-seven varieties tomato sauce held firmly in as threatening a posture as it could possibly be.

  “What the hell,” he said loudly. “We’ll give ‘em hell. We will not be taken alive!”

  Another sound was heard, long and scratching, sounding much louder than previously. It was in fact quieter, but as they had become so quiet while concentrating on listening, it sounded much louder. Their beating hearts thumped their eardrums like a demented big base drummer hell-bent on destroying his percussion instrument.

  Another sound, then another, just before the door swept open in a flash. Both women jumped backwards in fright, bouncing off each other. Scott motioned forward with the bottle raised, ready to take the battle to the enemy. There’s nothing more intimidating than an advancing attacking force. One step, two, three… He stopped just short of the doorway. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. The door was wide open with just the silence of the outside gloom pouring in. A longer silence ensued for what seemed like an eternity, keeping all three on their toes and as quiet as was humanly possible. Scott turned to check the women, who both looked to him, eyes meeting eyes, full of questions and concerns.

  A very hairy head and part of one shoulder appeared at the door’s edge, looking into the kitchen at a very awkward angle. The hairy owner didn’t want to just openly walk in as he didn’t know who or what was in his kitchen. He had attempted to listen at the door without making it obvious … inadvertently brushing against it. Those were the sounds the others had heard. He slowly stood upright and moved into the doorway, filling it with his bulk. His legs were visibly shaking, ready to run should whatever was in there make an attempt to grab him, or worse. He spotted Scott with the bottle held threateningly above his head, and was about to turn and flea when he caught a glimpse of the shielded women. His eyes almost popped out of his skull as he registered a feminine presence. His legs stopped their Elvis Presley gyrations and without any hesitation stepped through the doorway to face his newfound visitors with a grin. No one made a move, until Scott broke the ice with, “Who the fuck are you?”

  Chapter eighteen

  A quick answer didn’t follow his question, so Scott asked again. “Who … are you?” He hoped by asking the question without a curse might make it sound better, making it easier to answer.

  The man’s eyeballing face was obscured by the scraggiest beard Scott had ever seen. It screamed for a razor and scissors, while the long matted hair on his head immediately demanded a brush. Both were well on their way to turning completely grey, suggesting an autumnal age had already been reached by the well hidden owner. The beard had a gaping hole, showing a furry tongue with grotty yellow teeth through the mangy mane. The guy stepped forward, hesitating slightly, as a pungent stench of sweat and body odour reached the group as he lessened the distance between them. The stink easily overcame the smell from the pots.

  The mouth closed and the man cleared his throat before speaking. “I might ask you the same question, buddy? Just who in the name of goddamned hell are you?” His voice was husky and rough, matching his personal appearance. Clearing his throat once more, with a barking sound, he spoke again. “And what ya’ll doin’ with my goddamned motherfuckin’ ketchup?”

  The wind was severely knocked from Scott’s sails. He never for a moment expected to be confronted by another human, and a man at that, complete with a fur-like beard, stinking sweat and knock-out bad breath. Scott instinctively stepped backwards, whether to regroup or to protect the women was uncertain. It might well have been to avoid the smell of decay, dirt, grease and muck. His sense of smell shouted in no uncertain terms, ‘Keep back or die!’ What was certain was that a stranger stood in front of them, between them and the only exit. It was the only do
or into a kitchen where a dinner had gone badly wrong; and every living soul on Mars must have been aware of it.

  Belinda tried to squeeze past Scott to get a better view. “He’s wearing one of our suits,” she exclaimed loudly. Phyllis managed a quick glimpse past Scott’s protective stance, enough to confirm Belinda’s statement.

  “Bloody hell, so he is,” agreed Scott.

  Belinda pushed her head through the space beneath one of Scott’s arms.

  “Where did you get that suit?” she demanded to know from the dumb-struck guy who looked almost afraid to answer. “Well? I’m waiting!”

  He was stuck for a reply. Embarrassed too. One moment he had been trying to salvage a plate of burnt black rice and soya meal, sorting the lightest carbonised flakes of food from the rest, before hearing the strangest noises of an opening and closing door followed by restrained laughter. He had initially thought his mind was playing mental games … again, or his captors were playing with him … just like before. He had seriously considered he might be hallucinating by eating the burned food, or perhaps the rations were poisoned or drugged, but that hadn’t happened for an age. And even then it had taken quite a while before it had taken affect. This was much too soon.

  “Belinda, wait your turn,” insisted Scott. He returned his attention to the filthy guy, who now stooped like an old man. “I asked first,” Scott argued. “Who are you?”

  “You’re in my bloody kitchen,” he counter-argued.

  “Where did you get that suit?” repeated Belinda, even louder than before.

  Scott recalled the story of a missing ship, told to him the previous year. He, like the women, wondered if there might be a connection, and might he also be part of the story. Deciding he wasn’t getting anywhere with his question, he decided on another avenue of exploration.

  “He’s a Yank,” added Scott. ‘He’s speaking with a Yankee accent.”

  “And you’re a Limey, goddamn it. A Scotlander too, if I aint so wrong.”

  “Well I’ll be damned! He is a friggen Yank. Bloody hell and soggy sawdust.”

  Scott took a couple of steps forward as the ‘Yank’ moved further into the kitchen, meeting him almost half way.

  “Hey buddy, or whatever you’re goddamned limey name is, would you mind putting my ketchup down. It’s the last bottle so be careful, will ya?”

  Scott looked at the bottle in his hand, before gently placing it on a worktop by his side and well away from its edge. He didn’t want to break the guy’s last bottle and start another war of independence, and all because of ketchup.

  “And less of the ‘friggen’ in ‘Yank’ as well, goddamn it.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” apologised Scott. “But only if you have less of the Scotlander too, I’m a Scot,” said Scott, thinking of things like tartan kilts and mountain glens. “I’ve been known to accept being called, Jock, but only on certain occasions.”

  “Is this one of those occasions?” the Yank asked.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Because there isn’t anyone else here called Scott, unless your name is?”

  The bearded Yank smiled back, and even though Scott couldn’t see his mouth he knew he was.

  As a token of friendship, Scott offered his right hand, introducing himself. “Hi Yank, you already know my name, and behind me is Belinda and Phyllis,” indicating the girls behind him with the thumb of his clenched left hand pointing backwards over his shoulder. Two timid hellos were uttered from behind. Their partially hidden faces tried to get a better look past Scott, wanting to get a better view of the Yank.

  A cautious hand reached out to Scott’s, pale to the point of deathly white and visibly shaking.

  With an enthusiastic shake from Scott, the American accent became a little bolder. “I’m Mike, Mike Schwartz, from Chicago.”

  “How do you do, Mike… Schwartz? I’m pleased to meet you. Surprised as hell mind you, but still pleased nonetheless.”

  Scott noticed Mike’s hands were extremely soft, cold and uncomfortably sweaty. Their hands seemed to stick together like a potter touching wet clay. Mike released his grip as soon as the handshaking was done; there was definitely no hanging around for him. Scott was more than happy to get his hand back, wiping it on his suit without thinking. He often viewed anyone who would hold onto his hand for longer than necessary with suspicion, wondering why anyone would try to hold onto his hand when by all accounts the formality of greeting was all said and done with.

  “Yeah, me too buddy. But what’s with the far-out party hats?”

  “Heh? answered Scott, looking confused.

  Mike pointed at what he saw on top of Scott’s head. “The hats you’re all wearing. They all look like kinder party hats to me. What’s the story then? Have I missed some kind of celebration? Is it the fourth of July, or what?”

  “Oh, the tools,” Scott said as he moved his hand towards his own, but stopped short just prior to making contact, remembering the strict instruction of never doing so.

  “Tools? They’re goddamned hats, unless my mind’s gone kinda lame over the past while or so.” Mike wore a serious look of confusion by Scott’s reference to it being a tool.

  Scott looked at Belinda and Phyllis, saying, “Yeah, they do look a bit like hats, I guess, but they’re not. Each hat, as you refer to it, is an environmental tool to protect us when in dangerous environments.”

  “You mean to say that li’l ol’ hat thing, tool or whatever, actually helps keep you alive?”

  “Yep,” replied Scott, aware he must have sounded American with his reply. “I’ve worn one on the surface of the moon and I’m still here to tell you about it. I also used it to protect me on the surface upstairs too.”

  Without any warning, the door behind Mike slammed shut. Both women jumped back while Scott’s nerves and muscles tensioned as if preparing for action. Mike hardly seemed to notice but smiled at his unannounced visitors’ antics.

  “Where in God’s name have you sprung from Mike? We never for a moment expected to meet anyone else on Mars.”

  “Holy mother of God, so that’s where I am!” The red mouth reappeared amidst the bushy beard, complete with the stained teeth and bad-breath fumes. Scott was in a better position to see his face, wishing he wasn’t. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone, human that is. I just didn’t know where the hell I was … Until now!”

  He fell silent for a moment, thinking about the time he’d spent there, on his own, before falling to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, crying like a baby, trying to hide the fact there were tears running down his cheeks, but it was more than obvious. His stressed-out mind was in tatters, having suffered from clinical depression for years. It was all too evident to Scott and the women as his sobs were uncontrolled and unconfined. They all pitied the poor guy that squatted at Scott’s feet, knowing he was just an ordinary man who had been abducted by the Greys; but for what reason, they all asked themselves.

  Scott reached down, gently touching Mike’s shoulders with one hand. “Hey, Mike,” he said. “We’re kind of new in town and were wondering if you might give us some sort of breakdown as to where the hell we actually are.”

  It was a while before Mike could compose himself enough to answer. “Sure buddy, whatever.”

  It was a couple more minutes before his sobs were under control, his hands back-wiping away the last of the tears. To Scott, his soggy unkempt beard resembled that of a Scotsman’s sporran, having been caught in a lashing rainstorm on a typical Scottish summer’s day. Scott gave him another reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, saying, “We’re really surprised to meet another human here.”

  He replied sarcastically. “Not half-as-surprised as I am.”

  “But where did you get the suit?” continued Belinda. The puzzle of finding a man within the Martian complex was confounding enough, but to see him wearing a colony suit was very suspicious under any circumstances.

  �
��Hey,” Mike answered with irritation in his voice. “What’s with the gravity? Anyone would think I’d stolen the goddamned thing the way you’re behaving. If you want it, you can have it, just so long as you give me something to wear in its place. I aint walkin’ around butt-naked for no-one. No siree.”

  Belinda bit her lip to prevent her throwing the same question again. She looked at her own suit, then that of Phyllis and Scott’s. Turning back to Mike, she said, “Our suits are only used by us, worn for protection. Each and every suit is accountable, especially as they are made from the same metal that our ships are. They must never be allowed to be scrutinised by Earth’s authorities and that is why they are so important.”

  “It was given to me by the little guys, the little grey-coloured dwarves that can often be seen scurrying around the place. They used to scare the heebie-jeebies outa me when I first saw ‘em. But now, ah, they’re okay. They don’t bother me an’ I don’t bother them. We’ve got this understanding see?”

  “I see,” she said. “And how long have you been here and where did you come from?”

  “Phew, you are full of questions for me, aint ya? I can’t blame you cause a’ have a few I wanna to ask you. However, the lady’s asked first so I’ll give an answer. But before a’ do, how’s about us having something to eat? Is anyone hungry? Or is it just my belly that’s rumbling?” Mike smiled while holding his stomach with both hands as if to suggest it might shake him to pieces.

  Belinda stepped forward, squeezing herself between the worktop and Scott. She asked, “Would you happen to have a spare horse?”

  Phyllis looked at Scott, and he back at her, before they both turned to look at Belinda. A loud ripping roar of laughter filled the kitchen before Mike butted in with a hushing sound. He explained he didn’t want the little guys to know he had company. Using his hands, he indicated they should quieten themselves down. The muted giggles continued unabated though. Mike remained silent, wondering what it was all about, and why the hell they asked for a horse.