Kilroy was Here

by Jeff South

  “No,” Jeff says. “I’m just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control.”

  Clint’s eyebrows pinch together and send the message that he has no clue what Jeff is saying.

  “Styx?” Jeff says. “’Mr. Roboto?’ ‘Kilroy Was Here?’”

  “Jeff, I’m not afraid to use this stun gun on you,” Randi says. “You’ve stolen proprietary information from Corporate. I need it back.”

  “No can do,” Jeff says. “In fact, I really can’t talk. I gotta get through the portal and deliver some packages. So, Randi, let me go. Clint, get the hell outta my way before I shoot you.”

  “You don’t have the –”

  Clint doesn’t get to finish what his insult. A small ball of powder blue light blasts from Jeff’s pistol and hits Clint directly in the chest, sending him backward several feet. The ball morphs into dozens of streams of light which cover Clint’s body. Jeff drops and rolls away from a shot from Randi’s pistol. He hops to his feet and hurls some kind of small round object at her. It hits the ground at her feet and releases a green gas. She chokes and coughs. He fires two more shots at Tyler and Dalton sprinting toward the Truck of Overcompensation. The same streams of light envelop them.

  Clint stands and looks perplexed. He spots the still coughing Randi, gasps, and slowly backs away. A look of genuine horror covers his face.

  “Oh, god!” He runs toward his Truck of Overcompensation. “I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know what to say. Stop judging me!”

  He then emits a high-pitched scream often associated with an eight-year-old girl who watched a giant lizard eat her dog. The shriek lasts for several seconds before fading. Clint faces us with those wide eyes, unable to move.

  “Caligynephobia,” I say to no one in particular. “The fear of beautiful women.”

  Clint stammers and then sprints away toward this truck. He passes Tyler and Dalton, who scream at him about being a scary clown. They break into a dash for the highway as Clint speeds away in his Truck of Overcompensation.

  I know my mouth is hanging open but I can’t close it. The sight of my friend standing in front of me examining his weapon and scrunching his face at it overwhelms me with emotion. Tears well up in my eyes and one trickles down. “I don’t believe this,” is all I know to say.

  “I’ll be damned,” he says, as he lights another hand-rolled cigarette. “It was a Phobia Inducer. Is it wrong that I’m disappointed?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Jeff!” Randi stops coughing and struggles to catch her breath. “You need to come with me. Please.”

  Two more cars barrel through the broken security gate.

  “I can’t stay, baby,” Jeff says. “It’s a work thing.”

  “Jeff,” Randi says once more. “That’s Corporate pulling up. This is serious.”

  Jeff points at Randi. “You can’t have me. C’mon, Mr. Roboto, we gotta go now!”

  “Don’t even start with that,” I tell him.

  He opens the hatch of Miss America and retrieves two new pistols. I sense that I recognize them, though I know I’ve never seen them before. They look like toys from a different era. Candy apple red with yellow cones at the tips and the Corporate logo on the handles.

  “Here,” Jeff says, handing me on of the guns. They are metallic and heavier than I expected. “Just in case. I don’t think a Gulliball is going to do the job on Grandor. Do you think you can handle one of these?”

  A switch in my brain sends information I never knew I had forward as I involuntarily spew the specifics of the weapon I hold.

  “This is a non-approved Corporate weapon. The 8-Pattern Rear Trigger Nozzle Neutralizer. Developed three years ago and field tested, but still regarded as under development. It is modeled after a garden hose nozzle with an array of eight shooting patterns: jet, angled, shower, full, flat, mist, cone, and soaker.”

  I gasp, drop the Nozzle Neutralizer and lean against the hood of the Space Vega.

  “Impressive,” Jeff says. “But, don’t drop it. Take care of it.”

  “I don’t know that,” I say. “How did I know that? How did I blurt that out? Why does that keep happening?”

  “I know how.” Jeff picks up the weapon, a crooked smile on his face. “It’s starting.”

  “What is starting? What are you talking about?” The Some-Unseen-Force-Is-Messing-With-My-Insides ickiness rages once more and I walk around twisting my arms hoping somehow to shake it out.

  “I cannot emphasize the criticality of this situation,” calls a voice from the darkness behind us. Coming into our sight is Max Gentry, weapon poised, flanked by four Corporate employees. “We need our nanotech back. It’s a simple deliverable. Return the nano and we all go home.”

  “Well,” Jeff says. “By the thumbing of my prick, something wicked this way comes.”

  “You don’t want to do this,” Max says. “This tiger team is fully engaged and harbors no objections to carrying out their assigned action items.”

  “C’mon, Jeff.” Randi steps to join Max and the tiger team. “Come with us.”

  Jeff remains in place, pistol drawn and ready. “Looks like we have a real Mohican standoff here.”

  I feel something growing inside me and not in the I-just-got-my-first-erection way. A wave of confidence unfamiliar to me courses my veins. I am aware of a presence in me, taking control of my thoughts. I survey the situation. Max and his team to my right with Randi. Jeff to my left. Mohican standoff, indeed.

  The energy inside me gains complete control and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m charging Randi, Max, and the tiger team. I squeeze the trigger on the Neutralizer and a cylindrical spray of spark covers them. They move to respond, but their motions are slowed to almost a frame-by-frame advancement.

  “C’mon.” Jeff grabs me and pulls me to Miss America. I stand at the passenger door, disoriented and overwhelmed.

  “What are we doing?” I ask through the open window.

  He starts the engine and taps the touchscreen dashboard with urgency. “We’re gonna go get Leigh Ann back from Grandor, but we gotta go see a guy first.”

  Max fires on us, but his laser blasts only bounce off the car’s exterior. I look at the group still moving ever so slowly and await more fire from their weapons.

  “Get in!” Jeff yells. “I’m going through the portal! Come with me!”

  “What? Are you crazy? What is happening to me? How did I know what this Neutralizer thing was?”

  “Get in and I can tell you all about it!”

  I comply with Jeff’s command against my better judgment and climb in the passenger seat. A small cannon emerges from the grill of Miss America, the sight of which does nothing to quell my apprehension. I can only shake my head. The cannon fires an orange stream of light over the river ahead. Within seconds, the portal opens, inviting anyone to enter.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I tell him. “I’m really freaking out right now.”

  “Get ready!” Jeff flips switches on the console of the Vega. “The Neutralizer only lasts about a minute!”

  “Shit.” I roll the passenger side window down and send a quick shot from my Neutralizer to slow the group down once more. I catch a glimpse of Randi’s face, which looks locked in an expression of her screaming “no!” at me.

  “Time to fire up the big boy.” Jeff jerks the gear shift into reverse and steers us away from the river, ending at the road entrance. “Buckle up. This is going to get bumpy. Also, it’s the law.” Jeff reaches up and taps three buttons next to the dome light. Behind us, in the hatch, an orange oblong machine whirls and lights dance around it. I recognize it as the same device Max and Randi showed me at Corporate. With another jerk of the gear shift Miss America speeds toward the river as Jeff shoves in the cigarette lighter. Immediately, we become airborne, lifting slightly off the ground and moving in an upward trajectory.

  “What the hell?” My stomach drops to my feet. We are several feet off the ground, flying toward the river. �
��How is this happening?”

  “Here we go!” Jeff reaches behind and punches a button on the orange machine and Miss America bounces and shimmies with turbulence. We are flying directly toward the black opening. “And, remember!”

  “Remember what?”

  “We own the night!”

  “Oh my god!” I scream.

  “Relax.” Jeff’s confidence flying this contraption amazes me. It’s obvious he’s done this before. “Like I said, we’re gonna go see a guy and then we’re gonna get Leigh Ann Back. Also, I need smokes.”

  “I need to text my folks first.” A final jerk sucks the vehicle into the blackness and my ears pop. “Sonofabitch.”

  An eerie quiet overtakes the surroundings as Jeff taps the touchscreen.

  “Checkpoint station in 30 seconds.” Jeff pulls the visor down and retrieves an envelope clipped there. “Now, listen. Stay cool. Be whatever your version of chill is.”

  All I can do is look around slack-jawed. An orange-yellow glow surrounds our vehicle, flooding the interior and I squint to look where we’re going. Jeff shifts the Vega into neutral and we drift slowly toward the light source.

  “Here.” Jeff hands me a pair of sunglasses from the console. “Put these on.”

  “What is happening?” The sunglasses allow me to see that we’re edging toward a pair of doors that are sliding open horizontally, like a cargo bay.

  “Stay cool.” Jeff pilfers through the envelope and pulls out some folded papers and several packets of green Kwench-Aid bound together with a rubber band. “On this side they don’t know me as Jeff, okay? Don’t say anything. Roll with it.”

  More slack-jawed nodding from me. A sign overhead in front of us reads Checkpoint Zuza Alpha Niner. We slow to a stop at an intercom station as if we’re about to order at the drive thru of Taco Haus. Something tells me we’re not about to meet my caliente lederhosen wearing babe. As Miss America drifts toward the opening doors. Jeff rolls down his window. I find it curious that for all of the pimped out space-age gadgetry on this car, he still must manually roll down the window.

  A voice outside the window spills out of the unseen intercom. “Welcome to the Zuza Alpha Niner checkpoint. We are glad you are here. Please have your papers ready for the station agent.” Calm elevator music now plays as the Vega creeps to a stop. A quick survey of our surroundings reveals a vast parking garage of sorts lit overhead by fluorescent bulbs. Human-looking figures stroll around, some holding clipboards. Others carry a type of rifle strapped to their shoulder. I roll down my window and stick my head out. There is pointing and gesturing, talking and referencing the clipboards.

  Looking down, I notice that the wheels on the Vega now sit horizontally and serve as thrusters to keep us afloat. It dawns on me that I can breathe. I always assumed that any space flight would require me to wear a breathing apparatus so my face wouldn’t explode from a lack of oxygen.

  “Look who it is.” A male voice from outside the driver’s side window grabs my attention and I see a green-skinned humanoid figure leaning in. He wears dark blue coveralls with a hexagon patch on the upper right chest. The insignia on the patch is of a labyrinth. He smiles broadly, displaying white teeth nearly as brilliant as the fluorescent lighting. I am trying hard to lose the slack-jaw, but with each new sight, it’s difficult.

  “Moonbeam,” says Jeff. “What’s up, my brother from an alien mother?” The two exchange a hearty handshake.

  “How have you been, Kilroy?”

  “Kilroy?” I forget for a moment that I’m supposed to say nothing and Jeff glares at me as reminder to shut the hell up. I face forward again in time to see a dwarf-sized creature with an oval head speeds by on something resembling a Vespa with no wheels, flying a couple of feet above the ground like a hovercraft. “Did you see that?”

  Jeff rolls his eyes at me and turns back to Moonbeam. “Never mind him. First time through.”

  Moonbeam draws a deep breath and glances from side to side. His voice drops to a whisper. “Does he have documentation?”

  “You know it.” Jeff hands him the manila envelope and Moonbeam inspects it. Moonbeam removes the paper, some play money, and packets of green Kwench-Aid.

  “This appears to be in order.” Moonbeam shoves the Kwench-Aid in his pocket and peeks in the back of Miss America. “What are you hauling?”

  “Not hauling. Gotta pick up some quintonium.”

  “Across the No-Trade Zone?”

  “Yep.” Jeff leans in to Moonbeam and lowers his voice. “You got smokes?”

  Moonbeam straightens and looks around. I can now see that he probably stands over six feet tall and his shoulders are broad and full. He turns and enters a security station directly behind him.

  “Where the hell are we?” I ask through quickening breaths. My chest tightens and I rub my hand across it. “What is all this?”

  “Stay calm.”

  “My parents are gonna kill me.”

  Moonbeam returns, leans in, and hands Jeff a bag. “This should suffice.”

  Jeff inspects the contents of the bag. “You’re a lifesaver, dude. You have no idea.” The two exchange another handshake. “All my best to the family.”

  “You’ll go to bay 37. You know the rest. Be careful out there, Kilroy. Word has it that Herpezoids are on the prowl.” Moonbeam stands and backs away. Jeff immediately retrieves a hand-rolled cigarette from the bag and lights it. He takes a deep drag and exhales as we drift out of the security checkpoint.

  “Damn, I needed that.” He continues to puff on his cigarette as he steers toward bay 37. Crafts of varying size occupy the other bays. Most of them are much larger than our tiny compact car and they look like what I always imagined spaceships looking like: oversize supersonic jets with interesting wing designs. How Jeff’s vehicle withstands the rigors of space travel compared to these is beyond me.

  “You want a drag?” Jeff asks. “You might want something to help you relax for this next part. I don’t have Dramamine.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Jeff turns the steering wheel to the right and guides us up to a large opening like a subway tunnel. A white sign with the number 37 painted on it hangs above the entrance. Inside, a rainbow of lights swirl and dance. An ominous hum emanates from it. We float again at the mouth as another alien walks up to us in its own set of coveralls, but dark gray instead of blue. The same hexagon labyrinth patch on the chest is the same. The alien looks like the one who was buzzing around on the hover Vespa.

  “Kilroy!” the alien says, obviously thrilled to see him. He stands on his tip-toes and peers in. “Do you have your coordinates?”

  “Hi ya, Rothschild. Got ‘em right here.”

  The dwarf alien named Rothschild steps aside and reveals what looks like an ATM machine. Jeff taps in his coordinates and gives Rothschild a thumbs-up signal.

  “Roll your window up,” Jeff says to me. “I don’t want you to get sucked out into space.” I obey his directive and he performs what appears to be random tasks on the touchscreen dashboard. The windows of the Vega fade to a tinted black and only the glow of display panel illuminates us. The dashboard beeps and blurps as Miss America rocks. The hum from the mouth of the tunnel grows louder and louder.

  I look at Jeff. He leans his seat back, adjusts his top hat, and enjoys his cigarette. Sweet smelling smoke fills the interior. His relaxed demeanor contradicts the clamor around us. I stare ahead at the roaring tunnel before us and my chest tightens even more. My hands shake uncontrollably. A spectacular light show flashes all around us as we plough through this tunnel like some psychedelic drive-thru car wash.

  “Maybe I’ll take a drag of that now,” I say.

  *

  Jeff Harper looks like a grizzled 18-year-old sitting in the driver’s seat of Miss America, cocked back like some teenage Han Solo/gangsta hybrid. A pathetic growth of stubble covers his chin. I know I’m staring but it is entirely appropriate to stare. Anyone who thought their best
friend was gone forever after being sucked through a wormhole only to see that friend show up, disarm a bully alien with a fear-inducing ray, and drive his Chevy Vega into space would stare.

  The interior of Miss America is also stare-worthy. The seats look and feel the same. They are even more worn and the foam pokes out from under the tan vinyl. The dashboard that once housed a barely functioning AM radio now displays a complex touchscreen more at home on a spacecraft. The graphics dance and bounce, the colors dazzle. Bleeps and dings sing out. I reach out tentatively, wanting to see what would happen, but pull back. Surprisingly, the old Vega still sports a stick shift manual transmission.

  “Miss America looks pretty bitchin’, doesn’t she?” Jeff’s voice oozes with pride and I can’t argue. “I’m gonna engage the ol’ autopilot so we can kick back and listen to Styx.” After a few taps on his gadgetry, the opening notes of “Come Sail Away” fill the car.

  A rush of words sticks in my throat. I’m overwhelmed with emotion at seeing my friend alive. I want to cry. I want to cheer. I want to hug him. I want to punch him in the face for not finding me immediately. Tears blur my eyes and streak my cheeks and I turn myself over to the emotion. Embarrassing, but necessary.

  “Are you crying?” he asks. “Because I’m back? Aw, you like me.”

  Finally, I choke out something. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Right?” He takes a drag from his cigarette and exhales, feeling some kind of buzz that brings a smile to his face. “Mongalisonian tobacco. Rich. Flavorful. Very expensive. You can’t get this just anywhere, you know. You have to cross the No Trade Zone. Huge on the black market.” He holds the cigarette out to me. “You look really tense. Take a hit. You said you wanted a hit.”

  “No. I don’t do drugs. Especially drugs from space.”

  “This is not a drug. I have to smoke it for medicinal purposes. You’re gonna need it. It’ll help you.” He finishes it with one final toke and drops it into the ashtray. He presses the button next to the ashtray and a whoosh sound carries the butt, I assume, into the darkness of space.

  “Why would I need to smoke that?” My brain explodes in a flurry of questions. “Where’s Leigh Ann? What happened to Leigh Ann? Where have you been? What have you been doing? How did you survive?” I have more I want to ask, but he stops me before I can add them to the list.