"Something... I don't know, Mom." He looked at his tennis shoes. "It's weird out there since yesterday and I don't know why."
Julie looked out the window a moment, then patted his head. "Why don't you go upstairs and watch TV for a while and I'll bring you a couple of cheeseburgers, okay?"
Billy acted out the best smile he could muster and nodded his head. "Yeah, that'll be great."
Julie Dawes watched her son as he sadly climbed the stairs. Then she turned to the window and the street beyond. She didn't know what her son was talking about, but for some unknown reason, she wished more people would arrive a little earlier tonight just for the added company. Then Tony, the town's lonely drunk, tapped his glass.
"I'll take one more beer, then tha's all," the drunk slurred, raising his head.
Julie turned and shook her head. "I think you'll not. You go and lay down in your truck until later, and then we'll see about another."
He raised his head and squinted at Julie. "I have a truck?" he asked, swaying.
Julie watched him stumble off the stool and out the door. Then she looked out the window at the desert beyond and pondered what Billy had said about something being wrong in the valley.
EIGHTEEN
Superstition Mountains, Arizona
July 8, 1930 Hours
Gus sat at the rickety kitchen table in his one-room shack and sipped the now cold coffee from an old, chipped mug. The chair creaked as he leaned forward to eye his guest, who was almost totally covered by the old green army blanket he had laid over its battered body. There was no movement other than the occasional shiver or spasm. As he watched, the feeling of helplessness had once again seeped into his mind.
Gus now understood that, for reasons he would never quite understand, he had been feeling this little guy's thoughts. Those snippets of thought had guided the old man in how and where he'd bandaged the strange visitor, placing an old Ace bandage around its middle, taking the pressure off of what he hoped was just a couple of broken or cracked ribs. As soon as he had rubbed the area down with alcohol and put the stretch bandage on, the small creature seemed to breathe better.
The head wound was a little easier. He sprayed Bactine into it, then applied some iodine, making the little thing in the bed wince in pain. He used gauze out of his bathroom medicine cabinet to wrap the bulbous head.
Tilly shook his head as he set the coffee mug on the old kitchen table, which had clearly seen better days, then stood up. He stretched and yawned. As he did, he saw the blanket, and above that were the large eyes looking at him.
"You awake there, little guy?" he asked, taking a tentative step toward the bed.
Gus had carried him the whole seven miles back to his small house, calling out for his mule, Buck, most of the way. He was bone tired.
The old man took another hesitant step toward the old army-surplus metal cot. He placed his gnarled hand to his unshaven cheek and scratched.
"Ya feelin' any better?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, looking for the smallest of movements.
Slowly, the top of the blanket slid down. The fingers that gripped the rough material of the green blanket were long and thin. The hands were still dirty because Gus had let the small creature sleep instead of waking it with water and a washcloth. He saw the huge almond-shaped eyes blink and winced as he saw the lids disappear into the side of the thing's head. That would take some getting used to, he thought. Then his visitor slowly raised his head.
"Well, 'bout time you woke, I was getting worried 'bout you," Gus said with the biggest smile he could muster under the circumstances.
He took a step back when he heard a mewling noise escape the creature.
"Come on now, son," Gus said as he held up his hands. "I brought you back from the mountain, fixed ya up. Trust is the thing you gotta learn first, boy." He turned his head and looked over at his old electric hot plate where a pot sat with warmed-up chicken soup. "Got some hot Campbell's soup ya can eat." He had laced the soup with three Tylenol in the hope the small green stranger would eat.
He walked over to the small hot plate and picked up the steaming pot. He tested it with his index finger for warmth. Satisfied, he wiped the soup off on his dirty jeans and poured a small mug full of the steaming liquid. He took a spoon from one of the kitchen drawers and walked back into what he always joked to Billy was the living room/bedroom/dining room/drawing room/library. He took the old chair he had been sitting in and carried both items to the bunk. The thing still lay under the blanket, not moving an inch. Its eyes were still watching Gus, and another whimpering sound issued from its small mouth.
"Come on now, you gotta eat somethin', or I'm gonna have to take you to the doc up in town--if the old bastard's sober, that is." Gus placed the chair next to the bed and waited.
Slowly the hand gently pulled down the blanket. The black eyes stared at Gus, then as the black pools traveled down to what he held in his hand, the eyes blinked. Then a small line furrowed the soft green forehead.
What a forehead, Gus thought. He didn't move, just looked at the creature as he tried to smile.
The small hand let go of the blanket and went to its head. It rubbed the spot and looked at Gus. It felt the gauze the old man had wrapped around its injury and fingered it, winced, and then looked at Gus as if its injuries were his fault. The eyes narrowed even farther.
Gus still didn't move, he just concentrated on keeping the silly grin on his face.
The small being then brought its hand back up to the wound on its head and grunted. Lowering its hand, it looked at Gus for a moment. The head tilted to the right and then its eyes roamed around the small cabin. They lingered a moment on an old Charles Russell print of a cattle drive. The copy of the famous painting showed horsemen and cattle in a long procession on the prairie. The big eyes lingered there a moment, then they returned to Gus. It blinked and then returned to the picture. Below that Gus had an old porcelain chicken he had found in the desert some time ago. He thought it used to be a child's bank, but was never sure.
Then its gaze went to a stack of books that were lined up neatly on a shelf, and then they fell on another picture. It was one of those corny things with all the different breeds of dogs playing poker and smoking cigars around a green-felt-covered card table. The small alien's eyes widened, then its little mouth formed an O as it looked at the strange picture.
Gus followed its gaze, then he turned and shrugged his shoulders.
"Little Billy Dawes gave me that for Christmas. I got a kick out of it the first thousand times I looked at it," he said, his mouth etching a sad smile.
The creature's eyes left the picture. Then went back to it, then found another. This one was an old black-and-white photo of Gus in his army uniform. It had been taken in San Pedro, California, just before he had boarded a transport ship for Korea. He was young and every bit of his youth showed. He was cocky and ready to take on the world back then. Gus looked at the picture and saw what had been a young and foolish kid who didn't know the first thing about the world or life in general. He had been taught since then that most of the time the whole damn planet made no sense at all.
The alien looked closely at the picture, then at Gus. It slowly raised a hand and pointed at the picture and then toward Gus.
"Yeah, I know, and you don't have to go pointin' it out. I was a pup then." He lowered his eyes. "Things make you feel older than you ought to feel."
The little being tilted its head. The small nostrils flared, then relaxed, then flared again. The large eyes settled on the mug of soup Tilly held in his hand.
"Hungry?"
Gus lifted the spoon and dipped it into the mug. He brought it out and blew lightly on it. The creature watched him, forming another O with its mouth. It leaned forward, sniffing again.
"Chicken soup." He pointed to the chipped porcelain chicken on the chest of drawers. "Like that there chicken."
"Shitinnsooop."
The voice caught Gus off guard. It was as if the word
s were being said through wet cotton. It had startled him so much he found he had spilled some of the soup onto his hand because of the shakes, but he still managed a forced smile.
"No, not shitin' soup, chicken soup," he said again, pronouncing the word as clearly as he could.
The eyes blinked. Then they went from Gus to the mug, then back to Gus. "Chiiiiicken soooop."
"That's it, boy, chicken soup." He smiled, then laughed out loud, not really feeling the joviality of the situation.
The creature looked at him and tilted its head again. It grunted in its throat until it saw the laughter wasn't a hostile gesture on Gus's part.
Gus slowly lifted the spoon toward the small being's mouth. It sat there, a look of near panic filling its large eyes, then reached out slowly and lightly touched the tip of the spoon with its strange, elongated finger, tilting the utensil until the soup spilled onto the bed. The eyes widened as the yellowish soup struck the army blanket and soaked in.
Gus smiled and dipped the spoon into the soup again, then quickly had the spoon back up and into its small mouth. The big black eyes widened for a moment, then relaxed and swallowed. Gus tried to pull the spoon away, but the alien had a clamp on it and he had to tug.
"The spoon doesn't go with the soup," he said as the spoon was finally freed. "Now, how was that?"
It looked from the spoon to Gus.
"You have a name?" he said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees.
Again it began the tilting of the head. Then it started duckwalking toward the old man, until it was only two feet away. It stopped and looked at the mug, then lightly rubbed the bandage around its rib cage, and then looked Gus over again. Then, tentatively, it reached out and curled its long fingers through the handle of the porcelain mug and duck-walked backward until its green back was against the far wall.
Gus slapped his chest with his fist. "Gus," he said. "The mighty," he joked. The being was startled and stopped the soup halfway to its mouth and looked.
"Gus," the old man repeated, slapping his chest again.
The creature didn't respond as it slowly brought the soup to its mouth. The eyes closed, then suddenly opened, and it took a larger swallow, then another, gulping the soup quickly until it had the mug tilted bottom side up.
"Gus." He hit his chest again.
"Gussss," it said simply and quickly, not knowing or caring about the soup that dribbled from its mouth.
"That's right, son, Gus," he said, grateful it spoke and didn't use that mind-talking that made his head hurt something awful. Then he pointed at his visitor, index finger safely two feet from its green chest. "You?"
The eyes went around in a small circle, and then the mouth pursed into a small, thin line and the visitor shook its head, looked at Gus, and relaxed. Gus saw a stray noodle poking out from the left side of its mouth.
"Mahjtic." The word was spoken aloud in that strange, wavering, cotton-filled voice.
Gus's eyes narrowed. "Well, I'll be damned."
The being turned the mug upside down and shook it, then when he saw there was no more, just looked from Gus to the pan on the counter.
"Want more?"
Although the creature didn't have eyebrows, the area where they should have been furrowed.
"Is that your name, Matchstick?"
The large almond-shaped eyes with their round pupils locked on the old man and his sad ones. Then a long, thin finger went to its green chest, lightly touching the bandage. "Mahjtic."
"Matchstick?"
The creature shook its head. "Mahjtic"
"Matchstick, I got it. And that's about right, you're about as skinny as one. I'm glad you're talkin' with your mouth." He pointed at his own and moved his jaw up and down. "It seems when you were cryin' in my head in the mountains, every word you said was like a punch in the nose to me, and my brain too, I think."
Another look of confusion filled the alien's soft features.
"Well, Matchstick boy, what say I get you some more chicken soup, and you can tell me how come you gone and crashed your spaceship right about where I was gonna dig for my gold?"
But the visitor wasn't listening. It had turned away and discovered the filthy window and the semidarkness beyond. Its small brow creased in several thin lines, and as Gus watched, it pointed out the window at the desert beyond and started shaking. The large head and arms were in the throes of small spasms of what Gus was guessing was some sort of shock, or maybe it was fear.
The old man went over and pulled the yellowed blind closed over the window and turned to face his visitor. "Something's out there, ain't it?" he said, remembering the hole at the crash site and the raw fear he'd felt when looking into its depths.
Mahjtic didn't respond as it slowly slid down onto the bed. It turned and looked at Gus and blinked.
"I'm gonna get you some more soup and me some coffee, and then I think you better tell me what's got you so spooked."
Mahjtic just continued to look at Gus, the thought of chicken soup all but gone. It slowly turned its attention and head toward the now covered window.
"The Destroyer, hungry, bad, bad, ani... mal," Mahjtic said aloud. It still had its eyes locked on the window. Then it slowly said, "Man is at... an end... Gussss."
Gus paused while using the can opener on another can of soup, and he lowered his head and his shoulders slumped.
"I figured it was something like that."
The old man was shaking as he opened the can of soup and poured it into the pot, sloshing more on the stove than he got in the dented pan.
"When I was a middlin' boy, my ma told me there weren't nothin' in the dark to be afraid of." He stopped stirring and looked over at Matchstick, who had just turned away from the covered window. "Guess she was wrong, huh?"
NINETEEN
Nellis AFB, Nevada
July 8, 1840 Hours
Collins, Everett, and the newly briefed Jason Ryan, now wearing his new blue Group jumpsuit, anxiously watched the activity in the Computer Center while they waited for the Europa XP-7 technician to join them. Director Compton saw them and yawned. He turned from watching a search grid and walked up the stairs to see them. They were all looking at the large screen on the far wall, which was a real-time display of southeastern New Mexico that the Group's satellite was beaming to them. The computers here were programmed to pick up every minute detail on the ground and search for any anomalies with the use of magnetometers, infrared photography, Doppler radar, and terrain-anomaly mapping. Collins nodded at the director when he joined them.
The pictures that were being sent to the center by the KH-11 were in small, red-lined, highlighted squares, so they could be broken down even further by technicians at their individual consoles, hoping to pick up the slightest trace of metal where it shouldn't be, or an anomaly in the surrounding terrain. As they watched, they saw a tiny car speed down a road outside of Roswell, as the computer digitally added a small blue compass showing the direction of the automobile. Then the vehicle quickly disappeared as it didn't fit the programmed profile.
"I'm beginning to believe that damn thing didn't come down at all," Everett said. "They doubled the size of the search area to include most of western Texas now, and still nothing."
Jason Ryan watched the view change from the advanced KH-11 satellite. "From the view I had of the saucer it's my opinion"--he thought a moment, then corrected himself-- "it's my guess, it wasn't going anywhere but down. It was damaged enough that it couldn't go back up, I'm sure of it."
Collins looked at the navy pilot. "The senator has a hunch that if it did, it would be here, and after what I heard, I tend to believe him. It's like whoever is piloting these things used a preset coordinate when traveling here that aligns their flight path to travel over lightly populated areas." He turned and watched the screen roll as the bird turned its cameras to infrared for night vision to gather objects in by their ambient light as it traveled farther east.
"I agree," Compton said.
&nbs
p; "Just remember, it was too damaged, and after that second craft had shown up--"
"That's it!" Niles shouted. People at computer consoles frowned and looked up at the four men, annoyed at the noise. "Mr. Ryan, how far would you say the damaged saucer was knocked off course after the second one made its appearance?"
"I think I know where you're going with this, Doc, but it wasn't knocked off that far, if at all. Ryan here said so earlier," Everett said, looking at his boss.
Ryan shook his head. "He's right, Dr. Compton, in the distance that these satellites have covered, it should have been close to the search area. Believe me, I would like to find out what's going on. I lost a good kid in the backseat of my fighter and two pretty good guys in another, but you're grasping at straws." Ryan sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then he closed his eyes in thought. "Sir, I was dangling in a parachute at the time, remember? I just don't know what to tell you."
It dawned on Collins all at once.
"That's right; it won't be where it had been the first time in '47. In the past there was nothing but the second saucer that would have changed its course, unless you count the Cessna in '47, and that wouldn't have been enough of an impact to send a kite reeling. But this time there was actually one more event that occurred in its flight path that could have brought it down somewhere else," Compton said, still looking at the picture being broadcast by Boris and Natasha.
Jack remembered the Incident Report Ryan had filed about the attack. He quickly opened it and scanned the pages.
"Mr. Ryan, you said in your report you actually fired on the second, attacking craft, is that right?"
Ryan turned pale for a moment and turned away; he slapped his forehead with his palm. "My God, I fired a Phoenix at it. It was a snapshot and I know it hit, it must have. I had a solid tone and the Phoenix's warhead had locked hard on the target!"
Event (event group thrillers) Page 23