She closed the cupboard and stepped over to the large kitchen window. She noticed another small hole in the barn’s roof. The ranch was literally falling apart before her eyes. How was she going to pay for needed repairs when she was already six months behind on her mortgage payments? Soon the bank would be taking action, but she couldn’t think about that right now.
* * *
Tow quietly backed away from the barn door. The spasms in his injured leg had subsided. He moved through the barn, past the horse, and followed the same route back. Looking first to see that all was clear, he exited from the barn’s other side. The sun had risen higher and, along with it, so had the temperature. He watched a flock of birds flying in unison—first going left, then turning and making a right angle, which took them directly overhead. Birds were fascinating creatures. He’d never seen anything like them. This world certainly had its mysteries.
As Tow hurried into the tree line he ducked behind a large pine, hearing the approach of a noisy vehicle along a nearby dirt road. The AI informed him that the vehicle, with its internal combustion power source, was something called a pickup truck. Blackish smoke puffed out from the rear of the vehicle and hung in the air like a dark cloud. Two male savages were seated inside. As the truck approached, he saw that the occupants were drinking from long-necked brown bottles and were conversing in loud tones; louder than the other two at the farm. Not as mature in age as the gray-haired female, they were closer in age to her large offspring. Twenty paces away, the truck came to a stop. He wondered at first if his presence had been noticed, but watching them, he knew it had not.
Tow continued to watch them. He could see a bizarre kind of posturing taking place, and feel a raw aggressiveness emanating from them both. One had long unkempt hair and a cluster of pimples—called whiteheads, he was informed by the AI—on his cheeks and forehead. Instinctively, Tow didn’t like him. Didn’t like either of them.
* * *
Once back within the Evermore, Tow’s presence was requested on the bridge. The AI orb was waiting for him there. He directed him to the viewscape display where he recognized the symbolic representation of the Sol planetary system.
“They’re here … here within the system?” Tow asked, his voice elevated.
“Yes, Captain Tow … unfortunately.”
Tow saw four sets of winding, curved vectors; each set was in a different color. The green vector symbolized the path the Evermore had taken, prior to landing on Earth. The other three—red, yellow, and violet—showed the pursuing Howsh, which were apparently scouting from one planet to another. Circling planets multiple times, landing and taking off—over and over again—they were hunting.
“What is that planet there?”
The AI said, “That is Saturn, Captain.”
Tow wanted to leave, make a run for it right then.
“Saturn is a large planet. Based on the area already systematically traversed, they won’t move on to Jupiter for another ten hours and nine minutes. It’s clear they know we are close … within this system.”
“How could they know that?”
“Residual energy markers.”
Tow knew exactly what the AI orb was referring to—the turbulence left behind a moving spacecraft. An energy wake, of sorts. “This vessel is not supposed to leave those kinds of markers,” Tow said.
“The Evermore’s sole remaining drive is malfunctioning. Out of alignment. On the positive side, the markers are undefined. They may not point directly to our current location. There is no way to know, for sure, though.”
Suddenly feeling trapped—that the Howsh were again closing in on them—he felt the muscles in his abdomen go taut. He said, “I need to get the repairs started as soon as possible. Determine what can be worked on in spite of the hard systems reset. We must hurry, get systems back online. Am I making myself clear, orb?”
Chapter 4
Cuddy and Rufus walked along the old two-track road leading into town. Cuddy couldn’t understand why his dog was walking so slow today. As he waited for him to catch up, he adjusted the brim on his baseball cap. “You know … I’m going to have two helpings of Momma’s peach cobbler pie. But you’re not allowed to have any. Momma says it makes you farty.” Cuddy laughed at that.
Rufus glanced up at him. Panting, his long tongue curled; moisture dripped from his mouth.
Cuddy knew the way to town—two miles there and two miles back. On the way, they would pass three farms, a set of train tracks, an abandoned junkyard, and a school. Cuddy had never gone to a real school, though someday he thought he might want to. Momma called his schooling—home schooling. He was learning to read. He knew certain letters, but had trouble stringing them together.
As they approached the second farm, Cuddy hurried his pace—leaving Rufus to lag behind. Elma and Rutherford White lived there. They liked to sit on the porch in their rocking chairs. Cuddy stood tall and raised his chin, craning his neck in the process. A rusty, beat-up old tractor—parked next to a large mound of dirt—blocked direct views to their house, but he was tall enough to see over the dirt and even the grassy clumps atop the dirt.
“I see Elma!” Cuddy glanced back to see if Rufus was still behind him and ran ahead. He turned the corner at the leaning mailbox post, and half-ran, half-walked toward the Whites’ house.
He saw Elma—not sitting, like usual, in her rocking chair but sweeping the porch instead. “Hi Elma!” Cuddy yelled, out of breath.
Elma turned, looking to see who was coming down her dirt drive. Cuddy liked Elma better than Rutherford. The old man never said much. She smiled and waved but didn’t stop what she was doing. Elma was a big, solid woman—both wide and tall. Her dark chocolate skin glistened with perspiration. As Cuddy reached the porch, gasping for air, he leaned over—hands on knees—and asked, “Where’s Rutherford?”
“I don’t know … might be in the shed. He’s been looking for something for the last few days, but he won’t tell me what it is. I could help him find it, if only he’d tell me.” She watched as the dog dropped down by Cuddy’s feet. “That dog of yours looks all worn out, boy.”
Cuddy patted Rufus’s head. “Maybe he’s thirsty.”
“Take him round the side of the house … the spigot there has a hose attached.”
Cuddy, taking ahold of Rufus by the collar, steered him around the corner and into the shade. He turned the spigot knob and waited for some water to drip from the faded green hose. As water slowly trickled out, he put his mouth to the nozzle and drank some before lowering the hose down to Rufus. The dog lapped up the water; then, suddenly losing interest, sat back down.
“Better?” Cuddy asked.
* * *
By the time they reached the edge of town, Rufus seemed to be back to his peppy, playful self and ran off ahead, knowing exactly where they were going. Woodbury was not a very big town. There was a much larger city, called Evans, right off the interstate—a few hours’ drive away. Cuddy had only visited the city twice—first, when taken to the hospital, at age seven, and again, when his molars were pulled out, at seventeen.
It usually took Cuddy a long while to walk up the street, since he knocked on most of the storefront windows, waving to each proprietor as he passed by. He typically would wave his hand until they waved back. Gordon’s was the only grocery store in town, though no one named Gordon had ever worked there. He had asked. No one seemed to know where the store’s name came from. Momma called it a general store because it had all kinds of things for sale—like milk, and loaves of bread, and snow shovels, and eggs, and hats. It was where Momma had bought the hat he had on now.
Rufus anxiously pawed at the door as Cuddy approached the store. Letting him enter first, he followed closely behind. The dog ran to the back of the store, disappearing down a hallway.
The store was square built. Five parallel aisles ran down the middle, and a U-shaped counter ran around the store’s periphery. Mr. Maxwell, helping a lady at the cash register, said, “Help you in a min
ute, Cuddy.”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell.”
Cuddy strode toward the rear of the store and turned into a hallway. Passing three closed doorways, he found Rufus—lying on the cement floor next to Trudy. Trudy was another yellow lab, belonging to Mr. Maxwell’s daughter, Rita. The two dogs were brother and sister. Cuddy, sitting down on the floor between the dogs, gave Trudy a pat and a kiss on her nose.
Mr. Maxwell entered and, looking down at them, said, “Give me your daypack, boy, and I’ll go fill it with your Momma’s grocery list items.”
Cuddy had forgotten he was even wearing the pack. Slipping one arm out and then the other, he handed it to the store proprietor. Mr. Maxwell, unzipping the pack’s zipper, fished his hand around inside and brought out a piece of paper. That’s Momma’s grocery list, Cuddy thought. He’d forgotten all about that, too.
“Cuddy … there’s um … no money in here. No means of payment. I’m assuming this is going on Momma’s tab again?”
“Um …” Cuddy wasn’t quite sure what a tab was. “Maybe,” he said.
“Well … come on … let’s go get your supplies. I think I may have some ropes of licorice about … let’s go see.”
Cuddy jumped to his feet.
* * *
They’d reached the halfway mark back home. Cuddy knew it because he was standing on the railroad tracks. Halfway to town going—halfway to home coming back. He pulled a red licorice rope from his pocket, filling up his mouth. An old Beatles song kept ringing in his head—actually, only a small part of the song. He sang the one line he knew, over and over again: “Hey Jude, don’t let me down. Take a sad song and … na na naa na na na naaaaa …”
Rufus was walking close by his side and he could feel the dog’s warmth leaning in against his leg. Cuddy said, “Too close … Rufus,” and gave the dog a soft nudge to back off a tad. Up ahead, he watched as a truck approached, music blaring out through its open windows. He saw two large figures in the front seat but couldn’t make out who they were. He didn’t recognize the truck as it drove closer. Moving to the side of the road to let it pass him on his left, Cuddy noticed it was an old, faded green, F150. It was riddled with rust along the fender, and also low along the side door. The two guys inside were laughing at something one of them had said to the other. The music was loud. Airborne dust swirled around him as the truck came to an abrupt stop nearby.
Momma didn’t like him to talk to strangers. She said people didn’t understand. Cuddy knew what she meant. That he wasn’t smart, like most other grown-ups, because of the accident. She said people could be mean and to just ignore them.
The two fellows looked to be about his same age, though Cuddy was bad at guessing ages. But looking at them now, they seemed happy enough. Liking to laugh himself, Cuddy smiled and waved. “Hello … I’m Cuddy and this is Rufus. She’s a yellow laboratory retriever. She has a sister in town named Trudy.”
Their smiles were gone. The driver of the truck looked angry and Cuddy wondered if he’d said something wrong. He did that from time to time. The truck driver secured a greasy strand of black hair behind his ear; his face was riddled with pimples. Cuddy wondered if he washed his face often enough.
“What … are … you?” the driver asked.
“Huh?”
Rufus growled.
“I said … what the fuck are you?”
“Um … I don’t know,” Cuddy said, avoiding eye contact and looking down at his feet. He remembered Momma’s warning.
“He’s the town retard,” the one in the passenger seat said, sporting a crew cut and a scar over his left eye.
“Is that right? You the village idiot? I think I heard about you. Got dropped on your head, or something, as a kid. Your brother pushed you off a hayloft.” They both laughed at that.
Cuddy shrugged, not knowing how at first to respond, but then said, “He didn’t mean it.”
“He didn’t mean it … he didn’t mean it,” the long-haired teen behind the steering wheel repeated.
Cuddy heard the engine turn off. Both doors opened wide on rusty hinges, and he took a step back.
Climbing out of the truck, the driver glanced over to his friend as both moved closer. The dark-haired teen puffed out his chest and raised his chin, trying to make himself look taller. But Cuddy was nearly a foot taller than either of them.
“You need to stay the hell off this road. Matter of fact, I don’t ever want to see that big melon head of yours around here again. Understand that … retard?”
Rufus growled louder.
“I’m not retarded. I have a learning disa … disability.”
The slap came fast and hard to Cuddy’s left cheek. He’d never been struck like that before. Not ever. He didn’t understand what was happening and looked down at the guy through tear-filled eyes.
“You didn’t just back-talk me … did you, retard?”
Cuddy rubbed at his cheek. It still felt hot where he’d been slapped. “I want to go home.”
Rufus growled and bared his teeth.
The one wearing a crew cut looked down at the dog, and said, “I think that dog of yours has the mange.”
Cuddy tried to find his voice. “The mange? What’s that?”
“It’s like rabies. Your dog’s got rabies. You know what they do with those dogs?”
Cuddy shook his head.
“They put them down.”
“Put them where?”
“They kill them, retard!”
Scared, Cuddy looked down at Rufus, finding it hard to breathe. He suddenly became fearful he might pee his pants.
The crewcut-haired teen took a quick step backward, then moved forward even faster—kicking out with a boot that connected hard with Rufus’s ribs. The old dog yelped and tried to run, but couldn’t—something had broken inside. Cowering now, Rufus lowered to the road, trying to wrap himself around Cuddy’s feet. Trembling, the dog looked up at him.
Cuddy reached for his dog, wanting to hug him. Let him know he was there. That he would protect him and give him love—at the very least.
The teen with the crew cut punched Cuddy in the face—hard enough to knock the cap from his head. Shocked, Cuddy staggered, seeing stars dance before his eyes. The pain was intense. Next, a kick came to the back of his legs and Cuddy’s arm whipped upward. Unintentionally, his knuckles connected hard with the long dark haired teen’s face. Cuddy heard a cracking sound—like the sound of a pencil snapping in two. Blood spurted from his nose. The teen screamed something then, bending over, clutched his face.
The crew cut teen then came at Cuddy with a vengeance. Lips pulled back in a snarl, he struck out, first with his left fist then with his right. Cuddy took the new blows to his cheek and chin, and cried out as he toppled to the ground. Quickly curling into a ball, he did his best to cover his head with his arms. Momentarily, Cuddy thought of the glowing angel he’d seen in the woods. Was he a guardian angel? Could he help me now?
Next came a series of merciless kicks—each one harder than the one before it—to his stomach, his back, and to his face. He’d never felt such pain before. He heard Rufus whimper nearby—for the first time in his life he wanted to hurt another person—he no longer regretted breaking the dark haired teen’s nose. As the unrelenting kicking continued, he began to lose consciousness. He felt the daypack being pulled from his shoulder. Slipping into darkness, he heard one of them say, “Shit … I think we killed him. Let’s git!”
Chapter 5
Tow had been working for four straight hours, trying to feed power back into the wellness chamber. Damage caused in that last attack by the Howsh, when the Howsh plasma strike hit the aft section of the Evermore. The ship had lurched, violently propelling him off his feet, and into an adjacent bulkhead. He knew right then his leg was broken. The plasma strike took out several key mechanisms—including the wellness chamber.
Tow concentrated on the electrical panel before him, where much of the ship’s power conduits were junctioned together. The problem�
��much of this ship section was heavily damaged; primarily, the starboard berth compartment, not more than five feet away. The compartment had suddenly decompressed, crushed in on itself, flattening the sleeping berths. Seven lives were lost within a split second and the bodies were still in there, with no easy way to recover them. There had been no easy way to retrieve their essences for the heritage pod.
Tow, presently, hung upside-down between two bulkheads near the ship’s stern. He’d give it another few minutes’ effort before giving up, turning his attention instead to the propulsion system. What he really wanted most was to return to space … quickly.
Holding a test probe down onto the tenth series of contacts, he asked the hovering nearby AI orb, “Reading anything here?”
The orb said, “No … that terminal is dead.”
“That one should be energized,” Tow said, moving the tip of the probe down to the next series of contacts. “How about these here?”
“Yes, activated.”
“They are supposed to be nominal!”
The AI orb said, “You could reverse them. I calculate you have a forty-percent chance of success.”
“You do know that’s less than even odds …”
“Yes.”
At that point, Tow had little choice, since he wasn’t an engineer. He swapped the plug-in junction cables between terminals ten and eleven.
The AI orb said, “That did it. The wellness chamber is now re-initializing. I believe you have alleviated the problem, Captain Tow.”
Though I fixed one problem, I’ve most likely instigated another, coming down the road, he thought.
* * *
Aside from the emersion-matter drives, the wellness chamber had the most complex technology on board the Evermore. Another contribution by the Kartinals—the chamber was the advanced administrator of a completely independent, artificial intelligence medical treatment system; one that fundamentally changed the living conditions back on Mahli. The Pashier, as a race, saw life spans extend from an average of eighty to ninety years to twice that. Diseases, once terminal and inoperable, were all but wiped out. As far as Tow knew, there was only one exception: wellness chambers were ineffective in the treatment of the Dirth. The scientists—the Kartinals, required to make necessary modification updates to the wellness technology, which would diagnose the recent vile disease and treat it effectively—were all gone. They had either succumbed to the disease itself—before they could make modification—or were among the billions who died in the spatial attacks.
The Simpleton: An Alien Encounter Page 3