by M. L. WILSON
“We need to tell the humans the truth. We need to let them know that we are not their enemies.”
Bennett laughs at Justices’ suggestion and says, “Tell them the truth. Have you not been paying attention to how humans treat each other? They hate each other as much as the Promelians hate us. Telling them the truth would be devastating.”
Justice thinks about Bennett’s’ words and realizes that he may be right. “So, what do we do?”
“Somehow, we must expose them without exposing ourselves. Exposing them would turn the humans against them.”
“And, how do we do that?” Justice asks.
“I don’t know.” Bennett puts on his coat and heads towards the door. “I’m meeting with some of the leaders tomorrow to discuss our options. I will be in touch. Be safe, Detective.”
CHAPTER 46
BISHOP AND SAUNDERS arrive at Sergeant Kuntz’s apartment. Kuntz greets them at the door with his weapon in hand, ready for anything. He feels young again. Even though he is nearing retirement, he’s still an old-school cop who longs to be around the action.
“Come in quick,” Kuntz says to Bishop and Saunders. They eagerly comply, looking down the hallway to make sure they were not followed. Sergeant Kuntz takes one last look down the hall before closing and securing the front door.
“Okay, buddy. You better start filling me in.”
“Some men, agents, broke into her apartment and started shooting. We barely got away with our lives.”
“Agents? What—”
“I don’t have all the answers, Kuntz,” Bishop interrupts. “All I know is those bullets were real, and they’re after us.”
“What for?”
“We found something,” says Saunders
“I’m listening.”
“Something…not of this Earth.”
Kuntz doesn’t react to Saunders’s statement much to Bishop and Saunders’s surprise. Instead, he just stares at both of them as if waiting for the punch line.
“Not of this Earth,” Kuntz says sarcastically.
“Yeah.”
“Hmmm. It’s not April Fool’s,” Kuntz says sarcastically as he rubs his chin. “Okay, I give up.”
“Listen to me, Jeff. I was warned tonight by a federal agent that there is an alien occupation on Earth. That they are at war with another alien race, and once they kill them, they are going to take over the Earth. You know me. I didn’t believe it at first. Maybe I still don’t. But those bullets those agents were firing at us were real. It may not be aliens, but we definitely stumbled onto something we weren’t supposed to know about.”
“Don’t forget the agents that came and took the body of Kevin Phipps,” Saunders interjects.
“I admit that looks suspicious, but aliens? Really?”
“Never mind the aliens,” Bishop says out of frustration. “Someone tried to kill us tonight. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that it’s probably the same people that took Phipps’ body. We’re in trouble, Jeff. We need your help.”
No more jokes. Kuntz is far too old and set in his ways to even entertain the idea of aliens. But his friend needs his help.
“All right. But look. If these people are resourceful enough to take a dead body from us and know where you live, they have to know that you and I are friends. They may come looking for you here,” Kuntz says. “I know a place we can hide.”
“Where?” Saunders asks.
“Somewhere they won’t find you. Just let me get my coat.”
CHAPTER 47
BENNETT SAFELY ENTERS his thirty five hundred square foot two-story house and locks the door behind him. He doesn’t live very far from Justice but the ride home seemed to take forever. Time seems to stand still when you’re faced with the threat of being murdered.
He, like all other Cereleans, face that threat every day and he knows that it’s just a matter of time before he may have to face a Promelian executioner.
Bennett lives alone. He wanted to start a family, but realized that doing so would only put his families lives in jeopardy also. To him, that’s a life that the Promelians stole from him.
A single light shining from a table lamp in the living room is the only light on in the house. As he walks into the living room, he suddenly realizes that his house alarm did not activate. So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even realize it. Bennett is certain he turned it on before he left.
As he reaches for the light switch, he notices a figure sitting on the couch. But unlike other Cereleans, Bennett is not unprepared for unwanted guests. He takes a .38 revolver from his coat pocket, points it at his visitor and turns on the light.
Sitting on the other end of the couch is a well-dressed man who looks to be in his early fifties. With his legs crossed, he arrogantly lights a cigarette as if he were at home and Bennett were the guest.
“Good evening Mr. Bennett,” says the stranger. “I assume you know why I am here?”
“I do. But as you can see, I won’t be easy to kill,” Bennett says as he points his weapon at him. “Get on your feet, you—”
Before Bennett can utter another word, he is tackled to the floor from behind by two Promelian executioners. He drops his weapon and watches it slide across the hard-wood floor and come to rest at the foot of the Promelian sitting on the couch.
Bennett’s’ visitor picks up the gun and smiles as he watches Bennett struggle futility to break free from his executioners grip.
“Put him on his knees,” the Promelian orders as he walks towards them.
“They say that the anticipation of death is worse than death itself, Mr. Bennett. I’m afraid I cannot speak from experience.”
The Promelian kneels on one knee in front of Bennett and asks rhetorically, “Is it true?”
“No one need die here tonight, Mr. Bennett. I didn’t come here to kill you. I actually need your help. Tell me where your friends are and I will let you live.”
“Go to hell,” Bennett answers. He’s scared, but his loyalty to his people is greater than his fear of death.
“That’s a very human response, Mr. Bennett. Perhaps you have been around humans too long. Perhaps you are more human now, than Cerelean. I wouldn’t blame you if you were. The humans are braver than your kind.”
“I will never betray my people,” Bennett says as he continues to struggle to break free.
“Why do you resist?” the Promelian asks as he stands over Bennett. “Many of your people have already joined us. Your extinction is inevitable. Conquering this planet is just a matter of time. You know we will be victorious. Join us and there will be a place for you in the Promelian empire.”
“Never!”
The Promelian realizes it’s useless. He actually admires Bennett’s’ strength.
“Of course not. I had to try.”
The Promelian nods to his executioners. Bennett’s scream echo through the house as the yellow liquid eats away at him from the inside, out. His screams are music the Promelians ears.
As quickly as the screams began, there is silence in the house.
“Fool,” the Promelian leaders says as he stares at the ashes that was once Mr. Bennett. “You should have taken the deal.”
CHAPTER 48
SECRETARY CLAYBORN STANDS in the foyer under the staircase and sees the silhouette of a visitor through the textured glass of the front door.
It’s been over thirty years since he made a deal with the alien invaders. In his eighties now, he can barely walk on his own.
As with all presidential cabinet members, he is guarded by Secret Service agents for the rest of his life. He spent most of his life in politics.
The years have not been kind to him. Failing health due to lung cancer, no family left, no friends. You don’t really make friends in politics. There are only allies and enemies. His only company these days are the Secret Service agents assigned to him. He’s surprised and pleased to see he has a visitor.
One of the agents opens the door. Secretary Clayborn wai
ts anxiously, hoping an old friend stopped by to chat about old times. Or maybe a family member stopped by to say I love you.
Wishful thinking.
Instead, he sees someone he hoped he would never see again. Someone that has no love for him whatsoever.
Mr. Jacobs.
Escorted by two Secret Service agents, Mr. Jacobs looks up at Mr. Clayborn and smiles.
“You,” Clayborn says angrily.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. Long time no see. The years have not been kind to you, I see.”
“I told you never to let anyone in here without my permission,” Clayborn says angrily to his agents. They only smile and walk away.
“Come now, Mr. Secretary. You didn’t really think I wouldn’t keep my eye on you now, did you?” Mr. Jacobs says.
“My agents are—”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Mr. Jacobs interrupts. “Your agents are Promelians.”
There is nothing Clayborn can do. He just lowers his head in shame and frustration. Instead, it turns out he is not surrounded by loved ones in his later years like he should be. He is surrounded by aliens who hate him.
He helped build this country with the deal he struck all those years ago, and he has nothing to show for it. History will only remember his name in passing. Not a word of thanks from anyone. Why should there be? He is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of a people he never even knew.
“Come now, Mr. Clayborn. It’s because of me that your country is the only remaining super power in the world. Is this how you show your gratitude?”
“We…we agreed never to meet again,” Clayborn says.
One of his Secret Service agents gently grabs Clayborn by the elbow to help him walk. His assistance is not out of concern, he just doesn’t want Clayborn injuring or killing himself until the work is done.
“Take your damn hands off of me, you damn alien bastard,” Clayborn says angrily as he struggles to yank his arm away from the agent.
“No need for hostilities, Mr. Secretary. I know we said we would never meet again, but that was a long time ago. Things have changed,” Jacobs says as he extends his hand to Clayborn. Clayborn has no interest in his gesture of friendship.
“Why are you here?” Clayborn asks.
“Like I said, Mr. Secretary, things have changed. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Jacobs says with a smile.
“Come in,” Clayborn says hesitantly as he leads the way into the living room.
CHAPTER 49
MR. JACOBS MAKES himself comfortable on the living room couch. He wasn’t invited to, but he does nonetheless. He knows Clayborn won’t argue with him.
“Well, aren’t you going to offer an old friend a drink?”
“Just say what you have to say and be gone.”
“Very well. We have a problem. We are in danger of being exposed,” says Jacobs.
“How?”
“A New York police detective who goes by the name of Bishop. We need you to…deal with him.”
“Deal with him? Don’t you mean execute him?” Clayborn says angrily. Mr. Jacobs simply smiles at the rhetorical question.
“No, no, that’s going to be taken care of. We need a little bad publicity about him.”
Clayborn smiles at Mr. Jacobs’ request. “In other words, you tried to kill him and you failed. Now you want to turn every law enforcement agency in the city against him.”
Mr. Jacobs doesn’t comment. He just smiles and shakes his head.
“I…have so many regrets, so much blood on my hands. I don’t want to be involved anymore.”
“No, Mr. Clayborn, you don’t just get to walk away. We made a deal.”
“A deal with the devil,” Secretary Clayborn interrupts.
“Whatever,” Mr. Jacobs says. “Just make sure it happens, Mr. Secretary.”
“My god. Why do you hate them so much?” Clayborn asks.
“After all these years, you finally ask the question,” Mr. Jacobs says as one of the Secret Service agents brings him a glass of scotch. “What took you so long?
“Several thousand of your Earth years ago, the Cereleans, an aristocratic race, decided they needed someone to protect them, to fight their battles, to be cannon fodder. They also needed a labor force, someone to do their dirty work, the dangerous work. Their government tasked their top scientists with genetically creating a labor force using Cerelean DNA. That is how my people were born, Mr. Clayborn, in a laboratory,” Mr. Jacobs says.
“We worked for the Cereleans as their labor force until we were needed to fight their battles. A fancy way of calling us slaves,” Mr. Jacobs says with anger. “We were chattel, Mr. Secretary.”
“What the Cereleans didn’t realize is that part of the DNA they used not only had strands of some of their most brilliant strategists, but also some of their most vicious killers as well. They were so arrogant, they never considered the possibility of us turning on them. We banded together and staged a revolt, but the Cereleans outnumbered us by far. In just a few days, we were defeated.”
“Most of us were killed. Those of us that survived were exiled to Promelia, a desolate world the Cereleans believed to be uninhabitable. They didn’t have the guts to kill us, so they sent us there to die. The Cereleans thought they were rid of us, that we would never survive. But we did. We found resources on the planet the Cereleans never knew were there. Over the next century, we built a society and an army,” Mr. Jacobs says with pride.
“We returned to Cerelea with our army to take our revenge.”
“You conquered their planet?” Clayborn asks.
“We did. So consumed in their belief of superiority, they decided to take their so-called moral high ground and exile us instead of executing us. That was a mistake. They should have killed us when they had the chance.”
“And now you’re here to finish the job? Wasn’t killing millions of them enough?” Clayborn asks.
“No, Mr. Clayborn, it wasn’t.”
Mr. Jacobs stands up, straightens his tie, and looks at Clayborn with a look of both sympathy and superiority.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Secretary,” Jacobs says as he walks out.
CHAPTER 50
THEY FEEL LIKE they’ve been driving for hours. Bishop and Saunders follow closely behind Kuntz as they drive to the outskirts of town.
It’s better to get as far away from the city as possible, but they have to rest. Part of them doesn’t want to leave, anyway. They want to stay and solve the case.
Not much is said between them. Too busy digesting what’s happened and how they’re going to stay alive. His car riddled with bullets, Bishop is careful not to draw any attention to them. He’s on the job, but he can’t trust anyone, not even his fellow police officers.
They finally arrive at the Palace Motel, a pay-by-the-hour motel in a shady area outside of town. Good hiding spot, mainly because no one in their right mind wants to come to this part of town.
Bishop has investigated his share of homicides in areas like this, but he never thought he would have to live here. It was obvious from the outside of the motel that it has not been maintained very well over the years.
Dumpsters overflowing with garbage, very few lights in the parking lot. What lights there are flicker on and off. So much for security.
A single drug dealer on the corner looking to make a few bucks. A couple of “pros” waiting for their next john to come along.
In spite of the crime and filth in the area, Bishop knows this is the perfect hiding spot. Saunders doesn’t see it that way, though.
“The Ritz-Carlton. Very nice,” Saunders says sarcastically.
“We could always go back to your place,” says Bishop.
Saunders doesn’t reply. She knows she has to accept these conditions as her new normal. After all, it’s better than being dead, right?
“So what now?” Saunders asks as Bishop parks.
“Kuntz is gonna get us a room. I doubt this place has any video cameras in the office, bu
t just in case, we need to wait out here.”
Bishop and Saunders wait anxiously in the car for Kuntz to get them a room. Bishop keeps his weapon out and ready as he scans the area for any unusual activity.
“You okay?” Bishop asks. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to care for someone.
“Yeah. When am I gonna get a gun?” Saunders asks.
“Relax, Annie Oakley. I’ll get you one. Have you ever fired one before?”
“I’m not the helpless woman you think I am, Detective. Just wish I hadn’t been so damn curious.”
“What do you mean?” Bishop asks.
“If I had never gone back to the crime scene—” Bishop immediately interrupts her.
“Don’t even start thinking that way, Doc. This isn’t your fault.”
Saunders knows that, but it doesn’t help much.
Sergeant Kuntz returns and gives a single tap on the driver side window with the room key that startles Bishop and Saunders. Not really a good idea to do to someone who’s just been shot at.
They both get out of the car and are immediately greeted with the fifteen-degree wind chill that’s common this time of year in New York. In all the excitement, they both forgot how cold it was.
“Okay, I got you a room for tonight. Room one-o-four. Let’s get inside,” Kuntz says.
CHAPTER 51
BISHOP OPENS THE door and turns on the lights. Much to their delight, the room is surprisingly clean. Two twin beds with a nightstand in-between, a dresser with a nineteen-inch, bulky, tube-type television bolted down to the top of the dresser. The only way to keep the junkies from stealing it.
The typical cheap motel pictures of some far off, exotic beach hang on the wall over each bed. Saunders looks at the beds and wonders how much “business” was conducted on them by the prostitutes on the corner.
“Not bad,” she says as she walks around the room. “Television’s a little old-school, but...” she says as she runs her hand across the top of it. “Wonder how long this is gonna be home?”