Andromeda Expedition

by Carlos Arroyo González

  Kronos managed to break through the dense clouds to witness with his sick retina whatever was about to happen, and gave the ocean a flimsy illumination like that of a dirty light bulb.

  A rumble like the thunder of a distant storm. Then it turned into the roar of a powerful waterfall that was getting closer and closer. The ocean darkened dozens of feet around him. Soon it became almost black. A night darker than night was rising from within the ocean, swallowing the darkness in its wake. And its only constellation was the monster's teeth. A huge mass that stretched off into the distance was rising towards him.

  A mountain with gaping jaws, a night that had come to life, emerged from the depths swallowing that orange dot. It ascended to reveal its colossal body. The delirium of an anguished mind. When it reached the top of its trajectory, it seemed to stop for an instant, its infinite structure cut out against the dull sky of Erebus. From the height of its majesty, it detonated a roar that shook the foundations of the universe. It folded in on itself and fell back into the ocean with a roar like a nuclear bomb. When it was all over, a huge plain of white foam remained, like a paint can carelessly spilled on a black canvas. Then the ocean was calm again, as if nothing had happened there. As if nothing had ever happened there since the beginning of time.

  Monster

  Lord, protect us.

  First words uttered by Commander Mann during the first contact with alien life

  “What’s that, Mom?”

  David Wilson, a four-year-old boy, plays in the sand in the little park in front of his house. He likes to go with The Toy Bag, the object that is at the center of his life with his mom. The Toy Bag contains everything he finds interesting. From the toy soldiers of the New West, most of them mutilated or headless, to various things that he has been rescuing throughout his days. A stone that he thought was shaped like a turtle; a flower he found on one of the steps of the doorway, now reduced to a dried-up ball; a little paper airplane that flies particularly well, thanks to the flaps he has cut out of the back of its wings, and above all the lightning bolts he has painted on it with a yellow highlighter. His mother talks to her friend Cécile (Sesi for David), about Adult Stuff. He was digging the ultimate inescapable death trap for Drekor, his favorite figure, a soldier with a blue patch over his eye, when he had seen something advancing through a narrow street.

  “Yes, that's what he told me,” his mother is saying. Sesi nods, “It's incredible, when I see him I'm going to make it clear to him and...”.

  Some shouts interrupt the conversation. They both look towards the alley. His mother turns white and her face deforms in a way that David has never seen in his five years of life. He starts to cry because he realizes that what's coming has to be something Bad. Probably Very Bad. Maybe more so than when Dad used to wear his Bad Man cologne. What's on the other side of the hedges in the little park looks nothing like any of the animals David has classified in his mind. What it reminds him most of is the ugly bugs, all the ones he hates. Spiders, centipedes, locusts. But that one is the size of a horse. Maybe it's not an animal after all, but a Monster.

  A car slams on its brakes before hitting the monster, which leaps onto the hood. The car tries to back up. The monster breaks the glass with its saw-like limbs. It pierces the driver and lifts him into the air. David at that moment is grabbed by his mother and pressed against her chest, so that as they run to try to get away from there, David can't see anything else.

  “No need for alarm,” says government spokesman Vlado Danilovic. “Most of the cases that are being leaked are hoaxes spread by media traitors to the citizens' freedom. And those that have been documented are isolated cases that the army has totally under control. We knew that we would have to face this kind of situations, but the effort will be worth it. For we are all freer together and freedom will bring us justice, united in the unity of the citizenry of the rule of law.”

  Feeling calmer now, Dereck Staunton, lawyer, turns off the holovisor and unseals a Mevotex capsule.

  Harry Sullivan is already late to pick up his son. He finishes training at six-thirty and it's twenty-five past six. As he walks past the library he sees a police van stopped outside the door. Several officers exit the building pushing a couple of huge carts full of books, which they dump into the trailer.

  Harry continues on his way. On the radio: “Don't worry, these are isolated cases. Don't pay attention to the alarmism that the rebels are trying to create among the citizens. Everything is under control. Pay no attention to those who want to put an end to the freedom of individual rights of the citizens of the social rule of law that we have worked so hard to achieve. Their only goal is to incite hatred against a civilization that has much to contribute to us. For millions of years they have traveled the universe, and millions of years of wisdom endorse them. Let us learn from these kind beings and open our arms. Integrating them into our democratic rule of law and sovereign citizenship will be the purest demonstration of the tolerance and generosity that characterize us.

  “And of course we must not let this divert us from the real dangers currently facing our citizenship. I speak for example of the scourge of the elderly. Those leeches who suck the blood of the citizenry without pretending to offer anything in return. The need to...”

  Harry nods. Those scumbags of the Whatever Liberation Movement have been bent on dynamiting the rule of law of the citizenry that they had worked so hard to erect. All out of envy. Such a thing should not be allowed to continue. He expects the government to act very soon. With harshness. To uproot the problem.

  He hits the brakes. A car skids across an intersection. Above it, a critter the size of a cow but much more like an insect or an arthropod, maneuvers to pull through the windshield the various pieces of the driver. When Harry looks to the right, along the street, he sees lots of those creatures tearing people apart. The asphalt is now red. Rivers of blood run in the gutters and trickle down the sewers. The languid winter sun tears warm gleams from those crimson streams. People running, looking for somewhere to hide, or maybe a friendly face to tell them it's all a joke. Maybe a hidden camera.

  Harry backs up and without looking in the rearview mirror, he crashes into the car behind him. There, a man gawks at the scene, not daring to react in any way. Harry looks straight ahead again and meets an empty stare, which holds an evil as infinite as the universe. The parasite breaks through the windshield and pierces Harry with its sharp limbs, like a bird that has cracked open a nut to extract the juicy fruit. Harry still has time to emit a powerful scream that culminates in a grotesque gurgle that splashes blood on the being's skin, hard and black, edged with filaments that emit a pulsating red light. The droplets of blood glisten under the pale sun, like a bitter constellation representing the whole episode. The droplets trickle over the parasite's smooth skin, seeping between its bumps and mixing with the clear substance that seems to ooze from its entire being. Before the lights went out, Harry also has time to smell the bleach-like stench emanating from that being. He is also surprised that this is going to be his last thought. After all, he doesn't even remember his son, waiting for him somewhere in front of the Future of Freedom elementary school.

  “All right, children, get out your knives.”

  At the Flowers and Squirrels kindergarten, Freedom of Citizenship Day is also celebrated. This year's theme is the hunt for the traitors of Eastcountry. In the middle of the Eaglets' classroom, Ms. Giri has hung a dummy she has made from a pile of rags and old sheets. She made a pair of eyes with two buttons and sewed on a smiling mouth. As a finishing touch, she has placed a Liberation Movement scarf on it, and has put a badge on it that reads DOWN WITH FREEDOM.

  The children who can now walk wobble on their chubby legs trying to hold those knives that weigh more than they do. As the rain of slashes begins, they hear a scream coming from the next street, near the park, like the echo of the silent scream of the dummy.

  “Next question. Hands on the buttons!”

  Barry Lawnson, host of the
Answer and Triumph program, is wearing an orange tie today, matching the color of the national day. His left hand is wrapped in a bulky bandage. “I caught it in a door,” had been his official version.

  “What is the correct term for space castaways? A, space castaways. B, parasites.”

  The contestant on the left, an obese man whose bald head sweats under the studio spotlights, presses the button with both hands. A red light flashes on his stand.

  “Clark,” Barry says.

  “A, space castaways.”

  “And the answer is...” Barry makes a disappointed face, just before changing it to an expression of triumph, “Correct!”

  The roar of applause invades the studio. Little by little, in an almost harmonious way, it turns into an uproar of shouts and stampedes. The audience invades the set. Several cameras and spotlights are knocked down. The camera broadcasting at that moment captures from the floor the twisted image of a creature that no artist would have been able to imagine. When it cuts Barry Lawnson in half, his orange tie remains unblemished, like an unwavering champion of truth. A cologne commercial interrupts the broadcast.

  They've just arrived at the cottage where they intend to spend a weekend of poker and beer. They've seen the rooms. All rustic decor. Lots of weathered wood, lots of farm gadgets, the smell of fields and manure. No one around to spoil their party. They can bawl all they want. In a corner of the foyer there’s an old wagon wheel. From the ceiling hang strange cloths that no one dares to take down. It looks like the old dress of some ghost.

  It’s very cold. But once the fireplace is lit, it's nice in the room opposite the kitchen. In fact, it's quite nice. Thomas isn't sure he wants to be there, but he still grabs a lager from the one they had put in the freezer when he first arrived. And it's actually going down quite well. Everything is taking on a different color.

  And there they are, smoking the bong Larry has brought back from his trip to Morocco. They put a melon-scented gelatinous tobacco on it (it had filled the room, overlaying the smell of the manure) that Thomas got his fingers all smeared with trying to place it.

  “This is priceless,” Larry says through the dense cloud of smoke in which he has been hidden.

  “So, what, a few rounds?” Thomas takes a swig, finishing off half a can.

  “But you don't know how to play, I'm going to feel bad fleecing you.”

  Thomas picks up the deck on the mantelpiece and deals.

  They hear a roar, a low, primitive sound that makes the coins vibrate on the table. They all freeze. Between them, only the cloud of smoke moves, like a low fog. Martins lets out a fart, but no one says anything about it. Larry looks out the window.

  “Do you see anything?” Martins says, shielding himself behind a can of lager he holds in front of his face, in a frozen gulp that he never completes, “Do you see anything!”

  “No!”

  They hear a hollow rattling coming from the other side of the house. They head there as close together as the cans of beer in their package. Through the window of the bedroom where Thomas and Larry would sleep (“Don't even think about touching me,” Thomas had said when they split the rooms) they see a shadow slipping through the trees in the woods less than ten yards away. A shadow reflected in the moonlight.

  “Close it!” Martins says. But it is he who does it. He closes the wooden shutters and pulls a heavy, weathered wooden latch. He dials the police number. No signal, “Close them all, you useless fucks!”

  “But what was that!”

  “I have no idea and I don't want to find out. Move!”

  “Hey, easy, you don't give me orders, do you understand?”

  “I'll cut you open,” Martins wields a knife he has taken out of his pocket. The others are surprised by the agility with which he has made that move.

  Something bangs against the front door. The sheets hanging like a ghost's torn dress shudder, along with the glasses that remain on the dish drainer, which clink with a sharp clatter.

  They run to the front door and place a chair under the knob.

  “Please, please, please, please!” Thomas mutters.

  “Nobody's got a gun? Nobody's brought a real fucking weapon?!” Larry slaps Martins' hand, sending the knife flying behind the huge wagon wheel in the corner.

  Thomas runs to the bathroom, and without bothering to close the door releases his fear. It's an even louder roar than whatever it was that hit the door.

  A new charge. This time a huge limb, whose shape resembles a grasshopper's leg, pierces the old wood. Everyone is silent. When the leg disappears, nothing more is heard. After a few minutes in which no one has dared to say anything, Larry approaches the hole made by the thing and takes a look.

  “I think it's already....”

  That insectoid appendage emerges again, piercing Larry's head like a toothpick through an olive. It lifts him up. Larry's legs convulse and a pool of urine forms under his feet. The monster releases him and Larry drops to the ground like a potato sack. With the next lunge, the door falls on the still convulsing corpse, and over it leaps a black-bodied creature, smooth and hard, reminiscent of an arthropod.

  Thomas and Martins run down the corridor towards the living room. As they run, the creature jumps onto Martins' back. A leap that runs the length of the hallway in a single bound. Thomas stands in the living room, his back against the door, listening as the creature devours his friend on the other side. Noises of wet tearing, broken bones and grotesque chewing. He grabs a burning log from the fireplace, not caring that his hand is scorching. He places it by the door and watches with pleasure as it ignites almost immediately. The creature lets out a roar of rage. Thomas runs to the window. He has to climb onto a chair to reach it. He slips outside. The contrast between the warmth of the room and the cold outside makes him feel like it's twenty degrees below zero. He is vaguely aware that behind him the door has been broken down, and also of the creature's screams of pain and rage. He runs to the car, which waits by the entrance, impassive, with the same look it would have if instead of being slaughtered by a nightmarish being, they were drinking beer and playing cards. Tomas runs to the car and when he reaches into his pocket and can't find the key he almost shits himself. He reaches into his other pocket, just in case, and there it is. He has no idea why he’d put the key in there that time, but for some reason he had. As he gets into the car and closes the door, the creature crawls out of the house. The flames hiss as they are extinguished by the snow. The car's engine roars and Thomas pulls out onto the main road. There, as he turns to take the direction that would lead him back home, he realizes that he is surrounded by those creatures. Also, above the trees, he sees the back of a strange starcraft with a chaotic shape, like a demented puzzle. As the monsters come for him, Thomas thinks of poker.

  In the snack aisle of the Palmeral Plaza mall, Chuck Derrington adds an extra bag of ultra-spicy flavor to his basket. It's Friday night, and it's got to be a doozy. He's even allowed himself to grab two-liter soda. The “Heroes of Legend” tournament is at its peak, and he has already reached ninth place. He's cleaned out the mouse to avoid surprises, like when a week earlier he had the most important win of the year in the palm of his hand and the damned mouse had refused to move. At least that's what he tells himself happened. It makes it all simpler.

  As he heads toward the checkout, he sees that the army, the fucking army, has formed a cordon and is directing people toward an emergency exit.

  “Come on, come on, move!” says a soldier with dark glasses who grabs him by the arm and pulls him towards the door. The basket falls and knocks his night's secret plans to the floor.

  He steps out into a concrete-walled corridor. It is colder there.

  It smells of raw meat.

  In his cell, Daniel Wade, “Viper,” plays heads or tails. He's been practicing since he was a kid. That was the first intuition-strengthening exercise he had tried, which he later supplemented with many others, such as guessing cards or (the most lucrative of all) intui
ting new clients.

  “Charlatans,” his father had told him, more than twenty years earlier, snatching from his hands the old book Daniel had found in a nest of bags and dust. “I thought I'd gotten rid of this junk.”

  That night Daniel waited until he heard his father snoring. Then he left the house, in his pajamas. He opened the dumpster and took out the two bags. He rummaged through the contents and pulled out the book, dripping with egg white. He began to read it by the light of a flashlight, covered by the sheets.

  A year later he passed for the first time what the author called the acid test. The first necessary step before continuing along that path. That step consisted of guessing ten times in a row what would appear on the coin. Then he took many more steps. He went deeper. He moved on to card exercises. Sometimes, from his balcony, he tried to sense the exact moment when someone would turn the corner of the street.

  They’d been married for a month. The night Clara was raped and murdered, he already knew it would happen. All that afternoon he knew that something like this was coming, bigger and bigger like an expanding night. Yet he ignored it. He tried to push it out of his mind, as if by not thinking about it he could avoid it. For years he tortured himself wondering if he could’ve done anything to avoid it anyway. He tried to convince himself that he could, although he never quite succeeded.