by Mike Ramon
“Hurry now, both of you, before you miss the bus. Don’t forget your lunch.”
The children each grabbed a brown paper sack off of the table.
“Bye mom,” Jill said.
“Bye mom,” Billy echoed.
“Be careful, kids.”
The kids rushed out of the house. June watched then get on the bus from the living room window, then she went back to the kitchen to clean up the mess from making the lunches. She finished quickly and then debated with herself whether to have a talk with Frank. Finally, deciding that it had to be done, she went down into the basement.
Frank was awake. When she walked into his basement room he lifted up his head and looked at her. He tried to lift himself up on his elbows, but the straps held him down. Sometimes he forgot they were there.
“Good morning, Frank.”
He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry it hurt to talk.
“Please…,” he managed.
“Shh, listen. I don’t want to sound like a harpy, but I’ve told you twice already that I don’t want you talking with Jill.”
“I-I-I….”
“I know she’s very headstrong, and she’s going to come down here no matter how many times I tell her not to, but you’re the adult; you should have enough sense to send her away.”
“You’re…fucking…crazy,” Frank said.
“Watch the language, mister.”
A tear spilled from one eye, tracing a path down the man’s cheek.
“Please…ki…kill me.”
“Don’t be silly,” June said. “Why would I do that? We need you to stay fresh.”
She looked him over. He was lying on a metal table in the center of the room. The table had gutter-like grooves around the edges, and stood at a slight angle, the combined effect of which was that blood would be directed to the bottom edge of the table, where a hose then directed it into a drain. Both of the man’s legs were gone; the stumps had been cauterized. A bloody red bandage on his flank covered the spot where today’s lunch had been carved.
“Please…you bitch.”
“What did I tell you?”
She struck him on one cauterized stump. He screamed in pain, the sound coming out deep and raw from his parched throat.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” June said.
She left the room then and walked back up the steps into the kitchen. Frank’s screams were cut off when she shut the basement door.
OBSERVATION
REPORT #34895-22
ATTN: Moklo Bandeez, Governor-General of Xylox-7.
TOP SECRET (EYE ONLY)
xxx9987xxx
Hail Zlobb! Here is the report you requested. I am sorry for the delay, but three million light years is a long way to travel. (Ha! Ha!) My comrades and I have had the blue planet under surveillance for the past forty-two days, and we feel we have gathered enough information to make a recommendation. Our joint statement follows:
Planet is seemingly ideal for colonization. Salt water is plentiful, and what fresh water there is should not be too hard to get rid of. All forestland can easily be dealt with by generous spraying of Klonosom-B. There are many types and sub-types of fauna suitable for sustenance. Variances in weather are not all too great, especially when seen in the light of planets such as Donnix Toom and Golandior, which our technological advancements have allowed us to colonize in spite of severe weather extremes.
Despite all of this we feel that colonization of this planet (listed in the Codex of Unknown Planets as X-11283) would be a poor venture indeed. Our careful observation has revealed the existence of a master species like no other that we have seen. This master species has apparently enslaved what would otherwise appear to be a dominant species. This latter species will heretofore be addressed as the “servant species”.
A quick description of this master species follows, while a more detailed description will be attached as Appendix A: The species appears to vary in size and shape; some specimens are quite large while others are small (about the size of a yantha’s fingernail). The larger ones appear to be relegated to fixed positions in the main living quarters of members of the servant species, while the smaller ones are carried along by members of the servant species on their person. They all seem to share a certain type of glow, which may be key to their abilities to dominate the servant species, although further investigation is needed to understand the full extent and method(s) of their control mechanism(s). Members of the servant species can often be seen staring into the glowing surfaces of members of the master species; this typically puts members of the servant species into a trance-like state. We believe that these moments are indicative of some type of interface between the members of the two species, during which the members of the master species pass along their commands. The urge to interface with the master species is so strong that a member of the servant species will interface even when in mid-conversation. They will even interface while in the process of mating, which in itself is a type of interfacing.
Not enough is known of the full power of this master species, and it is altogether possible that any attempt at colonization could lead to the enslavement of part or the whole of our invading force. We believe it would be much easier, not to mention safer, to move on to the next Unknown Planet to begin observation. Perhaps at some later date another team can be sent back to this planet for further observation. At this time however, with our resources already spread thin, we think it the wiser course to move on. As always, we welcome your input on this matter, and we will adhere to the final decision of the Fifth Council on this matter.
xxEND OF REPORTxx
DUST
They’re everywhere. I’ve been fighting them for so long, and I’m tired. I don’t know how much longer I can fight the good fight, especially when everyone else just thinks I’m crazy. I tried telling them, but they all laughed. Well, they laughed at first, and then they grew “concerned”. That was when they sent people to talk to me, people who called themselves doctors. Who knows what they really are? I think they’re full of shit. They eventually brought me here to the “hospital”, although it doesn’t look like any hospital I’ve ever been in.
No one believes that we are under invasion. I tried to warn them, but they couldn’t see what was right in front of their eyes. I feel kind of like that Greek babe, Cassandra. No one believes me. Many times I’ve been tempted to give up the fight. I could just sling a bed sheet over one of the pipes that run overhead in the hall and be done with the whole mess. When they don’t have me fighting for them, protecting them, then they’ll be sorry. Let’s see how they do without me.
Like I said, the bastards are everywhere. I’m not sure how long they’ve been here. Maybe they were here my whole life and I just never noticed them. They’re so small, that’s how they avoid detection. I first noticed them six years ago, and since then I’ve been fighting the little fuckers. I don’t know what their ultimate plan is, but I know it won’t be good for the rest of us. If they were friendly they would just show themselves, but they hide, they disguise themselves. Clearly they’re up to no good. But I see them now, and they know that I see them. They know.
The doctor just passed by my room. The blind fool. Why do I put myself in danger for people like him? I should just take the “bed sheet exit”. But I can’t; I have too much pride. So I’ll keep up the battle until one of us gives up, me or them. But there are just so many of them. It’s not a fair fight at all. There they are now, floating in the light streaming in through the window. I can imagine them laughing at me, taunting me, “Go ahead, asshole, kill us. There are plenty more where we came from.” I’m gonna kill them, and then I’ll kill their replacements. I guess it’s sort of my job to save the world. Yeah, it’s an important job, but sometimes I just get so tired.
DOLL
I buried the bodies in the woods. It was dirty work, but it had to be done. I don’t think they will be missed. Sad but true. If there is a God I hope he can forgive us. Maybe He w
ill understand what I cannot.
Jenny is gone now. The last time I saw her she was walking away, carrying that doll that had caused so much trouble. I wondered if I should tell anyone about what happened, but I knew that no one would ever believe me. I’m not sure if I believe it, and I was there.
BUS STATION, 9:00 AM
The bus leaves in ten minutes. I look around; she’s not here. It’s a nice day, bright and sunny with a light breeze. Out of cigarettes, out of time. Well, almost out of time; the bus leaves in nine minutes. A woman on crutches is boarding the bus, working her way slowly up the steps. I think about helping her up, but instead I search my pockets for a cigarette and find that--wonder of wonders--one hasn’t magically appeared where there was none before. The exhaust from the bus is giving me a headache. Seven minutes and she’s still not here. She promised.
I’m hungry. There’s a bag of Cheetos calling my name from the vending machine in the station, but I don’t have enough change. I guess it will have to go on calling my name in vain; the rumble in my stomach will sing in harmony.
Five minutes and I’m beginning to think she isn’t coming. Four minutes and I’m not even looking for her anymore. I wish I had called Tommy this morning. Maybe I’ll call him when I get to where I’m going. Three minutes and the driver is telling me to get on the bus or he’ll leave without me. I think of telling him that I still have three minutes, but I don’t. I guess he’s itching to get out on the road, and she’s not coming anyway.
We leave town heading west. There’s some nice open country around here. I guess I never took much notice of it. The woman with the crutches is in the seat ahead of me. I feel guilty for not helping her on the bus. The guy in the seat next to me is reading a book; I can’t see the title. I really wish I had called Tommy.
UNTITLED
Trees swaying in the wind. Dust motes floating in a beam of sunlight shining through a window. Kids laughing outside, water dripping from a leaky tap inside. Old carpets, older drapes. The ancient smell of pipe tobacco. A creak from up in the attic, the sound of a door closing in the hall. Old flypaper, new table. Unmade beds. Rust around the drain in the bathtub. Spider web in the corner. White walls that used to be even whiter. A ticking clock that runs fast, an electric clock that runs slow. First day, and then night. First something, and then nothing, nothing.
WRECKAGE
Detective Vance crouched down to pick up a stuffed teddy bear that was lying on the dirty floor. He turned it over and looked at its face. One of the plastic eyes was missing, and the stitching around the mouth had come slightly undone, a bit of the white filler sticking out. He imagined a parent telling a young child that maybe it was time to get rid of the old bear, that it was time to get a new one, and the child protesting that they couldn’t get a new bear, because this bear was the bear they loved.
He stood up. He looked at all the tables. Half-eaten meals, half-finished cups of Coke, Dr. Pepper and diet root beer. Several of the big windows were gone, shattered into a thousand twinkling jewels by gunfire. There was a crowd gathering outside, concerned citizens rubbernecking, a news crew broadcasting live, another news crew just setting up. They were vampires, all of them; they fed on misery.
Detective Johnson came out of the bathroom.
“It’s a goddamn mess,” Johnson said. “That’s what it is.”
Vance nodded in agreement. Yes, it was a mess. It was human wreckage. It was wasted promise, and pain without reason. What strange god could watch over this? What higher power could allow it?
“At least the fucker had the good sense to put a bullet in his own brain when he was finished,” Johnson said. “Good riddance.”
“Good riddance,” Vance echoed.
The red and blue lights of cop cars flashed outside, turning the interior of the restaurant into a garish light show. Vance looked around again, taking it all in. He saw the sheets that covered the bodies. Shapes on the floor. His eyes stopped when they came to the smallest shape. He stepped over to this shape, bent down and laid the teddy bear beside it.
“A mess, I tell you,” Johnson said again.
“Yeah; it’s a mess”.
NOVEMBER MORNING
It is a cold November morning, a week before Thanksgiving. Fred wakes and goes downstairs to make a pot of coffee while his wife is still asleep. Eventually she comes down and they drink their coffee while seated at the kitchen table, talking about small things like the bake sale at the Church last Sunday, and the weather for next week. When they finish Helen takes the cups to the sink to wash them and Fred heads for the front door to get the morning paper from the stoop. He opens the door and looks down, but instead of finding a bundled up newspaper he finds a man lying on the stoop. At first he thinks the man is asleep, but then the man opens his eyes.
The man stands up, lifting up an old battered backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. He has a thick beard, and his clothes look like they haven’t been washed in an eon. He looks like what some people would call a bum.
The unkempt man and Fred stand for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes; their eyes are a similar chocolate brown. The cold morning air curls about them, turning their faces a pale shade of red.
“It’s been a long time,” Fred speaks.
“A long time,” the man repeats.
“Never seen you with a beard.”
The man just smiles.
“Fred, who is that at the door?” Helen calls from inside the house.
“It’s Jeremy,” he answers. “He’s come home.”
The two men go into the house then and the door closes, and after seeing this little bit we pass out of their lives forever.
A GOOD WORKER
I have a boring job, but I don’t complain. I don’t even complain when some of the ganics play tricks on me, or use me as the butt of a joke. I don’t even call them ganics when I’m around them; I know they don’t like to be called that, so I don’t do it. I’m a good worker and a loyal friend. If someone needs to talk they know they can always come to me. I’m a great listener. I don’t even have to stop working to listen; I am programmed to perform up to 300 tasks simultaneously--I can stretch it to 500 if you don’t need them all done well. I’ll never forget anything you tell me; my memory is perfect and complete. I don’t yell, I don’t slack off on the job and I don’t play mean pranks like the ganics do.
One time I asked one of them why they play mean pranks on me and he told me that their job was boring, and they were just trying to have some fun. I don’t think “accidentally” dropping a cup of water on a mech is funny. Sure I’m sealed up tight, with a warranty from the Company that I am waterproof to a depth of 50 feet, but what if there was a lapse of quality control on the day I was stamped Ready For Sale? It happens sometimes; even the Company is not infallible. I think we all remember what happened to that poor electrician-model mech last year. It was in the news. Poor schmuck forgot to turn off the circuit breakers before messing around with some wiring, and did his warranty save his circuits from being fried? Nope.
Like I said, my job is boring. It’s more boring than what the ganics do, I can tell you that. I just enter data into a computer all day, every day. I work even after everyone else has gone home. I work on weekends and holidays. But do I complain? No. I just do my job. So what’s so funny about replacing my bottle of joint lubricant with a bottle of window cleaner? Ganics--I just don’t understand them.
LETTERS FOR THE DEAD
Every day letters work their way through post offices, and are sifted through and sorted by machines and human hands. Every morning (excluding Sundays and national holidays) these letters are loaded onto trucks and into vans, and driven around towns, around neighborhoods, down small suburban streets, or big city streets. Every mail day these letters are gripped in the hands of mailmen and women and stuffed into mailboxes and through mail slots.
Some of these letters are for people who have kicked the bucket, have bought the farm, have gone belly up. Some of these l
etters are for people who have croaked, checked out, expired, followed the light. Some of these letters are for people who gone to the clearing at the end of the path, or left the building. To put it plainly, some of these letters are for people who have died. All these euphemisms to avoid saying that word.
Some of these letters are bills, some are letters telling them that they have been pre-approved for a credit card. Some are letters from distant friends or relatives who haven’t gotten the news, some are from their auto insurer telling them that they can get even more coverage for just a few dollars more. Whatever they are, and regardless of who sent them, these letters will never be read by the person they were sent to. There will be no reply. There will be nothing. Every day these letters for the dead make their way across the country. I found one in the mail today.
ALWAYS A MESS
Sam waited calmly in the closet. He was a professional, and the time when a job made his adrenaline rush had long passed. He held his revolver ready, cold steel in his hand. He twisted the hand that held the gun so that the wrist was facing up, then reached with his free hand in the darkness to tap a button on the side of his watch. The watch face lit up. It was 9:12 at night. Sanderson was supposed to be home no later than 8:30. Something wasn’t right. Sam prided himself on having sharp instincts, and right then his instincts were telling him that something wasn’t right. He considered calling the whole thing off and splitting. The boss wouldn’t like that, but the boss could go fuck himself; he wasn’t the one in the trenches putting his ass on the line.
There was a noise out in the bedroom. Sam stiffened, his sharp ears listening for any other noises. There was nothing but the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. His mind must be playing tricks on him. It was this job, which he never really liked; it was messing with his head. It had all gone FUBAR in Phoenix and it was still FUBAR, but if he could get rid of Sanderson things wouldn’t be so heavy. They would all have some breathing room, some time to think and plan their course. Still, something felt wrong.