by O.G. Gough
The gray didn’t respond, its eyes fixed on the oval device. Chris scratched the side of his cheek. “I know you probably don’t understand a single word I’m saying.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I really need you to understand this. Please.” He waved the photo to get its attention. “My son!” Chris looked into the sky, knowing nothing was going in. “You friggin’ …” He searched for words to show his displeasure. “... mutated frog, piece of shit!”
Chris breathed deeply, trying to compose himself. This wasn’t working.
Slowly stretching out its long fingers the gray reached for the object.
Chris pulled back.
He looked down at the object and then back at the creature, its hand remaining stretched toward him. Maybe if he gave it back it would help him. A trade. He couldn’t get it to work anyway.
He carefully handed the item to the gray, keeping it at arm’s length. Its long, slender fingers wrapped around the device. Its fingers freakishly long and gray—but very human looking. It gently pressed on the symbols in a well-rehearsed pattern. A password.
The object sparked alive. The middle strip of red light glowed; the little symbols around the outside lit up with the same deep, red glow that Chris had seen before. Now we’re getting somewhere. Would the others come and trade, or would they simply take him too? What choice did he have?
As though it was finally relieved that it had activated the device, it let itself crash back into the truck, leaning against it to hold itself up. The device slipped from its grasp, falling into the dirt. Chris’ eyes followed the object to the ground and then quickly back to the creature. It was laboring. Every breath it took seemed like a struggle.
The creature let itself slide to the ground. It looked to the heavens above. It no longer seemed concerned by the device ... or Chris.
It looked as though it wanted to die. As if it was time to die.
The object’s lights pulsated ever so slightly. A pulse he hadn’t seen before. What had it just done?
His body went numb. Shit! A GRENADE!
He bolted, diving into a small group of trees, the only cover he had. Hands clutching his head, he curled into a ball, eyes tightly shut, anticipating a blast that would shred or engulf his body.
Was this it? Would they now just find his charred, twisted body in the middle of nowhere? If there was anything left. Maybe he would now get to see Shawn. Is this how he would die?
Thoughts and fear stabbed rampant in his mind.
They say your life flashes before you when you’re about to die. His didn’t. All he could think of was his family. His beautiful wife. Three wonderful children. His other son who had died so young. That was his happiness. His world. Nothing else mattered.
Would his shattered family ever recover?
The old bastard Frank was right. Kill every last one of those frog-eyed fuckers.
Chris opened one eye; unclenched his teeth.
Nothing happened.
Removing tight hands from around his head, he craned his neck over the bushes to sight the truck. On the red dirt lay the gray. Motionless. Chris couldn’t even tell if it was still breathing. The object lay next to it, its red, rhythmic, glowing lights still pulsating.
Chris squatted down next to the ailing creature and placed the photo of Shawn in its hand.
“You bring back my son”—he leaned over, removing the dog collar—“and I’ll get you home.”
He took the device in his hand, carefully wiping the dust with his shirt.
Chapter Twenty
Fifth Kind
From the truck’s bed, Chris leapt to the roof. Heavy boots dented the already beaten, rusted top. Strong wind whipped around his loose clothes and fit physique. He stood tall. He looked at the glowing device, its light painting his face red. He punched his right arm up into the air.
Lightning arced across the night sky. Thunder cracked.
“COME GET IT!” he yelled into the night.
With arm extended he stood frozen on the truck roof. Savage wind battered his tired body. The sweet smell of impending rain threatened.
“Come get it,” he said softly, exasperated. This was his final pea. He could do no more. Nowhere else to turn.
Cool rain peppered his face.
It felt as if hours had past, even though he knew it had only been twenty minutes. His hand and arm tingled due to lack of blood flow. He remained firm in his commitment. If he had to climb a mountain for a better signal, he would.
Another six minutes past. Eight.
Chris dropped to his knees, slumped in a small pool of water collecting on the rusty roof. Cold water soaked through his jeans, swallowing his knees.
He dropped the pulsing object in front of him and stared at the water splashing off its metallic casing.
His body shook. He sobbed. The same uncontrollable sobbing he experienced when Aaron died. He sobbed for Shawn, he sobbed for Aaron, he sobbed for his family.
Suddenly the rain around him stopped, as if an umbrella had popped up over the truck.
Without warning a shaft of blinding, white light beamed down on Chris. Shielding his eyes, he looked above into the silence.
Soon a large, red glow descended on him as the large craft lowered itself, not far from the truck. No sound, no sign of propulsion. It slowly drifted down, floating just a few feet above the center of the dirt road.
The white light stayed trained on Chris as it maneuvered into position. It was surreal, almost dream like. Everything seemed to slow down. His heart thumped in his chest. He could feel the side of his head starting to pound. This was really happening.
The red lights around the outside of the craft were hypnotic. Chris jumped from the truck. He cautiously approached, arm stretched out with the device in hand. His eye started to twitch.
What was going to happen next? He didn’t know.
He paused halfway between the truck and the craft. Maybe he should have brought the gray with him—better still, the shotgun. These frogs weren’t going to get him too. He felt for the pocketknife. Still there. He turned back to the truck to see if his resident alien was making his way over. It was a no show.
He turned back to the craft and froze. Three thin personages suddenly stood a few feet in front of the bright, burning light. It was amazing and terrifying at the same time. He was witnessing something that would rock humanity.
His heart raced.
Silhouetted by the craft’s powerful radiance, the middle figure stood a few feet in front of the other two. They seemed more like bodyguards, sentinels guarding the way. The two appeared to each hold a thin, long cylinder in their hands. About two feet long.
The two sentinels broke formation, starting to slowly circle around the edges of the road, their appearance covered by dark, backlit shadows. The slow rain was whipped sideways by the strong wind. A lump formed in Chris’ throat. Were they going to give him a beat down? Take him? Experiment on him? He clenched his teeth and slipped the object into his pocket, taking out the pocketknife. He kept it close, concealed. The other hand formed a fist. Take out the leader first. Blade to the side of the head. Run like crazy for the shotgun. Drive like hell. He played the scenario out in his mind.
“I come in peace,” Chris called to the leader, his voice shaky. “I just want my boy.”
The sentinels continued to circle and slowly move in. No indication that they had understood his request. The leader began to walk towards Chris. Do I meet these bitches head on? His eyes darted back and forth. Stay calm, asshole, he told himself.
Light beamed through the trees to Chris’ right, followed closely by the roar of a V8 engine. The large Humvee burst out of the scrub onto the road, a short distance from the meeting point, interrupting the close encounter. Small trees were crushed under its heavy, large tires, as it carved its own road.
The aliens stop their advanced, unfazed, but unsure of the men’s intended actions.
Frank sat behind the wheel with a battered Roy in the
passenger seat. Frank hit the brakes. The men’s heads jerked forward as they skidded to a stop in the muddy water.
Pav was in back. He held onto his gear, hoping it and himself wouldn’t slide along the floor. All the gear was alive and ready to go. Lights flashed and computer screens glowed. He pounded on the keyboard, inputting commands. He grabbed the joystick, turning the dish on the roof, taking aim at the craft.
It was go time.
“Fire! Fire!” Frank screamed orders. This was their opportunity and he wasn’t going to let these bastards get away.
Pav’s index finger hovered over the joystick’s red trigger. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. This was his moment.
He pulled the trigger hard. The hum of electricity amped up, gathering power. Ready to unleash its power.
After a quick wind up, smoke began to rise from some of the CPUs, filling the cab. The smell of melting plastic filled the space.
As fast as it started, the hum wound down. Lights flickered and monitors shut down. Pav grabbed at the toggle switches, flicking them off and on. “Der’mo! Der’mo!” (“Shit! Shit!”) he screamed. He thrashed the joystick up and down, pulling on the wire.
The weapon was done. Fried. They didn’t have the power to run it. It sucked the vehicle dry, leaving it dead.
Frank bashed the steering wheel as the vehicle died. The headlights went out; the dash blacked out. “Useless bloody Russian!”
“It’s not my fault,” Pav yelled back at him, tossing his arms into the air. “Cheap shit!”. He tossed the keyboard and joystick from his lap, getting to his feet.
Using his boot he pushed computer gear off a large, military-style, pale-green case, with white Russian writing decorating the outside. A creepy smile crossed his face. “Plan B,” he said to himself softly.
As he exited the truck Frank grabbed his gun, taking cover behind the door. Trying to work out who to shoot first, he shifted his gun from side to side. Blinding light from the craft and dust blowing into his eyes from the pounding wind didn’t make aiming easy.
Roy ducked down, getting on the floor of the truck. A coward move. He cracked under the pressure of coming face to face with the creatures.
Pav exited the back of the truck, an old 1949 RPG-2 shoulder-mounted, anti-tank grenade launcher glued to his shoulder. The grenade on top, missile shaped.
Chris did a double take on Pav armed with the rocket launcher. Not wanting to wait around to see what was going to happen next he bolted for cover. He slid across the dirt, hiding behind the shit wagon’s hood. This had become a war zone.
Pav re-positioned the weapon on his left shoulder. Closing his right eye he lined up the iron sight on the alien craft. “Do svidaniya, asshole,” (Goodbye asshole) he whispered to himself. He squeezed the trigger. A blast of fire and smoke blew out the back of the launcher as the rocket fired. Six little stabilizer fins unfolded from the rocket grenade as it hurled towards its intended target.
The rocket whizzed past Chris and the truck toward the craft. Everything happened so fast—but for Chris everything seemed to slow down: the noise of the rocket echoing in his ears, the sudden surge of heat, the trailing line of smoke.
The three gray beings stood firm, seemingly unaware of the damage that was about to be unleashed on them.
The projectile flew past, flying into the nearby trees, into darkness—it missed. Seconds later an orange fireball erupted from surrounding trees, along with a massive boom.
Chris covered his ears. “Holy shit!”
Black smoke drifted into the air. A wave of heat from the explosion stabbed at the men’s faces. Each shielded his face with a raised arm. For a moment dark night seemed like day.
Bits of trees—branches and leaves—slowly hit the ground around the vehicles and the craft.
The RPG-2 was old, not known for accuracy. But it was all Pav could get his hands on.
A second grenade whizzed through the air. More trees exploded in a flash of orange light.
“Fuck. Shit.” Pav threw the useless launcher to the ground and scurried for cover in the thick trees and shrubs behind him.
The shock of two blasts left everyone stunned, except the unfazed aliens. The crack of a single shot suddenly ruptured the silence, its echo heard for miles. Frank lifted his head from the gun sights. Smoke curled from the barrel. He squinted, checking the intended target.
Chris turned his head. What had the old fool shot? A sentinel dropped to its knees, a large, gaping wound pumping purple liquid from its chest.
Chris’ eyes grew wide. His heartbeat slowed. Every beat thumped his chest. A silent calm drifted over the road, as though everyone was holding their breath. The wind even seemed to be still. The other aliens, still. This was a whole new level. What had Frank done?
The sentinel’s body fell to the hard ground. Its head smashed into dirt, bouncing slightly. Dust covered its lifeless face.
Dead.
Frank cracked open the double barrel to reload. Unexpectedly and from out of the shadows burst a figure, diving at him, sliding across the hood and kicking the door into him. The old man stumbled, regaining his balance. “Son-a-bitch!” he grunted.
Chris slid off the hood and grabbed at Frank’s gun. The two men locked up in close-quarter combat, the empty, open double barrel tossed aside. They crashed to the ground, wrestling for control. They grunted, struggling for dominance. A raw brawl.
Loose grass and mud covered their bodies. Shirts ripped. Adrenaline pumped.
Frank was one tough old bastard, even with a wounded leg. He liked to brawl and he wasn’t going to let Chris get in the way of his war.
Luck had insisted Frank land on top in the struggle. Rain continued to fall; large, heavy droplets covered the men. He pinned Chris to the ground and threw a barrage of solid punches.
Chris defended as best he could from Frank’s ruthless onslaught, covering his face with both elbows. Instinctively he recalled jiu-jitsu combat training from his days in the Guard, and swept the old man onto his back, almost knocking the wind from Frank’s lungs; the position reversed.
Chris gripped him around the throat and locked up one of Frank’s arms, stopping him from punching. Chris would rather defuse the situation and continue his extraterrestrial negotiations than bust up an old man.
Frank gasped for air, face red, as he struggled to break the tight grip around his neck. Having been in tight spots before, there were no plans to yield. His free hand frantically searched for a weapon: rocks, sticks, anything.
Sandy mud slammed into Chris’ eyes, blinding him. Releasing his grip on Frank, he grabbed his stinging eyes.
Frank quickly followed with another fistful of mud, palmed into Chris’ mouth.
Gagging and coughing Chris sucked dirt to the back of his throat. Saliva and blood mixed with dirt dribbled down Chris’ chin. He blindly struggled to control Frank. Chris spat blood-colored mud and looked to the sky for rain to rinse his burning eyes. The rain offered little help.
Frank rolled a coughing Chris off him and staggered to his feet.
A vicious kick to the gut knocked Chris onto his back, buckling him in pain. Desperately he searched for air. To breathe. Nothing. Passing out at any moment was a real possibility.
After what felt like minutes, Chris inhaled air—like stripping plastic wrap from his face. The air almost sweet.
With battered arms Chris covered his head as a relentless barrage of kicks and punches from different angles targeted his bloodied face.
Chris blindly searched for his attacker, grabbing in air at the flurry of legs and fists.
Blood, mixed with rainwater and sweat, ran down the side of Frank’s face. His left eye swollen. Catching his breath, he paused to wipe blood from his face with the back of his sleeve. He spat on Chris, then resumed the onslaught. Killing him, an option.
Rain became heavier, beating down on the men. Mud and water splashed wildly.
Almost by luck, one of Chris’ blind-air grabs paid off, catching Fra
nk’s leg. Chris yanked. Hard.
Frank’s back slapped into a pool of muddy water.
With clenched teeth Chris let out a roar, like a wounded wild animal breaking free. He sprawled to hands and knees—and charged.
Enough was enough.
He dived on the fallen Frank, unleashing hammer fist after hammer fist, pounding the old guy’s face and chest.
Frank’s unconscious head bounced in and out of muddy water with each blow. Blood and dirty water painted his face.
A brutal attack. Chris had reached a point of no return. He might not be able to stop. Defense now turned to rage.
A shot rang out.
Chris stopped. Warm liquid spread across his cold, wet shirt. He grabbed his side—dark, warm blood quickly covered his fingers, followed by sudden burning deep in his side. Like a fire poker penetrating his ribs. He dropped off Frank, disorientated.
With blurred vision he eyed Roy standing near the truck, a .357 revolver in hand.
Chris gently rolled to his back in a pool of bloody, brown water. He tried to sit up, but somehow couldn’t. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Rain peppered his face; his hand bandaged his side.
He heard Roy’s voice, deep, slow and rolling. “Ya right, Frank?”
Chris slowly turned his head to Frank, ear submerging into water and mud.
Frank blinked his eyes, slowly coming to. He rolled to his knees.
Chris struggled to breathe. Each breath like a knife stab. His body pale. Fingertips numb. The rain washed over him. He blinked slowly to clear the water from his eyes, to focus. As he opened them, the round, stainless steel barrel of Roy’s .357 came into view, followed by his ugly face. He grinned, showing a half-toothless smile.
Chris dropped his right arm, in no condition to fight and no match for a .357 magnum. Slipping a hand into his pocket he grabbed at the pocketknife; the only line of defense. Just grazing the top of the handle, his fingers stretched for it.
Roy stomped on Chris’ leg with his large cowboy boot, twisting the heel back and forth to cause as much pain as possible. Chris screamed in pain. In desperation he pushed his hand further into his pocket, fumbling for the knife.
“Ya ain’t gonna get off that easy.” Roy cocked the gun.
Chris could smell his stinking breath. He needed to get the blade.
Noticing the movement, Roy eyed Chris’ fumblings. He raised the gun to lay down a pistol whipping.