by Tufo, Mark
“You sure about this?” I asked just as we about to step into the light. Bob didn’t hesitate. Bob’s transformation to his original color, or the one I figured was his original color, began the moment we were bathed in the harsh lighting. What I thought were two-foot-high bushes were nearly seven feet, laced with thorns and leaves that glistened with an oily substance. I got the feeling that poison ivy would consider this stuff their god. Aliens, again, of all shapes and sizes, were working around the plants. It looked like an urban garden; you know, except for the unearthly plants and the myriad life forms that appeared to be ripped from the pages of Cosmos Weekly, the alien literary version, not the Fashionista earth-based one. Bob dipped down, and, with a newly formed arm, pawed at the ground. Church and I did the same, mimicking what those around us were doing. If any of them noticed us, they said not a word. But who knows? A snitch may have already been on the run to inform its captors of our arrival.
“Bob, what the hell is this place?” I was barely pushing dirt around as I scoped the place out. I couldn’t see more than a couple dozen lifeforms here, and not a whistler in sight. Those around us said nothing, and hardly ever looked up from whatever task they were performing.
“Milk,” Bob shushed me, but not without a little explanation. He advised that Church and I bury our weapons. Aghast is a word that comes to mind; one doesn’t often stick a perfectly good weapon in the dirt, especially during a war.
The caps that the things here were wearing had been dialed up. For the miners, the caps had been a means of punishment, discipline. Here, it was less forgiving. These beings had tasks, chores, and if they did not do them with complete compliance, the cap would simply force their brains to send signals to their organs to shut down, beginning with the pumping of the heart, if they had one. If not, then to some other mighty vital area. I had so many questions, like, how did the cap know whether they were doing what they were supposed to? But Bob was adamant that I shut the hell up. That was clear enough. We didn’t move much that entire strange night. No weird bleating sound or siren gave an indication for change, but as one the workers stood and began to walk away, we quickly followed.
They stopped in an area that looked much like the rest of the place. Bob shouldered past a few so that we were closer to the center of the workers than on the outer ring. My entirely too empty stomach fluttered as we found ourselves rising into the air. To everyone around us, this must have been old hat because they didn’t so much as shuffle their feet. I understood the necessity to blend in for the time being, but Church hadn’t got the memo. He was not a fan of sky rising; I mean, neither was I. We weren’t standing on a platform I could distinguish. Church was looking around wildly; he had a death grip on my shoulders. What the hell he thought I was going to be able to do if we started falling, I had no idea. Bob, as inconspicuously as possible, reached up and gently tugged Church’s arms down to his sides.
We just kept going up. I’d been all right with it at first, but we were over a hundred feet in the air now and still going. With my feet not touching anything of substance, panic was beginning to well. What if whatever this was malfunctioned? Or now that the workers’ jobs were done they were no longer needed, and this was the easiest means to dispose of them? Seriously, none of us could survive this fall, except maybe Bob. Maybe not. I had no way to truly know because how does one gauge something like this, but to say we were five hundred feet high was not a gross exaggeration. That did it. I grabbed ahold of Bob; I wanted to crawl inside his protective gel.
“Milk,” he said above a whisper. He must have known how close I was to losing it. He was telling me to be calm. I wanted to tell him that was easy for him to say; he could turn into a super ball before impact and bounce away to freedom. I glanced up; it wasn’t much longer before we got to where we were going. It was one of those floating orbs, much smaller than any of the others I could see, and also much lower. I was fine with that. We stopped at a platform that led in; workers began to step onto the ramp and file in. Bob purposefully bumped into me as I was craning my head around to look. We were in that city of spheres I’d seen from the distance, but if height and size were any indicator, we were paupers living in squalor, maybe a testament to the rank of the labor force we’d joined.
I avoided looking at any of the aliens for too long; I didn’t want to go down another path like I had with Church. What I did notice was that the throat and mouth pieces we’d brought with us were different. Whereas ours were black and covered much of our faces, the ones worn by those around us were small and gray. It was a distinction that seemed to me was going to be difficult to hide. When I pointed this out to Bob he grunted an acknowledgement. I didn’t get the feeling he’d taken this into account; not sure if this would come back on us, just worth noting.
There was a large table on the far side of the room. Piled high upon it were glistening golden fruits, looked a lot like the flesh of a pineapple. My stomach yearned for the sustenance. Bob held me back. Next to it was an enormous bowl with what I figured was a ladle sticking out. I was thirsty enough that even a communal ladle shared by fuck knows what kind of creatures carrying who knew what types of diseases was about fine with me. Sure, there was a nagging voice in the back that had reservations about it, but I was going to hold that bastard under the water as I drank. Hopefully it was water; I had a flashback to the stagnant pool. Again Bob stopped me. How he knew I was a heartbeat from making a sprint I don’t know.
I needed to take my cues from the regulars. If they weren’t eating, then I shouldn’t be either. But how do you tell a virgin in a whorehouse to keep his dick in his pants? I mean, really? Felt like a fitting analogy, though the thought didn’t make me less hungry. I steadied myself, took my time to look around our humble abode, anything to keep my wandering eyes from constantly traveling back to the feast laid out before us. There were mats of some woven material in rows on the ground, had to be the beds. I was wondering what kind of musical chairs we were going to have to play when it was time to call it a night. Didn’t have to worry about that, but I didn’t know it at the time. Finally, a buffet line began to form; there was no dinner bell rung, so it must have been another something clocked into their caps.
Nobody looked overly thrilled with the fare being presented. Once upon a time, dockworkers in the 1920s complained about continually being served what they called “sea bugs.” I’d be fine if what I was looking at tasted anything even remotely similar to lobster. Wouldn’t even mind if there was no butter. The workers grabbed portions that were about the size of a standard apple. That wasn’t going to cut it. My hands were trembling as we slowly moved forward; it was taking everything I had not to shove things out of my way and start pile driving food into my pie hole. The ladle liquid was the reason the line was moving interminably. I know I said I was going to be all right with this communal meal, but the more strange orifices that touched that metallic spoon or dipped some sort of protuberance into it the less I wanted it. For all the excitement those who’d been served were displaying for the meal, they could have been blowing their noses or watching golf.
There were no flying drones to couple with that fucking throat tube, so that was a plus. Bob tapped Church, and before he could say anything, Bob reached a tendril into his mouth and yanked that thing free. Church’s reaction was much like you’d think it would be. That he didn’t punch Bob was a minor miracle. We moved toward the fare being offered.
Church was ahead of me. His giant hand grabbed a watermelon-sized piece of whatever it was. What had looked like pineapple from across the room now resembled something more like a yellowish fatty substance. Can’t remember exactly what show I’d been flipping past, but for some fucking reason they’d decided to show what butt fat looked after it was sucked out during liposuction, and now I was staring at it up close and personal.
“Oh no,” I groaned. I tentatively reached a hand out, not wanting to touch the large globules that were streaked with veins of red, what, I imagined, was blood take
n out with the extraction process. Church was doing what I said I was going to do and eating with wild abandon. Having gone through what was in his left hand, he grabbed another hefty chunk with his right.
“Milk.”
“I can’t, Bob. That crap we were forced to eat in the mines was bad enough, this is somehow worse.” He pushed me closer to the table I was stepping back from. “Bob knows best.” I gritted my teeth and pinched the smallest amount I could between my thumb and forefinger; I had what amounted to a baby aspirin of the stuff. I tilted my head back and tossed it in like a baby bird will, taking in its parents regurgitated insect larvae. That mind visual did little to help with the whole process. What I got was an explosion of flavor that cascaded across my tongue. My entire palette lit up with an unfamiliar spicy sweetness. My taste buds were in overdrive and drool flowed form the corners of my mouth. I grabbed a piece about the size of a marble; I was still under the impression my body was trying to trick me. I popped the morsel in with the same result. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it was a gift from the gods. I double fisted before Bob pushed me along with his ample belly.
I forewent the ladle as I watched Church engulf the whole thing in his mouth like he was getting his temperature taken with it. I was hoping I would get all the moisture I needed from the mystery food, if not, there was still Bob’s bladder to empty. Once everyone got their meal, they headed toward a mat on the floor; I tried to judge whether they were heading for their own territory, but couldn’t see any rhyme or reason unless it was just to hit the closest one available. The last thing I wanted to do was sit on Bubba the Hun’s mat and cause an incident. Bob led us to a trio of mats off in the corner, well, as much of a corner as one can have in a circular room.
Bob shook his head after I ate one hand’s worth of food and was going for the other. Church took my slowness to mean I wasn’t going to eat it. He grunted and thrust his chin out to my fist. Bob told him not to either; didn’t stop him as I not so willingly handed over my seconds. Got the reason for Bob’s warning about fifteen minutes later. Bulldogs have this innate ability to light up a party with their flatulence; it can clear a room in minutes. We, unfortunately, didn’t have anywhere to go. My colon was playing a symphony, and in this regard, I was not alone. This food came with a price. Virulent gas is one thing, deadly noxious emissions another. And for the trifecta, if too much was eaten, extreme abdominal pain accompanied the stench. Church was rolled in on himself like a threatened armadillo. Rocking back and forth with his stomach clenched between his hands.
I had a basic understanding that, for humans, gas was at least partially methane. I had no idea what, pun intended, explosive discharge was coming from the others. What had me concerned was we were in a contained bio-sphere. One single lit match would send us into the stratosphere. More likely, we would simply run out of breathable air. It was that bad. The mask helped somewhat, but it was like holding a paper towel over your nose while you picked up your dog’s diarrhea caused by the consumption of dumpster cuisine. It was horrid. No wonder the beings here only ate the bare minimum to stay alive. How could something that tasted so good do this much damage? I had to move away from Church, as he sounded like a Gatling gun with an unlimited supply of ammunition. I had to figure it was only a matter of time before what came out was of the more solid variety. An hour or so later, Church began to slowly unfurl; an hour after that he was exhausted and sleeping but seemingly better, with a valuable lesson learned.
For six days we did the same routine: we took the mysterious elevator down, played in the dirt all day, ate our rations of stomach bombs and slept. There was none of the animosity and pent up hostility like there had been in the mines. The caps made sure of that, and my trio did their utmost to blend in, even Church, whom I knew could hold a grudge like my in-laws. Sure, they had reason, but ten years later? Seriously? On the seventh day, if I was hoping for a day of rest, drinking some beer and watching football, I was sorely disappointed. We’d just eaten our meal, which I now considered a mild form of poison. What had once tasted like food fit for the gods made me wince every time I gazed upon the table. I was settling down, staying as close to the ground as possible as the odor rose. Bob nudged me up; I turned my head to see that all of the others were hurriedly getting into sitting positions.
“What fresh hell is this?” I mumbled. It was then I spotted the whistler among the throng. The first I’d seen since we’d destroyed the pyramid. I knew he was looking for us, that soon he would pull out a wanted poster with our three mugshots on it. He would hold that sheet up to each of our faces, call in reinforcements and we’d be tossed off the side of this building. I was thinking of my rifle, some five hundred feet below. If I survived the fall I was going to dig it back up and shoot the bastard that had sent me into a freefall. The whistler did not produce a sheet, just started randomly touching others on their heads. They would stand immediately and head for the door. He’d done so to four before moving closer to us. I didn’t like this; it was like when I was in high school, sitting in class stoned out of my gourd, and the teacher was randomly picking students to explain their interpretation of the lesson they were supposed to have read the previous night. But I’d been too busy partying my ass off to even remember there had been an assignment, much less do it.
And at no time had the Whistler picked more than one from a cluster. I hadn’t noticed any sort of bonds among the aliens around me, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist, and maybe the whistler knew that and was making sure he didn’t grab anyone that knew each other. He was looking right at me as he approached. I was doing my best to mask the fear and hatred I had for him, desperately trying to decide whether, when he picked me, would I go willingly to whatever happened, or take him out. Bob more sighed than spoke; he was telling me to remain calm. Even the thought of having the whistler touch me I found revolting and was completely unsure of what I was going to do when it happened. So when he tapped Church, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was flooded with relief. Yeah, that was immediately replaced with concern, but for the briefest of moments, I was thankful it wasn’t me. I was going to beat myself up repeatedly for that for the next few days.
I met Church’s quick gaze before he stood and followed the others. A total of seven were sent, or taken upward. When the whistler was done, he stepped onto the platform with the others and they went even higher. I stood by the wall and watched until they were hardly a blip, It seemed that it had stopped at one of the larger spheres, but without a telescope it was difficult to tell whether it had indeed stopped or had just gone so high as to pass out of my range of vision.
“Bob, what happened? What are we going to do? We need to do something!” I was nearly in a panic. Whatever had just happened couldn’t be good. The others around us remained their impassive selves and for that, I wanted to beat some sense into them. That they weren’t actively freaking out was pissing me off. It was more of an anger transference, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. I was angry that I’d done nothing to stop the whistler. Once I began to calm down I realized the futility of that regret. Sure, I might have been able to get the drop on him, kill him even. Then what? We couldn’t go anywhere. It would have been the equivalent of killing a prison guard; they’d send more guards in, and that’d be the end of it. Any cries of Attica! would fall on deaf ears, as none of the miserable lot here would riot.
“Milk.”
“Part of the plan? What plan, Bob? How can you be so calm?” I was still at the edge of the room watching, hoping that maybe the seven had been part of some clean-up crew and would be back once the job was complete. But I knew there was just as much chance that they were even now being ground up into sausage for the drone feeders, or, hell, being made into the fart lard. And not for nothing, but Church looked like he’d taste worse than cherry glazed liver, if such an atrocity ever existed. “Is part of the plan watching our friend get killed?” I thought it telling that Bob said nothing more as he headed back to our floor mats. He
never answered that question nor told me anything about our grand designs of taking this place down. The next day was much like the ones before it. We traveled down, played in the dirt and came back up to our Offal awful fruit. I couldn’t even smile at my pun.
Bob had kept his fat ass parked atop my rifle and Church’s stapler the entire day, how he’d known I was going to unearth it and use it on the next unfriendly was most likely written all over my face. I waited the whole day for him to move to another spot; it never happened, and when it was time to leave, he made sure I stayed in front of him. Seven more fun-filled days had passed, Church had not returned. The sting, instead of lessening, was becoming more intense. It didn’t help that every time I ate, my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a bad attitude and my sphincter felt like it was passing spikes, that should be a colorful enough explanation. Most days if I did eat it wasn’t much more than a golfball-sized nugget, and that was only to stave off starvation. Bob seemed to be doing fine, but every minute that ticked by, I was getting weaker. I’d finally overcome my fears of extraterrestrial germs and would drink the water, which was surprisingly good and had no discernible side-effects.
On the eighth day Satan created the whistler. Little bit of poetic license there, as, before we were to start our day, another whistler came down (or maybe the same one, I don’t know they all look the same and, yeah, I had a severe case of whistlerism and I didn’t feel one iota guilty for it). He was doing the touch thing, and the zombified workers stood and again headed for the door. I let out a breath of relief when he tapped the seventh one, figuring this was the magical number needed for whatever they had planned. Then he tapped another and was making his way over toward us. My heart was beating triple time. I was on the fence with whether I would fight or go to the ramp if he touched me. I wanted to know what had become of Church, but if it was chum for the masses, it wouldn’t help either one of us for me to end up in an industrial blender. It was possible that those taken had been marched off the ramp and right into a food processor.