by Dan Mills
At first they were rarely seen, appearing in the night
as points of light on the horizon. They hung motionless
in the sky for a few seconds before winking out.
The people who reported them were deemed mentally unstable
by the general populace and ridiculed beyond reason by the
media. The military of course claimed the sightings were
either Mars or a telecommunication satellite in a decaying
orbit. No one with any credibility took the sightings seriously.
Then they began to show up in formations, hovering in one
place for several minutes before fading out. More and more
of the ‘watchers’ gathered together in groups
and tried to signal the ‘visitors’ with flash
lights and the headlights of their vehicles. This commanded
no response from the objects in the sky but it did little
to discourage the ‘watchers’. In fact it only
added to the mystery.
The military finally came out with an official report saying
that the lights in the sky were secret aircraft being tested
by the Air Force and there was nothing to worry about. The
‘watchers’ regarded this as a misinformation ploy,
but the media backed the government’s report and mainstream
America believed whatever they heard and saw on the evening
news.
Then the ‘visitors’ started to show up in broad
daylight, much to the chagrin of the military. The media
made this their top news item, ignoring the ridiculous stories
fabricated by the government in an attempt to cover up the
truth.
The military became somewhat concerned when the objects
started to drop out of the sky. The ships descended slowly,
displaying rows of landing lights and high intensity search
lamps which illuminated the sky. Each craft was approximately
fifty feet in diameter with no windows or any visible means
of entry. They were roughly oval in shape, rounded on top
and flat on the bottom. Landing skids unfolded like insect
legs, supported the craft ten feet above the ground. After
touching down, the alien craft shut down all its external
systems. The ‘visitors’ remained inside their
vehicles behind sealed hatches.
The government officials refused to admit that the craft
were extraterrestrial, and no further comments on the subject
were offered. It was generally believed that the military
was as bewildered as everyone else.
The first few landing sights were cordoned off and put
under surveillance by a special branch of the government.
Huge tents were constructed over the craft in order to keep
the news media and curious onlookers from stealing a glimpse
of the work in progress. Their idiot logic was; if you can’t
see it, it doesn’t exist.
Then more ships began to fall out of the sky at an alarming
rate. They were landing so quickly that no one knew where
to look first. Military officials ran in circles while the
government people just sat back and watched dumbfounded.
Within six weeks, an estimated thirty thousand of the objects
landed on U.S. soil alone. There was no way to figure how
many of the craft had landed worldwide. Leaders of the world
were at wits end.
Over a period of ten months nothing happened. The ‘visitors’
seemed preoccupied with their own existence. A group of
government contractors tried to secure one of the objects
and move it to a secret base where it could be better inspected.
But they were unable to move the craft; it seemed to be
rooted to the ground by an irresistible force. They brought
in the world’s largest caterpillar, a D11N, to try
and move one of the ships, but they only managed to churn
up the ground as it pushed on the side of the space craft.
So work went on beneath the makeshift laboratory tents.
High-energy lasers were applied to the craft’s outer
skin but its mirrored finish seemed to suffer no ill effect.
Harsh chemicals and ultra-sonic cutting tools were rewarded
with the same results.
A year had passed since the first landing, and the objects
were becoming regarded as nothing more than another part
of the landscape. Gang members in the inner cities painted
their slogans on the craft with spray cans and claimed them
as home turf. The homeless camped out under them for shelter
from the rain. The Indians of North America saw them as
holy messengers coming back to help them regain control
of their lands. The military was frustrated beyond belief.
There had to be a wealth of new technology available to
them if they could only gain access. And the ‘watchers’
thought they would all be whisked away to another planet
by their space brothers if they would just be patient.
They were all wrong.
The animals in a coral behind the barn were raising quite
a ruckus. Frank Holbog rolled over and groaned. He’d
been up with his prize mare until midnight helping her give
birth to a little colt. He opened one eye and gazed at the
clock next to the bed. Four o’clock in the morning.
“Ah, fuck,” Frank muttered under his breath as
he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Frank eased his old, arthritic body out of the bed and
hobbled into the kitchen, cursing every step of the way.
He put on a sheepskin coat over his worn long johns and
slid his feet into a pair of old cowboy boots.
Before Frank went out the back door, he grabbed his double-barreled
twelve-gauge. He checked to make sure it was loaded and
ready to go. At four in the morning, with four hours of
sleep, he wasn’t in any mood to screw around with whatever
was upsetting his livestock. From the sounds of it a bear
had gotten in with his horses.
He pulled his sweat stained Stetson down tight, picked
up his Maglite flashlight and stepped out the door. It was
late October and the snow was already half way down the
Anaconda Mountain Range that loomed in the distance behind
his ranch. Western Montana was beautiful this time of year,
but Frank was getting too damn old to enjoy it. There was
a definite bite in the air and a stiff wind greeted him
as he ventured onto the porch.
As Frank rounded the corner of the barn, he shined his
flashlight into the coral. All he could see was that rotten
piece of shit that had come out of the sky and landed in
the middle of his coral. He tried to move it with his backhoe
but all he got for his trouble was a broken hydraulic line.
Then one night, when he was pretty drunk, Frank placed a
handful of dynamite under the UFO thingy and set it off.
All he managed to do was blow in the side of his barn and
scare the hell out of his animals. After he sobered up,
he decided to leave it right where it sat. Besides, his
horses liked to use it as shelter from the weather.
Frank thought better of opening the gate, so he climbed
on top of the wooden corral to get a better look. To his
astonishment Frank saw his prize mare, Molly, stomping her
new foal into mush.
“Molly! Get away from there!” Frank bellowed.
Molly turned and charged. Her eyes were rolled back in
her head and her nostrils were flared so wide you could
hide a softball in each one. Frank barely had enough time
to jump from the fence before Molly slammed into it. She
reared up on her hind legs and began to paw at the wooden
rails. Weird, guttural sounds came from her as she thrashed
and kicked at the fence.
“Why, you ornery old bitch,” cursed Frank as
he hefted the twelve-gauge to his shoulder. “I’m
not going to put up with this kind of shit. Not this early
in the morning.”
With that he let go with both barrels and the shotgun jumped
against his shoulder. The side of Molly’s head turned
into a bloody pulp and the old mare dropped like a sack
of wet grain.
Frank’s ears began to ring so loud, he couldn’t
hear. At first Frank though it was because of the shotgun
blast, but then it started to increase in volume. He told
himself that it was probably from the adrenaline rushing
through his system. Hell, he hadn’t shot anything in
a good long time and it felt mighty good. Even if it was
his prize nag he’d just killed. Frank bobbed his head
up and down and chuckled nervously to himself. He turned
to head back toward the house. If he went right to bed,
he could still get a good two hours of sleep before sunrise.
Before Frank Holbog could take a step, his blue-tick hound,
Bodine, hit him head long and pinned him to the fence. Bodine
shoved his mussel into Frank’s whiskered throat and
took a huge mouthful. The hound shook his head vigorously
back and forth until he came away with a large chunk of
Frank’s esophagus.
Frank dropped the shotgun and slid down the fence. He covered
the wound with his hands to try and staunch the flow of
blood and protect himself as the dog came back for seconds.
*
Harriet Spillway was a single mother living with her four-year-old
daughter, Ruby-Anne, on the eighteenth floor of a roach
infested apartment in the worse part of Detroit. Harriet
worked two dead end jobs just to make ends meet. Ruby-Anne’s
worthless father, Roland Haddix, refused to send her any
child support, so things had been pretty tough. Up until
now that is. Harriet’s luck had finally turned around.
She had been recently accepted as sales manager at Filcom
Communications. Now she could move to a nice brownstone
in a better part of town.
Harriet studied herself in the bathroom mirror. She didn’t
look too bad for thirty-seven. If she could just shed a
few pounds and get her hair styled like Oprah’s; she
might be able to snag herself another man. Somebody nice
this time, not like that crack head that knocked her up
and left her after the baby came along!
After flushing the toilet, Harriet went into the kitchen
to see what kind of progress Ruby-Anne was making. The four-year-old
had spread her cereal across the breakfast bar and was giggling
uncontrollable.
“Come on, girl. Finish up with your breakfast so we
can go. I don’t want to be late for my first day at
work.” Harriet’s Aunt, who lived in mid-town,
offered to watch Ruby until she could make other arrangements
with a child care service.
Ruby-Anne spun around in her chair and giggled like a little
demon. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and then straightened
out again.
“Lord, child, where on Earth did you ever learn to
do that?”
Ruby-Anne just grinned as she jumped from the chair and
ran to the window in the living room. She stood there with
her hands pressed against the glass, bobbing her little
head and snickering to herself.
Harriet Spillway went to the closet and put on her orange
jacket with the fake fur trim. “Get over here Ruby
and put on your shoes. I’m not kiddin’ now, we’ve
gotta go!”
The little girl didn’t budge. She just let out a squeal
of delight as something flashed by the window.
“Now, what the devil was that, a big old bird?”
Harriet came up behind her daughter and peered out the window.
The first thing she saw was that crazy old bitch, Mrs.
Cramboni, standing on a ledge of the building across the
street. Her nightgown flapped in the wind as she took a
step into mid air and sailed like an anvil a hundred forty
feet to the sidewalk below. Ruby-Anne let out another round
of excited laughter and Harriet had to admit it was pretty
amusing.
Harriet’s ears began to ring as she opened the window
and looked down at Mrs. Cramboni. She had turned into a
twisted heap of broken limbs and guts. Then Harriet noticed
others venturing out of their windows were also taking the
plunge. Everyone seemed to be consumed with laughter, vigorously
bobbing their heads up and down.
That space ship that had landed in the middle of the street
over a year ago seemed to be the center of attention. A
large group of people gathered around the strange vehicle
and a huge shoving match ensued. Before long, the weaker
members of the group were being torn limb from limb.
“Take my hand Ruby-Anne,” Harriet said between
bouts of laughter. “Let’s go see what all the
commotion is about.”
They stepped up onto the windowsill and leaned forward
to get a better look. Gravity did the rest. As the sidewalk
came at them like a fully loaded freight train, Harriet
Spillway could only think of one thing. She was going to
be late for her first day on the job.
*
The trip from Beaumont, Texas to Anchorage, Alaska had
taken nearly twelve hours. Hershel Ferbush was beat by the
time he got off of the cramped McDonald Douglas aircraft.
After entering the airport he went to baggage claim, collected
his luggage, and he hailed a cab. He instructed the driver
to take him to the Captain Cook Hotel on 5th Avenue. When
Hershel got to his room, he flopped down on his king sized
bed and shut his eyes. He was supposed to meet up with a
local big game guide by the name of Zeke Peckinpah. Zeke
was going to take him to Kodiak so he could bag one of those
huge Alaskan brown bears. Hershel was going to need his
rest.
When Hershel woke up the following morning he had a horrible
ringing in his ears and a strong urge to sight in his rifle.
After all, it would be extremely foolish to venture into
the bush without knowing if you can hit what you are aiming
at.
On the tenth floor of the Captain Cook, Hershel Ferbush
grinned as he cranked open a window in his room. He poked
the muzzle of his Remington model 300-H&H magnum out
the window and peered through its 12x scope. Hershel scanned
the street below as he chuckled to himself. Several unsuspecting
targets passed through the cross hairs before he picked
an overweight businessman who scurrying along the sidewalk.
The guy was about the right size to be a bear and would
soon be out of sight behind one of those gall dang UFOs
that was perched on the street. Hershel had to hurry to
get a shot off.
The big rifle barked and the businessman jerked backward
like he’d reached the end of a long tether. His feet
shot straight into the air and he landed on his back with
a resounding thud. Then the guy sat up and looked around,
holding what was left of his right arm and shoulder.
Damn, Hershel thought, the scope needs some fine tuning.
By the time he made the proper adjustments, his prey had
crawled safely underneath the UFO. Now see, that wasn’t
good, Hershel said to himself. If that sucker had been a
real bear, he would have had to go and hunt it down. And
there’s nothing meaner than a wounded bear.
People in the area scattered like cockroaches under a kitchen
light. Hershel let out a hearty laugh and bobbed his head
up and down. Go ahead and run you silly bastards.
The ringing in his ears had become almost unbearable. Hershel
was having trouble concentrating. He finally decided to
go and finish off the businessman. After all, it was the
humane thing to do.
Hershel Ferbush grabbed a box of ammunition and donned
his Eddie Bauer, camouflage vest. If he didn’t hurry,
he’d lose the blood trail. Hershel pulled on his ostrich
skin cowboy boots and made a mad dash for the door. Hershel
yanked open the door and nearly ran over Zeke Peckinpah,
his big game guide. What stopped Hershel from was the blast
from Zeke’s sawed off ten-gauge shotgun.
The lead pellets shot through Hershel like grain through
a goose. Down feathers exploded into the air as the pellets
passed through his vest and shattered a window on the far
side of the room. Hershel reeled backward from the impact,
wind milling his arms to gain control of his balance. Just
as he came to a staggering halt, Zeke popped him again.
This time Hershel Ferbush was propelled through the window
in a shower of glass and onto the street below.
Zeke Peckinpah was roaring with laughter as he walked up
to the edge of the broken window for a better view of his
handy work. Much to his surprise, he not only saw Hershel
sprawled across the hood of a 1992 Ford Ranger, he also
noticed that almost everyone on the street was brandishing
a weapon of some sort. Dead bodies were beginning to stack
up like cordwood.
Not to be left out of the action, Zeke brought up his shotgun
and let fly. This only managed to bring some unwanted attention.
It seemed like every person on the street shot back at the
exact same time. Zeke Peckinpah took a nosedive out the
window and landed on top of Hershel Ferbush, driving him
further into the hood of the Ford pickup.
The Anchorage Police Department responded right away. It
took them several minutes to reach the downtown area because
the entire city had erupted into a firefight. Before long
the police were involved in the fracas; shooting the innocent
along with the guilty. Everyone seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying themselves to the very end.
The fighting spread like a plague. Before long, the news
media was televising live footage of the mayhem and broadcasting
it worldwide. This only added fuel to the fire. Every living
thing on the planet had digressed to its primal state. After
nearly a month of unbridled terror, the fighting suddenly
stopped. Two thirds of the Earth’s population was wiped
out and the rest had been sent back to the Stone Age.
Dull-eyed survivors watched in amazement as the ‘visitors’
powered up their craft. Thousands of alien ships lifted
into the sky all at once and hovered for several minutes
before vanishing from sight. Their work was complete; humanity
was no longer a threat to the Earth’s survival.
* * *
The following illustration is also by Dan
Mills.
click image to enlarge
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Artwork.
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