Fantasy Girl

Kenneth James Crist

Jeremy rolled off his throttle and eyeballed the girl standing at the top of the onramp. The afternoon sun was behind her, making it difficult to see her clearly, but one thing was sure-she was young and she looked to be both slim and attractive.

She hasn’t been here very long, he thought, or some pervert would have already stopped. He applied some front wheel brake and rolled sedately to a stop, where she could look him over and decide for herself. She was miles from any town of any size in rural Arizona, which meant she was miles from help.

He was impressed when he got a good look at her. She appeared to be in her late twenties, about 5’ 7” tall and stacked. Her ash blonde hair fell almost to the middle of her back and her eyes seemed to be quite dark. She wore a sleeveless top, not quite a tank top, but close. It was glaringly white and made her smooth skin look very tanned. It missed covering her navel by three inches. Her jeans were fashionably raggedy, having both knees split and at least one strategic hole showing she either wasn’t wearing panties, or they were so skimpy as to be nearly non-existent. Her ensemble was finished off with a pair of old, comfortable-looking hiking boots of split calf hide. Beside her on the ground was a small, battered brown suitcase.

When she smiled, her teeth, like her shirt, were almost blindingly white in the heat of the sun. She stepped close to the bike on the throttle side and said, “Hi.” Her voice was low and breathy, quite sexy.

“You’ll fry your brains out here just standin’ around, girl,” Jeremy said, his own smile matching hers. He’d had this fantasy so many times, he had it rehearsed down pat.

“Where ya headed?” she asked, already picking up the suitcase.

“West,” he replied, “no real destination. Figured I’d turn around when I got to the ocean.” Sounds like a plan, he heard her say in his mind.

“Sounds like a plan. Where can I put this?” She held out the suitcase.

He shut off the motor and flipped out the kickstand, leaning the bike over, and he stepped off. He turned to the back and opened the trunk, taking out a spare helmet and taking the suitcase from her. It just fit the trunk, like it was made to go there. He handed her the helmet, and seeing her grimace of distaste, he said, “Yeah, I know. It’ll sweat ya and make your pretty hair a mess, but you won’t die.” Why, are we gonna have a wreck?

“Why, are we gonna have a wreck?” She asked.

“Not planning on it, but then wrecks aren’t usually planned ahead…”

He helped her fasten the helmet, his fingers coming momentarily into contact with the silky skin under her chin, then he straddled the machine again and stood it up, and reached back and flipped down the passenger pegs. She stepped up and over, mounting the back saddle like she’d been raised on a bike. Or maybe a horse…

“I was raised around horses, so this is pretty natural for me,” she said, “Hey, do you really think my hair’s pretty?”

“Haven’t seen anything you got that I wouldn’t consider pretty,” he said, and hit the starter. The bike rumbled to life and he signaled to pull out. Her arms slid around his waist in a most comfortable way and her chin was on his shoulder as she said, “Thanks, guy. My name’s Clarice and you can keep those nice things comin’ my way. I love ‘em.”

“Well, Clarice, I’m Jeremy and you smell really nice, too. Especially considering you’ve been out in hundred-degree heat. Are you hungry?” I could eat a bear…

“I could just about eat a bear, or anything else that doesn’t eat me first.”

Jeremy resisted the urge to tell her just how badly he wanted to eat her. With luck, that would come later…

Evening found the bike headed into Kingman and they decided to grab some dinner. A Denny’s seemed safe enough and they pulled in, parking three spaces from the door. He let her dismount, then he went through the kickstand routine and stepped off. As he turned, he caught his reflection in the big plate glass windows on the front of the restaurant. He was not a large guy, maybe an inch taller than the girl, but he was tanned and fit, quite muscular in fact. His T-shirt hid most of his tattoos, but some ink showed below the sleeves. His jaw was square and he sported a big, dark Tom Selleck mustache.

His gaze traveled to her reflection and he stopped, frozen momentarily, then his head snapped around to look at her. She was just turning toward him, having just pulled off the helmet, and she was shaking out her hair. He turned and looked at her reflection again, but whatever he thought he had seen, it was gone. For a moment there, she had just looked…well… wrong somehow, almost hunchbacked…her shape distorted…maybe by a flaw in the glass…maybe by heat waves off the pavement. It was really strange…for a moment there she hadn’t looked human at all…

They almost had their first fight over the dinner check. She had reached and grabbed it before he even got a look at it and she would not relinquish it, no matter what he said or did. Just as it was about to get really heated, she said, “Look. You’re providing the transportation, the least I can do is buy a meal. Later on, if you’re good, maybe I’ll let you pay for the room.” She had smiled at him brightly and his resistance had dissolved.

Room. She said “Room.” Singular. Not “rooms” plural. So, was she already planning on staying with him tonight? In the same room? The fantasy, he realized was continuing unabated.

“C’mon,” she said, standing up and dropping a couple singles on the table, “I need a shower and some air conditioning.” He watched her tight little fanny twitch back and forth as she headed for the register. He wanted that butt in his hands so bad it made him ache…

She picked a motel that could have been called a couple notches below reasonable. It had a door that locked, clean, if somewhat threadbare sheets on a too-soft bed and the most horrible décor of about any room Jeremy had ever occupied. The carpet was a shade of green that resembled bile and was none too clean. The air conditioning was ice cold, however. She seemed entirely happy with it, and it was only $32.00 a night, double.

As soon as they got in the room, she grabbed clean underclothes from her little overnight case and headed into the bathroom. Jeremy unloaded the bike, cleaned the windshield and lights, checked everything and covered it for the night. When he got back inside, she was just stepping out of the bathroom, a big white towel wrapped around her body and a smaller one around her hair.

“It’s all yours,” she said.

When he merely stared at her stupidly, she slowly adjusted the towel to cover the half of a nipple that had been showing and said, “The bathroom, Big Fella. It’s all yours.”

Tearing his gaze away from her, he gathered up some clothes and went to shower. He shaved more carefully than he had in a long time and brushed his teeth and when he came out, she appeared to be asleep, right smack in the middle of the bed. The towels were on the floor in a damp heap.

He sat gently down on the foot of the bed and grabbed the remote for the TV, turning the volume down some, so as not to wake her. In a moment, though, something touched him at his waist and when he looked around, a long, silky leg was extending out from under the covers and she was trying to pinch him with her toes. He grabbed the offending foot and began to massage it, a trick he’d used many times before to loosen up nervous or reluctant women. She seemed to be neither. In moments she was out from under the covers, naked as a Robin’s egg and kneeling behind him, kissing the side of his neck as her cool hands slid across and down his chest.

“What’s all this?” she asked, her fingers tracing the inkwork on his back, shoulders and arms.

“What, my tattoos? Well, the dragons I got when I was pretty young and in the military…” He went on to tell her about each of the pieces of personal body art. She seemed fascinated at first, but then quickly lost interest and turned her attentions elsewhere.

Her hands sought and found the button on his jeans and then the zipper. In the twinkling of an eye he was being gripped in a most friendly manner.

“Hey Lady, what’cha doin’ there?”

“Jus’ checkin’ you out, Big Boy. Makin’ sure you got what it takes.”

“So, whattaya think? Do I?”

“Oh, yeah,” she breathed in his ear, her hand stroking the length of his hardened manhood, “I believe you most certainly do…”

At that point he stood and removed what clothing he still wore, and before he could even make it back onto the bed, she gripped him again and then, on her hands and knees, and with him standing at the foot of the bed, she took him into her mouth.

It had been quite a while since he’d been with a woman, and he’d never really been with one as gorgeous as Clarice. She worked him for about a minute with his hands holding her lovely, firm breasts before he came explosively in her mouth, at which point she merely swallowed, then, before he could soften, she rolled on her back and pulled him aboard. As he sank himself into her slickness, he marveled at his great good fortune on finding this gorgeous creature. Then he was soon lost in the adventure of her body as she achieved orgasm again and again, her cries of delight spurring him on to efforts he never knew he could muster. At one in the morning the count was nine for her, four for him, and they slept at last, tangled in each other’s limbs.

He awoke again at a quarter to five, and she was gone. Or, more correctly, she was not in the bed with him. He got up to pee and then to go look for her and found she was in the shower. The opaque curtain separated them as he relieved himself and he could hear the roar and spatter of the hot water and he could smell the odor of soapy woman. He was surprised that even after all the carnal activity just a short while ago, it still excited him.

There was also another smell, too, though, something richer and…perhaps guttier would be the correct word. It took him a few moments to recognize the odor of freshly spilled blood. What the hell…did she start her period…that smells like a lot of blood…but no, menstrual blood doesn’t smell like this…

With a trembling hand, he reached out and slowly pulled the shower curtain aside. Her back was toward him and he stopped, swallowing rapidly as he witnessed what could only be the aftermath of a screaming, horrible death being methodically washed off her body and down the drain. He glanced quickly around…with that much blood, her clothes must be a mess…but her bra, panties, jeans and top were all piled in the corner opposite the shower and appeared pristine. Well, soiled with sweat maybe, but not bloody, anyway.

As the last of the blood and something else…was that flecks of tissue…brains maybe? sluiced down the drain, she evidently felt the cooler air on her back and turned to him, reaching almost blindly, her eyes half-lidded in the hot mist. She pulled him into the shower with his underwear still on, kissing him deeply and forcing a state of arousal he would not have believed possible just yesterday. Moments later, his shorts were gone and he held her pinned against the wall in the corner of the shower stall and he was deep within her, his hands cupping her tiny ass, her slim legs wrapped around him and her breathing harsh against the side of his neck as he once again drove her to repeated climax. The slaughterhouse appearance of her shower was forgotten as he lost himself in the textures and scents of her body.

They opted for breakfast at the small restaurant across the street from the motel. They were both famished, having used a lot of energy the night before. She had produced a clean change of clothing from her bag and she looked pretty as a daisy in the morning sun as it came bounding through the easterly windows and onto their booth.

Outside, a siren sounded and then another and soon a rescue squad and ambulance went by, heading south. As the sirens were fading in the distance, they abruptly cut off.

“Must be something pretty close by,” he said, “a wreck or something.” His mind flashed to the blood, and what was that, brains? circling the shower drain.

“I’m gonna have the blueberry pancakes and a side of sausage, how about you?” she replied.

He picked up his menu and tried to focus on food, rather than blood.

After the waitress had taken their orders and refilled their coffee, he looked across the table and into her eyes. Had her left eye always been set slightly lower than her right? He looked quickly away as he began to see curiosity forming on her face and when he glanced back moments later, her face was perfect, the eyes symmetrical in all aspects, her generous mouth a beauty all by itself, the lower lip thick and so…kissable that even now he wanted to reach across and grab the back of her neck and pull her to him…

“Kiss me,” she said, “right here-right now…”

He reached and did exactly what he’d been thinking, feeling the slight dampness at the base of her scalp and tasting her toothpaste from just a while ago…right after the blood. Where did the blood come from? What did she do? Does she go out in the dark, naked, and kill for sport?

“Here comes our food,” she said, smiling in anticipation.

For some reason, Jeremy seemed to have mostly lost his appetite.

Needles, California was a hot sumbitch. She pronounced it to be so, and he agreed readily. It was lunchtime and he was wishing it were later in the day.

Why? asked the little voice in his head, so you can get back to fucking this little gal’s brains out? What about the brains going down the old shower drain? Do you suppose she got all bloody just by going out for a walk? Hah! Don’t think so, Big Boy…

Oh, stop it! For Chrissakes, she’s no murderer. Look at her! She’s gorgeous!

Clarice was walking toward the front doors of yet another restaurant, her tight little fanny doing that twitchy little roll and her silky hair, freed from its helmet, almost floating around her shoulders…those smooth, tanned shoulders…

Yeah, how long until she wants you to go help her kill somebody, pal? How long until you get to see what she does firsthand?

Jeremy had never been in prison. In fact, he had retired early from a law enforcement career. Had she known that, maybe she wouldn’t have been so quick to ride with him…or on him, either. Maybe if she’d known that, it would have been his blood…his brains going down the old drain that morning. He thought about the .40 caliber Glock pistol stashed away in his luggage and also wondered how he could get his hands on a Kingman Arizona paper. It would be nice to know for sure what had happened back there, with all the sirens and such.

At what point he decided to go to Vegas, he could never really say, but he’d made that run from Needles to Vegas before and he knew it was, again, a hot sumbitch. Before leaving, they stocked up on water and Gatorade. She was happy as a kid with a new toy at the prospect of seeing and actually being in Las Vegas, and Jeremy decided that was a good thing. Anything to keep her distracted and entertained until he could lose her somewhere. That blood and other gunk hadn’t been his imagination. And now he was beginning to think maybe what he’d seen in the glass windows at that first restaurant, that inhuman reflection of misshapen oddity might not have been imagination, either.

Could someone so lovely really be a monster? Not just in the sense that she could commit murder, slaughter someone, then, a short time later be fucking his brains out in the shower, but in the sense that she might actually be something totally lacking in humanity and able to somehow cloud his mind…and the minds of anyone else? Could she be alien? Not even native to this planet? From another world or dimension?

When they first met, when his fantasy script had been running in his mind, she had picked up on that and played her role flawlessly, to the point where it was scary. If she was able to read his thoughts, he reflected, he was already screwed. She’d know what he was going to do as soon as he conceived it. That might already be the case and she was just playing along, waiting for a good opportunity to kill him and dump his body somewhere.

He’d never asked her how she came to be out there at a crossroads in the middle of Arizona. Not asking any questions and just going with the flow had seemed like a good thing that first evening. High adventure and all that. Fulfilling that ol’ fantasy. Most likely, she wouldn’t have been inclined to tell him the truth, anyway. Was there a car back there somewhere with a body in it, perhaps another male she’d used up and maybe attacked, maybe even half-devoured? His mind occupied itself for a little while with everything he’d ever heard and read about vampires and shape changers. In spite of the heat, a cold chill slid up his back and prickled the back of his neck. As it arrived there, Clarice slowly licked the back of his neck and he nearly pissed himself. “Damn, you taste good with salt, Lover,” she said.

Nervously, he reached out and turned on the stereo and began thumbing the “seek” switch on the left handlebar until a station came in clearly…

“Authorities in Kingman Arizona are continuing their investigation at this hour into the death of a young hitchhiker. WKLT’s Mona Berry joins us from Kingman with the story. Mona?”

“Yes, Charles. In Kingman this morning it was a grisly scene as police discovered the mutilated body of a young hitchhiker on the city’s south side. Police are speculating that the man, whom they have declined to identify pending notification of family, may have been attacked by a mountain lion or other large predator. We have heard from sources close to the investigation that the young man was brutally killed and possibly partially consumed by the animal. We’ll have more whenever additional details are available. From WKLT First Line News, I’m Mona Berry. Back to you, Charles…

Holy shit! Jeremy quickly thumbed the “seek” button and moved on across the dial, finding some classical music, to which Clarice said, “Yuck!”, then a good oldies hard rock station. The song playing was the Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for The Devil, and Clarice said, “There ya go! I like it!”

Jesus! That would have to be the fucking song…Oh My God…a hitchhiker killed and half eaten…on the south side of Kingman…the squad and ambulance were headed south…and she just sat there scarfing down pancakes…Jeremy’s thoughts tumbled through his mind like kids coming downstairs on Christmas morning to see what Santa brought. He made a conscious effort to get a grip and slow down his breathing. To just calm the fuck down now, and analyze what he’d gotten himself into.

There were definitely two realities working here at the same time.

There was the reality of the monster (face it, idiot, that’s what it was) in the window at Denny’s. And it’s sitting behind me right now, singing along with Mick fucking Jagger. Oh, God, gimme a break.

Along with that was the reality of the blood and brains circling the old drain as she hosed off that scrumptious bod. If she’s a monster, then you’ve been dipping your wick in something unearthly, you silly piece of shit…

There was also the reality of her. If he’d had to conjure up a perfect doll to find out on the highway, he was confident his fertile imagination would have come up with someone exactly like her. The ash blonde hair, the dark eyes, the build, the attitude, the sex-starved kitten was everything he had ever dreamed about and then some…

And that was when it clicked for Jeremy. When the key finally turned in the lock. When the other shoe dropped. When the fucked up dim light of his perception finally brightened to full wattage. Every cliché he’d ever heard to describe the point where the poor dumb sap of a horse’s ass finally gets it, ran through his mind like that other cliché about your life passing before you just at the moment when you face death.

His mind was so preoccupied that he never saw the dumbass Armadillo until the front wheel of the bike hit it and they were suddenly, abruptly, heart-stoppingly sailing through the air with the greatest of ease... The helmet didn’t do a goddamned thing but make a loud popping noise when it hit the roadway.

The driver lifted off his accelerator and downshifted the Mayflower van, eyeing the pretty redhead standing along the roadway. He rolled quietly to a stop, the brakes making a final hiss and waited to see if she’d climb up or shine him on. This was a long damn ways from anywhere…miles from Vegas and miles from Needles. What’s a little doll like her doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

The cab door opened and she tossed in a small, battered brown suitcase and then she climbed up. Well, son-of-a-bitch, he thought, this was against all company rules and common sense. But then he got a good look at her and made a decision in a heartbeat. If he got in trouble, so be it. He’d always had a thing for redheads and it appeared that all his fantasies were just about to come true…

No Such Things

Kenneth James Crist

Moonlight oozed down the adobe walls and seemed to drip like candle wax onto the terrazzo stones of the patio. The hushed desert wind briefly rattled the fronds of Tamarisk trees, then held its breath again.

The desert was waiting, its nightlife collectively pausing, and for what I did not know.

Overhead, a million indifferent stars gazed down, pinpoints of sparkling light, curving backward into eternity.

I stood, looking out from darkness into the silvery, slow night, a small revolver tucked into the back of my pants, just above where a drop of sweat eased down the crack of my ass like a pickpocket working a mark.

Behind me, the Casa was silent, its occupants now among the dead, but not the quick. The copper smell of much spilled blood permeated the air, along with the stench of fecal matter. At least one of the people inside had not died easily.

It would be a few more minutes before the Federales arrived, I knew, then all hell would break loose. The crime scene would be tromped through by every tin-pot cop in the district until all evidence was compromised, fingers and accusations would be pointed, but nothing would ever come of all the bullshit and hullabaloo.

Whatever had done for these people, I was confident it was now gone. I stepped back inside and lit up some lights and got to work.

In a few moments, I was sure I would find nothing new here except new grief. These were the same as all the others, nine cases now. Nine houses full of dead people. Throats torn out, blood smeared on floors and walls, entrails strung in almost decorative fashion over furniture, and some of the bodies partially eaten.

In spite of the fact that there was not one bullet hole or stab wound, this, like the others, would most likely be blamed on one drug cartel or another, labeled a revenge killing or territorial dispute and eventually swept under the carpet.

The rumors among the people were of a more superstitious nature. The term chupacabra was being heard with increasing frequency. The goat sucker. A legend of old Mexico that simply would not go away. I had become interested at one point and had read up on what I was now convinced was a totally mythical beast.

I had seen good drawings and bad, fuzzy photographs, read stories until I finally just got tired of the whole thing and set it aside. But the problem of the deaths persisted. Whatever or whoever did this was definitely a monster.

I had been hired by some of the elders of the districts involved and I was being paid from private funds, old money that still talked. So far, their money had not been well spent.

I stole quietly back out into the dark night, being careful where I stepped. Sirens were coming in the distance and there was no point in giving them footprints to follow around in circles until they walked up their own asses and disappeared.

My Corvette was parked two blocks over and I hurriedly cut through the yards to reach it. When I opened the door, I stopped and my heart downshifted, accelerated to its fight or flight posture. The interior of my car was torn apart, foam rubber hanging out, the leather of the seats and dash in tatters. And there were blood smears. I didn’t need a lab to tell me the blood would match some of the victims back in the casa. Suddenly, the search had become personal. Whatever, or whomever was murdering Mexico’s citizens knew I was after it and it was not happy.

I was able to drive the car away, although sitting in the interior, smelling the blood and seeing the carnage around me made it uncomfortable. At my home, I have a fairly good lab set up in one bay of my garage. Dawn was breaking by the time I’d swabbed blood from the remains of my upholstery and determined that it was indeed human. I’d also swabbed saliva and determined that it was not. Some animal, then. But what animal that knows its hunter so well, and is not intimidated?

I had heard all the tales of intelligent and aggressive animals. The wolverine of the north that would wait in trees to drop on unwary hunters, the snakes that would aggressively pursue, the tiger that would willingly stalk a man. The hunt took on a more sinister turn.

There is no shortage of upholstery shops in Mexico. The stories there are manifold, too, of gringos bringing their cars to have them “tuck and rolled”, only to find later that Jose or Manuel had stuffed their seats with straw. I knew a good honest shop, though, and I called them early to get the ‘Vette picked up and repaired. I would make sure it went on the expense account.

Next, I saw to my weaponry. A prized and highly illegal M-16 was brought from the gun safe, along with a Glock  9 mm semi-auto. Ammo for both, then almost as an afterthought, an even more illegal M-79 grenade launcher. I only had six rounds for that item, four high explosive and two white phosphorous. All this went into my other vehicle, an army surplus Humvee. I added some MRE’s and water, a couple blankets, and a night vision scope. Then I went to bed, setting my alarm for 6 PM.

That evening, darkness found me parked on a bluff overlooking the town. The desert cools rapidly at night and I was wrapped in an old Army blanket and seated on the hood of the Hummer, using the night vision scope to periodically sweep the town and the area around it.

I never heard the approach of the enemy. I smelled him. Even though the wind was so light as to be almost nonexistent, a faint breeze saved my life. When I realized I was being stalked, it was almost too late. From the darkness it came, all in a rush to tear me apart, to taste my blood and entrails. I rolled off the hood, dropping to my hands and knees as the thing sailed over me. I drew the 9 mm and fired, taking no time to aim, but shooting purely on instinct and reflex.

The screeching of the thing was unearthly and I was sure many of the towns- people were crossing themselves and giving Hail Marys, as it loped away into the darkness. I hurriedly grabbed up the night vision scope from where it had fallen, but it was broken. It had probably hit the bumper when I rolled off the Humvee.

So it was to be a dark pursuit, into inhospitable territory, against an unknown animal or being. Not good. What if it was not alone? Nature dictates that all things must reproduce, and all higher life forms have mates. Only the very low creatures bud or clone or divide to reproduce. So at the very least, I should count on two of whatever this was.

Common sense would insist I wait for daylight. But if I did that, others might die and there had been enough of that already. I set off, carrying the rifle, the pistol tucked into my belt and a powerful flashlight providing illumination.

The first thing I noticed was that its blood glowed. It was not red, either. It was a yellowish iridescent color in the light and it appeared the thing was bleeding quite freely. Maybe the hunt would be over soon. It wove a zigzag track through the cactus and scrub, as if disoriented or in shock. Its tracks were the size of human footprints, but there the similarity ended. Most of the tracks were indistinct, but those that had some detail suggested three toes with claws. I knew of no creature with three toes, except the sloth.

It was headed up into the hills and making good time in spite of being injured. As I progressed, from time to time I would notice that odor again, almost a skunk musk, but somehow sweeter and perhaps slightly rancid. I really doubted that a good tracking dog would follow that smell. They’d be too smart.

The pursuit continued for hours and it began to wear on my nerves. I pictured myself countless times being jumped from the darkness and not being aware that I was dying until my throat was ripped out, my blood gushing to soak into the stony desert ground. Then the blood began to disappear. It was either bleeding out or it was healing itself, or it had found a way to staunch the blood flow. Now it was only tracks that I must follow. I became more cautious, and so it gained the necessary lead it needed to escape.

When I heard the electric whine of a motor of some kind, I looked up to the summit of the highest hill for miles around. I was a hundred yards distant when I saw the crack of light and realized it was coming from the inside of a house or vehicle. Then I saw the full opening and the ramp extending down. The flattened ovoid shape and the silhouette of the creature as it staggered up into the ship.

I was having my own close encounter, but this was no friendly E.T. No off-world horticulturist collecting specimens here. This was a vicious monster from the stars, who liked to hunt and kill the innocent. As the ramp began to rise and retract into the ship, I sprinted for it and at the last instant I cast the rifle aside and leapt, grabbing the edge of the ramp and hauling myself upward and over the lip. I rolled down into mellow warmth and pale light, silvery walls and floors and an interior that somehow seemed larger than the exterior. And the smell. In here, it was an incredible, choking, nauseating stench, almost a physical blow.

I heard the pneumatic hiss as the hatch dogged itself shut and I felt the craft lift off, though it seemed to make no noise. I gathered myself up and pulled the pistol from my belt, moving stealthily around, trying to get my bearings. On the walls, strange hieroglyphs were painted or marked in rows that went up and down. Nothing familiar in any of them. Probably signs and technical markings, I reasoned.

I traversed the entire deck without finding any sign of my adversary, so I began looking for ways to go up or down. In the center of the craft there was a round or tubular vertical shaft, which contained nothing more complicated than an elevator. There was a red plate and a green beside the outline of a door. I chose the red and placed my hand on it. The door slid open from my right to my left. The interior was empty.

I stepped in and waited. Just as I was about to step back out or start looking for controls, it took off, hauling me upward. In five seconds, it stopped and the door slid open, revealing the control room. Directly in front of me the creature sat in a chair-like device that was fastened to the deck. His back was toward me, but he knew I was there. His attention was riveted on his controls and he would not even deign to acknowledge my presence until he was ready. I steadied my aim and waited, casting nervous glances around and behind me. I wondered where the mate was, or the rest of the crew.

Soon, the creature turned its head and hissed at me as it rose from the chair and to its full height. It was about six feet and stocky and it had two arms and two legs. It could almost be mistaken for something human in poor lighting. Its hands and feet were grotesque, having pads and claws that looked like they were designed to carry it quickly over rocky and inhospitable terrain. Its eyes were wide-set and large, yellowish and set with cat-like pupils of elliptical shape. But the mouth…that was the worst part. Teeming with teeth, it appeared it would be near impossible to close. It reminded me of the mouths of some deep-sea specimens of fish, things that lived in eternal darkness and knew only hunger and cold.

I shot it before it could get anywhere near me and before it could bring out any kind of weapon. To my surprise the three shots I fired, two to the chest and a head-shot, had the immediate and desired effect: I blew it away.

I stood there looking at it, expecting it to dissolve into some nasty puddle of slime or cloud of noxious gas like in some scifi movie, but it did nothing but continue to be dead. Then I looked back up at the control area and saw something both interesting and frightening on the large view screen. We were approaching another ship, and it was huge.

I moved quickly to the control panel, expecting that, in a culture this evidently advanced, the controls might be “so simple a child could operate them.” No dice. This fucker was way complicated and, not only was I short on knowledge, I was running out of time. It appeared we would just cheerfully sail right into the side of what I was already thinking of as the Mothership, my own mind having been conditioned by Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica as much as the next guy’s.

Then, we began to slow, and I observed that a portal was opening to receive the smaller ship. Great. In moments, I would be surrounded by many more vicious things like my dead friend on the deck. I checked my ammo supply. I had but one weapon, the Glock 9 MM pistol and a total of eighteen rounds. The rifle was back down on the lower level. They would be able to get to it before I could. So, with careful target selection and good shot placement, I might take another ten or fifteen with me. Okay, so be it. If necessary, I would trade my life for as many of theirs as I could nail. I might not ever collect my pay, but if I died, it didn’t matter, My Humvee would be found and the tracks followed up into the hills. I might someday become a legend and many Novenas said to speed me through Purgatory and into heaven.

There was a bump and another of those hissing, compressed-air sounds and a final lurch. On the deck below, I could hear the electric whine as the hatch began to open. We had arrived. 

I stepped over my dead acquaintance and into the elevator and started down. And just before the door opened, I heard shouting—human voices and English. As the door opened fully, I think they were as shocked as I was. I stood with a loaded pistol hanging in my hand at my side and my jaw hanging just as slackly.

There was a mixed group of at least seven species, all jabbering at once. There were some like my dead adversary upstairs, and others so unlike him that no sane comparison could be made. But odd as it seems in retrospect, the ones that drew my attention the most quickly and firmly were the ones in U. S. Air Force dress blue uniforms. Before I could react, several M-16’s were trained on me and an MP yelled “Freeze!” From the corner of my eye, I observed at least one small creature squeaking and jetting off into darkness to hide before the shooting began.

“Put down the weapon, Sir!”

Well, at least he was polite enough or well-trained enough to call me “sir”, but there was still no doubt that he would kill me if I didn’t comply. Clearly outgunned and almost terminally confused, I did what any sane man with a normal amount of curiosity would do. I dropped the friggin’ gun. I was quickly grabbed and taken into custody and escorted off the smaller ship.

They hauled me along corridors and up and down passageways and elevators until I was so lost I could have never found my own way out. I had been on aircraft carriers at sea and this thing could have swallowed a half-dozen. How something like this could be in orbit around our planet without our government knowing about it…but then, they did know, didn’t they? They had personnel on board…

I fully expected to land in some kind of brig or holding cell, but at last, I was ushered into an outer office and told by my MP escort, “Sit. Stay. General’s gonna be pissed if you try and leave…hell, he’s already pissed…”

I sat. I stayed. Damn sure didn’t want the General any more pissed than he was. Besides, there was that old curiosity again. As I waited, I listened to the hum of the lights, the clicking of computer keys and conversations in many languages going on all around me. Several times, improbable creatures passed through the outer office and paid me little mind. I tried not to freak when something that looked like a coffee-table sized sow beetle lumbered through, with a Nokia cell phone strapped to one of its several hundred legs.

Finally, after what seemed in some ways a very long time and in other ways but mere seconds, the door to the inner office opened and there stood the General.

I had expected George C. Scott’s General Patton or Buck Turgidson from Dr. Strangelove, or at least Sterling Hayden’s rendition of Brig. General Jack D. Ripper. This guy motioned me into his office and quietly closed his door, effectively sealing out the office noise I had gotten used to. He looked more like Alan Alda from M*A*S*H* and sounded, when he spoke like Father Mulcahey.

He sat at his desk and opened a file, read from it briefly, then said, “What kind of a name is Jesse Battlebow?”

“Um…it’s my name, Sir.”

“I am aware that it’s your name, but what kind of name is it?”

I cleared my throat and shifted slightly in my seat. “It’s mostly Kiowa, they tell me, Sir, and some Comanche…”

“Um-hmmm…and tell me, Mr. Jesse Battlebow, how does a half-assed, half-breed sort of Native American, part-time bounty hunter, part-time mercenary dick-wad like you wind up killing one of our allies on a highly classified Alternative Space Craft with a common nine millimeter pistol?”

He remained silent, staring at me over his little half-lensed reading glasses. Guy was starting to piss me off. So I told him.

To say that the General and I didn’t get along well from that point on would be an understatement. But, I’ll give him credit, he listened to me rant and rave about murder in the night and blood and bodies and superstition. And when I had finally run down and he was sure I was finished, he smiled at me and told me something he shouldn’t have.

He said that on planet Earth, the human race had become our greatest resource and at the same time, a burgeoning pestilence. He said that on a planet where there were fewer than a thousand Grizzly Bears, it was an embarrassment to sport a human population of over eight billion. He told me that in the early 1950’s several of the soon-to-be super powers were contacted by off-planet governments and a deal was struck. In exchange for an introduction to their technologies, things that would lead us eventually to the stars, we would allow a few hundred thousand human sacrifices a year. Earth had become a huge hunting reserve and the prey was mankind.

No large or noticeable “harvests” were to be allowed, but trophy-taking was not only allowed but was encouraged. This outlet for aggression in some of their more warlike species had already diffused some conflicts and, at least for them, it was working nicely.

Then he sent me down to have my memory erased. No little flashy thing, like in Men In Black. This was the real deal. As they were walking me down, I figured I was going to die, or be dumped somewhere in the middle of a desert with no memories at all and I’d die anyway. In my vest pocket, I had one old Peyote button, a dried-up, almost obscene-looking thing I’d carried for years. When I came of age, my uncle took me to his sweat lodge and we sang and smoked and he gave me Peyote so I could have a vision. In my particular vision, I wandered alone in the desert and I was visited by many familiar creatures and many that were strange, but each brought a bit of his own wisdom. The Owl taught me silence, the Wolf tact, the Bear patience and on and on…as we approached the room where they would do the procedure, they never saw me slip the Peyote in my mouth.

As they hit me with the juice, my first convulsive swallow sent the old magic cactus button down my gullet and it never dawned on them that the nausea I experienced was from anything but their machines.

I was right about them dumping me in the desert. And I was so glad. You see, I grew up there and it holds no fears for me. Nowadays, I stick to bounty hunting and I keep a low profile. I have mostly gone back to my roots, back to the ways of my people. I know they have the capability of checking on me any time they want. The Peyote saved me from losing my memories, and that is my cross to bear. Knowing what I know and doing what I do, I must pay attention every minute. And you know what? I no longer get involved in investigating murder…not for any price.

At The Zombie Five-and-Dime

Kenneth James Crist

Looking out from the open door of the hayloft, I watch over the town. Moonlight silvers every shiny surface, the water in the fountain in the town square shimmers, a pallid reflection of that lucent orb, making my eyes heavier with every measured beat of my heart.

I can feel my pulse in my wrists and in my neck, behind my eyes and, when I think about Robyn, in other places, too. It is so damned hot out, even hours after sundown, and I long for air conditioning and a cold, long-necked Bud.

Not that I was ever much of a beer drinker, but lately the thought of a cold, brown bottle, its sides dripping with moisture, is one of the things that almost drives me mad… thinking about Robyn is the other.

Now I sit, every night without fail, sweat running from under my arms and down the crack of my ass, watching and listening to the stillness. I know they’re out there, and I know they’re coming. It’s not a matter of if they come, it’s a matter of when they come.

And, even though I don’t feel I really have all that much to live for now, I won’t go easily when they finally show up again. They’ve been here before, some familiar and some not, but it doesn’t really matter if you recognize a relative or an old friend here and there. You still do what must be done…or you die. And if it were only dying, that wouldn’t be so bad. But there’s that other thing…

Robyn and me, we really had it made. We had food, we had shelter and we had weapons and all the ammo we needed. We coulda held out just about forever. And she could really shoot, too. When we ran into some of those things out there, she got just as many head shots as I did.

‘Course we tried never to meet up with ‘em, if we could help it. ‘Cause it was really some bad shit to have to shoot your uncle Jim or Aunt Emma, ‘cause they were no longer with it. No longer human, really, is what I mean to say.

It was kinda funny how I met up with Robyn. Each of us, at the same time, thinkin’ he was the only normal person left. And when we did happen to run across each other one day in the town’s only variety store, we damn near shot each other before we realized we were both okay. Simpson’s Five-and-Dime, that was. But then, when ya think about it, if we’d been undead, we wouldn’t have been lookin’ for candy and cigarettes…

Anyway, we hooked up that day and we been together ever since. But now…now I don’t know what I’m gonna do.

It was a long time after the shit started before we began hearing what actually caused it. We heard stuff about nuclear fallout, but I wasn’t buyin’ that, ‘cause if it was nuclear shit, nobody would be immune. And Robyn and me, we never showed any signs of bein’ sick at all. And besides, if it had been bombs, wouldn’t we have heard explosions, or seen mushroom clouds?

Then we heard it was some germ warfare stuff the towelheads used and that sounded more likely. All they’d have to do was get it into the air or the water supply somehow. Not too tough to do, when ya think about it. ‘Specially since there were so many of ‘em already over here.

But I bet when they were makin’ that shit, whoever really did mutate the virus or mix the chemicals or whatever, they never figured out that a certain percentage of people who died from it would come back.

We heard most of this stuff on an old ham radio receiver Robyn’s dad had played with before things went to hell. So we knew there were still a few normal folks out there. But we didn’t have no transmitter, so we couldn’t find out where they were. Robyn said on the two-meter band, the radio could skip all the way around the world. That was how we knew it wasn’t just Alabama that was fucked…

There were so many corpses when it got really bad, that there was no way they could all get buried. There simply weren’t enough survivors left to put them all in the ground and not enough hours in the day. Most of those unburied simply rotted away and eventually the incredible stench started going away, or at least lessening, until it was just a lingering, sour smell underlying everything else. You got bougainvillea and sour body stench, or chocolate brownies and rotten meat. Sometimes your own armpits reminded you of that other smell and at the same time, that you were still alive.

Within about a week after the end, when it seemed that 99.9% of the world’s humans and cats (did I mention the cats?) had died, some of the dead began to walk around again. A curious thing, there, or as Robyn called it, a phenomenon. At first, that was all they did. Just walked around and looked somehow stupid and at the same time pathetic. Creatures to be pitied, not really alive so much as reanimated by the very disease or chemical cocktail that originally killed them. But within a couple of days, just as I was getting used to seeing them shuffling around at all hours of the day and night, they began to get hungry. And that was when they turned vicious.

They seem to have a bloodlust, or maybe it’s a life-lust, that’s just an incredible thing to see. If they can get a live person trapped inside a building, they’ll sometimes wait for days or even weeks for that person to give up and come out, or to die and join them. If they catch you out in the open, unarmed and unable to outrun them, you’re history. They never use weapons of any sort, other than their own teeth and hands. They seem to have lost the capacity to use weapons or even tools, for that matter.

I have seen what happens once they catch a person and set upon him. I have seen several of them devour a freshly killed human, then become sated and drop into a stupor, sometimes for many hours. One thing about that soporific state of theirs: it makes them easy to re-kill. That’s what it really is, a repeat process that finally ends their reanimation. The only thing I’ve found that works is a head-shot with a fairly powerful firearm, something with enough wallop to literally scatter their brains over as much area as possible.

There! Something moved, right over there, between the hardware and Simpson’s Five-and-Dime! I know I saw it…but now it’s gone again. Could be they’re trying to encircle me again. They’ve tried it before. I burnt down one barn to escape after they thought they had me trapped. They seem to hate fire and…damn! There it was again.

I’m not believin’ this! Now there’s a whole bunch of ‘em, just stepping out and into the light, like they have nothing to fear at all. Well, I guess when you’re already dead…and now they’re goin’ into Simpson’s…now what the hell do ya suppose they want in there? Okay, as soon as they’re all inside, I’m gonna go down and take a look…I certainly owe these bastards for Robyn…

They got Robyn one night not too long ago, not because she got careless, but because I did. I was supposed to be up and on watch. See, that was the only way we could get any sleep, one of us watching and the other asleep, trusting in each other for our very lives.

She and I had made love, something we’d been doing almost from the very first. Again, it was a way of reaffirming that we were still alive and normal. So we did it a lot. And when you do something a lot, whether it’s fucking or p