By: Cat LeDevic —
Not that Broadway. Perhaps it’s more famous bastard cousin filled with rhinestoned clubs, gaudy entertainers, torrents of tourists and cry-in-your-beer country music. At least that was the Nashville I knew yesterday. Today, I’d been walking toward downtown with my trusty .38 on my side since sunrise, I found out that driving wasn’t possible. Not with all roads clogged with abandoned or destroyed vehicles and eerie piles of dust everywhere where you would expect to see a fellow human.
Yesterday afternoon had been the usual Saturday at home, helping my pregnant sister with her young twins.
“Shellie, a terrible thing has happened! I –” my sister paused and clapped a hand over her protuberant belly. “Absolutely must have some Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream!”
Her husband Jackson, a professional photographer and her usual ice cream runner, was in New York for an exhibition of his photos. “Not a problem. You need anything else?”
She frowned and wrinkled her nose. “You reckon I should get more diapers?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, “You’ve got enough to keep ten elephants dry for a year. I’ll be right back.”
“Love you!” she called after me as I reached the hall and grabbed my car keys.
“Love you more!” I shouted back.
I drove to the store and bought two gallons of her latest craving-filler, then hit the road for home. Traffic was heavy, and it was hot and off the charts humid – so I had Wilbur’s (my old ‘Vette) top down with the AC blasting. That way I didn’t roast at stop lights. The intro to Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven came on (yeah, I’m a traitor to country music!); I turned it up, leaned back, and relaxed.
Boom!
The sound was so incredibly loud that I went instantly deaf, could only hear a dull ringing. Cars were swerving into each other, some accelerating madly and others braking so hard they went sideways. On instinct, I swerved rapidly through someone’s large, perfectly manicured front yard and landed in a group of massive trees so dense I could see nothing.
All the houses on the left of Harding were elaborate townhomes, while stately homes stretched into the distance. Nothing looked different, but then I stepped out of Wilbur, took a few steps back and looked up through a hole in the dense leaves.
Mountains of smoke climbed into Nashville’s sunny summer sky above downtown, I guessed. Oh Christ, all those people… my stomach lurched. Through the tears blurring my vision, I saw something twinkle in the sky. Squinted and made out a huge pencil-stub shaped craft hovering several blocks away.
In the next moment, the air wavered, and for a brief moment I felt a scorching heat. Then it was gone, and every building for miles exploded at once. Acrid smoke filled the air, along with the scent of ice cream. A quick glance: the Ben and Jerry’s had completely melted and was dripping off the passenger seat like thick, pink and white molten lava.
Cars proceeded along Harding as best they could through the billowing smoke; headlights on now the smoke is so thick. One moment there was a lot of traffic; the next, every car was destroyed. As for the poor souls who’d fled their vehicles and were running helter skelter in panic, they were burnt to piles of ashes with pinpoint accuracy.
I wanted nothing more than to get home to my sister and her kids, but my guess was that the reason Wilbur and I were spared was because we were hidden from sight. And what they didn’t see, they didn’t destroy. That was my best explanation for why Wilbur and I, hidden in those trees, were not targeted. As long as that craft stayed where it was, I would remain in place although a deep dread crawled up my spine at the thought of my family.
Shaking so hard that my rings were clattering, I sat in Wilbur and tried to plan my next steps. Steps, because driving home, was not an option. They destroyed buildings, vehicles, and people. That was a given. To make it home, I’d have to move like a trained special forces operative from tree to tree or whatever cover I could hide behind.
The craft in the sky vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and I stepped out of Wilbur for the last time. Home was roughly two miles away and it was 4 PM. I judged it would take me normally about an hour, but this was far from a normal hike and could take twice or even three times that long not knowing what obstacles might lie ahead. So I set off, carefully moving as fast as I could from one safe cover to the next.
I was a block away from a major intersection and decided to cut through someone’s front lawn to shorten my way. The house was an older white brick, flames shooting out of windows. As I drew near, to my horror, I heard someone inside screaming.
No craft in sight, so I ran to the front door and discovered it was unlocked. When I opened it, a blast of flame and heat blew me backwards, but the screams were louder now. Maybe there was a way around back, I thought. I was running around the corner of the house when something inside exploded with a force that rocked the ground I was standing on.
And the screams stopped.
Damn, damn, damn it! Maybe I should have waited at the front door for the flames to die down; maybe I should have run a lot faster. I should have saved that woman whose screams would echo through my nightmares for the rest of my life.
Now my sense of urgency was out of sight, I had to get home to my sister and the kids. I broke into a run, trying not to see the utter devastation around me. Homes blown apart, half a blue couch on its side in front of one. A burned corpse stretched out a ruined door in another. Piles of ashes were everywhere; people must have run out of their burning homes, hoping that safety lay outside.
Flames and smoke rose into the Nashville sky, and there were no familiar traffic noises, lawnmowers, nothing but the crackling of the fires as they greedily munched through rubble, the remnants of buildings. I was bawling as I ran, tears and snot running down my face, dripping darkly on my white shirt.
It was too much, and I blacked out.
~
When I came to, I was standing at the bottom of my driveway, staring down. How the hell had I gotten here? The sun, what little of it I could see through all the smoke, was much lower in the sky. I’d somehow walked here on autopilot.
But from where? My mind felt as though my brain was surrounded by thick fog and my thoughts were swimming through oatmeal, I sat on the low wall that bordered the long, uphill driveway, head in hands. Something was really wrong; my skin was crawling with it. My heart began pounding as if I was facing my own death.
Shaking my head to try and clear it, a sound swam through the oatmeal. Crackling, with several large crashes. The acrid stench of smoke followed, and it all came back to me in a torrent of horror.
Like an Olympic hurdler, I leapt off the wall and sprinted toward our beautiful, white brick home with its breathtaking view of downtown Nashville in winter, once the leaves left the dense forest of deciduous trees. What had always been a happy respite from the rigors of city dwelling; our private haven where we could enjoy the seasonal vibes of nature (as well as the illegal pleasure of feeding passing deer and their fawns). Our home – was on fire!
Halfway up the hill I pushed myself with my last burst of energy toward the long ramp that leads to the back door, The ramp I had installed for Mom when she broke her neck, although she never got to use it before she passed. I pushed that familiar sorrow deep into the thick fog of my brain, for now, I could see the flames up close.
Through the flames, I could see the other side of the woods clearly for the house itself was a pile of brick and burning wood. As the house was a loss, I had one hopeful thought.
The pool out back.
The twins all but lived there when it was warm enough, and my sister would plant her large belly in a lounge chair to keep an eye on them. The forest was so dense around me that the wind was negligible as I flew by the fiery blaze of the house.
On Jackie’s favorite yellow lounge chair, there was nothing but a small pile of ashes. Next to the chair was another such, and the clear pool had a scum of ashes floating on top.
Somehow, I’d known this would be the case, but the reality brought a grief so intense that I fell to my knees in the thick grass and simply wailed.
Gone. All of our lives were gone. From my sister, her unborn child, the twins, to family photographs, even my computer, where my work was now as fried as everything else.
The sun had now dipped beyond the opposing hill, and I needed to rest more than ever in my life. Though the fire had left the garage mostly untouched, there was a chance it could spread there. But I ran in, trotted up the steps to the attic, and was able to retrieve my backpack. The flames were close here, not twenty feet away as they undoubtedly ate through our living room’s antiques.
As terrified as I was, I forced myself to move an old chair and several boxes to reach my old sleeping bag. Then I flew back down the steps and out of our house for the last time.
Tears of desolation streaming, I set the sleeping bag near the woods and sat, hugging my knees, watching fire consume the rest of the city. The tallest, most spectacular flames roared into the sky from the downtown area.
When I finally curled up in the sleeping bag, I was consumed with questions. Why had they decimated everything human in my city, leaving green things and barking dogs? What did they want?
Most importantly, who the hell were they?
That was yesterday. This morning, I wake to see the house mostly gone, flames still here and there. But I’m filled with an odd resolve to get downtown as soon as possible. If there were any people still left that’s where they’d be. Or so a small voice in my head told me. That same voice suggested I check out our neighbor’s well-stocked bunker; he was a prepper, and he might still be safe there. And if not, I doubt he’d mind if I stocked up.
As I scramble up the hill between us, I note that his house is gone as well. Around back, I walked to a familiar spot beneath a giant oak tree and pushed mulch out of the way to see the trap door. Knocking brought no response, so I tug and pull at the metal door, which had swollen shut from the heat of the fire. Luckily I locate a shovel and can pry the thing open; to find it empty except for orderly rows of supplies.
I load up on a gallon of water, cans of food, a small camera and several cans of film, and am delighted to find an old-fashioned tape recorder with several packs of cassette tapes. A first aid kit goes into my bulging backpack, I close the bunker, and cover it back up with branches and mulch. It could come in very handy in time to come.
A strange pull makes me head down their driveway and begin the long trek downtown. As I loathe country muzak, I usually avoid downtown like a trip to the sewage plant. Now I felt like my birthday, Christmas and Easter all rolled into one await me there.
The long, long walk displays horrors I’ve only ever seen on TV, from war correspondents. A rare car swerves in and out of all the wrecks, drives through front yards. A flash of silver overhead and the air goes shimmery, like heat in the desert. Except the accompanying heat is more volcanic. Then comes that breathless squeezing sensation, and I bolt under a boat parked in a driveway. I can’t see, but I hear and feel the explosion. As expected, that car is now a twisted, smoking work of terrible art.
Dogs bark continually as I walk by, a few even follow me. I try to shoo them away; they may well draw unwanted attention. Walking into Green Hills is surreal as the mall is flattened and still flaming. Other familiar spots are gone; even the infamous Bluebird Café is reduced to a smoldering heap. Through the trashed door, a lone barstool lies wreathed in broken Christmas lights. I’ve lived here for more than twenty years and know Nashvegas better than most; now I have no idea where I am, for all the familiar landmarks have been blasted to flaming dust.
Skulking from shop to shop, I don the imaginary invisibility cloak I created as a child. My parents drank far too much, and it behooved me to be invisible at times, as the reverse left me open to scathing insults. It seems to be working now, for I see no more ships. Unfortunately, there’s no other living humanity, either.
I run to a large, brightly colored sign declaring “Wee Nursery.” As the day is becoming royally hot – Nashville in August – I need to relax for a moment in the shade under the sign. A pull on the water jug, a splash on my head and arms, and I’m ready to carry on.
When I’m even with the Wee Nursery, I spot a scene that would burn into my memory as badly as flames through these buildings. Out of one broken window, a broken child hung from two blackened arms as if someone had tried to save her by putting her out the first-floor window. The rescuer had perished prior to releasing the little girl, whose long blond hair waved in the breeze.
I gulp, tears flowing again, and set off down Hillsboro Road.
And again I black out, lose time or both because when I’m sentient again, I’m standing at a car dealership on Broadway.
~
I make my way down Nashville’s main drag, so familiar yet now so alien. About halfway to the river, I note that only one arch remains of Union Station, and its tower lays at an angle across several cars on Broadway. Patchy sunlight gleams off a crumpled sequined shirt laying atop a pile of wreckage. I learn to not look inside these places, for there are burnt, blown-apart corpses in every position there.
Then I’m facing a heap of rubble, remnants of shop and bar walls standing like broken teeth with rubble vomit pouring over them. A stiff wind creates a brief opening in the smoky pall hanging above the city; a hint of sunshine breaks through and reflects off something shiny beneath my feet. A large, misshapen piece of glass with letters barely visible under a coat of dust.
Leaning over, I brush away the dirt until the calligraphy is clear; “Tootsie’s Orch…” A tear falls, creating a tiny round crater marring the smooth layer of ash. More than the heaps of metal and rubber that used to be cars and even the piles of dust on car seats, the sight of a crushed Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge meant that Nashville itself is gone.
~
The stench of burning plastic, metal, and death makes me gag until I light a cigarette to mask it. Best be careful, I have only a carton in my backpack. Along with other essentials such as a first aid kit, beef jerky, candy bars and Leroy, my .38.
I probably should have brought other things, but my brain isn’t working too well. There are too many dark corners that I don’t dare focus on, such as the sight of my sister’s ashes and those lying atop our pool. More tears, but then I cram those memories back into the safety of a dark corner.
The wind stops, the air becomes wavery with a sort of heavy menace, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise. Over the past 24 hours, I’ve learned that this is a warning and now I leap over the mounds of upturned tables, sideways barstools and several corpses to reach the door behind Tootsie’s stage. In one fast move, I snatch the door open, step inside and find myself looking into the business end of a large revolver.
~
I freeze and see a tall guy wearing a cowboy hat splotched with dirt and ashes. “Who are you and why you here?” He hissed.
I hold up both my hands. “Easy, pal. I’m Shellie, and I don’t know why I’m here.” I pause, thinking. about how to phrase this. “Without sounding totally nuts, you know that little voice in your head that says things like, ‘Better not do that’ or ‘Why not? You only live once’?” He nods, squinting at me through eyes that must have contacts in, because I’ve never seen a brighter blue. The sheer force of his personality shine through those eyes, and I feel it entirely focused on me. Unnerved, I continue. “Well, mine said to go downtown.” There, it is out.
“Seems like that’s goin’ around.”
“How long you been here?”
He consults an old wind-up watch. “About ten minutes, I reckon.” Catching me staring at that watch, he holds out his arm. “Belonged to my grandaddy, then my daddy.” He inhales. “We lost him three years ago, so now I have the watch.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been almost ten years since we lost mine.” Memories of my sister and the kids come pouring in. My eyes fill, I must change the subject. Just as I’m divesting myself of my backpack, the air ripples, followed by that squeezing sensation.
The guy quickly uprights a table and draws me under it just as the loudest explosion yet rocks the room, nearly tosses the table back over. Neither of us move so much as an eyelash for quite a while, although the only sound now is the wind rustling through the detritus on the other side of the door.
The guy’s hat came off in the mad scramble under the table, and now it’s a little worse for wear as a speaker had toppled over on it. He picks it up, fiddles with it, puts it back on his head. “You OK?” He asks in a low whisper.
There’s something familiar about his stubbled square jaw, but I can’t place him.
“Yeah.” Thoughts of my family crossed my mind’s eye. “No.” My eyes close in an attempt to not see the past.
“Me, neither” he says in a low voice that again is somehow familiar.
I open my eyes and look him over. With the high cheekbones and olive skin of an American Indian, he hovers over my 5’5” frame like a baller would.
“Do I know you?” I don’t want to think about current circumstances now. It’s unbearable.
“Not a country music fan, are ya?” He shoots me a brief grin; seeing that snaggle tooth brings back a memory from a news feed several days ago.
“I hate it,” I admit and muster a faint smile. “You’re Brian Someone, new artist of the year or something.”
“With the shortest career ever,” he mutters. “Like it matters now.”
“How’d it happen for you?”
A ratty old green couch is upended in the center of papers, an uprooted rubber tree, and a chair halfway under the couch. Brian rights the couch; its weight had snapped off one of the carved chair’s legs. He ushers me to the couch, sits, pats the seat. I pick up the old chair leg, ornately carved in dark cherry. Where it has broken, bright jagged wood. Brian is gathering throw pillows and jamming them under the door.
“About six months ago, I took a bus from Birmingham to Nashville. The guy next to me suggested several bars that sometimes allow newcomers on stage, and I reckon I hit twenty bars a night tryin’. I checked the Scene ads during the day and saw this one where a band needed a lead singer. They were holding auditions at the Bluebird on Open Mic Night—”
“Oh yeah! You made the RCA scout cry, right?” He nods. I notice the guitar case always at his side. “Play me something.”
He goes silent for a moment, but only the wind is singing now.
He extracts the guitar from its case, the shiny wood nearly naked where his fingers hit it. After tuning it, he begins to softly play.
“I’m stuck in your web like a fly,
Can’t dance, can’t move, won’t try.
You munch your mates to dust,
Do me, fool me, screw me if you must.”
He takes in a breath and I lay a warning hand on his arm. On the other side of the door, someone is walking through the debris.
“Bet there’s some decent booze in here.” A male voice, slurred.
“Hell yeah. Gotta offer the next lady a good party.” Another male voice; dark, eager.
“Last one sorta lacked energy,” the first guy said, sounding petulant.
The sound of a shotgun being racked. “We’ll encourage the next one to dance for us! Now that’s a party.”
I could hear them kicking through the rubble; they’re stirring up so much dust that some blows in through a crack in the wall. Suddenly I had the worst urge to sneeze. I grab my nose, hold my breath, and Brian claps his hand over my mouth.
The sounds outside cease. “Y’all hear something?”
Silence. Then, “No. Just the wind blowing shit around. Check it out! A near-full bottle of Jack Daniels.”
The footsteps recede, and I drop my head into my hands. A migraine is creeping over my left eyebrow. I groan; this is the last thing we need.
“You OK?” he asks.
“Migraine,” is all I can say right now.
He stands. “I know just the thing. I’ll be back.” Before I can respond, he’s gone.
~
When I open my eyes, Brian is standing in the doorway, a puzzled look on his face.
“Damn, that was fast!”
He walks slowly to me, sinks to the floor. “Something weird’s happening here. I’m losing time. Ain’t got no memory of going to that pharmacy, but I hear the meds rattling around in my bag.” He hands me a bottle of Percocet and I down one.
“Thank God. I thought it was just me. When I was walking home yesterday, it was like I vanished on Harding and wound up on my own driveway. I thought I was just shocky.”
“What were ya doin’ yesterday when the shit came down?”
“I was driving home when everything went sort of wavery, and I felt that godawful squeezing sensation.” My stomach climbs into my throat; Brian puts a large hand over mine. Taking a deep breath, I go on. “You likely know what came next. All the buildings blew up, followed by Harding’s traffic and – and the people who’d tried to run.” I’m shaking again, tears running. “I made it home to—to check on my sister and her toddler twins. Gone.” Now I’m ugly crying, and he puts an arm around my shoulders.
“God, I’m sorry. Let it out, that’s always best.” He picks up his guitar and begins singing an old favorite in a low voice:
“You got to know when to hold ‘em. Know when to fold ‘em…”
I cry like I just learned the art, and for a time could do nothing else. Images flash through my mind like those photo things on phones… my sister, various loved spots in Nashville, New York, Paris. The twins pelting each other with sand and giggling nonstop. The sobs finally ease. “And they thought life after Covid was the new normal.”
“I know two lives that better get a move on if they don’t want a dang dirtnap,” Brian said, strength in his tone. “We need to get the fuck outta here, excuse my French.”
I grimace then almost laugh. “All this and I’m going to worry about your cussing? When mine is likely far worse?”
Brian drops his head. “I’m more’n worried cause I can’t help but feel this shit is partly my fault.” He strokes the guitar case like a cat. “This is all I got left, goddammit.”
“All what shit?”
He gestures around, up. “This shit that’s happenin’ with them ships.” His hands were knotted into tight fists. “Up till six months ago, I was a SEAL. We done some missions nobody would ever believe.” Pausing for a moment, he half-smiles but there’s nothing of joy in it. His eyes become a sharp, hard blue; his face is rock hard. He’s not in this room with me, that’s for sure. “They captured one of my brothers – over there. Of course we retrieved him but it sure as shit wasn’t easy. ‘Specially since my parachute was about half fucked, and I landed hard on the roof of one of them mudhuts. Wasn’t a soul in the village, but I heard something snap in my back—” he shakes his head, angry. “It hurt like a bastard, but we completed that mission. I did my part and nobody knew until the evac.”
“I’m really sorry.” It had been his whole life; that was clear. And to have it cut short like that?
“What did you do until yesterday?” He asks, and I know that he’s done with his own previous life.
“I’m a developer – you know, writing apps for phones and Windows mainly.”
He laughs; his face lightens. “You want to repeat that in English?” I shook my head with a smile. “How’s your head?”
“Fine now, thanks to you. I feel a tad floaty, though.”
“Time we get the hell out of here. Gonna be dark in about an hour, long enough to make it through the worst of downtown.” At my puzzled look he adds, “Where more of them rowdy folks might be.”
Moments later we head up Broadway, Brian moving with powerful ease in spite of the pain he must be enduring. Both of us are tense and concentrating on our surroundings; no surprises please.
We start to pass what used to be a pawnshop, but Brian grabs me and pulls me inside. “Won’t be a minute.”
It is already dark in here so Brian fishes out what has to be night vision goggles. He’s rooting through the wreckage of glass counters, the occasional gleam of a jewel, and then he grunts. “Found you.”
He holds up a complicated-looking rifle, then kicks more stuff aside until he finds the ammunition. Back on the street, we both hear drunken singing coming from two figures staggering several blocks ahead of us. Brian promptly drags me back into the pawn shop and pushes me to my knees just as the air ripples.
One of the pencil-stub ships appears in front of the guys. There’s just enough light to see what ensues, more’s the pity. Two huge bastards appear right in front of the dudes who start laughing and yelling that “Halloween ain’t for months!”
The inhumanly tall creatures had arms hairy as bears. On their hands are shiny objects that look like brass knuckles except when they aim these at the drunks and make a slicing motion, both heads just roll right off! It’s like a horror movie, especially when the creatures move faster than any cheetah and catch the bodies before they hit the ground. Only to flip them upside down and drink the spraying blood like you would from a water fountain.
“We need to vacate,” I said, my voice shaking. “They might have ways of knowing where we are.”
“Shit. Didn’t think of that. We’re outta here soon as that ship leaves.”
“Where to now?”
“I reckon we’d do best to live off the land for a while. Stay outta sight.”
“That just figures. Reality TV is my guilty pleasure, and I always say that if forced, I’d do any damn show except Survivor.”
“They ever have a SEAL on there?” He pushes open the door, looks around.
I stifle a laugh. “Be like asking Aretha Franklin to sing in a Podunk school choir.”
We walk in silence for a bit. Then it occurs to me that I haven’t asked him that all-important question. “Hey. Where were you – yesterday?”
“Just got out of my car, was carrying my ax into a recording session on the Row. The air went funny, and so help me I thought I was havin’ a stroke but then RCA blew up, along with the rest of the Row. And all the cars, including mine.” He shudders. “One of them silvery things landed in the middle of Music Square West, and I ran like a damn coward. I had a lot of friends in there, waitin’ on me. And I ran.”
“If you hadn’t, you’d not be around either. You see how those ships operate?” He shakes his head. “They kill anything that holds humans. Buildings, houses, cars.”
“Wish I could face one about now,” he says, and pats his new rifle.
I peek out once more; the ship is gone. “Might as well get out of here.”
The sun is going down, not the only ball of flame on view. We ease past McDonald’s, where that infamous golden arch is more like a molten beachball. Brian teaches me how to bolt from one place of cover to the next. We pass a gas station with a mini-mart, and I turn to him to tell him—
I must have lost time again, because when I come to, I’m in a large room on something comfortable. With Brian next to me, rubbing his eyes.
Something is different about this place; even the air smells odd. Next to me, Brian stiffens. I give him side-eyes, and his own eyes are narrow as he scopes out this room.
The place is bizarre, no doubt about that. The couch we are seated on is gigantic; my feet don’t come anywhere near the floor, and Brian’s barely do. The thing is a washed-out tan, made of something that feels like plush plastic. Only way I can describe it.
There are several equally large chairs in that same style, along with a coffee table that could serve as a dinner table. So help me, it feels like the reverse of a dollhouse. This one is for giants.
The thought makes me uneasy; I have a vague feeling I do know where we are, but just contemplating the possibility is so terrifying that my mind veers away from it quicker than a hand jerking away from a flame. Instead, I focus on artwork.
The pictures (or photos) on the walls are odd, and each makes my rising anxiety worse. The large one across from us depicts an active volcano with molten red lava streaming down, surrounded by a ring of abodes that look as though they’re suspended in thin air.
I twist around and behind the couch is another, of a sea at night. But there are four moons hanging above it; one much brighter than the other three.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” I mutter.
“Good,” he returns quietly. “I’m allergic to dogs.”
It is so damn absurd that even in this situation, I have to laugh, and that’s when the door on the far wall slides open. In walks one of those inhumanly tall, hairy beings. It’s wearing a sort of dark blue tank top over baggy pants that faintly shine. On its enormous, hairy feet are thick sandals. As it strides in, I’m drawn to the large medallion hanging from a chain around its short neck.
Brian leaps up and stands in front of me, in a half crouch. Every line of his body is as taut and solid as a telephone pole.
The hairy guy grunts and growls for a moment, then touches the medallion. “We not here to hurt you.”
“You destroyed our fucking world – what’s your definition of ‘hurt’?” The words are out before I can stop them. Brian kicks my foot lightly in warning, but I’m so furious that my fear is forgotten and I’m in full-on rage mode. I’m damned if I’m not going to tell this monster what I think.
He locks eyes with me, this being whose eyes are twice the size of ours and a solid, shining black with neither eyebrows nor nose over a slit of a mouth. His belt is full of implements, including a set of those fancy brass knuckles.
In two long strides, he reaches a chair, sinks into it. “You doing good job of destroying Gaia your own self, and you started long before we arrived.”
“We are – were – making a massive effort to clean it up, too,” I shot back. “Whatever your reason, you also killed countless millions of innocent—”
He interrupts with a growl and a series of grunts. Taps the medallion. “You know not what we do, nor who we are—” Seeming to gather control of himself, he adds, “Saying never good as showing. You like to see?”
I eye Brian, who merely shrugs. “Might as well.”
The creature stands. “Come. You will see.” He passes his hand over a dim light on the wall that I hadn’t noticed, and I follow him with Brian bringing up the rear. We find ourselves in a gently curved corridor, walking on something dark and springy. Bouncing along, we finally arrive at an enormous pane of glass that winds to the end of the curve out of view.
He passes his hand over another of those small lights, and the glass lightens, giving onto an incredible scene.
We seem to be standing atop a low hill, covered with long, flowing, pale blue grasses. Several different trees grow at the top, including one with a single root that pierces the hill and exits into the bluest water I’d ever seen. Then the oddest creature flew past… it had arms of a sort, but skin between the arms and the body. It looks like a flying bodysuit and I guess it is, but a natural one.
The being is unbelievably thin, translucent, and before I could study it longer, several others flew up to join it. Each turned pale colors, like chameleons just changing color at will.
Hairy says, “Meet the…” and makes a familiar sound with tongue sticking out between those thin lips.
I was speechless and didn’t dare look at Brian: I know what he’s thinking because of course I’m thinking the same thing. Any human would, as the sound our guy made was a perfect imitation of a fart.
But Hairy is now describing the Farts, and their issues. It seems that the trees with the long single root are sacred to the Farts. The sap of those trees, particularly that of the large root, extends the lives of the Farts. A single tree doesn’t add much, but a bunch of trees and the owner can almost double his life.”
Hairy waves a hand at the glass, and now we’re looking at a veritable field of these trees. The view changes, and we realize it’s much, much larger than a field. In fact, there’s no end in sight.
“The atmosphere has muchly higher oxygen than yours and is heavy with organic spores the Farts exist on. This very, very bad for the planet and the creatures. These forests release oxygen-saturated spores that thicken atmosphere, increase global oxygen levels, make lightning storms exponentially more violent which causes spontaneous wildfires across the archipelagos. This planet in serious danger; in near future, one spark could cause explosion planet-wide.”
“And they ain’t capable of fixing that?” Brian wonders.
“Some do, like your people on Earth. But they explain the frequent storms as religious phenomenon: the sky is grieving. Too many trees and they do die, leaving muchly dry wood.” He sighs.
“God. Can we move along?” I have to say. This is horrible.
“Gotta ask. Why would you ever choose us over other humans?” Brian asks.
“Brian, you lift souls of those who listen; you can interpret situations where your people be influenced by those who don’t have their good (or the good of the planet) in mind. Shellie, your talent is as influential, in a different way. You—” he growls several times, tapping the medallion. Finally, he continues. “You live by interacting with machines, talking to them. Therefore you most logical. You were both selected for these attributes; you both best at what you do. You,” he nodded at Brian, “can keep spirits up while you,” directed at me, “Will help explain the logic behind what we’re doing and your group will do.”
“I still don’t get why you destroy so many people,” I say. “What gives you the right?”
The guy opens his mouth, then makes a gesture with one hand. “You must understand us for answers to questions like these. Rest of population destroyed so planet can return to original state.
“Our people use,” furious tapping on the medallion, “behavioral scanning to select best creatures for taking. Most sentient beings have some sort of brain, and brains function via energy. Our people distinguish bad decisions from good like your scientists view wrong bacteria growing in petri dish of good.
“We move selected to a level on ship, locate planet where these creatures can live: move them there. Allow me to present you another ship level.”
Curiosity gets the best of me, even in this situation. “Are our people here now?” I’m picturing every sci-fi movie I’ve seen; people floating in telephone booth type things, people stored in tanning beds with a load of electronics.
“Patience.” He passes his hand over a small light on the elevator wall and up we go.
“Where are you taking all these creatures?” I have so many questions.
“To planet where they will live, procreate. One day return to own planet, you see?”
“Why do you do this?” What’s in it for you, Brian didn’t say. I know he’s thinking it.
He gazes at me and if he had eyebrows, they’d be puckered. “Why would we not?” I don’t respond, so he carries on. “A phrase from your world, then. ‘Because we can.’”
The elevator glides to a stop. After a short walk down the corridor, we arrive at another giant window. God, what will we see this time? When I woke up this morning, I sure didn’t think I’d be living a version of Star Trek.
Then the window lightens and I gasp. This could be Anytown, USA with broad streets, many houses together yet each had some space. Hairy mutters a command and the glass lifts.
Kids are floating up and down the street on some sort of airborne skateboards, past trees that don’t look young at all. I inhale deeply: the air is redolent from someone’s barbeque.
Wait. Not ‘someone’! I recognize the familiar scent of broiling steaks and chili. And I’m running toward a white house with a stream of smoke behind it. The front door bangs open and a heavily-pregnant girl comes racing out. God, it’s my sister!
We grab each other and nearly tumble into the street, only Brian’s steady arms stopping us. Tears flow down our faces as I start to introduce him.
“As if I don’t know who Brian is! Love your music,” Jackie says with one of my arms wrapped around her neck.
“Thank ya and good to meet ya,” he responds.
“I see you’ve met our BigFoot.”
“Jackie!” I hiss at her, horrified.
Hairy grunts and growls, what I’m beginning to recognize as a sort of laugh. “It OK.”
And that’s when Brian asked the question we should have asked long ago. “You seem to know all about humanity, but we’re missing even the simplest information about you. For starters, what is your name?”
He grunts and growls. Taps the medallion. “I am Abenaahnoa.” He bares his teeth in what might be a smile. “Your people call me Noah.”
END
