Do You Want to Read the First Fifty Pages of a Hot New Release? America asked. We delivered.

Chapter 1

“The fat fucker bit me.” he said.

Alan Grunke leaned against the bar with one hairy arm, leaning away from the blonde beside him in a vain attempt to hide the sweat trickling down his neck, tickling him as it moved on its sinuous downward path. Low lighting created an intimate atmosphere. Thick bluish-gray clouds of acrid smoke hovered in the air, mingling with the vaguely predatory aromas of the casino bar and grill. People laughed around him as they enjoyed their lives. Just outside the din of the small restaurant resided the cackling money-sucking machines and thin, tired server girls with trays full of drinks for the overweight retirees. Bright, flashing lights and the thrill of seeking the elusive magic that is easy money.

She spun her thin pink straw in the large drink and flashed another look at her watch. A dinky plastic thing with a narrow little faux leather band. Natalie, he thought her name was. She chewed gum incessantly with her mouth open and possessed a black tattoo that peeked out from under her shirt whenever she leaned forward.

“Okayyy…” she said.

“Would you like another drink?” he asked.

“Yasssss….” she said.

The bartender, a rough-looking guy with a red beard and angry eyes materialized, rubbing a glass aggressively with a dirty towel, his forearms bulging with each motion. “Jameson.” The blonde said.

Before Alan waded back into his dramatic retelling of only slightly exaggerated historical events, he felt a stabbing sense of annoyance at the explicit haughtiness of this tart. Order the most expensive hard liquor on the menu, he thought, fighting to conceal the frown that wanted to emerge with the mental recrimination. He took a swig of amber liquid, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat like some molten elixir. Inhaling, he rushed back into his tale.

“There I was, in the middle of the woods, miles from any cell reception or anything. I’d gone out without telling anyone at camp that morning, so no one knew where I was or what I was doing. When there are all the trees and things up above, it can be so hard to remember to look down.” he said.

The burly bartender appeared, sliding the dame’s drink to her silently before vanishing like a whore’s innocence.

Sweat began to bead and trickle down his clammy, red forehead. Alan felt dampness under his arms. He fought the urge to grimace. Alan looked up at one of the many angled mirrors above the bar and saw he had turned a deeper shade of crimson as he struggled with the instinct to lift his arms and inspect his pits for any tell-tale yellowish stains. Swiveling slightly on his wobbly stool, Alan saw that the attractive little blonde had escaped.

Jaundiced pride burning its brand into his temples, Alan motioned for another drink. Garth Brooks, stale sweat, and desperation filled the evening air in the 2-star restaurant trying a little too hard to pretend it wasn’t hours away from the heart of Vegas.

“How the fuck did I get here?” Alan Grunke asked, slamming one hand down on the paneled bar. He winced and shook his fist, looking at it as if it were some obscene alien presence.

The burly redhead appeared. His scowl lent credibility to the threats he communicated silently with his malevolent blue eyes. “Problem?” he asked.

Alan examined the man, temporarily emboldened by some arcane force. He tried to find a name tag, some sort of identifying markers, but saw none. Alan shook his head. “Another round.” He said, his voice a wounded bunny in the jungle.

He extracted his phone, a slim thing with a thick green case, and unlocked it. Alan began swiping through memories. Buried in the mausoleum of this next-gen device were photos…of a time when he had actually smiled.

A brush of air and some sound made Alan turn. He blinked. He debated briefly if the exorbitantly priced insipid cocktail were actually worth the time, money, and effort it would take to mindlessly consume it. Clucking his tongue, he tossed the adult beverage back. He puckered his lips and squinted his eyes. Then, he pivoted. He began to scan the crowd anew.

As his eyes flitted over the thin and hungry-looking girls trying to work the crowds, Alan reflected. Klamath Falls, Oregon was a long way from home. Did they even have a casino in Hanover or Montpelier? He never remembered seeing any. The people here seemed distant. Troubled.

Floyd Mayweather appeared on one of the large television screens overhead, and Alan smirked. He almost wanted to pay attention. The thought of him consuming sports entertainment in a casino bar alone seemed both doleful and amusing.

Alan jumped. An exuberant lithe woman with luscious dark hair sat down beside him. Her fragrant perfume, smelling of exotic spices and citrus, swept him up and took him on a carpet ride of testosterone. He couldn’t help but stare.

She laughed. Looked directly at him with no sense of abandon or shame. Her smile revealed a healthy set of even, too-white teeth. The plunging neckline of her green shirt told a tale of two repressed beauties aching for release.

“Hey, what’s your name?” she asked.

At that very moment, Alan wasn’t sure. His mouth felt dry, and his hand seemed to lifelessly dangle at his side.

The woman leaned forward and reached out, grabbing his phone before he could register what was going on.

“Give it back.” he said.

She smiled. A playful smile. She dared him with her eyes.

“What kind of secrets you have hidden in here, secret danger man?” she asked. Her tongue darted out and flicked across the top of her upper lip before retreating back into its moist cave.

All this time, Alan had been trying to find a woman, any woman to just pay attention to him. He’d been willing to even pay a premium for the charade. Now that one was right in his lap, actually flirting with him, he honestly felt bereft and betrayed by his senses. Witty repartee evaded him and desire fled like disturbed vultures.

“I really need that back.” he said.

She handed it back, suddenly cautious. Something in her body language, the rigidity and confusion struck a chord with Alan. He looked at his device for a long second before placing it into his pocket. He sat back down and tried to ignore the deafening silence lingering in the small space between them.

“Um, my name is Alan Grunke.” he said, after a moment.

The brunette made a sound. Sort of a laugh. She turned to face him. “Alan Grunke. That’s an…interesting name.” she said.

“Thanks, I guess.” he responded.

“You from around here, Alan Grunke?” she asked.

“Hey, wait a second. You didn’t tell me your name.” he said.

She giggled. Her manner seemed more relaxed now, though vestiges of the anxiety and fear remained. She twirled a few strands of her shiny hair with one finger as she pretended to think. Somewhere in the background, people were cheering and clapping as a loud bell went off. Burned onions and fried stuff sent their vaguely satisfying odors out from the confines of the kitchen in a hot mass that assaulted his nostrils. She wore thin glasses.

              “I’ll tell you. But…” she glanced around, eyes darting furtively. Leaning closer towards him, gaze still directed at some arbitrary point at the other end of the bar, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’d never believe me.” she said.

              Alan sat back. His mouth moved from a grin to a frown, then settled somewhere in between a grimace and a scowl. Longing pulsed inside of him, and he felt heat rising to his cheeks. The delicate fragrance of her perfume assaulted his nostrils with the cloying presence of her femininity. It felt hard to focus; he had an erection stronger than a papal bull. He tried diverting his attention from her soft, thin lips. He raised his glass to his lips to try and sip alcohol. The grunted when he discovered it was empty.

              “Sharon Stone.” she said.

              She beamed. Her face looked younger, brighter, and her green eyes seemed to twinkle with the delight of a kid sharing a secret. Her shoulders were back, loose, and her supple tits prodded the thin jade fabric of the blouse begging to be ripped from her perfect frame. The contours of those delicacies presented themselves as a tempting solicitation of the carnal delights that could be had.

              Alan gulped. He ignored the line of thick sweat that traipsed down the side of his head from his quickly vanishing hairline. He cast a stray, errant glance around for the bartender. “No shit.” he said. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt a little dizzy.

              “Are you okay? Can I buy you a drink?” she asked him.

              Alan laughed. The snort of sardonic mirth just happened, an inadvertent, cynical clue into the muddled mind of a man high on lust. He clenched his right fist, grabbing his khaki pants and holding the bundled fabric tight for a long second. His arm trembled, and his leg continued to bounce of its own accord.

              “I…I…I, uh, was just telling the last girl I was talking to some really dumb, largely made-up story about how a bear bit me in the woods.” he said. He smiled weakly and tried to avoid eye contact.

              “Do you have any scars?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

              Alan looked at her. He blinked. What did she just ask me? Then he really laughed, this one unrestrained and genuine. He felt tickled by the fact that she could surprise him. Especially in such a finessed way. As a NASA researcher with the highest security clearances known to humankind, Alan Grunke had encountered a fair share of…unusual people and events. Beyond his professional life, Alan lived the stoic, monastic life of the academic. A cerebral man, his parents had been lawyers and union activists in his native Vermont, and he’d gone on to Dartmouth, then M.I.T. before landing a job that required he continue living in the abstract worlds of theories and ideas. It seemed amusingly ironic that much of his work was to understand and help the people he desperately tried to avoid.

              It can be easier to study people from a distance. They can’t bully or hurt you that way. Academics, science, they possess both a higher ideal to strive for and a certain order not present in the seeming chaos that is interpersonal relations.

              It was hard to surprise him. The fact that she could pleased him.

              “None that would come close to a bear attack.” he said, chortling.

              Sharon Stone giggled. She tilted her head back and erupted with superficial mirth.

              As she ordered drinks, a thought struck him. No one should laugh at his dumb jokes, certainly not that way. He shifted in his seat and stiffened. All vestiges of a boner disappeared.

              The fact that this woman seemed so into him. The fact that she seemed so adept and graceful at conversation, especially with a stranger. It began to click, but in an ominous way. This woman presented an attractive picture. A potent mix of sexuality and charm. She wasn’t one of the odd women with slight mustaches from the reservation, a little thick around the middle and sloshed after one drink. In fact, it didn’t take an outsider like Alan to realize this beautiful creature did not belong in southern Oregon at all.

              Alan began to wonder. He sensed that ulterior motives impelled her to act in this odious and forward way towards him. He smiled as the bartender delivered their beverages. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to try and divine just what, exactly, those motives were.

              She leaned closer to him. Again, a bold hint of cleavage assaulted his senses. She smelled like lemon zest and sunshine. “It was hard to find you.” she said.

              Alan blinked. Gulped. He glanced around and made special note of where the glowing red exit signs were, in relation to him. He tried to find any crowds that might help disguise any escape attempt. His mind felt numb. Tired. Besieged by stimuli, the NASA scientist felt disoriented and unable to concentrate. He always had been awkward with women. The fact that this one was pretty, potentially dangerous, and into him made things substantially more difficult.

              “How did you know what to order for me?” he heard himself asking, the words sounding slow and garbled, like the speech of a stroke victim.

              His heart began to gallop in his chest like a chariot horse descending into the chaos of battle. He felt his jaw muscles twitch.

              The stoic bartender once again did his best wraith impression, vanishing before one even fully realized he was there. Drinks sat on the polished mahogany bar. There, in a glass, a single ice cube doing a jig on the surface, was a generous serving of Canadian Mist. He’d preferred the Canadian whisky since…he had started drinking. Which was long before he’d turned 21. He’d grown up only a few hours from the border. How could he not enjoy the fine spirit?

              Alan didn’t feel threatened by the woman. He started to relax. He became more curious as the sense of danger waned and faded to black.

Chapter 2

              “Ow!” Alan exclaimed.

              He looked down at his foot, blinking repeatedly. His mouth felt dry. His head pulsed and his eyes felt heavy. The room smelled…odd. Off, somehow. Something citrusy lingered just beneath the surface, and the presence of that aroma seemed laughable at the moment. Alan chuckled. Why would anyone try to cover up a horrible smell? he thought. It was like trying to douche a toilet stall after someone left a particularly noisome dump with a mass of cheap chemicals. The cloying ordure still asserted itself, but you became more aware of it by the very fact that someone tried so horribly, so unsuccessfully to conceal it. Glancing up, he sighed.

Boxes dominated the room. A seemingly endless vista of vaguely dirty-brown cardboard formed a sadistic maze to nowhere.

Allowing his gaze to travel back down to his feet, he connected the dots. He’d stubbed his toe on one of the many boxes littering his new living room floor. Alan giggled. A high-pitched, unhinged titter. Navigating his way through the labyrinth of cardboard, he went into the kitchen. At least the coffee maker was plugged in.

Going through the motions of making coffee helped. Six scoops of Peruvian blend, add water, flip the switch. The monotony, the banality, the relative smallness of the task offered him an escape from whatever acrid cloud that stalked the sun in his mind. Normally, he would have programmed the device to auto-start. Of course, normally, he wouldn’t try to bone hookers at an Indian casino on a work night after the liberal consumption of liquor.

He stopped. His hands gripped the cool granite countertops. He looked outside, barely noting the regal mountains and fir-topped hills in the distance. “What. The. Fuck.” he said. Alan smirked, despite himself. He’d said fuck. His parents would be revolted.

Then he giggled. This time, the anxious mirth cascaded, becoming an uncontrollable force that impelled the man to the ground. He rolled onto his side, tears flowing from his eyes, his pudgy belly quaking. He slapped the wood-paneled floor and wiggled around in a sort of circle. Hyperventilating, he finally began to regain his senses, and tried to calm his breathing. This only helped Alan laugh more.

In stages, gradually the NASA scientist and famed author began to collect himself. A strange cocktail of hormones distorted his senses as he fought to get past the giddiness that had taken him for a joyride to the edge of the Mad Canyon.

The memories flooded back. He propped himself against the soft brown wooden cabinet under the sink and focused on his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. I got wasted. Inhale. Some fan stalked me all the way out into the middle of nowhere. Exhale. I tried to convince some random chick I was bitten by a bear. Inhale. He thought about what his stoic, pent-up parents would think of THAT. Little Alan Grunke, sloshed at the casino. Hee-larious.

Slowly, trembling arm extended to provide some level of stability, Alan stood. Warm, rich aromas emanated from the coffee pot, and he again sought the refuge monotony provided. Order so often brings meaning to chaos. Glancing down, he noticed the green glowing numerals on the sleek black coffee pot’s clock. “Fuck!” he said. He stamped his foot on the floor. This time, the profane term garnered no laughter.

Looking down at his watch, he grimaced. He looked around, heart beating faster than b-grade horror movie music. “Where the fuck is my phone?!” he asked no one.

“I’m sorry. I do not understand your request.” Alexa said from her small black cylinder in the corner.

Alan glared at the Amazon device. He fought the urge to rush at it and clobber it into oblivion. Clenching his fists, sweat forming under his arms, Alan walked around, fumbling through the boxes he could easily access. Finally, he surrendered. He retreated into his bedroom, again weaving his way around the stacks pf boxes hectoring him. On the small ivory bedside table sat his thin Samsung Galaxy S-9.

Sinking into the bed, rubbing his temples with one hand, Alan took a deep breath. Looking upwards, he thanked a god he didn’t believe in. It’s much easier to dodge questions and skip out on responsibilities when you are the boss. He tapped a picture of an overweight man wearing a too-tight Superman shirt that exposed his hairy belly. Despite the goofy avatar, Dale offered one of the brightest mind’s available when it came to logistics, public relations, money…pretty much all of the stuff that mattered.  Though he wasn’t much good at any one thing, and seemed a crude and indolent brute trying too hard to pass himself off as a nerd, the man could make things happen. As Alan listened to the tinny sound of the phone ringing, he began to wonder about his go-to man in their little traveling carnival act. How did he do it?

Without Dale, Alan would have no job.

On about the thirteenth ring, just as Alan rolled his eyes and began to contemplate hanging up, Dale answered. “Yo.” he said, by way of introduction.

“This is Miss Meyers from down the street, and I just wanted to complain about all the noise I hear coming from your…office after hours.” Alan said, pinching his nose and doing his best to disguise his voice.

Dale laughed. The sound brought a smile to Alan’s face. “I have known you for too long.” Dale said.

“Where are you?” Alan asked. He went to a different screen on his phone as he talked. Laying on the bed, he put one leg up. Checking his emails, he blinked. He sat up suddenly. Holding his finger just above the surface of the phone, allowing it to hover there in contemplative silence, Alan felt his body growing warmer. His mouth felt dry.

He opened the email. He waited for it to load. The damn internet in Klamath Falls offered much to be desired. Finally, he tensed when it opened. His eyes scrolled the screen even as he felt vaguely aware of sounds emanating from his distant interlocutor. He blinked rapidly. His hands shook, and he had to wipe each one on the sheet because they quickly were growing too damp. Finally, after the third try, he managed to fully re-read the digital correspondence.

He had spent over 800 dollars at the smallish single-story casino.

After the ringing in his ears subsided, Alan realized there was a strange and taut silence on the other end of the line. After a beat, Alan understood that Dale had been talking, and was now waiting for some sort of response. Alan licked his lips. “I’m sorry. What?” he asked. He got up, checking his reflection in the mirror above his faux mahogany dresser. Clothes sat in disheveled piles all over the floor, and the drawers for the piece of furniture rested together against the wall. He felt hot, so he opened a window. The breeze fluttered the delicate white curtains.

“I said that our new congressman is going to be in town.” Dale said. He paused. Alan could picture his, brow furrowed, lips puckering as he hankered for a cigarette. “I’m pretty sure he’s here because of us.” Dale said.

Alan pondered this for a second. He still clutched his phone in one hand. He glanced down at it, and fought back the urge to panic. He focused. “Why would you think Paul Harris is in town because of us?” he asked.

“Ostensibly, Harris is here to support some Chamber of Commerce thing. He certainly is trying to make himself visible. He scheduled the art walk, for Christ’s sake.” Dale grumbled.

“Okayyy…but, none of that answers my question.” Alan said.

“The man hasn’t been here for at least 6 years, as far as I can tell. He only staffs the local office for three months every other year…during election season. He doesn’t even respond to interviews from the paper here.” Dale said.

Alan sighed. “Just get on with it. Okay? Why do we care that Congressman Paul Harris is in town? Why would it matter if he were here to talk to us? We’re federal employees. Sometimes that means talking to federal politicians.”

It was Dale’s turn to sigh. “Harris is a Republican? He’s been somewhat vocal about cutting spending? He called on Trump to eradicate NASA altogether?” The man’s voice rose as he talked, and when he finished, he seemed to be panting.

“How are we on the office set-up?” Alan asked.

“We’d be better if the boss actually showed up. But, it’s going, I guess. The copier they sent was incorrigible, so I had to drive to some place called Medford to get parts. Did you know they have an In -N- Out Burger there? Fuckin’ love In -N- Out.” Dale said.

Alan looked at his watch. The old brown leather band had been with him for some time. A gift from his mother, he’d possessed the timepiece for at least a decade. He frowned. The date glared at him. September 26. They had 4 days. On September 30, if things didn’t change, there was going to be yet another government shutdown, and their office would be closed during that time. If they didn’t have some reason to justify their own existence before the 30^th, their office might not even re-open.

“How is the internet?” Alan asked, just to try to jumpstart the conversation and his brain.

“Horrible.” Dale answered.

Alan thought for a moment. He wanted to address the credit card email, and do any damage control for his rare alcoholic excesses. But, he needed to get Dale off the phone, first. “How are we on that one case? The from…” he blinked. Snapped his fingers.

“Spokane?” Dale supplied.

“Yes!” Alan said, smiling. “Spokane. How is that case going?” he asked.

“Ummm…” Alan could hear typing on the other end. He smirked. One of Dale’s biggest pet peeves was when people didn’t mute the phone when they were doing something, like typing. Yet, here he was, typing with alacrity as Alan listened.

“Yeah. Okay. So, the video footage was inconclusive. Could be consistent with a P-791. Lockheed has an office near Seattle, and they are working on the new civilian version. Actually, rumor is that the LMH-1 was supposed to start commercial ops this year.” Dale said.

“P-791 or LMH-1?” Alan asked. He knew the answer, but wanted to keep the other man talking.

“They’re the same thing. One was military, the other is an updated civilian craft.” Dale said.

“Anything else? Can you close this one?” Alan asked.

“I mean, yeah. I could. People aren’t going to be happy.” Dale said.

“They never are. No one is ever happy. But, hey, our job isn’t to make people happy. It is to investigate UFO and alien claims. Can you take lead and make the phone calls? We need to wrap something up, quick.”

Silence filtered through from the other end as his interlocutor dwelled on the unpleasant request. Alan frowned. He knew that Dale hated that sort of work. It wasn’t exactly fair. But…Alan had just apparently blown through a good chunk of money on booze and blondes, and he wanted to figure out why. How. Alan lived a relatively monastic life most of the time, and liked to pride himself on his frugality. Part of him just didn’t believe he had actually gotten wasted on what had to have been the most expensive liquor on the menu.

“Sure, boss. I’ll do your job for you. This time.” Dale said. Then he hung up.

Alan sank down onto the bed. He rubbed one hand through his hair. He sighed. The silence of the room seemed deafening. He experienced the weight of his burdens as they pressed their immense weight down onto his shoulders in that moment. He felt alone.

Slowly, he returned his attention back to his phone. He reread the email that had triggered him not so long ago. The words remained the same. His credit card company still wanted to know: had Alan Grunke spent $814.32 at the Fun Lakes Casino? The harsh reality was that Alan Grunke didn’t really know the answer.

He tried to mentally retrace his steps from the following night. He vaguely remembered slumping into bed with his clothes on. The incisive night air howling as it hurled insults at any exposed skin had forced him to turn the heat on. He’d stumbled up, winding his way over to the display to dial up the warmth. He recalled meeting a gal at the bar, just after…

He laughed. Then he stood, getting up with a quick, jerky motion. He began to pace in small, tight lines, back and forth on the beige carpet. He jumped when the tree outside the window tapped the glass with one slender limb.

Scrolling through his phone with one slender finger, he found pictures from the previous night. He paused. After a moment of staring, he became aware that his mouth hung open. He closed it. It felt suddenly dry, even itchy, and he tried unsuccessfully to swallow. For some reason, at that exact moment, the fact that his mouth seemed desiccated angered him. He balled up one fist and marched towards the bathroom. Stuffing his head under the rusted faucet, he turned it on and gulped the fluid as it cascaded out.

“Shit!” he said. He reached up and touched his lips. He stared down at the water still flowing menacingly. Then, deliberately, he toggled the handle off. He smiled. He’d turned the hot water on by accident. “Guess I know the hot water heater works.” he said.

He saw the toilet and sat, feeling something heavy emerging from its cocoon in the forested lands of his soul, like some dark butterfly. He sat for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts. He noticed that there were damaged tiles on the floor, and idly wondered if the house had some unreported water damage. Finally, hands shaking, he returned to his phone.

There, in front of him, was Sharon Stone. Not the Sharon Stone. But a random girl from Nebraska who’d fallen in love with a stranger. A stranger who happened to be Alan Grunke.

Apparently, she had traveled all over, trying to find him. Over the course of several years, she’d gotten closer and closer, only to be thwarted at each turn as she sensed her mission nearing its completion. She’d been in Long Beach just this past May, as he and Dale packed up and prepared for their move to Klamath Falls. A co-worker at the NASA Office of Inspector General’s office had inadvertently told Sharon where to go next when she pretended to be Alan’s fiancé.

A churning sensation gnawed at his gut and disrupted his equilibrium. Alan scrolled through photos of Sharon and he dancing, singing, stumbling through an alley, vomiting, and…kissing.

Of all the things he saw, the thing that surprised him most was that latter fact.

“What…” he started thinking aloud, wiping his face and allowing the sentence to collapse into a fragmented silence. Instead of felling happy, even proud, Alan experienced a profound displeasure and sense of disbelief. He felt violated. Betrayed. And the person who had victimized him was…himself. Alan enjoyed a relatively comfortable, high-paying government job that he thoroughly enjoyed. He helped people. If some of those pictures of him, face slicked with sweat as he wiped vomit spackle of his grinning face in the sallow, jaundiced shadow of a streetlamp….if those got out and went viral, he could easily find he was expendable.

More importantly, he operated within the realm of science. Science connotes order. Helping maintain and restore order to a chaotic world proved highly satisfying to Alan.

Alan Grunke hated feeling out of control.

Being drunk and fornicating with strangers is the antithesis of being in control.

Moving through his text messages, he saw that Sharon and he had exchanged several text messages throughout the evening and early morning. Taking a deep breath, Alan began to compose a message that hurt. His eyes began to seem heavy and moist. His chest felt tight. But, still, he focused on the screen in front of him and the words his fingers conjured up seemingly of their own volition. He knew he needed to end this. But, did it have to be this hard?

His finger lingered on the small triangle that would deliver the message out into the ether and pierce the heart of his driven paramour. Finally, he hit send.

Almost immediately, his phone began ringing.

Alan stared down at his phone, mouth slack, his vision blurred by the saline moisture welling up in his eyes. He wanted to answer. Yet, the fear possessing him inflicted a mortal wound on the small part of him that threatened to defect to the forces of hope and possibility. The buzzing finally stopped. His screen returned to normal.

Sinking to the floor, Alan trembled. He wondered if he had made the right decision.

It wasn’t often that he experienced a lack of confidence. Or, at least, it wasn’t often he felt aware of such a blatant lack of trust in himself. Alan was aware his desire to control everything around him could be construed as a supreme paucity of self-respect. He just didn’t usually care to think about that.

His phone rang again. The sound made Alan jump. He glared at the device as he huddled there on the floor, knees to his chest, face and upper body clammy and red. He appeared almost vulture-like. Disregarding it, he collapsed into a mercurial silence. He was brooding.

Suddenly, the house shook. The dresser wobbled, swaying violently from side as to side. The tree outside the window jammed itself against the glass. Alan’s heart raced as he fell to the floor and instinctively covered his head. Even as the adrenaline inundated his veins and thoughts raced through his mind, he couldn’t help but idly wander in the midst of it all if the little red button had finally been pushed.

Everyone knew that asshole in the White House possessed a temper. A bully with a nuclear arsenal. A childish imposter playing cops and robbers with real people. A real recipe for success.

Things began to settle down, and Alan peered out from under his arm. He saw clothes and bedding piled in an odd arrangement, but, other than that, from his limited vantage point, things seemed relatively unscathed. Sitting up, his eyes felt heavy. He glanced around, a headache beginning to form behind his eyes, and saw that the dresser had fallen. The drawers that had been propped against the wall towards one corner were all over the room. One of his duffel bags had expurgated its contents and lay on the floor, one black flap laying limp as a dead slug on the carpet.

Steadying himself with one shaking arm, he stood. In a way, he wanted to be thankful for this welcome diversion. One can only take so much self-loathing.

He hobbled downstairs, holding on to the wooden railing because he couldn’t quite trust his strength at the moment. He felt weak and dizzy. His vision seemed a bit distorted. Something felt…off.

All of the many boxes littering his downstairs had disgorged their contents. Stuff lay everywhere in a chaotic display that could possibly be likened to abstract modern art. His red vacuum, without the hose, sat upside-down by the kitchen entryway. Photos of his family poked out from piles of storage. Alan bent down, groaning softly, and picked one of the photos up. Framed with a cheap brown plastic frame, the aged picture displayed a smiling twelve-year-old Alan. In the scene with him were his mom and dad. His dad rested one hand gently on his mother’s hip. His parents were not smiling.

              Alan ran his finger over the broken glass. His brow furrowed. He lingered on the somber expressions of his parents.

              He heard the dogs from next door begin to bark. The barks seemed loud, vicious even. Alan walked to the back patio window and looked outside. It seemed unusual for the Clark’s dogs to act like that. Of course, the neighborhood didn’t usually experience paroxysms mid-day, either.

              Nothing looked amiss. The wooden fence in his rented backyard seemed slanted and askew. But, other than that, all seemed well. Except for the dogs.

              Trying to ignore them, Alan returned his attention to assessing any damage to his stuff. He tried to remember what his insurance policies were, what they covered, all of that stuff. He’d been through an earthquake a few times, having lived in California for some time. Though he’d never experienced anything quite like this before.

             

Something made Alan look up. He glanced around, shaking his head and beginning to wonder if maybe he were finally losing his mind. “Sheesh.” he said. Then he heard a noise. He tilted his head and looked at the large window leading to the back deck. A small owl sat there, staring at him with its odd, disconcerting yellow eyes. Brown and white with spots on its head and an odd pattern on its belly, the beast appeared to be watching him intently.

Then, it flew away. The rapidity with which it moved startled Alan.

He got up and walked to the glass door, gazing into the distance that had swallowed this avian visitor. Growing pensive and introspective, Alan paced in a small, tight straight line. His hands locked behind his back, head tilted downward, eyes absent, Alan tried to think. He needed to focus.

He jumped. Blushing, he reached up as if to cover his lips. He trembled. The shriek that had escaped from somewhere primal and deep inside him still rang in his ears. Smiling, he glanced towards the deck again, fully expecting to see the owl again. Life in southern Oregon.

“What…” he said. Alan stood. He marched the few steps to the door and pulled the small wooden handle. The door made a slight swooshing sound as it opened.

He felt nauseated. A sense of disorientation overwhelmed his senses. His vision narrowed, and he felt wobbly. Reaching out, he braced himself against the glass door. With one hand, he tried to cover one ear.

A piercing, angry buzzing filled his brain. He could feel the ringing in his teeth. A headache erupted directly behind Alan’s eyes. Pain heckled him as it poked one belligerent finger into the delicate space at the bridge of his nose.

Then, just as suddenly and violently as it had ambushed him, the various sensations stopped.

Alan blinked. He looked around, his mouth slack and a thick pool of saliva glistening on his chin. Words tried to form themselves in his brain, but evaporated like spit on hot July asphalt. A burst of wind swept in and gave him a chill.

The one thing Alan was aware of was the sensation that he was being watched. A presence was there, and it wanted him to know it. Alan’s heart raced around turn 2, ready for the checkered flag. It didn’t help that he seemed paralyzed, rooted to the very spot where he dumbly stood.

Chapter 3

              He almost shit himself.

              A small creature awkwardly presented itself to him.

              Blueish and thin, with large black eyes that somehow seemed sad, the…thing walked on two comically skinny legs. The head was elongated, with slits above a small slash that may have been a mouth. It possessed gangly arms that seemed somehow awkward.

              [Please don’t hurt me.]

              Alan blinked repeatedly. His mouth felt dry. He felt feverish, despite the fall wind breezing by. He doubted he could hurt anything, at this point. His arms seemed to weigh a ton a piece. His legs were glued to the entryway. “Did…you…what…” Alan stuttered. “Fuck.” he said.

              [Is it okay…if I call you Alan?]

              Alan emitted a sound. It was the sound of a trapped predator. He knew. He knew that this was an alien. He also understood, perhaps intuited, that his entire world was about to change irrevocably. He cleared his throat. “Umm…what should I call you?”

              [Please help me.]

              Alan could not resist the urge to laugh. The sound escaped, and he reached out instinctively as if he could capture the mirth with his fists.

              His phone rang.

              Alan stared in the direction that the sound came from. Looking from the alien in his backyard to the vague outline of his phone, he tried to make the most minute of decisions. It seemed that every move, however slight, required extraordinary effort and came with dire implications. A strong desire to sleep feel on him.

              He plucked the device from his pocket and answered it. “Hello.” he said.

              “Alan, it’s Dale. I don’t know what you’re fuckin’ doin’, but you need to get down to our humble little office…NOW.” Alan’s assistant and friend said.

              “What…what’s going on?” he asked.

              “You mean you didn’t feel the tremors? Look, you need to skedaddle. I can fill you in when you get here.” Dale said. A television or something played loudly in the background, and Dale shouted in part to compete with whatever it was he had on.

              “I think you’re overreacting,”

              “Get your ass down here.” Dale interrupted. Then the line went dead.

              Alan stood there, staring at an alien as he tried to figure out what to do. Nothing could have prepared him for this. That fact, oddly enough, helped calm him.

              He fidgeted, moving his hands around in the air and on his face, as if some SoHo artist trying to decipher the layers of nuance in a surrealist painting. He waited, smirking, for someone to jump out from behind a corner and yell surprise. Alan felt compelled to keep it together by that thought. Though he intuited the self-deception. His rapid heartbeat attested to the fact he knew he was fucked.

              Nonetheless, Alan Grunke felt no choice but to indulge the naivety and optimism lurking there. He continued to smirk and glance around expectantly. He resisted the violent urge to surrender control of his emotions in the face of this…

              [Please help me.]

              Alan raised his hands to his ears. He clenched his jaw so tight, he felt a tear course down his cheek. He wanted to breathe, but seemed unable to because of the tension rooting him to where he stood, transfixed and rendered inchoate by the alien in his living room.

              Surrounded by boxes, the brick mantlepiece bare, he felt confined. Like a cornered animal. He wanted to escape. Needed to. But it wasn’t just the physical barriers, the clutter and debris stacked in flimsy boxes that collectively made him who he was. Some arcane force held him there. He could sense it, working behind the scenes in his overwhelmed cognitive sphere. The anonymous alien who’d seemingly stumbled into his life was somehow controlling his brain.

              He groaned. Sinking down into the only available chair, he tried to breathe and relax. He fought to think. Behind him, there was an alien. A strange and otherworldly being. And…it was in danger. Turning, he again confronted the entity with his gaze. This time, Alan appeared more confident. He took time to appraise the creature. Black eyes, vaguely almond-shaped, with a waxy, clear skin that had a vaguely blueish tint, as if it were hypoxic. A few organs’ silhouettes seemed slightly visible underneath the clammy surface. It had five finger-like appendages on each hand.

              Alan jumped. His phone rang again. He ignored it.

              “What do I call you?” he asked.

              [Will you help me?]

              “Yes, but I need to know your name. Please hurry.” Alan said.

              [You may call me whatever you like, Alan. I have many names.] it said.

              “Well,” Alan sighed. He felt at a loss for words. “Well, just stay here and try to hide…if anyone comes around.” he said. He shuddered. He didn’t want to think about anyone “coming around,” his home.

              Because no other words could summon themselves from the whispering cauldron of his besieged mind, he stood, walked to the door, grabbed his coat and left. He had a possible crash site to investigate.

              He raced to the new office in his old Volkswagen Rabbit. The air seemed cold and brisk, laced with negative nuances and filled with threats of an impending storm as he walked out the door.

              As he turned the corner, he almost wrecked. Jamming his foot on the brakes so hard, it nearly broke his foot, he held out one hand to brace his forward momentum towards the wheel and dashboard. His body jolted back. He tried to breathe, wheezing as he stared at the bumper in front of him. He found not one ounce of amusement at the sticker that read: “how’s my driving?” As Alan calmed down and regained some ability to focus, he saw that a long line of cars meandered off into the distance in front of him, snarling traffic.

              Alan’s phone began to vibrate. He fumbled around, shifting positions multiple times in a vain effort to retrieve the device before finally succeeding. He scrabbled about for a few seconds for his Bluetooth headset before finally surrendering. He pressed the button to put it on speaker, and did his best to keep one eye on the road. “What’s up?” he said.

              “WHAT’S UP?! WHAT’S UP?! My fuckin’ blood pressure. That’s what’s up. Where in the hell are you?” Dale shouted.

              Alan took a breath. He knew his co-worker was panicking. He couldn’t really blame him.

              “I am in a massive traffic jam on 97. I’m sorry, Dale.” Alan said. He silently cursed the small town. His bosses at the OIG had thought it would be a good site. Near an air base, it offered relative anonymity and lack of oversight, while being conveniently proximate to many of the nation’s UFO sightings. Of course, it only had two or three main roads, so when an ant farted, traffic could be eerily similar to what one could expect on any given weekday back in SoCal.

              “I’m going to have KPD dispatch someone out there to pick you up. We’’ figure out what to do with your rusty piece of shit car later. For now, just ditch it on the side, if the locals will let you.” Dale said.

              “Dale, I’m not leaving my car.” Alan responded.

              “Yes, yes, you are, boss. Shit is already hitting the proverbial fan.” Dale said. Then he did what he normally does in such instances: he hung up.

              Alan heard sirens in the distance. He looked up and noticed a faint blot of black on the horizon that indicated a helicopter. Sitting back, he rested his head against the cream-colored leather headrest and closed his eyes. He tried to think of a time when life were more simple. He drew a blank.

              Without opening his eyes, he opened his window, relishing the incisive whine of the bitter air as it swept in to cool him. He focused on the refreshing alpine aromas.

              A violent honk riled him from his reverie, and he put the old car into gear and crept forward a few feet before returning to the game of idling.

              Alan reached forward and searched through his glovebox and stash of CDs. He wanted to find a good audiobook or something, perhaps a Lawrence Sanders story. That McNally guy, boy, could he be a real hoot. Grunting, he slumped back and again closed his eyes. Life decreed that he not even be granted the merest, most simple of escapes. So, he would try to bear it. His mind flitted back to the surreal scenario he’d faced shortly before his departure. An alien was now in his home, presumably trying to avoid capture.

              Alan had to smile. He opened one eye for a second to scan the horizon, just to make sure he didn’t need to move or get ready to jump in a squad car. An alien. In his home.

              Alan worked for the NASA Office of Inspector General’s Office. In a very real sense, he was a cop. He possessed the power to arrest people. What Alan Grunke did was investigate UFO claims. The rationale behind this mission was that, as things like SETI had impacts on the agency and its employees, any claims needed to be looked into, to determine if they were fraudulent. Of course, what he really did was act as sort of a lesser-seen PR liaison, as well as a debunker. Very rarely did he ever even invoke a threat of arrest. Normally, he simply tracked military flight records and relayed data back to local reporters.

              But, he had an alien in his home.

              There was nothing to debunk. There was no fraud. A fucking extraterrestrial had spoken to him telepathically in his own living room.

              And, yet, he was about to be escorted by a fellow law enforcement official into town, so that he could go into his tiny office across from the historic brick courthouse and pretend aliens didn’t exist.

              Alan laughed when a thought struck him: no wonder he’d gotten drunk the night before.

              Drumming his fingers on the leather steering wheel cover, Alan pondered just what, exactly, he was doing. It seemed odd. Ironic. Piquant in an eerily pleasant way. A part of him had craved danger for some time. The rigid world that he existed in seemed oppressively sterile at times. Alan often wondered if he were the lifeform in the petri dish. But…harboring this…creature. That might be a bit more adventure than a Dartmouth grad playing cops and robbers could handle.

              It began to rain. A slight drizzle that pecked at the windshield intermittently. Just enough precipitation to remind you that you were in Oregon. The air became cooler suddenly. Reaching down, Alan cranked the window shut. He grunted. Leave it to the weather to break his reverie.

              Through the gray fog blanketing the small meandering highway currently jam-packed with cars, there emerged a set of brilliant flashing lights. Alan watched with an odd, surreal sense of detachment as the Klamath Falls Police Department squad car approached. He unbuckled himself. Reaching behind himself into the cluttered backseat, he retrieved a single notebook and a thin blank manila folder. Plucking his black cube-ish camera up by its long strap, he had time to sling it over his shoulder before the law was upon him. The sirens were so much louder up close. They pierced the shroud of rain and fog and woke him from the mental lassitude they normally engendered.

              “You Investigator Alan Grunke?” the local cop asked, tapping on the window with one gloved hand.  His voice sounded distorted through the glass. He wore a funny cap with fuzzy flaps over the ears. His red nose informed the careful observer that he possessed a very strong affinity for a certain beverage. Somehow, Alan expected the man to smell like stale cigarettes, false machismo, and overchewed spearmint gum.

              Alan gave one last look around the interior of his old vehicle, and then nodded. He tried to force a smile onto his face. Nodding as he cracked the window, he tried to smile. His throat seemed dry. He coughed into his fist, then cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m Alan Grunke.” He said.

              The officer chuckled. He waved one hand dismissively. “Then get the heck out o’ the car, Einstein. We need to get movin’.” The officer’s gold name badge read: P. Davis. His nav blue uniform shirt contained two yellow chevron patches on the side.

              Alan silently acknowledged the officer, and navigated his old vehicle off to the shoulder.

              His head down, Alan followed behind the law enforcement official, heart galloping in his chest. What was he supposed to do? What would he find? Wild speculation ran rampant through his frenzied brain as he bent down and maneuvered into the passenger-side seat. He looked over and opened his lips to ask if he could move the seat back, but then decided against it. When the cop removed his hat, he revealed a bald head that seemed to enhance his intimidating aura. Alan didn’t want to disturb the man.

              They headed down the highway, passing the seemingly endless procession of idling vehicles, mostly rusted trucks and S.U.V.s. A bright sign on the side of the road screamed that Ray’s Fuel Mart had the cheapest gas prices in on 97, GUARANTEED. Someone ran their hand out of their car window as the official duo passed, raising their bony middle finger and shouting into the wind. Alan heard officer P. Davis grunt. But they continued on.

              “Um, thanks for picking me up.” Alan said.

              Much as he didn’t want to talk, the silence in the small, humid space between them was exerting itself heavily, and Alan couldn’t stand it. Even though the police radio he wore crackled and came to life briefly intermittently, the ugly noise was not enough to slake his thirst for a distraction.

              Davis chuckled. He kept his eyes on the road, and remained quiet. He did, however, reach down with one hefty arm and flick the dial on the radio. The sound that emerged from the speakers was a blast of static, and both of them immediately covered their ears. The Klamath Falls cop almost swerved off into a drainage ditch. Alan quickly darted one hand out and shut the device off.

              They both breathed heavily as they tried to recover from this sudden assault on their tympanum.

              “What is goin’ on ‘round here?” Davis muttered. His hands clutched the steering wheel so tight, they had blanched and turned an unhealthy shade of pale.

              Alan adjusted himself in his seat. He glanced over at his interlocutor. “Did you hear anything about…a supposed crash?” he asked.

              The man worked his jaw. He began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. A low, humming sound emanated from him, despite the fact that his mouth formed a tight barrier against any fugitive words. After a long moment of tense silence, the man spoke. “You know, with Kingsley right here, we sometimes get weird complaints. We’ve had some strange things happen. Especially recently. But I’ve never known any of the pilots or anything to just up and crash.” Davis said.

              They took a sharp turn, and Alan was tossed in his seat. He grabbed his seatbelt with one hand and lost track of the conversation.

              Pulling up in front of the nondescript one-story building, Corporal P. Davis dropped Alan off without another word. When Alan looked, he saw that the officer hadn’t even turned to wave good bye.

              Sighing, Alan looked up at the gray sky and wondered what he’d gotten himself into. A master’s and a doctorate. An Ivy League kid. But here he was in a crappy government job stuck in the middle of nowhere, investigating the fucking alien that was currently doing God knows what in his own rented home. Then he did what any good bureaucrat does in difficult circumstances: he went into his office so he could take his stress out on the person under him.

              Dale was an anomaly. A large man who could easily appear fat, he wore his greasy brown hair in a mullet. He frequently wore 70’s-style polo shirts in odd colors, and almost always there were telltale stains related to his junk food addiction evident. His calves were bigger than most people’s arms, and they were covered in tattoos.

              He sat at his desk, back to the door, talking on the phone. Here, too, boxes rested in every available space, dominating the room.

              Alan liked Dale. They’d worked together for some time, probably at least two decades. They’d graduated academy and were trained together, and formed an unlikely bond almost from their introductions. Alan the New England cerebral type, Dale the… Dale defied typecasting. A former Army Green Beret, he now was a NASA space cop with no real power or authority. The pay was nice. But that was about it.

              Of course, Dale also knew thirteen languages and a stored a few silos of useless trivia answers in that Neanderthal skull of his. Which is probably why they got along so well.

              Alan jumped. Dale slammed the phone down onto the cheap metal desk. He stood swiftly, and turned. Almost immediately, the man’s temperament went from furious to happy. Dale smiled and rushed towards Alan, enveloping the lanky man despite his protests. Dale lifted Alan into the air and swung him around.

              “Boy, am I glad to see you, sir.” Dale said.

              Alan laughed. It felt good to be needed. “What’s going on?” he asked.

              “We need to head back out towards Shady Pine. Something crashed there by the Upper Klamath Lake, and…well, we might have a chance of recovering something.” Dale said.

              “Okay… can you give me a little more detail?” Alan asked. He lived near Shady Pine. “Shady Pine?” he asked.

              Dale raised one bushy eyebrow and retreated back to his desk, nabbing his leather jacket off the back of his metal chair. Then he was headed towards the exit, not bothering to pause and see if Alan would follow him along.

              Alan looked at the chair for a few moments. He wondered how a man the size of Dale could stand to sit in something so obviously uncomfortable, often for interminable periods. Shrugging, he followed the big guy out of the office, stopping only to make sure the door was locked before hurrying into the parking lot.

              “Maybe I can pick my car up on the way.” Alan said as he got in the truck. Dale liked to drive flashy new trucks, the bigger the better. He usually leased, but they’d gotten a nice bonus for relocating, and so the gruff ex-special ops man had purchased this one. A brand new limited-edition Dodge. Fire engine red paint sealed the deal.

              Dale chuckled. He put the vehicle into gear and began driving. “Maybe.” He finally answered. When Dale noted that Alan wasn’t talking, he looked over and saw his boss staring dumbly at the radio. “What’s up, Alan? You alright?” Dale asked.

              Alan looked at Dale, his eyes milky and distant. “Did you have any trouble tuning the radio? Alan asked.

              Dale shrugged. He reached out and rotated the dial. A deafening screech filled the air, and Dale quickly shut the radio off. They both sat for a moment, trying to get past the ringing in their ears. Finally, Dale broke the ice. “How did you know about that?” he asked.

              “When the local guy, Davis, when he brought me in from the highway, he tried to help me out and turn on some music or something. I think he could tell I was agitated by the quiet. Anyway, that happened.” Alan said, pointing in the general direction of the radio.

              “Weird.” Dale said.

              “So, tell me what happened. I need to know everything. After all, even though you hate to act like it, I am the boss.” Alan said.

              Again, Dale chuckled. He wiped at his face and cast one last suspicious glance at the dashboard, where the radio was. “Basically, there was a loud something or other over by the lake. Some people called, and then more people called. Anyway, the locals got overwhelmed, and someone knew we were in town, and gave us a buzz to try to get some of the callers off their back. Of course, there are A LOT of people claiming they saw some sort of strange craft hovering before the crash. Some people even captured some video…”

              Alan rubbed one temple as he leaned against the window. They drove past his rabbit, and he grunted but made no attempt to mention it. “It sounds like there is an and.” Alan said.

              “Oh, a big and. So, the news in Medford caught wind of this, and our friend from Washington, Mr. Harris also heard the breaking news. Medford is the hub for all the tv stations and such around these parts, if you didn’t know that.” Dale said.

              “I did know that, Dale. Thanks. So…what with the media? Did they call the office?” Alan asked.

              “Only a couple dozen times.” Dale said. Then he turned and smiled. “In the first ten minutes.” he finished. “Yeah, they called. And Congressman Harris is trying to get the best and the brightest from any federal agency that will listen on the scene as soon as he can summon them.”

              “Why would the radio signals be down, but not the cell towers’?” Alan wondered aloud.

              “That, my friend, is a great question. Unfortunately, we’re here.” Dale said.

Chapter 4

              Alan gazed out the window at the crowd of people. Abandoned cars littered the narrow, meandering highway. The lake dominated the horizon behind. Bathed in the surreal, garish glow of jaundiced lights, the people seemed like a mob. They weren’t shouting or even angry, but there was an underlying intensity, a certain buzz one could feel in their bones as they approached the scene.

              As he got closer, he noticed a large, black circle in the middle of the marshy area. Nothing remained in the circle, but the obsidian patch surely hinted at whatever had been there. An ugly smell, vaguely sulfurous, filled the air. The breeze that castigated them as it did its rounds was intense, and Alan wished he’d remembered to bring his coat. He looked over at his partner’s leather jacket with envy.

              No police tape or anything cordoned off the area. It did not appear to be a crime scene, and few cops were there. The ones that did show a presence in the area seemed more intent on helping with traffic and making sure people didn’t trample each other to death in an effort to gawk at the big black crater.

              “Well, nothing says we can’t get closer.” Alan said. He took a step, then paused. “Try to find some eyewitnesses. Gather as much testimony and evidence as you can. I’ll meet back with you in about an hour.” Alan said. Seeing Dale nod, Alan resumed his march towards the curious crater that had mysteriously appeared here in quiet southern Oregon.

              “It’s supposed to be the land of Bigfoot.” Alan said under his breath.

              His feet made a thick sqqqquish sound as he moved into the marshy madness. Somehow, whatever it was that had created this mess had burned wetlands. How does that happen? Even Alan felt it necessary to pause and ponder this.

              The fact that he didn’t have any of his normal tools made his job considerably more difficult. He walked around the large, oblong indentation, tracing his steps carefully. He calculated that, roughly, the oval-shaped area was 8000 square feet. Hesitating, he noticed that a number of people were watching him intently. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the circle.

              He almost fell over. Immediately, he felt dizzy. His hands trembled. It felt as if his entire body succumbed to dangerous paroxysms. He reached out to grab something to steady himself, but found only empty air. Stumbling backwards, he fell onto the ground.

              Within seconds, he heard footsteps, and Dale was there, face so close Alan could taste the man’s bad breath. Alan feebly waved the man away. “8…8…8000…feet.” he muttered.

Clucking his tongue, Alan reluctantly took the outstretched hand of his comrade, noting how large and hairy they were as he was heaved up to a standing position. Alan brushed the front side of his khaki pants idly as he tried to focus. He felt disturbed. Disoriented. As a man who’d gone through life priding himself on his mental acuity and ability to control himself, it was hard to grapple with the humbling reality that he might not be as smart or strong as he projected. Returning his gaze back to the crash site, he forced himself to look. To take in all of the details in excruciating detail.

As a child, Alan had frustrated his austere career academic parents often with is unusually keen knack for recall. He could look at a room or a scene, and remember every detail, sometimes even years later. They would try to play games with him, where he would try to find a missing appliance or omitted detail. But, he would always win. Alan grew up in a competitive home. His dear old mom and dad were not the type to go easy on a child. Not even their own flesh and blood.

This strange and, perhaps ironically, professionally useful gift only had one problem: fear. Alan possessed an even greater ability to disassociate and block out images or details that caused him anxiety. When he proved unbeatable at his parents’ games under normal circumstances, they began experimenting. It was objective. They recorded their findings in a dirty leather-bound ecru notebook, down in the jaundiced light offered by a single bulb in the basement.

Alan’s heart raced. His body felt hot. Beads of thick sweat, laced with the scent of fear, moved down his palms and ribs. He trembled. Alan jumped when he felt a hand come to rest on one shoulder. Swiveling, he saw Dale hop back and widen his eyes.

Blushing, Alan apologized.

“What’s wrong with you, dude?” Dale asked.

The trees, some of which still displayed the red and yellow leaves of fall, shivered as a cool breeze crept past, whispering as it did so. Alan looked blankly at the world around him. People milled around, and a helicopter droned in the distance. A stream somewhere close by babbled.

“I got really drunk last night.” Alan said. At least that was true. He felt dirty. He understood that his life was in the process of a radical change. One he could never recover from. The lies and treachery loomed there in the crystal ball. His heart felt heavy. He already possessed too many dark secrets.

Dale guffawed. Though tentative, he reached out and slapped Alan on the shoulder. The big man’s eyes shined. “You? Drunk? Why didn’t you invite me? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk, little Alan Grunke.” he said. “That’s so out of character, man. What’s up?” Dale changed his expression. He became concerned. Guarded. “Why now?” he asked.

Alan sighed. He moved one foot around in the swampy grass. He made a face and inspected the bottom of his brown shoe. He made a mental note to buy a few pairs of throw away shoes, and more foot coverings. “I forgot the booties.” Alan said. Normally, given the importance of preserving evidence, they would be wearing yellow plastic deals over their feet.

“Gloves, too.” Dale pointed out.

Alan fought hard not to fall down. He wanted to collapse into a fetal position and scream.

“Hey, man. You need to take a leave? I mean, we do have a lot going on. But, I can probably handle it, at least for a few days.” Dale said, his voice lowered.

Alan took a breath. “No. Not yet, anyway. If I keep forgetting protocol, maybe.” He said.

“So, hey…what’s the occasion? Why you a lush all of a sudden?” Dale asked, smirking.

Alan waved a hand dismissively. “We’re in fucking Klamath Falls, with a congressman on our asses and a new crash site that no one can explain.” he said.

Dale nodded, but he didn’t buy it. His eyes told the tale of his skepticism. But he let it go. He turned back to the black patch of burned earth. “How do you burn water?” he asked.

“I think they burn the marshes on purpose in Maryland. Prescribed burns. Helps preserve the ecosystems, or so the theory goes.” Alan said.

“How do you know this shit?” Dale asked. Then he chuckled. “And you still didn’t answer my question.”

Alan remained silent. He was steeling himself to confront the task at hand. He had to look. He had to remember what he saw.

Flashbacks of that basement, of him being helpless as he was poked and prodded…of watching his pet puppy, a birthday gift, being slowly dismembered and then eaten. He clenched his jaw. A solitary tear escaped one eye. Slowly, focusing on his breathing, Alan regained some level of control. He had to look.

Turning, Alan gazed at the black marsh. The lake was there, maybe 1000 feet beyond, sunlight dashing off its surface. Even this late in the year, it would be normal to see people on the water. But, today, the placid surface remained unmolested.

              “We didn’t bring a camera, either, did we?” he asked. He directed his words over his shoulder, to the large man standing behind him.

              “I have my phone.” Dale offered.

              Alan briefly considered that. He didn’t like it. But, it was probably the best they could do to salvage things at this point. “Okay.” he said. He held out one hand over his shoulder and felt the weight of the device as it was surrendered. Looking at it, Alan laughed. “You still have this old piece of crap?” he asked, turning slightly to share his amused expression with his partner. The man shrugged.

              Looking at his watch, Alan noted the time. He took a few moments to figure out how to use Dale’s phone, then began recording. “This is Alan Grunke, Special Agent In Charge, Klamath Falls Division, NASA Office of Inspector General.” It felt weird saying that. Klamath Falls Division. For so long, he had worked in Pasadena. But, those days were long gone. “With me is Dale Johnson, Agent, Klamath Falls, NASA OIG. It is September 26, 2018, and the time is… 12:09, local.”

              He gulped, then walked forward, one fist clenched to the point it hurt. Alan held the phone up and out, just in front of his head. He turned it back to face him when he spoke. “Initial observations by myself indicate the affected area is approximately 8000 square feet. The affected area has been burned badly, and the affected area appears uniformly burned.” Alan paused to consider that. Normally, heck, always, burn patterns would lead one to the origin of a fire or fires. Because fires gain and lose heat as they progress and decline. It would take a very hot source to burn even a small amount of marshland.

              “Um…no known victims have been reported. A number of civilians were present near the crash site when Agent Johnson and I arrived on the scene at approximately 11:50 local time. Highway 97 runs about 900 feet behind my current position, and around 1200 feet from the affected area. There is and was a small local law enforcement presence near the crash site, though the site and affected area itself has not been cordoned off or otherwise preserved. The law enforcement presence seems primarily concerned with managing traffic and ensuring the civilians’ safety from passing motorists.” Alan took a breath.

              “Agent Johnson and I, in our haste to arrive at the scene, did not bring any of the normal forensic tools for preserving evidence.” Alan wiped his head. He sighed. That line was hard. It still seemed to echo in his mind.

              “The affected area is near a sparsely populated residential area known as Shady Pines, a suburb of Klamath Falls. Umm…I currently reside in Shady Pines at 673189 Shady Pines Rd., 97601. The marsh is sometimes referred to as Hank’s Marsh.” Alan said.

              He fidgeted with the touchscreen and eventually succeeded in turning the camera off. Turning to Dale, Alan wondered aloud what they should do next. He knew, but he also didn’t. There was no real precedent for this sort of thing. Only one other time had Alan actually inspected a real crash site. Most of his job entailed tracing military flight paths, contacting reporters, and investigating stubborn people who identified themselves as witnesses or abductees. Flash a badge, mention the word fraud a few times, and people would grumble then quiet down.

              “Maybe we should call Devin.” Dale suggested.

              Alan frowned. Devin Jordan. Devin fucking Jordan.

              Devin acted as the Special Agent in Charge in Pasadena. In the relative small, nearly anonymous agency they worked for, Devin was the outlier. A bold man and former professional basketball player for the Orlando Magic, he thrived on cameras and attention. He’d already written six books and appeared on popular television shows about aliens. He also leeched the ideas and success of others. Alan possessed a brilliant mind, a wealth of experience, and a stellar background. Which is why he now was in Klamath Falls, Oregon.

              It was supposed to be a professional Siberia. Instead, it might turn out to be his key to revenge.

              To say Alan hated Devin Johnson might be an understatement.

              “This is certainly unusual. We’re probably going to need more hands on deck.” Alan thought out loud.

              Dale nodded.

              “Let’s wait a bit before we call him. You’re certified in arson investigations, right?” Alan asked.

              Dale thought about it. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

              Alan pounced. He got closer to his partner. “Pretty sure?” he asked, voice low and ominous, eyebrow raised. He shouldn’t have been able to intimidate a much larger, much tougher man like Dale, but the ploy worked. Dale backed up a step and looked away.

              “It might have lapsed. I did my training and hours in the Army. I was a mud puppy before I became a Green Beanie.” Dale said.

              “Mud puppy?” Alan asked. The eyebrow went up again, though this time, with less of an edge. Amusement and curiosity shone in his eyes, despite the circumstances.

              Dale smiled. “Sorry. MP. Anyway, is there a time limit on that shit? Do I have to renew certifications?” he asked.

              Alan shifted his feet. He looked up at the sky. Gray clouds began to bully the others out of their territory. He didn’t know the answer to that one. It irked him that he didn’t know. It annoyed him that he was annoyed. They average NASA OIG agent would never use arson investigation training, if they even had it all. Hell, they probably would never refer anyone for arrest, use their weapon, or otherwise put cuffs on a person. They were NASA cops, for crying out loud.

              “Let’s do it. I made the call, so if it comes back to haunt us, you’re clear.” Alan said. He was already turning to wade into the charred marsh when Dale stopped him.

              “You thinkin’ clearly? You sure you want to do that? I mean…I can get a nice security job in the Ukraine or something. Great money. I have a decent retirement, guaranteed. I don’t care if I have to take the heat on this one, boss.” Dale said.

              Alan paused. Then he smiled. “Just shut the fuck up and follow me. Let’s just not get caught, then we won’t have to worry about it.” he said. He knew Dale liked it when he cussed. Alan couldn’t understand why, but…he knew it worked.

              Alan couldn’t remember ever using vulgar language before meeting Dale.

              They walked back into the mysterious obsidian stain on the vast green ecosystem. Pretty soon, environmentalists would probably be down to protest. Protest what? Alan wondered. Things aren’t always rational in this world. Such as this strange Rorschach blot in the middle of nowhere.

              Alan felt the same initial sense of disrupted equilibrium, and he forced himself to stand, swaying slightly with the breeze, waiting out the nausea. Gradually, he felt stable, and took a slow visual survey of his surroundings. Everything still looked mostly the same. Dale stood close by. The big man was sweating despite the heat, and his pupils looked big. Dale breathed heavily.

              “You alright, man?” Alan said, trying to smirk and play things off. A real tough guy. But, they shared a glance. In that span of nanoseconds and silence, somehow they communicated to each other that they knew. They’d both felt it. They didn’t know what it was, but they’d felt it. And that scared the shit out of them.

              Alan felt vaguely reassured by this fact. He nodded. Looking away, he couldn’t help but think that if a former special ops soldier were frightened, then it was acceptable to experience that primal fear.

              “We need to get a hold…” Alan sensed another wave of nausea, and paused. He took a deep breath and looked at the obsidian earth. It still felt mushy underfoot, like many marshes do. But there was no mud, no water. Just bare, ashy scorched material. “We need to get a hold of one of those fire guys from Maryland. I think I remember them doing controlled burns out there in the marshes.” Alan said.

              Dale coughed into a fist. His eyes were now frantic, fervently moving from spot to spot in a restless manifestation of his anxiety. It seemed as if he sensed a predator lurking. Somewhere. Nearby, unseen, with its penetrating gaze insistently prodding them. “Why do we need to get a hold of some firefighter in Maryland?” Dale asked.

              “It would take a lot of heat to burn this much marshland.” Alan said. “A lot.” He repeated, quieter this time.

              They took a few more steps. The progress was impeded by the horrible sensations that rocked them intermittently. Alan began to experience tinnitus-like symptoms, a deep ringing in his ears. It was going to be a long day.

Chapter 5

              [You need to stop drinking, Alan.]

              Alan sat at the marble counter, staring out at the hummingbird feeder. The sky blushed and played coy with the lothario that was night. A few clouds lingered in the pastel-colored heavens. The view in this house was amazing.

              Alan reached over and grabbed another can of Two Towns Cider. He liked to start his evening drinking binge with ciders. They offered him the sanctity of delusion. He could almost trick himself into believing that, if he only got buzzed off of hard ciders in the beginning, that this didn’t make his descent into alcoholism any more imminent. He also drank ciders in the morning. The only way to get rid of his headaches was to consume more alcohol.

              “I can do what I want.” Alan grumbled.

              [Have you even eaten anything today?] the alien asked.

              Alan laughed. He swiveled, almost falling off of the brown wooden stool as he did so. “I still don’t even know your name.” he said. The words slipped out with all the sting of an accusation.

              [My people do not care so much for titles.] it said.

              “Well, we do.” Alan said. He took another swig. A bird flew by outside the window, landing on a thin grayish branch just outside the window.

              [Then call me Xenobia.] the creature finally said.

              Alan lapsed into silence, his eyes glazed and his manner doleful. Haunted. His shoulders hunched, his face transmogrified into a near-perpetual scowl, the man looked like the textbook definition of depression embodied in the flesh. He reached for another can of cider.

              “Ow!” he shrieked, jumping up and tossing the can aside, watching it with trepidation and confusion as it emitted a shrill sound and then burst, spraying sweet geysers of alcoholic blood. Alan shook his one hand limply, still feeling the tingle and burning that struck him when he touched the aluminum surface of his adult medication.

              [You have to stop drinking.] Xenobia said.                                             

              Alan got up, and for a second made as if he were going to approach the alien. Malevolent intent glowed hot in his eyes. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, standing in the middle of the hardwood floor, glaring at this unlikely creature he’d somehow ended up babysitting while it paused its jaunt through the galaxy. “Why?” he asked. Then he laughed. He began to pace, back and forth, in tight, angry lines. Back and forth, back and forth, the veins in his neck and temple bulging.

              “Why?” he asked again, this time louder. “Why should I stop drinking?” he asked. He pointed at the little blue alien. “And, better yet, why should I listen to you?” he asked. He began to pace again.

              Silence reigned for some time after that verbal sparring match. A tense silence laced with nasty nuances.

              Alan suddenly walked to the back porch, trying to open the door and failing at first. He made several attempts, straining harder with each effort. As he leaned against the brown wood-paneled wall, breathing heavily and trying to summon one ounce of whatever dignity he had remaining, the small stick keeping the door jammed caught his eye. He would have laughed under normal circumstances. Instead of chuckling, however, he ripped the slight obstruction from its secure location at the base of the door and launched it across the kitchen. He stormed out and angrily shut the door behind him.

              The crisp night air and hum of life felt refreshing. Alan inhaled, trying to get a hold of himself. He was a man who cherished control. Yet in this moment in time, he seemed to possess none. And what control he did have, over swatting the myriad mental mosquitoes with the numbing agent of alcohol, his newfound alien conspirator took away from him.

              He sensed it. Turning around, he saw it there. Xenobia offered a strange picture, standing there in the dim light cast by the living room lamp.

              [Come inside.] it said.

              Alan sighed. He cast one last glance back at the gorgeous sunset and the lake beyond, then returned inside.

              [What is bothering you?] Xenobia asked.

              Alan chuckled. He walked to his red leather recliner and collapsed. A rush of air and a creaking sound came from the chair. Wiping a hand over his face, he muttered incomprehensibly. He looked towards the kitchen and refrigerator. One hand jittered and drummed on the recliner’s arm. “What is bothering me?” he asked philosophically, head tilted up to stare at the ceiling, his mouth scoured into a pensive moue. Furrowed lines formed above on his forehead.

              He chuckled again.

              [Why are you laughing? Do you find my presence ironic? Am I what is bothering you?]

              Another chuckle. When Alan looked at Xenobia, his blue eyes shone like the Bay Bridge at night. “Of course you would know that, because you can read my fucking mind.” he said. He shrugged. The only thing he could do was laugh. “No, it’s not…just you. There’s… there’s a lot of pressure at work. Especially now.” he said.

              He put his weight on one arm as he started to get up, hoping to get another liquid ticket to destination: wasted. But Xenobia stopped him. When she reached out and touched him with her odd, blue hand, he started. Sweat began to appear on his upper lip and at his hairline, and he tensed up. Shrinking back into the chair, his eyes wide, Alan stared at the creature.

              Xenobia raised one hand to her face, and inspected it. Three fingers poked out from the blob-like hand. Each of the digits possessed crescent-shaped pads. Her skin was a waxy, mottled light blue, and Alan could see some of her internal organs. Slowly, she moved closer to him, and his ears began to ring. He felt the buzzing deep in his teeth. As the alien moved one finger over his jawline, he felt…fear.

              In truth, her tough felt like slithering through a cesspool during a hailstorm with snakes in your pants. Her hands were cold. Colder by far than the liquor hiding in the freezer. He longed for the absolution they could provide. Though in his heart, he understood they could only offer a distraction. Nothing could unfuck his mind permanently. Not after being mentally AND physically raped by this exotic space being.

              Alan gasped when she finally removed her hand from his face. He saw its sneer as it walked away towards the kitchen.

              He fought for breath as he tried to recover. His ears still rang. Though it had felt like an eternity, Alan knew that whatever disturbing interaction that had just occurred had only taken a few moments. But in the narrow space of mere seconds, macabre memories were forged externally.

              He licked his lips and turned to look longing towards his only haven left in the cruel world. He sank back in to the chair, feeling something heavy and hot pressing into his chest. The sensation of being poked repeatedly by a giant’s fat fingers in his sternum expanded to his sides. He wanted to move, to escape, but felt rooted to his spot. Paralyzed by fear, or perhaps some other nefarious force, Alan waited.

              He hated the fact he would take the drink he knew she would bring.

              He detested his abhorrent need.

              Alan flagellated himself for being too weak to resist it.

              When she returned, she seemed to be humming. The tune seemed familiar. High-pitched and rolling, it reminded Alan of a cartoon.

              He began to sweat again. His jaw felt tight His body felt hotter than bologna left all afternoon on the side of a car in the middle of July. It seemed hard to focus, because his vision blurred the images into a surrealist blob of amalgamated colors and the vaguest of silhouettes. The music echoed in his mind. The Valley of Dinosaurs. It was the theme song from a popular cartoon in the 70’s.

              [Deep in the heart of the Amazon…]

              Alan clapped his hands to his ears. Despite his disorientation, despite the proliferation of pain and agony poking at every cell of his being, the words slid easily through the veil of madness.

              The memories.

              Alan began to whimper as he fought the memories. They were too strong. They’d been hiding in dusty boxes, locked tight but not defeated, eagerly awaiting their chance to enact their revenge. Mired in malevolence and misanthropic malcontent, memories manically manifested themselves as if living wraiths playing in 3-D just behind his eyes.

              In the basement of his father’s house in Montpelier, Vermont, Alan had been sacrificed. He’d lost his soul there. They would take him there, pushing him in the back as he complained, making sure to have all entrances locked and blocked so he could not escape. The stairs were thin, rickety, rotten wooden slabs, and it was cool down there. The walls were stone. A certain unpleasant dampness permeated the air, attacking your nostrils almost as soon as the door opened. The stink itself seemed to possess its own vitality and lifeforce.

              Often, if he complied with their demands without too much protest and actively participated in their research, they would lug a television down so he could watch cartoons. He’d watched so many animated shows, often escaping into them with all the vigor of someone trying to escape trauma. As he grew older and more independent, the associated images cartoons triggered forced him to avoid them. Until now.

              Nothing functional existed in the basement. It became his parent’s secret laboratory to conduct horrid human experiments on their own son. Only a rusted metal chair, restraints, and a single light bulb resided in that foul and nefarious subterranean playground.

              Alan’s parents primarily experimented with his ability to remember. They wanted to know how people blocked traumatic incidents out. So, they exposed him to all manner of horrors. In the name of science.

              His puppy….

              Alan wept. He felt totally unaware of and detached from the disturbing creature and disconcerting reality in his living room. He was in a different time. He’d been transported back, to a place that existed in the shadows.

              The process of returning to reality was gradual. He noticed the memories fading. Slowly, he began to see his living room. The new one, still crowded by boxes, in Klamath Falls. The one where his alien friend was holding him hostage.

              He blinked. His brain felt muddled, as if he’d just awoken from a catatonic state. It was hard to look at Xenobia. The alien knew. It had raped his mind, watching the movies stored there with the foreigner’s fascination. In truth, Alan couldn’t be sure what it was, exactly, that kept his gaze away. Perhaps it was the sense of extreme violation. Or perhaps it was the shame.

              He’d been so helpless and vulnerable then. So out of control.

              [Alan, I know why you’re upset. I just want you to talk to me.] A pause followed, and Alan knew more was coming somehow. [I want you to trust me.]

              Forgetting the fear that dominated him, twisting his insides with burly boxer’s fists, Alan laughed. It seemed too ironic to not laugh at. The fugitive he was harboring, the alien who’d burgled his brain now sought trust. Rich.

              “Why?” Alan asked.

              It seemed like the only response his confused and tired psyche could muster under the circumstances.

              Alan got up, almost tripping because he’d forgotten to put the leg rest up before moving. Shaking his head and glowering at the furniture, he shoved it back into place with one foot. Then he retreated to the window. Barely visible in the darkness sat the lake, a mysterious body of water that offered stunning glimpses of the eternal when crowned by the sun. He needed to think. For the past few days, heck, ever since he’d moved here, he’d been scrambling to keep up. He hadn’t been thinking much, simply reacting. Often on impulse.

              “Why?” he repeated. He turned to face the creature. Something in his demeanor caught the creature’s attention, for it focused its large black eyes on him. Alan thought he saw fear.

              [What do you mean, Alan.]

              Alan took a breath. He returned to the water, looking outwards to fight the internal inundation that threatened his sanity. For several moments, the silence loitered like Alan’s creepy Uncle during the holidays. Finally, his calmness and confidence returned, even if only for a fragment of time. “Why do you want me to trust you? More importantly, why should I trust you?” he asked. He sighed. There was a certain tremulousness in his voice, a certain desperation he couldn’t avoid. The only thing Alan could do in the moment was to try to mitigate the risk. Perhaps he could even put the creature off balance.

              [I need your trust, Alan. You could turn me in. People saw the burned marsh. People know something weird happened.]

              Alan smiled. He pivoted swiftly and walked to the fireplace. He turned it on, hearing the click of the burners as they ignited. He watched the flames for several seconds, hearing their crackle and feeling the reassuring warmth. “It would be surprising if you didn’t already know that many people now believe a meth lab blew up out there.” Alan said. It was true. As Dale and he had been leaving the scene, thoroughly fatigued and disoriented by the strange and powerful effects of the crash site, they’d heard several state troopers joking about it. Once back at the office, a number of reporters had left messages following possible leads on a meth lab explosion. Someone from the Sheriff’s Office had also called, espousing a similar theory.

              So, Xenobia could probably walk out. Scot-free. No strings attached. Sayonara.

              But, she didn’t seem to want to.

              [Why would you think I know this?]

              Alan shook his head, glaring at the blue alien as he marched across the room. He felt safer when he was farther away from her, as if physical distance, even a few feet, could ameliorate the metaphysical powers the creature seemingly possessed. As he walked, he slipped. Falling, he reached one hand out awkwardly to try and catch his fall. But his weight landed fully on his wrist, and this only served to send a grenade into his nervous system, where it exploded. Wave after wave of pain stabbed him.

              Alan collapsed onto the cold floor, pressing his face against the cashew-colored panels as he fought to catch some air. Sticky, gelatinous alcohol still rested on the floor, and he’d just slipped. Xenobia rushed to him, and he stiffened. But she began to hum, and this time, the sounds calmed him. Alan relaxed. As much as a man with a possible broken wrist and being aided by an extraterrestrial can relax.

              Xenobia retreated, and Alan caught himself watching her go with some trepidation. The pain harpooning him a new time every second was too much for him to bear. Whether he trusted her or not, at this point, she was his only option.

              She. She.

              Alan, even amidst grueling physical pain and current circumstances, retained the intellectual capacity to notice the shift in language. Just one word, a pronoun, and his entire worldview could be altered.

              Soon enough, she returned, with ice, alcohol, and pain pills. He gladly used all three. Xenobia managed to tie the ice pack around his hand with medical tape, after she’d figured out the need to wrap the cold stuff in a hand towel.

              Returning to his chair, he had no choice. He couldn’t retreat or escape into the secrets of the shadows that swallowed the lake. He began to cry. Feeling hot and stuffy, he asked, voice quavering, if Xenobia could turn off the fireplace.

              Trying not to move his left arm, he stared at the ice pack awkwardly taped around his wrist. His mind was bereft of thought as he absorbed the pain, looking dumbly at the source. With his good hand, he drained the whiskey she’d poured in a gulp. He licked his lips and glanced at his alien friend. Taking the cue, if she needed one, Xenobia retrieved the glass and returned to the kitchen to fulfill her newfound role of enabler.

              The quiet struck him. Alan was dying inside, his body was broken, his mind felt warped, and he was harboring at the very least a material witness to the crash he was supposed to be investigating. But, yet, things were quiet. The ancients twinkling in the regal jewelry in the ebony midnight vastness didn’t give a single fuck about his problems. No one cared. And that exacerbated the hurt.

              Xenobia served him another round, Canadian Mist. Amber liquid rose to the brim of the stout glass, and not one ice cube disturbed it. Alan smiled, raised the glass and nodded towards her in a silent toast, and drank.

              “Though you were just lecturing me on why I need to stop drinking.” he said. He only slightly slurred his words.

              Water began to puddle underneath his arm. He cursed. When Xenobia ignored him, he shrugged and decided he didn’t want to care about a stain on his chair at the moment. He had bigger pigs to roast.

              His lip trembled, and the desire to unburden himself became too persistent to ignore. The release, the catharsis that this would offer seemed suddenly compelling. Casting a look at Xenobia, he couldn’t help but wonder if he were once again being mentally manipulated by the diminutive cyan creature lurking there. He cleared his throat. “A very important man,” he paused, smiling at himself and feeling silly. But, Xenobia had turned to face him, and her face seemed attentive and open. Her small mouth appeared to form a slight smile.

              Alan coughed into a fist, then reached for the glass of liquor. He grimaced when he realized no intoxicating elixir rested there. Taking a breath, his gaze tracing the ceiling above, he plunged forward. “A Congressman. Name is Paul Harris, if you care.” He shot the alien a look. “Anyway, this guy is a total hard ass. He doesn’t like my agency, and I don’t think he likes me.” Alan said. That last part got to him. For some reason, the fact that this man sought to undermine and defund his employer offered little relevance or concern to him. But, when it turned personal, that created a certain level of antipathy and anxiety he had not necessarily anticipated.

              “This…congressman.” Alan paused again. He stared at Xenobia, a mottled blue little extraterrestrial sitting somehow in HIS living room. “Are you familiar with the term? Where are you from? Do you have a government there?” he asked, rapid-fire.

              A palpable silence descended, hovering in the air between them for what seemed an interminable period. Xenobia could read his mind, but that privilege was not extended back to Alan. He wondered as he waited what it was she was thinking.

              [We come from…well, Crimea Al Petri. But my people live deep underground. Yes, there is a government, though there are those that sometimes…disagree with some of what they do. Or don’t do.]

              Crimea AL Petri? Crimea AL Petri?! Alan scrabbled through dusty file cabinets in his brain, trying to find an answer to the million-dollar question: where the fuck is Crimea Al Petri? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but all he could come up with at that precise moment was a mountain range in what might be the Ukraine. No one could really tell these days, exactly whom owned what in that region of the world.

              [That is the name we use. Historically, the name was much different. A Russian gave us that name for our planet.] Xenobia, though she spoke solely telepathically, somehow managed to convey through inflection how fatigued she felt in the moment.

              Alan took a moment to digest this. He blinked. He’d forgotten where he was in his own story, and he took a second to retrace his steps. He chuckled at his own ironic inability to recall. “I’m getting rusty.” He said under his breath. “Anyway, this congressman confronted me today. He really wanted to know about the suspicious crash that’s starting to get national news attention.” Alan said.

              [Why does this congressman care?] Xenobia asked.

              Alan couldn’t help it. He laughed.

              Struggling up, he wandered around the remaining boxes, navigating his way to the kitchen, where he poured himself another stiff drink. He leaned against a granite countertop and swiftly gulped a third of the tumbler. He looked at the bottle of Canadian Mist, frowning as he noted it was nearly empty. Good liquor was harder to come by in the rural regions of southern Oregon. You couldn’t even buy it bad, cheap spirits at the grocery stores.

              Returning to the main room of his newly acquired Dutch Colonial, Alan slumped into his chair and waited. He relished the moments of quiet. The offered him the illusion of control.

              [Why would a congressman care about a suspicious crash? Here?]

              Alan pondered the questioner more than the question. Part of him felt incredulous that anyone could be so senseless and naïve.

              “What kind of ship was it?” he asked.

              [We have small cylindrical crafts.] Xenobia said.

              “But, you said your group or whatever primarily lives undergound…” Alan responded.

              [Must one travel only by air?]

              Alan smiled. The alcohol flowed through him, and he felt normal again. If being numb was normal. To be honest, he was losing track of what the status quo was. When he was sober, he felt drunk. When he was drunk, he felt…comfortable. The banality struck him. No longer was he consumed by any shock at the sight of this otherworldly being. Instead, he held a dialogue with it, trying to learn its customs and culture.

              [Tell me more about this… congressman.]

              Alan sighed. Took another gulp. “We have two days. Two days.” he said.

              [Two days for what?] Xenobia asked.

              “Two days to find you.” Alan said.

Chapter 6

The deadline for a shutdown loomed.

Alan sat in his black leather executive chair in his small office, leaning back and looking at the courthouse across the street. Nothing about the building struck him as remarkable. A bit quaint, with its brick edifice nestled here in a village on the edge of forest-enshrouded farmlands. But, historic?

He sighed. Glancing over at the phone, he frowned. It wasn’t doing anything. No one called. Part of him anxiously sought a phone call, something, anything to take away the solitude and silence. When time offered itself to Alan Grunke, he lingered on how fucked he was. He felt alienated and alone in a sea fraught with predators.

Swiveling in the chair, he asked Alexa to play some Bon Jovi. Then he awakened the beasts hiding in their digital Urak-hai cave deep within the bowels of his computer. Groping for any opportunity, he wanted to learn more about this seemingly desolate wasteland where he’d been dumped. Conspiracy theories forged steel blades in his mind. A part of him wondered if this Klamath Falls had even been involved in any previous alien or other paranormal incidents.

He jumped.

Glaring at the door, his breathing heavy, he waited. Another knock broke through his fright and reverie. Alan took a few more moments, gathering himself. After the initial shock wore off, a smile broke across his face. He’d been scared by a knock at the damn door. What was happening to him?

“Come on in.” he said.

Dale wasted no time. He rushed in, an impatient but inquisitive frown etched into his face. He gripped a thin manila envelope in one hand.

“What’s up?” Alan asked.

Dale looked around, trying to find a place to sit. Seeing a folding chair propped against the wall in the corner, he grabbed it and sat. He sighed.

“There is absolutely no fucking trace of that crash site.” Dale said. The words emerged like a cautious alley cat. Dale did not meet his boss’ gaze.

“What do you mean?” Alan asked, genuinely confused.

“I went back, and there is no black spot. The marsh grasses are obviously shorter, but it’s only noticeable up close, if you’re looking. Better yet, the lab analyses come back…as if nothing were wrong. All we have are witnesses.” Dale said.

A perceptible pause stretched between them as they loitered on their own thoughts. Alan cleared his throat. “Something tells me you have more.” he said.

Dale chuckled. It was not a happy chuckle. He bounced one leg and seemed far away, immersed in thought.

Alan stood. As he did so, he finally caught his interlocutor’s eye. What he saw disturbed him. Scared him. Fear shone in the former Green Beret’s eyes. “Let me go get us something to drink. Okay? Care if I have a beer?” he asked.

“You’ve been drinking a lot lately.” Dale declared. The words seemed hollow, devoid of emotion.

Alan could only nod as he retreated.

When he returned, Dale remained immobile in the uncomfortable chair. His head down, the man appeared dejected, defeated. Circumstances did not impede this man. Alan liked and respected him for his ability to adapt to adversity. Dale possessed a sardonic, rough personality that he often brandished like the weapon it was. Yet, he held a subtle brilliance. On many occasions, Alan’s success could be solely attributed to this man. What he lacked in intelligence, he made up for with sheer persistence. More than once, people had likened the man to a fat, mean bird repeatedly slamming into a window.

Someone had even drawn up a funny cartoon of Dale in this form, posting it near the coffee maker in the Pasadena office.

Yet, here the fat, menacing bird was, stunned into submission, no longer willing to run into that glass window.

“What’s up?” Alan asked softly, returning to his desk. He reached across and placed a cold Samuel Adams on the corner. After a second, he plucked up a doily and slipped it under the beverage. He chuckled at himself, for having a fucking doily in his office.

Dale looked up at that.

“You know how hard it is to find Sam Adams here?” Alan asked.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Dale smiled. He cracked open the can.

“Hey, what say you we get our minds off…this, for a minute. We can come back to it. That okay?” Alan inquired. He watched his subordinate with careful interest. The man seemed to lighten up almost immediately at the suggestion.

They toasted.

“So, I was just about to look up some fun facts on this little town we’ve come to inhabit. Want to slip around here and investigate with me?” Alan asked.

Dale shrugged. He licked his lips. Bags pronounced themselves from under his tired eyes, puffy and the color of an eggplant. He got up and circled behind the desk. He didn’t forget the alcohol.

“Why is that important?” Dale managed to mutter. He smelled bad, as if he’d languished in the same stale clothes for a few days.

Alan wondered about himself, in that instant. He rebuked himself. How negligent and inattentive had he been, to not notice what surely had been the steady descent of his only trusted friend? His only professional ally? Not wanting to hint that he felt both pity and shame, Alan focused on distracting the other man from whatever it was that troubled him. He fired up the computer, navigated to Chrome, and started searching.

“I don’t really know. It probably isn’t. Obscure, esoteric information, however, seems to be the only commodity we deal in, here at the illustrious NASA Office of the Inspector General.” Alan said. Then he tilted his head, as if he’d just received an epiphany. “Though, a part of me did wonder if the town had been part of any…past UFO or other…unusual activity.” Alan noticed that this caught Dale’s interest. The man shifted, straightening up a bit. His eyes seemed to become clearer at the prospect.

After a short time, the duo discovered that the area had played host to a number of odd incidents. Just several months earlier, a report had been made with MUFON, and in 2015, a credible case had been filed. The area had long been a hotbed of Bigfoot sightings, as well. The Mutual UFO Network, while certainly not accepted by the mainstream scientific community, still retained more cachet and credibility than many of the other similar organizations. They took pains to thoroughly investigate those claims they deemed worthy. Alan had worked with members of MUFON on several occasions.

There could be a number of easy, convenient explanations, however. Klamath Falls was the home to the only active air base in Oregon, and had even been an important part of the national air defense system in World War 2. In 2018, it just served as the Air National Guard base, but it still possessed all of the normal military activity that is often mistaken for extraterrestrial activity.

“What do you think?”  Alan asked, after they had looked through several websites.

“I’d just like to think more about the people here.” Dale said.

Alan rose an eyebrow. He waited. He knew enough to know that now was when Dale would spill the corn chips.

“Man…, Alan, Boss…” Dale began. He looked down again. Whatever the thoughts scrambling his wires were, they obviously frightened him. Dale was sweating. “Most of the witnesses…all of a sudden, when I called them back, or tried to talk to them…they said they don’t remember anything. One guy…” Dale paused. A single tear actually escaped his eyes. “He told me that they had told him to shut up.”

Alan looked at Dale. Their eyes met. What Alan saw spooked him. He knew what was coming, just from that look. The truth was harsh. And ugly as sin.

“He’s dead now.” Dale said.

“How did he die?” Alan asked, his voice soft and sympathetic, light as a lullaby.

“Apparently some local cult tortured him and cut up his corpse.” Dale paused, moving his lips. “Except, the Sheriff’s Office and the K.F.P.D. ruled it was natural causes.” Dale suddenly slammed a fist onto the desk, nearly upending it. Alan jumped for the second time in the last hour. The violent sound reverberated through the slam room.

“How does someone end up in three barrels, due to natural causes?” Dale asked.

Alan remained silent. He couldn’t find an easy answer.

“Well, douchebag Douglas with K.F. said that these cult dudes probably tampered with a corpse, but that the incident happened on tribal land or some such horseshit, and that, even if he had wanted to prosecute for some low-level felony, the cult kids were loaded and he didn’t have jurisdiction, anyway.” Dale said.

Alan nodded. Not in agreement, but in appreciation of that stretch of logic. Horse shit, for sure. But credible, cleverly designed horse shit. Someone knew how to practice the ancient art of covering their ass.

“So, you’ve met Douglas. You’ve encountered a few of the locals. Does anyone around here strike you as the intellectual type? Hell, do people around here even strike you as the high school graduate type? I mean, they’re decent, honest, hard-working people, but…” Dale said, allowing the thought to trail off.

Alan knew what the man meant. The rural, agrarian town was populated by people that clung to their beliefs and customs. Nothing wrong about that, but the pace was slower, people waved at each other, and everyone talked about the same stuff every day over coffee at the diner.

“Okay…but, we still have the video? Audio?” Alan asked.

“No. No, boss. We don’t.” Dale said.

Alan blinked repeatedly. His body went stiff. What the fuck do you mean, we don’t have the video? he thought. His face felt flushed, and he looked into the reflection in the computer screen, and saw that he’d gone pale.

“All of the cameras I’ve had access to had some sort of issue. Some allegedly had wires cut,” Dale chuckled, though the sound possessed no mirth. “Of course there was a handy, convenient answer.” “Somehow.” he said, under his breath.

“What was it?” Alan asked, raising one eyebrow.

Dale blinked and looked up. His bloodshot eyes communicated the fatigue burdening him.

“The ‘handy, convenient answer.’” Alan said, motioning with one hand.

The chuckle again. “Apparently some kids have been vandalizing things.”

Dale suddenly got up, pacing in a tight line with his hands behind his back. The rapidity with which he stood startled Alan. “It’s like we’re in the fucking Twilight Zone, man.” he said. Dale possessed a voice and posture that proved intimidating. All of the intangibles of authority emanated from this fleshy, rotund creature. He exuded and personified the cop ethos.

“Who says we’re not?” Alan asked.

He flinched when Dale raced up to the desk and slammed his fists down. The loud report reverberated through the room. Alan’s ears began to ring. After a moment, the bellicose anger flowing in his veins subsided, and Dale began to breathe, looking away. “I’m sorry.” Dale said, while looking away. The big man wiped at his face. His entire upper body moved with the inhalation he took before turning back around.

Sniffling, the man apologized again.

“Sit. Sit.” Alan said, his voice breaking a bit. It hurt to see his friend this way. It also felt unsettling, unnerving in a profoundly troubling way he couldn’t quite describe. From a professional perspective, Dale cracking was very bad news. In their two-man office out on the edge of nowhere, Alan had been banking on Dale holding his shit together.

“Did you have any luck with the Spokane thing?” Alan asked.

Dale’s gaze traced invisible lines on the floor. Time stretched itself as Dale attempted to find his voice.

“Yes.” he said, finally.

Alan waited. But, the silence lingered like the bad aftertaste from sour juice. “Well, that’s good.” he finally said.

“Yeah.” Dale said. He switched positions in his seat, then looked up, directly into the eyes of his superior. “Don’t you think all of this is…weird?” he asked.

Alan glanced around, turning pale. The words held the sting of an accusation. “Of course, I do.” Alan said. He smiled uncomfortably.

“I just figured you’d be freaking out. No one… called you? Told you to shoo fly?” Dale asked.

“No! Of course not. And…” Alan sighed. He turned and looked out the window. “It’s been a rough few days at the office, huh?” he said. The statement was rhetorical, and all he heard was a chuckle in response. “It’s hard to say I’d just defy an order. You know me. I’m…not like you. But we respect each other because we’ve been through a lot together, and I’ve always had your back.” Alan swiveled around to face Dale again. “If they called me, I’d tell you.” He looked away. “If you wanted, I’d fight them on this.” Alan spoke those last words somberly, his voice quiet.

“So, what do we do?” Dale asked.

Alan laughed. He looked into his partner’s face earnestly. “I never had a clue. Been faking it this whole time.” He grabbed up the unused bottle of beer and took a swig. “You think they teach you how to chase aliens at Dartmouth? Did they have classes on E.T. in the Army?” Alan asked.

The sat in contemplative quiet then, each immersed in their own thoughts. Alan felt a pang of guilt. He was deceiving his friend and partner, if only by omission. But, a larger part of him experienced something he’d not felt for some time: genuine curiosity. Scaring or bribing an entire town into forgetting that a fucking spaceship landed there would take some organization. Farmers and ranchers don’t scare easily, and they don’t thirst for money like their pseudo-middle-class cohorts in the cities. Alan wondered what they had. What sort of leverage guarantees near complete stonewalling? It had to be mind-blowing, because the first, last, and only goal of some county cops is to fuck over the feds. Yet not one of them was so much as squeaking.

“I tell you what I’m going to do. We have, what, two more days? Until the big vote? I’m going to try to settle a few cases. Obviously, we won’t be getting anywhere with this crash thing in the next forty-eight. We have a media blackout, anyway, right?” Alan paused long enough to register Dale’s nod. “Okay. Let’s make ourselves ‘essential,’ shall we?” Alan said.

After a few minutes of discussion, they formed a rudimentary plan. Someone had seen something strange near Portland. A few people near Prineville, Oregon posted videos online of what they said were chemtrails, along with a pulsing light. And, even better, some college kid in Eugene had teamed up with an Asian friend who’d moved to Seattle, and they were hustling people in the name of 45’s Space Force. Dale could make an actual arrest for once. Alan wasn’t sure he’d want to be the boy on the other end of that one.

When Dale left, quietly shutting the oak door behind him, Alan reclined in his chair, eyes closed, thoughts collapsing on themselves as darkness reigned.

He woke up, his mouth dry, a treacly trickle of thick saliva formed at the right edge of his lips. The courthouse across the street was bathed in jaundiced light. The ebony sky above told the story of a lost day. Blinking, he got up. Or tried to. He staggered a bit, reaching out to grab onto the desk as he waited out the sense of disorientation. When he felt confident enough, he walked out into the office area. Dimmed lights and quiet met him.

Returning to his office, he opened the min fridge under his desk and found the bottle of Crown Royal he’d stashed in there. It wasn’t his first choice, but he couldn’t fit his Canadian Mist in there. He poured the liquid into a plastic Solo cup, all the way to the rim. Then he began to drink. He felt afraid to return home. But he also felt afraid in his own mind.

He didn’t hear it at first. His phone buzzed. Scrabbling to find it, patting his pants and looking around, muttering curses, he tried to follow the distinctive noise. “Aha!” he exclaimed, finding the device hidden under a pile of papers on the edge of his desk. He frowned when he saw who’d been calling him: Sharon.

Alan retreated back into his drink. He sat staring at the slim device. He’d bought the green protective case at the local mall. The sales guy had been an adolescent kid, his face pocked, with a massive, tumescent pimple reflecting light right beside his nose. Alan almost wanted to be that teenager.

He decided to call Sharon back.

It rang three times. Sweat slicked Alan’s hands. He walked in eccentric circles around the entire office, moving his mouth as if speaking the words forming in his heart. He thought about hanging up. He wondered what Xenobia would think. He imagined Sharon’s hurt feelings and her curt, retaliatory rejection.

“Hello?” she said, when she answered.

Alan felt weak. He needed to sit before his knees buckled. Plopping down at Dale’s desk, he tried to say something. His throat seemed constricted. A lump formed there, right behind his Adam’s apple. His body was tight. His mouth was dry.

“Hello?” This second time, Sharon’s voice came out plaintive, confused. From the sniffling on the other end, it seemed as if she’d been crying.

“Hi.” Alan said. He smiled. He couldn’t remember ever being so happy about forming words.

“Alan?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s me.” he answered.

“Umm…well…hi.” she said.

Alan tugged at the neck of his shirt. A smile spread across his face, despite the circumstances. It was almost as if the woman’s voice were music. A warm melody that transported him home. “You just called me.” he said.

“And you didn’t answer.” Sharon said. There was a hint of hurt evident in her voice.

“Well, I called you back.”

“Are you okay?” Sharon asked.

Alan leaned back in the metal chair, raising the front two legs off the carpeted floor. The indelible image of his third-grade teacher shouting forced him to giggle. She’d seemingly held one passion in life: making sure little boys never leaned back in their seats. The query from Sharon seemed so odd and out of place. But…there was a certain intuitiveness to it. The fact was, Alan Grunke was most definitely NOT okay. And he really, really wanted, hell, NEEDED to tell someone that.

“No, Sharon. I’m not.” he whispered.

A pause ensued. Sharon didn’t hang up, but she waited. Her breathing carried over from the other end. Alan could picture her, and he suddenly wanted her. He wanted her touch, her passion, her compassion, her warmth. He wanted to crawl into her arms and escape the cruel world.

“You want to meet? We can rent a house on the beach. We’d be on the precipice of the world, not even a cell signal, in maybe three hours.” she finally said.

“I have so much work to do.” Alan protested.

“No. You need this. Come on.” Sharon persisted.

After some back and forth, Alan agreed to travel to the beach with a stranger who’d essentially acknowledged she’d been stalking him for years. A stranger he’d fucked after meeting her in a bar. When he hung up, he felt the first moment of release in some time. A pressure seemed to be lifted from his chest. He found himself smiling, and even wanting to laugh. He walked into his office and didn’t even notice the red ridged cup still half full of liquor.

He called his partner on the way to the car. Pausing to reflect on the bright stars dancing on the eternal stage above, Alan wanted to believe that whatever was out there was good. Alan needed to think that the universe harbored an inherent goodness. He’d seen too much evil. His only hope lay in those stars being a little something more than mere specks of exploding gases.

“Yeah.” Dale said when he eventually answered. His voice sounded groggy, heavy.

“Say, sorry to spring this on you, brother, but I’m giving you the option. You can take a few off, paid, while we wait out whatever the dork silos in Washington say. Or, you can work without me for a few days.” Alan said.

“Wait, what?” Dale asked.

“I said,”

“Dork silos?” Dale interrupted, chuckling.

“Yeah. Dork silos.” Alan said. He couldn’t help but smile. The man just wakes up, receives a strange phone call from his boss telling him he can take a free pass from work, and all he can think of is the unusual pejorative.

“You know that dork actually doesn’t mean whale penis.” Dale said.

“You know, I didn’t say it did.” Alan responded, now joining in the fun. It felt good, to laugh. A breeze whispered to him as it sashayed past, flirty and fragrant with the musk of an autumn night. “But, here’s something you may not have known. I once got reprimanded in class, tenth grade, I think, for telling someone to suck a silo of whale dicks.” Alan said.

The other man laughed so hard, Alan had to tear his phone away from his ear. He cast a glance at the device as he waited for the other’s mirth to subside.

“So, wh…what’s the deal? Why are you takin’ off?” Dale asked.

“This…this case, it’s bothering me. I need some time to think, you know?” Alan asked.

After a beat: “Yeah. I do.”

“Alright, my friend. I’ll see you soon.” Alan said, then hung up.

Chapter 7

              Sharon Stone drove a Jaguar.

              The roof jutted up out of the small thing. Headlights protruding from the front looked like strange bug eyes. But the leather seat was comfortable, and the interior smelled good. Alan sat in the passenger seat and allowed her to complete control. He fell asleep almost as soon as she put the car in gear and started down the road.

              He awoke when the car stopped. Bright lights blinded him, and his heart began to race. He shielded his eyes and almost cried out, but stopped himself when he realized he wasn’t being attacked by extra-terrestrials, but instead was at a gas station. Looking over, he saw that Sharon was gone. The keys dangled from the ignition, and an emaciated guy with sallow skin and a perpetual sneer stood at the rear of the vehicle, casually watching the numbers move on the gas pump. When the machine clicked and vibrated, he removed the nozzle then walked away.

              Catching a flash of movement in the rearview, Alan looked and saw Sharon emerge from the store, a bag of chips in one hand. Relief spread through him.

              She threw the salty snack into his lap as she entered the car. Checking herself for a brief second in the mirror, she started the old Jag up without a word and headed back out onto the empty highway. Uninterrupted darkness blanketed the horizon. On both sides, Alan could glimpse nothing more than an occasional glint of light or the faint silhouette of a fence post. The breeze whistling in through the cracked window made the car chilly.

              “Can I roll the window up?” Alan asked, shivering.

              “Of course.” Sharon said. She didn’t take her eyes off of the road.

              “Umm…how?” Alan asked. He hadn’t been in a car without power windows for a while. He smiled awkwardly and pressed a fist against one eye, wiping the crust away.

              The packaging made an annoying crinkling noise as Alan opened his bag of chips. Could’ve brought some liquor, he thought wryly as he munched.

              “So, where are we going?” Alan asked. The words came out a bit garbled, and flecks of moist, partly digested potato chip flew out of his lips as he spoke.

              Sharon looked over at him. A smile spread across her lips. Something vaguely attractive shined in her emerald eyes. “You are a mess.” she said. Despite the words, the tone was not accusatory. Just a simple statement of fact. Turning her attention back to the dark road unfolding before them, she tapped her fingers on the wheel and hummed.

              “So, yeah…where were we going again?” Alan asked. This time he made sure to swallow before letting words escape his lips.

              Sharon laughed. Her laugh sounded like what an angel’s wings would feel like. Soft and magical. “Port Orford.” she said.

              Alan twisted in his seat, straining against the belt. For a moment, he wanted to panic. He felt a violent, obscene urge to shout. It was only after a long pause that he collected himself enough to avoid those repugnant desires. A part of him wondered, even as he spoke, how long he’d be able to maintain the composure and self-awareness to take a breath before he screamed. “Sharon…” he paused again. He wanted to make sure he spoke slowly. “Sharon, where is Port Orford? And why are we going there?” he asked.

              Sharon stopped the car so suddenly, they both jerked back in their seats. Alan’s cranium bounced against the extended headrest. His vision blurred and his heart rate again tried to turn on its rocket boosters.

              But, somehow, the thin little woman remained calm. The middle of nowhere, at night, and she was pacific as a summer breeze. “Port Orford is a small town in Southern Oregon. Have you heard of Coos Bay? Bandon?” she asked.

              Alan blinked. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, BITCH? He wanted to shout. Pejoratives and obloquies danced on the tip of his tongue. He tried to breathe, but his chest felt tight. He was hot. He simply closed his eyes and waited. Gradually, the anxiety and anger subsided.

              “I think I’ve heard of Bandon. I’m…I grew up in New England. I lived in SoCal for several years. This….is my first time in Oregon.” Alan said.

              Sharon nodded. “I always wondered why and how you’d managed to avoid this state. So many UFO sightings and Bigfoot claims.” she said.

              Alan grunted. Looked out the window. Yep. They were still stopped on the side of some winding rural highway. “Strictly speaking, Bigfoot isn’t in the purview of my office. NASA, remember?” he said, his voice low. After the words registered, he chuckled a bit. “How long have you been following me?” he asked. Then he laughed again. “Is it ironic that I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with my stalker?” he asked.

              Sharon took no offense to the term. “Maybe when we get there, we’ll talk about what it is you really do.” she said.

              “Get where, Sharon?” he asked. He wiped a hand over his face. “You’ve read all my books and tracked me nearly halfway across the country. But, if you don’t know, by all means, ask.” he said.

              Sharon started the car back up and merged back onto the single-lane highway. “Your books never really told me about you” she said.

              Alan pondered that in silence, just happy to be back on the road. Perhaps there was some truth to the statement.

              “So, Port Orford. We get a house there?” Alan asked, after staring out the window into a dense ball of eternal blackness became overwhelmingly boring. When she nodded, he moved on to the next query. “How do you pay for all this stuff?” he asked.

              “My dad died in some sort of work accident when I was very young. My mom got the settlement, but started mainlining meth, and eventually had her brains blown out. Police said it was suicide. They threatened to come after me if I tried to have the case re-opened. You know, since family is almost always blamed in those cases. Anyway, I inherited a few hundred grand. My weird Aunt took me, and, thankfully, no one ever told her about anything, so most of that money was able to sit in a trust for over a decade, earning interest.” She turned and looked at Alan, smiling. “I actually own a halfway house in Omaha, as well as around a dozen other businesses.” she said.

              “And in your free time, with all that, you followed me.” Alan muttered.

              “And be glad that I did, mister. Have you ever even been laid before?” she asked.

              Alan tensed up. “Of course I have!” He refused to meet her gaze.

              “Okay. Okay. I just would expect a non-virgin to…know a little more about…well, you know.”

              “II’ll get out of this damned car right now.” Alan said. But then he sank bank into his seat. He didn’t know which was worse. The fact of his inexperience being called out, or the fact that he had nowhere to hide. “You seemed to think it was good.” he muttered.

              Sharon laughed. “You boys.” She reached over and touched Alan’s hand. He tried to pull away, but there was something delicate in her touch. Something tender. Alan needed that right now.

              “What’s got you so bothered lately?” she asked.

              “Huh?” Alan couldn’t keep up with all the sudden switches and shifts in the conversation.

              “Why are you becoming an alcoholic? Why did you return my call? Why did you so easily agree to give up work so you could travel alone with a stalker?” Sharon asked.

              “You are fucking weird.” Alan said. He sat up in his seat.

              “If I tell you something, you can’t tell anyone.” he said. He inhaled sharply through his mouth. “Umm…so, I’m not sure, but if you were to tell anyone, we both might be in considerable danger.” He frowned. “Even if you think it. Even if I think it. Fuck.” he said, sotto voce.

              Sharon patiently waited. A few headlights appeared, flashing past as they penetrated the shroud of obsidian blackness.

              “I have an alien in my house. The alien that apparently came from that craft that crashed.” Alan said.

              Sharon nodded. She seemed unperturbed. Alan almost wanted something, anything to pierce her calm exterior. How could someone be so damn serene.

              “I said I have an alien in my house.” he repeated.

              Sharon laughed. “I heard you.”

              “Okayyyyy….” Alan furrowed his brow and tried to get the woman to look at him. “Do you believe me?” he asked. There was pleading in his voice. And he felt ashamed.

              “Of course, I do. I kind of expected something like that.” Sharon said. “Let me ask you something. Be honest. Have you ever had contact before this?” she asked.

              Alan sighed. He closed his eyes. He wanted desperately to pretend that none of this had happened. He desired to return to his decent, repetitive government job where he pretended to be a cop. He thrived on order, control. But ever since he’d moved to Klamath Falls, he’d lost all semblance of control.

              “We’ll talk later.” he said. And then he pretended to fall asleep. Eventually, the steady monotony and drone of the vehicle, coupled with his fatigue, lulled him into a fitful slumber.

              He flailed when something shook him. Drool pooled at one corner of his mouth, his hair looked crazy and disheveled, and his eyes held the panicked fervor of the cornered zealot. Sharon stood there, leaning into the car, waiting out the waves of horror wreaking havoc on Alan’s psyche. Finally, he reached down, unbuckled, and stumbled out of the car.

              Spread out before him was a beautiful scene. The cerulean sea stretched itself out like a long feline after a nap. Gentle waves splashed against gargantuan rocks. A pinkish foam slid across the soft, undisturbed sand. Seabirds soared through the heavens and bickered on far-off granite islands.

              “Is that a whale?” Alan asked. He couldn’t conceal the excitement bubbling inside.

              Sharon opened the back door of the Jag and extracted a pair of binoculars. Peering out into the vast and unknowable abyss, she studied the horizon for a few seconds. Then she clucked her tongue and silently handed the bulky black vision enhancers to Alan. Alan could only stare into the viewfinder. “Wow.” he said.

              The car sat parked in the small gravel driveway of a ranch house. The cream-colored paint and large windows seemed to invite one inside. Trees shielding the home from the highway. A small, somewhat wild yard full of competing weeds, shrubs, and plants led to a steep hill. And there, on the side of that decline, sat a rickety wooden fence. A sign nailed to a nearby tree warned that beach access was at the guest’s risk only.

              “This place…is awesome.” Alan said. He felt the warmth of the sunshine and heard the loud, reverberating refrains of the sea, and experienced a moment of respite. Something about the air and solitude offered him a sensation of peace.

              “Wait until you see the inside.” Sharon said.

              Grabbing a bag from the vehicle, Alan followed his stalker inside.

              The spacious, wood-paneled interior exuded comfort. Two large windows dominated one side of the capacious living room, and looked out onto a near-perfect view of the ocean. A wooden desk was attached, and Alan saw a hot tub there.

              Despite the wonderful atmosphere and release, Alan realized his hands were trembling and his head hurt. The newly acquired thirst for the burning elixir scratched its ugly nails on his mind’s chalkboard, and he could only think of how much he needed a drink. “There a store nearby?” he asked. He reached out, steadying himself as he slowly sat on the long white couch. It seemed to swallow him up perfectly, and he couldn’t help but sigh.

              “Don’t worry. You need a beer?” Sharon asked.

              Alan looked at her. Really studied her, then. He wondered if perhaps she, too, were an alien. Because she seemed so foreign and exotic to everything he had ever known. Sharon possessed patience, charisma, intelligence, compassion…and bravery. She sensed his needs and provided for them before he even knew they were there.

              “Yeah. I could use one.” he said. He watched as she unzipped a blue duffel bag and pulled out a six-pack. She tossed a can to him. He caught it and opened it, sipping with all the eagerness of a Black Friday shopper. Yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

              Such great tits. Fat and proud, they pressed against her shirt. Part of it was her posture. She didn’t slouch. But, she was so skinny. He felt himself growing aroused.

              “Did you ever work on farms?” he asked.

              The question caught her off guard. She shifted positions and leaned against the kitchen counter, where she’d been stacking some groceries. That didn’t help with Alan’s…issue. “Yeah. I grew up in Nebraska. Duh.” She said. Then she threw her head back and laughed. But, god if that laugh weren’t infectious.

              “You…have great posture.” Alan said. “Only reason I mentioned it.” he said.

              She turned and looked at him. She nibbled on her lower lip and locked onto his gaze. She smiled. “Makes my boobies look bigger, huh?” she asked.

              Alan giggled. He couldn’t help it. He felt nervous and excited, but the word boobies escaping her lips also seemed funny.

              “I really wasn’t a virgin. Close, though.” He said. He gulped. His mouth felt dry. He took another slug of Budweiser. He grimaced. He almost chastised her for grabbing that swill, but thought better of it. Sharon Stone looked like she was about to suck his dick. Even Alan knew a petty argument might make that less of a possibility.

              She walked towards him. “I don’t care, Alan Grunke. I never cared.” She put a finger to his lips. “Forget the past. Live in the moment.” She whispered. She reached down and caressed the front of his pants. “Oooh.” she said.

              And then she did fellate him.

              When they were done, and Sharon stood in the kitchen, topless except for an apron, humming happily as she cut vegetables, Alan couldn’t help but feel a surreal sense of disrupted equilibrium. Where the fuck am I? he thought. But he occupied most of his senses with the task of helping prepare their meal. While she chopped, fragrant and happy as a bibliophile in a bookstore, he put steaks on the small grill on the deck. He stood just outside, with a clear view of the ocean on one end, and a view of a beautiful woman that somehow adored him on the other.

              He realized after some time, as rote monotony slithered back that he’d forgotten his job. Somehow, he’d completely forgotten that a fucking extraterrestrial, telepathic creature was right now in his home.

              He laughed when he had an epiphany: he didn’t even care. He probably would soon, but right then, refreshed and rejuvenated by the hiatus from reality, he just didn’t give a shit. The euphoria he experienced was too good to sacrifice at the altar of anxiety.

              Setting the long wooden dining table, he poured himself a glass of red wine. Sipping it, he admired Sharon as she washed the dishes. Somehow, their connection seemed organic. She had rescued him. He couldn’t deny it. Mired in bureaucracy and angst, and a schizophrenic incipient relationship with a little blue alien, he’d been drowning in the morass. It took an escape to begin seeing clearly. Somehow, she understood that better than he had.

              When she turned, hands glistening and wrinkled, she smiled self-consciously. “What?” she asked, her voice a bit high-pitched.

              “Thank you.” Alan said.

              Sharon turned away and began wiping the counter she’d already cleaned. “For what?”

              Alan laughed. “For stalking me.” he said.

              They ate. Steamed broccoli, mashed potatoes, steak, and a bizarre-but-beautiful salad. Alan couldn’t name half of the produce sacrificed to make the edible arrangement, but after one tentative bite, he couldn’t help wondering why names mattered. The viands were artists, and they painted the Mona Lisa on his taste buds with each fresh serving.

              “This is really good.” he said.

              Sharon blushed. “The steak isn’t bad, either.” she said.

              Looking at her, Alan felt a sudden sense of shame. Mixed in with that was a protective urge. He felt ashamed because he didn’t deserve her. He wanted to protect her because she embodied all that was good in the world.

              “Tell me again how you found me. What made me fascinated with me?” Alan asked. Even though the woman offered a bright moment in a dark period, he still couldn’t shake the reality that the woman had devoted so much time and energy into not only finding him, but seducing him. She obviously didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. Sharon Stone, despite not being the famous actress, was rich, smart, witty as hell, and independent. Even if she weren’t gorgeous, she could find a fuck boy in any bar anywhere, anytime.

              She stopped eating. Looking at some spot in the far-away ether, she measured her words. “Do you remember your first book?” she asked.

              Alan chuckled. “Guardians of the Gates?” he asked. He remembered it fondly. Back when he’d just started working for OIG, he’d been full of vim and vigor. He’d spent almost all of his sparse free time crouched over his desktop, typing in the sallow light cast by a crappy lamp he’d picked up at Wal-Mart or some such place. It wasn’t until he spent almost five years, thousands of dollars, and most of his emotional reserves that he realized being an obscure NASA cop was loads easier than being an author.

              He smiled. “When I got a call, pretty much out of the blue, from this weird guy claiming to be an agent, I almost hung up. It hurt…” Alan had to pause. He might cry if he dwelled on the memory too much. “It hurt, to even think about the stuff I’d written. I’d largely given up hope. Honestly. And it just…it seemed way too good to be true.” he said.

              “But, you took the call?” Sharon asked.

              Alan nodded. He sipped more wine. “Gus Booker. He still is an eccentric old man, but he really did well by me. I don’t think he ever sold anything else, other than my stuff.” Alan said. He made a mental note to call Gus.

              “Well, Guardians is what…did me in.” Sharon said.

              Alan waited, but she didn’t elaborate. “Go on.” he said.

              Tears began to stumble out of her eyes and down her cheek. Alan fought the urge to get up, to go to her and wipe those saline drops away. “I grew up…without a father. My mom…she loved me, but she…loved meth more. I thought I was going to die in Wayne, Nebraska.” she said. “Have you ever heard of Wayne, Nebraska?” she asked. The words came out laced with anger.

              Alan confessed he had not.

              She laughed at that. “Of course, you haven’t. No one has. Anyone that’s heard of Wayne only wants one thing: to forget Wayne.” She sniffled. “We didn’t even have a Wal-Mart.”

              Collecting herself, Sharon wiped her face with a napkin. “I needed to believe in something. I wanted to escape. I could go to church, but all I saw at the churches were tired old hags who bickered over nothing and cheated on their husbands, got drunk, and tried to shove piety down the throats of others. The preachers were basically thieves. My daddy died working, and most of his wages went to helping those bastards act like their shit didn’t stink.” she said.

              “You gave me hope. You gave me something to believe in.” she said.

              The heaviness of the words hung in the air for some time, and they ate in silence.

              “When did you start looking for me?” Alan asked.

              “About ten years ago, I guess. I don’t know. I never really was looking, I guess. You know? Because I knew you were in Pasadena.” She looked up, fork in hand, thinking. “I guess I was scared.” she said.

              “But…you wrote me?” Alan asked.

              “Yeah. Of course. I sent out probably a letter a week. At least. The only addresses I could find early on were in the back of the book. I wrote that P.O. Box, wrote the publisher, and eventually wrote NASA.” Sharon said.

              Alan laughed. No one had ever bothered to tell him. Sitting here, enjoying supper with this complex woman, he felt glad they hadn’t.

              “You seem to know a lot about Oregon. Can you tell me more? You could say it’s relevant to my job.” Alan said. The fact that he had a job didn’t invoke an immediate adverse reaction any more. That seemed like a good sign.

              “What do you want to know? It’s a big state.” she said. “I also haven’t been here long. Most of what I know is from the internet.”

              Alan laughed. Her honesty was yet another of her compelling traits. “There is a good astrology lab at Oregon State. I’ve meet a number of people who went to school there. I think Michelle Obama went there, too. I know the Oregon…Ducks?” he saw Sharon nod. “The Ducks are supposed to be good in sports. Not that I pay much attention to sports.” he said, laughing. “I saw one episode of Portlandia.” Alan confessed.

              “None of that answers my question.” Sharon pointed out.

              “What’s Eugene like? I heard a lot of people in town talking about taking trips up there, to visit their kids or whatever.” Alan said.

              Sharon thought about it. “It’s a fun little city. Very artistic. We should go sometime.” she said.

              Alan picked up on the pronoun. We.

              “Okay.” Alan said. Other responses evaded him.

              “There are a lot of…homeless people. Especially downtown. And downtown is where a lot of stuff is. Nice hotels, great restaurants, and people raving and sleeping on bulging trash bags, right on the sidewalks in front of the stores. Everyone smokes tons of weed. There is a dispensary on every corner.” she said. There was disapproval in her tone.

              “Really? I guess I did hear that weed was legal here. I don’t think I saw a single marijuana shop in Klamath Falls.” Alan said.

              “Yeah. I’m not sure how all of that works. But in Portland and Eugene, there is marijuana everywhere.” Sharon said.

              They ate the remainder of their repast while contemplating the proliferation of narcotics.

              “Would you ever smoke it?” Alan asked.

              The question caught her off guard. Alan had to admit feeling a slight sense of satisfaction at that. It was nice to know the uber-confident woman could at times be hesitant, unsure.

              “I…guess.” she said.

              “I don’t think I would. I don’t know. Life has been…so weird, lately. But, it’s illegal federally. I’d most likely lose my job if I got caught.” he said.

              “Would you lose your job for harboring an alien?” Sharon asked. And then giggled. “No pun intended.” she said.

              Alan stopped. His heart began to race again. That. “Thanks for reminding me.” Alan said, offering a taut smile. “Yeah. Probably. The government would be more likely to kill me, though. They pay me, after all, to essentially debunk alien and UFO claims. I go in, give facts to reporters, and if people persist, I threaten to recommend fraud charges.” Alan said.

              The case took a sledgehammer to the walls erected by this vacation.

              “You want to know something weird? Apparently, the local police suddenly have no recollection of a crash that sent shock waves through the city, burned up probably a square mile of marsh land near the highway, among other things. I mean, a Klamath Falls cop took me to the crash site. The lab tests came back inconclusive, and after only a few days, the casual observer can’t tell anything ever happened there.” Alan paused. Of all the things that spooked him, it was the next bit of information. “And, apparently, the only willing and able eyewitness is now dead. A town of over 20,000, where everyone knows everyone, and all of a sudden, no one remembers that weird seismic-like event that damaged a bunch of stores? Nearly 12000 calls went in to the local 9-1-1 and police dispatches. I thankfully got some record of that before everyone had their memory banks vaporized.” He said.

              “How do you convince twenty fucking thousand people to lie and ignore reality?” he wondered.