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IV
Ben opens his eyes and shakes his head. He must have nodded off.
Two policemen—two fat Sheriff's men . . . late forties, early fifties—are leaning over him, beaming big shit-kicking grins. The fatter of the two sets a cardboard cup of swirling brown liquid in front of Ben. He nods to the ashtray and the matchbook over by a pile of papers. "Smoke?" he says, pronouncing it thu-moke.
Ben nods, closes his eyes and tries to straighten himself up in his chair. "Sorry about that," he says. "Tired." No, not just tired, he realises: he's sick. His body feels like it's on fire, his breath is rasping and he can hear wheezing from his chest. And his head feels tight. If he could only move his hands . . .
One of the cops reaches across for the matchbook and strikes it, holding it out. Ben says, "Can't move my han—"
"That's okay," the other cop says. He reaches over and shakes a sorry-looking cigarette out of the pack, spilling tobacco on Ben's pants. My but those pants look in a sorry state, a small voice in Ben's head whispers as the cop jams the cigarette into Ben's mouth.
As the first cop holds out the lighted match, the cigarette drops from Ben's mouth. He tries to say 'sorry', but can't. Instead he watches as the match flame suddenly finds new life, first licking at the skin on the cop's fingers and then taking hold, growing bigger. His eyes wide, Ben looks up at the cop's face, watching the big man watching the flames, seemingly ignorant of any pain.
"Jesus Christ!" Ben says, trying to shuffle himself back, feeling the pressure on his head . . . trying to get away from the flames . . . which have now reached the cop's shirt cuff. And, hey . . . the other cop has pulled a gun from somewhere. Big barrel, Ben thinks. Doesn't look like any—
V
Ben opens his eyes and shakes his head. He must have nodded off.
Two pairs of legs are standing at either side of him. One pair steps back as Ben struggles to move and sidles over to what must be a seat behind the desk in front of him. "Feel better?" the legs' voice says.
Ben sends out sensory feelers before he attempts to answer that. It doesn't take long: he feels like shit. Every single part of his body feels like it has been kicked for hours. He's bent over in a chair, his head almost between his knees. He looks down and sees that his off-white Chinos are now very off-white indeed. At first glance, they look like they've been splattered with mud . . . and then Ben recognises the marks as dried blood. The sides of the trousers have been ripped up the seams, only one of his tasselled moccasin loafers—the left one—is still there; the other foot is bare, bare and swollen.
"My God," Ben says. "Have I been in an accident?" His voice sounds like that guy in the wheelchair . . . the one who wrote about the history of time.
Hands pull him upright and he sees he's in an office. It's night outside the window . . . lots of stars. There are two cops in here with him . . . cops who never heard of the word 'diet'.
"That's what we want to know," one of the cops says.
The other cop sets a cardboard cup of swirling brown liquid in front of Ben. He nods to the ashtray and the matchbook over by a pile of papers.
"Smoke?" he asks.
Ben struggles forward, feeling sharp pains shoot down each arm. "You bet," he says. The cop reaches into Ben's jacket pocket, pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights. Ben stares at the ragged sleeves of his own jacket. "Good God," Ben says. He looks up at the cops and sees them both watching him. For a second, he wants to cry . . . wants to tell them enough . . . no more—but . . . enough? Enough what? No more what?
The cop shakes a cigarette out of the pack. It's the last one. Boy, you got through those fast, a small voice in Ben's head says. Wasn't it full when you set out?
Set out? Ben says to himself silently. Set out where?
Sherwantimum, the head-voice whispers with a chuckle. Where else?
The cop places the pack on the counter and Ben frowns at the faded packaging. Must be the light in here . . . or maybe he's damaged his eyes in . . . in what? In the accident, that's what. There's no way he's going to look like this—his pant-legs looking like he's been through a swamp, his jacket in tatters—unless he's been in an accident. He looks at the two cops. The thing is, has he hurt anyone?
Placing the cigarette in Ben's mouth, the cop strikes a match and holds it under the end. It tastes bad . . . stale and old. Maybe he's had some kind of medicine . . . some kind of pain-killer . . . making the cigarette taste so—
Without realising, he's managed to raise his right hand, reaching with it for his cigarette to remove it from his mouth so that he can breathe. The hand comes into view, his jacket, his shirt-cuff . . . and something else . . . something faintly-white and plastic-looking . . . like a membrane glove covering the hand . . . and the hand looks . . . looks lumpy underneath that glove. As he reaches for the cigarette, the glove splits open at the wrist and something gelatinous
that's you, amigo, the head-voice chuckles, that's you leaking all over the damned floor
pouring out in thick rivulets, hanging down like cuckoo-spit.
Then there's a muttering sound . . . like twigs breaking and water rushing . . . and then there's a flash from somewhere in the office.
VI
Ben opens his eyes and shakes his head. He must have nodded off.
Two fat faces are leaning over him. Cops. Their eyes are steely cold, their mouths unsmiling.
"How'd you feel?" one of them asks.
Ben tries to speak but the words won't come. His body feels like it's in a vice and his ass feels like it's got something inside it—something long and cold: he tries to clench his buttock muscles but it hurts.
He closes his eyes and tries to gather his thoughts.
Where am I? What has happened? He can smell shit. Smells bad, like some kind of crop nutrient . . . fish manure.
He opens his eyes again, slowly this time.
It's an office . . . a police station, Sheriff's office . . . something like that. Outside the window it's dark. Ben can see stars . . . lots of stars . . . clusters of them looking so close they could be scratching the window.
"I got you a Like Tea," a voice says.
Ben grunts acknowledgement and tries to lift his right arm, give a wave of thanks, but it won't move. He tries the left one—same thing.
He closes his eyes again, retreating into the safe darkness again. "Can't . . . can't move my arms," he says.
"Yes you can," the voice says.
Ben feels hands on his head, hears a soft scraping noise. The pressure on his head eases a little and he feels a wave of pins and needles start in his upper arms, moving slowly—slowly but surely—down to his forearms and his wrists, then his fingers. His fingers feel like they're about to explode out of the ends and, for a few seconds, he wants to cry out . . . and then the sensation goes.
"Try now," the voice says.
"I got you a Like—"
"He knows about the Like Tea," the voice snaps.
Ben lifts his right arm slowly, lifts it to his head and feels around gently. His fingers scratch at his head like crab-claws . . . like they don't have any skin on them. But the crab-claws feel something . . . he's wearing some kind of metallic head brace. He drops the hand to his side without trying to look at it
Sherwantimum—maybe that's what the thing on his head is called . . . and he starts to sob.
"You want to try sit up?" the voice asks.
Ben lifts his head and looks at the voice's owner. It's one of the fat cops—poor guy, got some kind of skin complaint: flesh all bunched up on either side of his head.
The face nods, the flaps moving around. "You're going to be—"
"Hey," the other voice interrupts, "your face."
Ben watches two hands come up into view . . . watches the hands take hold of the two skin-flaps and pull them tight, back to the ears. As this takes place, a thin tear appears down the man's forehead, snaking to the bridge of his stubby nose.
The man closes his eyes for an instant and then seems to fall on top of Ben.
Ben grunts, the air knocked from his lungs. When he opens his eyes he sees the man's face right in front of his own . . . the forehead ripped right down past the nose now. There's something glistening behind there . . . something greenish and yellowish, moving side to side, a thin, translucent film flicking up over it and then disappearing. When the man speaks, fumbling with his hand—Ben can't see what he's doing—Ben smells something old and rancid.
"Sorry," the man says, pushing something hard into Ben's stomach.
Ben frowns. Sorry? he thinks. What fo—
VII
Ben opens his eyes. He must have nodded off.
Wherever he is, it is silent. Not so much as the sound of a breath.
He instinctively tries to shake his head but nothing seems to happen . . . no sense of movement. He can't even turn his head. Can't seem to move anything . . . can't even feel anything.
He's in an office. A sheriff's office, looks like . . . or some kind of police station. Two cops are sitting in front of him, lounging back on a couple of low-backed summer-chairs, their heads only a foot or so above the ground . . . and yet, directly in front of Ben. Ben thinks that's a little strange perspective-wise but he lets it go. Behind the cops, behind the counter, is a high window: outside it's night . . . lots of stars . . . whole bunches of them, like clouds. He can't see the moon. Right in front of him is the edge of a table—he's on the table, he suddenly realises . . . actually on the damned table.
One of the cops—both of them are really fat . . . huge . . . and they've got some kind of skin problem—one of them stands up, moving with difficulty, and comes over to Ben. The cop is holding something in his hand, something shiny looks like . . . something catching the glare of the stars outside in the night, making their light dance across the office.
The cop bends down in front of Ben.
He looks sad, this cop. And tired.
The cop holds up his hand and Ben sees a glass jar.
On top of the jar are two eyes, secured in gauze-like material attached to a wooden board. There are tiny lights on the board, recessed back from the eyes themselves, twinkling like the stars outside the window.
Running from the board into the jar—which is attached to a whole clutter of wires and springs and pipettes and which appears to contain a dull-looking grey fibrous lump—are two spindly, glistening wires. These two wires lead, like umbilical cords, back behind the jar to a glass tank surrounded by a lot of flashing lights.
In the tank—submerged in the water or whatever it is—somebody has dumped a whole carcass-worth of entrails and organs . . . Ben can see a heart pumping silently. And outside the tank, attached to another wooden board is a pair of ears held in place by an elaborate system of wires and clamps which, in turn, connect up with the apparatus attached to the side of the tank and to a tall speaker standing by itself.
Ben tries to frown. But can't.
He tries to blink. But can't.
He tries to speak. But can't.
The thing in the man's hand is a mirror—Ben sees that now. But if it's a mirror, why can't he see himself when he's looking at it?
The cop puts the mirror down out of sight and lifts a small box with a switch on it. He places this on the table in front of Ben and flicks the switch.
Sound fills the silence . . . the sound of distant engines humming, the sound of muted voices . . . strange voices babbling from somewhere in a metallic tone . . . sounding for all the world like twigs breaking and water rushing.
Into this comes a voice. The voice of the cop, Ben realises as he sees the man's lips moving.
"It'll be okay, just tell us the whole thing from the top," the cop is saying with a slight lisp. He folds his hands calmly and carefully on the desk in front of him.
Ben hears a loud screaming noise, building and building and building . . . it seems to be coming from somewhere behind him . . . just behind him, where the tall speaker sat on the table-top.
And then the cop shakes his head and flicks off the switch, stopping the screaming. Stopping everything . . . returning the office to silence.
The cop reaches down to his holster, starts to draw his gun and then stops. He lifts his hands to his head and begins to pull his face open. His lips are moving again—briefly, until they come off in the cop's hands amidst folds of wrinkled skin—but Ben can't hear anything . . . except maybe the memory of a scream. Hoarse now. Tired.
If only he didn't have to look . . .
Copyright © Peter Crowther 1999.
Originally published in Alien Abductions. All rights reserved.
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