Aron H. Diaz

Psycho Cat

2010-04-14T16:41:00.001-07:00

Mitsy had a cat, that kept being attacked by a feral cat.
One day, Mitsy tried to catch it. She did so wearing leather gloves, and she shoved the cat into a card-board box.
The cat looked dead.
Mitsy called her friend Erin. “Erin, I’ve killed a cat.”
“What, a cat?”
“Yes, and I’m on my way to Brown’s Field to throw it out.”
“Mitsy, it’s not a person. Give it to the animal shelter.”
When Mitsy arrived at Brown’s Field, she opened the trunk, and the cat attacked.

Katy’s Place

2010-04-14T16:40:00.001-07:00

Our trans-American odyssey began with our departure from my small one bedroom apartment. Devoid of all furniture, we spent our last night sleeping in the cavernous room, inside sleeping bags, over foam pads, on the hardwood floor. Two overstuffed bicycles leaned against the wall. They seemed to wilt in mock exhaustion, as if sneering at the two figures spending one last night in fleeting comfort. We’ll show them – I thought to myself, eyeing the bicycles. The whole world seemed to think we had gone insane.
We left the city on a Saturday morning in early August. Louisville, Kentucky, home of the world famous Churchill Downs; where the glamorous rhythm of horse racing is better known than the awkward gallop we must have portrayed. Brian and I peddled out of my apartment for the last time and into a McDonald’s for McMuffins and shakes. Or was it McShakes? Either way, it would be one of a thousand errors in judgment that lay ahead.
It wasn’t long before we were riding through Mt Washington, about fifteen miles south of Louisville. Brian’s mom had moved there a few years back. We didn’t stop for a visit, but wanted proof we’d passed through nevertheless. A picture at the main intersection would do the trick. As I snapped the shot, Brian grinning widely up the rise, I pondered his mother’s expression when viewing the picture for the first time. And I was convinced where she’d place it: next to a picture of Big Foot, and one of a large flying disk. Click! Proof nevertheless was ours.
We crossed rivers on ferries, and camped along easements between farms in Missouri. A practice we discontinued after one sleepless, howling night. We made our escape at first light, swimming through a country fog that hung as thick as rain.
We rode through windswept savannahs in Kansas, where fierce currents of air swept up miniature white-capped waves across tiny lagoons. For two thousand miles we rode. No longer mocking our effort, our bikes creaked and moaned up every hill, over every pothole, over countless unmapped roads. In small towns, strangers welcomed us as if we were long lost friends.
And so it was that days turned into weeks, which turned into months.
One late afternoon, exhausted from fighting the relentless Kansas wind, we came upon Katy’s Place. We didn’t know Katy, but she knew us. More precisely, she knew of the travelers that cycled through her small town following the well known bike route. She appeared on the side of the road, as if from clairvoyance and waved us down. She insisted we prop our tent in her yard for the night, and with a promise of breakfast, we gladly obliged.
Up at dawn the next day, we packed, and before long Katy had an oatmeal buffet of sorts. So that we would “have the energy we needed on the road ahead”. Brian and I glanced at the lumpy breakfast, then each other, knowing the price we’d pay later that day. But we could not break Katy’s heart and began to eat. Then she appeared, wearing faded overalls, a mangled straw hat, while strumming a ukulele. Vaguely following the tune of—She’ll be coming round the mountain—she began to sing.
“Get’on up you lazy bikers – get’on up”
And so she continued the monotonous phrase in the undulations of the twisted jingle. Brian and I were howling by the time her rendition concluded. But she seemed enormously pleased by our ovation. She took our picture in front of the stone marker that announced “Katy’s Place”.
To this day, every time we see the picture, we hear the song.

The Air Leviathans

2010-04-08T14:15:00.001-07:00

There weren’t many humans left in the fight, we didn’t have the reflexes. The Galdorians remained our closest allies and they too were going down fast. I would command the last human fighter ship, the Windsinger, and with it, the last human crew.
“They’re firing, they’re firing,” Grilock yelled into the com.
I held the tacview screen in the palm of my hand before he let go of the mike. It showed two groups of three red dots, firing, and gaining on our position. The white missiles were like rain off their bow.
“Shields up,” I said, much more calmly than I felt inside.
The thin perimeter on the tacview went up around the solitary green dot. Then the Rain hit: like being inside a tin can while it’s pelted with rocks.
The attack ships came out of nowhere. In twos, sometimes in threes: when they really wanted a kill. We had six Silverfish on our tail. Our first mission would be a short one.
I ran to the biofeedback chair, verbal commands won’t do in a fight like this. Not that the crew would be able to hear me under Rain. Without the chair’s reactance we were as good as dead.
The mere thought of extending the graplerhaze onto the Silverfish behind us executed the command. But I’d only be able to hold them still for a few short seconds, while my crew did the only thing they could.
“Fire,” I yelled as soon as I felt the interface feedback make contact. The Rain hadn’t stopped, and I could only hope the boys heard my order. Then lightning.
The aft scorpious cannons expended their energy into the paralyzed Silverfish. But at that rate of dispersal, we only had thirty seconds at best, then we’d be dead in the sky.
The set of Silverfish off our port disintegrated on contact: fifteen seconds. The ones at our starboard began to disperse, and the scorpious cannons lost their lock. The Silverfish turned; they’d run us through in moments. We were going to die.
All the cannons locked onto the lead Silverfish blowing its entrails through its spine. That left the remaining two free of their web shield, free to split and close the gap. They separated, circled, and turned in for the kill.
In desperation, I split the graplehaze outside our shields, and into their path—a maneuver that required more faith than skill.
“Fire,” I yelled into the com. The scorpious cannons each had well over five seconds left, and I could hear them traveling the rail on the skin of the ship, to reorient themselves on either side.
The cannons shredded them from skin to bone within inches from our hull. We could hear their screams in our heads, the Levians were telepathic at close range and their agony took the fight out of our guts.
But they were dead.
The ship lurched violently to one side, then the other. Something had got a hold of the Windsinger, and I managed to launch a satcom-probe above us before systems began shutting down. A Remora had latched onto us from above, the attack’s true purpose now revealed. And I had no experience with this type of fighting.
The ships com had gone silent; everyone knew that it would be a matter of minutes before the Remora chewed through the hull, and fill the ship with digestive enzymes—the slowest, vilest death imaginable.
I looked over at Grilock, the only Galdorian aboard, and the only soldier to have seen combat outside the system. There were no humans left that had seen combat outside the system. “Your still here,” I said, as a way of asking for help, and not asking.
The grinding of the Remora had become deafening—or maybe the sound was only in our heads. A moot point of inactivity, for it would breach us in a handful of breaths.
“Send me the controls,” Grilock said, plugging in to the biofeddback interface. “And tell everyone to strap in.”
No soon had I given the order when the ship began to sway from side to side. From the probe’s vantage, I could see the Remora’s tail swaying, as if rumping the Windsinger from behind.
The grinding ceased.
It held on.
We were stalling. As soon as the ship stopped swinging the grinding would restart. Reinforcements arrived: a stellar class gunship. What could they do before the green mucus oozed into my ship?
We could land in the stellar, only to have the Remora destroy the gunship from the inside out. If they shot at it, we’d be blown apart. No wonder we were losing.
“Hold on,” Grillock yelled, and put thrusters in reverse. He’d lined up the spine of our ship directly underneath the landing bay of the stellar. If he missed, our hull would be sliced in half.
The impact caught the Remora from behind, knocking it end-over-end into space. Its tail had barely disappeared over its head when I opened the hellfire ports. In an instant, the stellar joined our stream. The stratosphere caught fire, blinding the probe.
We’d seared it solid.
The bay from the stellar hung loose beneath its bow like a broken jaw. No doubt, we’d made another friend in the fleet. The commander was not too pleased with our maneuver. It would take a much needed stellar out of the fight.
We didn’t care. Selfish I know. But the last human fighters were staying in the fight, even if some rules had to be broken. The stellar left and we were on our own once again.
Although not for very long, if we didn’t get some repairs done.
Grilock studied the cartography and pointed to our new destination. A smuggler he knew, owed him a favor he said. Since the fleet would not be repairing our ship any time soon, we had no choice. We limped out of orbit and entered the void.

Jesus in Hell

2010-04-07T15:19:00.001-07:00

When we go to church I usually sit on the third bench from the rear, on the left-hand side of the aisle, the men’s side. Pew, my mom would correct, not bench.
“Pew”, I said. “Sounds like a sneeze or what people say when someone smells bad.” Church was so confusing.
“Little boys that say such things won’t be going to heaven.”
“Jesus mom, it doesn’t take much not to go to heaven.”
“And little boys that blaspheme will surely be going to hell.”
“What’s blaspheme?” I asked.
“Using the name of our Lord in vain. It’s one of the Ten Commandments.”
Father Joel said Jesus all the time, and everyone said he was going to heaven.
“What’s in vain?” I asked. Maybe it was something father Joel was doing, and no one noticed.
“It’s like cursing.”
“But Jesus is a five letter word.”
“We’re late for service. Just finish cleaning your room. Boys that don’t obey their mothers don’t go to heaven either.”
That I’d heard before. It seemed hell would be a messy place, full of kids saying Jesus. Hell had begun to sound a lot like my neighborhood, except it had a church in it. But I was positive, hell had to have a church in it too.
I liked the rear benches—pews. Hardly anyone sat there, and they had a lot a gum underneath. Father Joel was in the middle of his sermon, all red and angry, saying Jesus a lot. It would be a least half an hour before he calmed down and let everyone go home.
I pulled another page from my hymn book, quietly. I could fold two planes and a box car in thirty minutes. I sighed. My hymn book had begun feeling thin, and there was hardly any space left under the bench for me to stick-up my planes and cars. And I still hadn’t figured out a way to sneak back into the church and get them.
I helped my mom give away Messengers for money on Saturday nights. Father Joel dropped us off in front of the Winn Dixie, and said he’d be back in an hour to pick us up. We were poor, but not poorer than Benjamin: the homeless man that hung around the church that summer.
“Why does Benjamin look like Jesus?” I asked.
“How do you know how Jesus looks like?”
“Because that’s the man the Jehovah’s Witness put on the cover of The Watchtower.”
“No one knows what Jesus looks like, and pictures like those break God’s second commandment.”
I knew about the second commandment really well: Thou shall not make yourself an idol. That’s why I couldn’t have toy soldiers, because figures of people were considered idols by our church.
“So are the Jehovah’s Witness going to hell because they put Jesus on the cover of The Watchtower?”
“Where do you come up with such absurdities?”
“You said yesterday that not minding you was breaking the fourth commandment, and that boys that broke commandments were not going to heaven.”
“Stop frustrating me, Aron.”
I frustrated my mom a lot. It was one of the first hard words I’d learned in my life, and I didn’t even have to think what it meant anymore. She glanced at her wrist watch for the third time. I guessed my questions were making her impatient too, so I stopped.
“Just stay here for a bit,” she said, and walked to the back of the store. She did that a lot on Saturday nights, but I didn’t mind. I liked giving away Messengers for money when she was not around.
I’d snuck three dollars into my socks by the time Benjamin came up and started bumming for cash. He stared as I snuck a fourth dollar into my sock.
Thirty minutes passed and I started getting worried, and tired of selling Messengers. So I walked around the store to the parking lot in the back. The lights never came on in the rear of the store; it was a spooky lot. I saw father Joel’s car, a brand new Crown Victoria he’d just bought. And I ran to see if he’d come to pick us up.
I went to the driver’s widow, but it was foggy and wet and I couldn’t see inside. So, I brought my face close for a peek.
I stared directly into father Joel’s eyes.
“Jesus!” he yelled, and ducked beneath the window. His white butt cheeks wriggled as he pulled up his pants.
He reminded me of a fish flopping every which way.
I stared, fascinated. Father Joel’s penis was so much bigger than mine. And then my mom’s face popped-up, inches from mine.
“Aron… Aron!” my mother was saying through the glass. “Wait for me up front.”
I ran with all my might, with the vision of Father Joel’s penis in my mind.
I tore around the corner of the Winn Dixie at full speed, slipping on my hard soled shoes and onto my back.
I saw Jesus; he was calling my name. His breath smelled like vomit. His hand held my head.
With his other, he felt down my leg.
I squirmed from Benjamin’s grip, sat up and pushed him away. I didn’t like being touched. With curses I pushed him away.
I came to my senses, staring at the Messengers, scattered where I’d taken the fall. I sat in between the ice and vending machines at the front of the Winn Dixie. The bump on my head was growing by the second, but there was no blood on my hand.
I began getting thirsty. I reached for my sock, thinking of buying a Coke.
My money!
I stood up in a rage—looking for Benjamin—fists clenched at my sides. Just then he appeared from the rear of the store. He walked slowly towards me. I got ready to fight.
“You know how to keep a secret, don’t you, Aron?”

Luna

2009-07-23T12:33:00.000-07:00

I always became claustrophobic on these trips to the moon; at least I did so by the time the descent maneuvers began. The moon’s terra-forming had been having severe setbacks, and now this. We’d lost contact two weeks ago, and the monitoring satellites showed a breach at the Beta enclosure. But at least the docking bay of Alpha remained intact.
I glanced at the two empty seats of the capsule: one beside me, one behind. Without much effort, I could reach the escape hatch across the one on my right, or the bank of circuit breakers next to the one behind me. It would sure be a cozy trip back home once Charlie and Sam jumped in.
Tic-tic-tic. My heart caught. The sound of the view port settling had started rattling my nerves. It sounded as if the seams were cracking. I checked for damage along the edges, across the surface and once again found nothing. I brought my face close to the quarter inch, trans-carbon panel, leaning in so that my eyes and ears were as close as possible. Its surface was transparently flawless. I sighed. My breath steamed the window. Tic-tic-tic! I jumped back like a startled cat. Dammit…this was going to be one of those trips.
Orientation complete.
I could see the lunar surface fill the view portal; no shit orientation was complete. I breathed out frustrated. My emotions were eroding years of experience. I could almost feel the whip-lash to rookie mode, when every sound seemed ominous, every blinking light a sign of impending doom. If I became any more paranoid, I wouldn’t even have to shave. These rescue capsules had this effect on most space junkies. I needed to feel I was in command of this thing, not just a bag of bones along for the ride.
“Computer, manual docking—confirm.”
Auto-sequencer disengaged for docking—override confirmed.
I hated computer voices. They always seemed so dammed condescending. At least I’d regained a measure of control—a manual docking should be fun. I’d flown dozens of rescue missions, spent hundreds of hours breathing the stagnant air, but they’d all been simulations. This was the real thing. The first rescue as a matter of fact. I didn’t mind the trans-lunar shuttle—hell, who did? But the rescues had always been one of those plans that, no-one-ever-hopes-to-have-to-use, sort of plans.
Not anymore.
Oxygen levels confirmed at ten percent.
Well, at least there was some good news. That part of the terra-forming was proceeding as scheduled. Chuck one for the geeks!
We called ten, the magic number. In a pinch, I’d be able to breathe outside the enclosure. But only for minutes at a time before hallucinations set in. The brain didn’t like being deprived of oxygen, even one like mine, trained for this environment. But that was not the nemesis. The carbon-dioxide, hydro-carbon mixture artificially being pumped into the thin air was. Sure it fed the genetically engineered geoplankton growing all over the powdery surface of the moon, and built up the ozone layer, but the blood liked dioxide a hell of a lot better than oxygen. At those percentages, the body was its own greatest threat.
Three minutes from docking maneuvers.
I tried radio contact with the surface one last time—nothing. For two weeks now, remote video and audio had been severed as well. What the hell happened to those guys? Charlie was like a brother, best man at my wedding. His son and my Alice would announce their engagement anytime now. We’d be old geezers together. We often spoke how we’d spoil our grandkids, and make our own kid’s life miserable once we retired. It was something to do. His wife Sarah had died of breast cancer a few years back. My wife Ana had taken it almost as hard as Charlie. Our wives had been friends since high school, Charlie and I since college. We all knew things about each other. But the years of friendship made it all alright.
One minute from docking maneuvers.
I wished there was a way to silence that stupid bitch. The Alpha and Beta enclosures were now clearly in view, centered on the viewing port. Alpha seemed intact, thank goodness. I hated landing on the surface and performing a whole egress just to get back in. I could see the damage to Beta, and the escape capsule, listing on its docking mores. Someone ran from the entrance, heading straight for Alpha. He looked up. The landing trajectory drifted, and I jerked towards the window in an attempt to keep him in view. But as I did so, the retro jets fired with a correction catapulting me forward, and into portal. Blood went everywhere, or so it seemed, when my face hit.
Twenty seconds to docking maneuvers.
My nose burnt, deep inside my head; as if I’d tried to pick my brain with a chisel. I reached for the med-kit with my left hand, pulled the tab open, snatched two gauze pads. With my right, I felt the bridge of my nose. It moved. The sound of bone grinding together filled my head. I ignored the pain, and stuffed the pads deep inside. I’d already retrieved and peeled back the tape with my left.
Five seconds to docking maneuvers.
Plenty of time, I told myself, and swallowed the blood draining into my throat. Three, two…I snatched the controls…one. You have control commander.
I wanted to rip every insipid vocal chip from the capsule. Luckily, the landing was something I could do in my sleep—align the cross hairs, and like my old days of playing Galaga, the less I engaged my brain the better.
Docking complete.
Alright, so I shouldn’t have disengaged auto-docking. But I didn’t have time to stroke my wounded pride. The view port faced the decon-chamber, a five by five anteroom with two benches—we called it the hurry-up-and-wait room. Five minutes of decontamination seemed to last forever when pressed for time. I opened the hatch and stepped in. The change in pressure started me bleeding all over again. I reached back in for the med kit, my gear-bag, and secured the capsule. It seemed much smaller reaching in.
I felt more than heard the movement behind me. I jerked, looking back. Charlie peered into the decon-chamber, a vacant look in his eyes. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. Knowing he couldn’t hear me, I raised my hand, palm out, and mouthed “five minutes.” He didn’t respond. He scanned the inside of the chamber with disinterest. I tapped on the glass, and held up my hand once again. Then he saw me, startled, and stumbled back. I stepped closer to the glass-door. Charlie stared into my eyes. He stood in the middle of the enclosure, the common area. Barely bigger than the dorm-room we shared in college. Bunks behind him, galley to the left, exit on the right, and all around the scientific equipment of the expedition. It seemed enormous. He glanced at the door to the outside, then back at me. Something towards the galley caught my attention. Sam. He sat with his back to the decon-chamber, stiff, unmoving. Charlie noticed me looking and scuttled towards the exit.
“Charlie,” I yelled. But he was already reaching for the handle. “Charlie!”
He stepped out.
Shit-shit-shit. What the hell’s going on here? “Sam…Sam!”
Nothing—then Sam moved, or slid is more like it—off the chair and onto the floor. His head tilted sideways, milky eyes, and skin the color of ash. A large gash cleaved into his forehead, grey-white matter bulged from the gap. I could hear the eagerness of flies at a feast, but of course there weren’t any. My mouth had run dry. I licked my lips, and tasted the air. The stench reached into my stomach rotting down my throat. I closed my eyes and counted: two, three, five. I stopped at eleven. Good, only an eleven pointer—I hated twenty-three, only been there once.
I needed to check environmental and called to the command console in the enclosure. “Computer, status report.”
No answer. My voice must not be registering from behind the door. The hell with contamination, I walked out and immediately headed for the command console, to a blank main-frame.
Locating Charlie would have to wait.
I looked back at the open decon-chamber. Words flashed, on-and-off, across the status screen over the door: Isolation protocol compromised. Wonderful…Sam would have to wait as well.
I walked over to the capsule, reached inside, unclipped the remote-interface module and backtracked to the command console; connected the USB umbilical and powered up the dammed thing.
Initiating.
A lot changes when you’re in a jam. She didn’t sound so annoying. Five minutes to consolidate the situation. I wished I had a firearm, but they weren’t issued. They didn’t want us shooting E.T. I suppose. I’d always known it would come down to sticks and stones…and knives. I unfastened the Gerber strapped at my ankle, and relocated it outside the leg of my jumpsuit. And then went back to the capsule.
“Computer, lockdown, SECON 3 manual entry code only—confirm.”
Security Condition 3, manual override, commander Jarvis—confirmed.
I walked back into the common area, couldn’t help but look at Sam. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw movement by the exit door—shit. The spring mechanism hadn’t closed it all the way, I sprinted over and pulled. Not that the atmosphere wasn’t already destabilized. I peered out through the trans-carbon aperture, and into the alien landscape. It remained much the same as I’d left it nearly a year ago.
The Alpha and Beta enclosures had been constructed near Shackleton Crater on the lunar South Pole, near the shadow boundary, where ice deposits remained in permanent darkness next to terrain that received twenty-six days of sunlight every month. Perpetual daylight for the solar-panels, plus millions of gallons of water for the atmospheric converters, equaled a hell-of-a green moon. The area had a wild-west feel to it, with an alien sort-of twist.
The bio-hazard alarm had begun screeching, so I turned to the command console, now powered-up. It showed nothing but red icons all over the screen.
“Computer, status report.”
“Interior oxygen levels at ten percent, power levels critical, solar-array at twenty percent, charge capacity—”
“Computer, alarm off.”
“Alarm off, confirmed.”
“How long before complete power failure?”
“Eleven hours, twelve minutes, forty-five seconds.”
Yeah, I’m going to need those forty five seconds. Who programmed these stupid machines? Concentrate… time to get my ass in gear, get Charlie, and fly off this rock before power failure made the capsule—and me—permanent additions to this O.K. Corral in the sky. After all, there were no plans to rescue-the-rescue. At least I wouldn’t have to suit-up. I looked over at Sam; had to wrap things up in time to bury him. I didn’t know why that was important, not like he’d be eaten by wolves or something, but it was.
I un-pegged a set of gravcomps—a fancy name for really heavy ribbon-belts that multiplied my weight six fold. I’d finished strapping them to my legs and waist when a horrendous crash jumped me clear out of my skin—then another. They vibrated the ground as if a giant were walking outside. I ran to the exit’s viewport. A billowing cloud rose from the Beta enclosure. The roof was collapsing onto itself, snapping off carbon-fiber ribs like they were twigs, one after another.
Charlie, had to find Charlie.
I ignored the summersaults my thoughts were making, opened the door and stepped out. Dust choked my lungs. The coughing fit that followed blew the gauze in my nostrils clear across the walkway. I reached up; fearing another geyser, but there was no blood. The dome enclosure finished collapsing in a grinding crash. I held my breath as the wave of dust washed over me, God only knows what’s in that stuff. Needles prickled my skull before the dust settled, and I had to breathe. The burning in my lungs was not as bad as I expected.
From a steep rise behind the crumpled structure, movement—my heart jumped. “Charlie!” I yelled as loud as I dared. The effort made my eyes water in pain.
It looked back.
We stared at each other motionless for what seemed an eternity. Light bounced off its skin in a scaly-haze. “Charlie,” I yelled once again, unsure of what I saw. The figure turned, and began walking up the hill.
A muffled cry from the ruble…or was it metal scraping. Dam-it—had to make sure. I ran, keeping my peripheral vision locked on the figure on the rise. It continued its meandering trek, uninterested. I stopped where the entrance of Beta should have been. “Charlie,” I called, but there was only silence. I looked up once again. The figure stood at the crest. It beckoned. Three large fingers waved me over; its arm reflected the lingering sun like cut crystal. I’d been listening at the wreckage, straining to hear—but nothing.
My watch beeped: ten hours left. Maybe I hadn’t set it right. I peered back up. The thing watched me, motionless. Fine, I told myself, first rule of engagement: control the situation. And at that moment, it wasn’t me. I turned to the rise and started to climb; keeping my eyes glued to the figure. It seemed to be wearing a dark robe, thick, green, with a hood over its head. Halfway up, it began to glide behind the crest, out of sight. I started to run. Every breath compressed my chest as if I’d been crammed into a coffin. My throat burned from the dry sulfur of the lunar surface, it smelled of gunpowder. I reached the top, my heart rattling off its mount. I gasped in the ultrathin air as if I had gills instead of lungs. Retinal echoes made it difficult to see. I felt as if the lights would go out at any moment.
“sstand sstill, I must sshow you ssomething.”
I spun. Sibilant eyes regarded me from within a cowled opening. We were at the edge of a mesa, facing each other as if about to duel for our lives. Before I could study its features, it headed to a structure I hadn’t noticed at the end of the trail—a collage of tarps, ropes and tubing that resembled a shed. I wasn’t any closer to understanding the situation, and any hope of me doing so stepped inside.
Had Sam been in this position? Had Charlie? Whatever decisions they’d made had not worked out too well. I considered my only weapon, and approached.
From the entrance I could see its yellow eyes at the opposite end; it beckoned with the same grotesque hand. A sweet humid-gust caressed my face as I opened the plastic-covered door. Dozens of tomato plants surrounded me once inside.
“sstay here, thiss won’t take long.”
The thing stared at me as if lifeless, shimmering whenever the moist currents of air passed between us. My arms and legs ached, begging me to sit; my face began throbbing, my eyes watered. The sweetness in the air beckoned to be inhaled deeply. Was I being poisoned?
Through the fog that covered my eyes, I saw the figure approach. “Almost done,” it told me.
“Charlie?” I said in disbelief, and almost let down my guard. It moved faster than anything I thought possible. I stumbled back as it reached for me. I flicked my hand to my ankle, reaching for the Gerber. But it was quicker. I realized my mistake in time to feel the strike upon my forehead. I turned before hitting the dirt, knife in hand. Yellow eyes blinked, and in that heartbeat, I lunged at its leg. It roared; its clawed hand raised high above me. Once again, I’d realized my error too late. It struck my face, and for an instant, daylight turned to night. I was on my back, looking up as the clawed hand reached for me. But instead, the thing bolted over, heading down the path. It hobbled around the blind corner, turning back to growl at me one last time. The words sounded like curses, but I couldn’t tell. It was heading for the capsule, and I knew, it was either it or me.
Breathing was like gargling razor-blades, and every cell in my body battled my every step down the mountain. But the wound on its leg slowed it down. The clear air had turned to a purplish miasma of poison gas—lunar nighttime. I had to pick up the pace. My watch beeped: one hour thirty minutes left. I wasn’t catching up.
It reached Alpha before me, and tried to lock me out. I sprinted the last few steps and threw my weight upon the door. I must have gained some strength over it, because the force of my effort threw it clear across the chamber. It wind-milled backwards, staggering towards Sam still on his side. I lunged. I heard the resonance of bones breaking inside flesh—the monster trampled the body in its efforts to break free of my hold. We couldn’t keep our footing. I pumped my legs, trying to get them beneath me. With each effort, my feet sank deeper as if into wet cement—slurping. My boots peeled the corpse of its skin. But all I could hear were the inhuman cries of the creature before me. I stabbed while fending its blows, and every time I made contact it hissed, and hissed as my knife penetrated its lung. It clawed at my hands and face, but I held on—grinding the blade deeper.
Five minutes until complete power failure.
It stopped moving, and I had to think fast. There was only one thing to do, bring it back with me. It sounded insane, but who would believe me if I didn’t.
Three minutes until complete power failure.
The decon-chamber remained open, the capsule stood closed. I fumbled with the keypad. What the hell was the password I’d put in?
“Computer… override SECON 3… confirm.”
Manual override required, commander Jarvis. Request denied.
I looked back into the chamber. Skin and gore spread all over the floor, and among it the monster. It moaned. I looked back to the keypad, moved my hand over the buttons as if dialing a number I couldn’t remember unless looking at the dammed phone—I felt like an idiot.
The letters jumped at me, c h a r l i e, that was it—I typed it in.
Security Condition 3, disengaged
The hatch clicked open. I reached in, snatched the cargo straps from the rear seat and rushed back into the enclosure. The monster moaned and writhed among a mass of putrid entrails. I’m sorry Sam.
Two minutes before complete power failure.
Plenty of time, I told myself, and swallowed the bile rising. As if roping a calf, I spun the monster onto its back, tied its hands, its feet, and picked it up by the armpits. I dragged it, slipping and falling and sliding across the floor. I don’t recall how I got the thing into the copilot’s seat, and shut the hatch; but do remember the pressure buildup in the cabin, the liftoff, and the orbital maneuver into lunar orbit.
Cabin pressure normal, oxygen levels at twenty-one percent.
The pain across my face and nose returned with a vengeance. My eyes watered under the jolt, as if my skull had been dunked into frozen water. Colors came alive.
I peered through the trans-carbon panel. Half the moon seemed tainted green with life. Tic-tic-tic. I jerked away from the portal. The putrid stench over my clothes gagged my senses. The comm buzzed near my head. Radio contact, I hadn’t made radio contact in nearly twelve hours. I was in deep shit. But I had the excuse of the century. The creature sat beside me, un-cowled, un-masked. His head lolled from side-to-side, then to me. Too human eyes gazed back into mine from a face I knew too well.
“Luna rescue, this is Houston, come in.”
Tic-tic-tic.

Bingo and Sex

2009-07-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve never understood where people put their fingers during sex. I liked it, I’ve just never understood it. I can hear my mother yelling. “Don’t touch that.” I must not have been a very obedient girl, because just as clearly I remember the command that inevitably followed. “Go wash your hands.” As far as my mother was concerned, everyone could always stand a good hand-washing. My father never washed his hands. She didn’t seem to mind.
My mother’s double-standard confused me, that is, until I met Rob. He had the hands of a car mechanic. She would have certainly disapproved.
Rob and I met at bingo. A game I’d never played before, but one I loved instantly. I had drawn the lucky straw sort-to-speak, when my pastor asked for a fund raiser to be put together. I decided on bingo. A bit cliché, church and bingo, but the devil in me could never resist a good cliché. And besides, there’s an excitement that electrifies a bingo game. Not the least of which is the atmosphere: being surrounded by expectant faces, all listening intently for that one elusive number. Sure, most would say it’s for the money, but not me. I loved yelling BINGO! Yes, it’s about the moment—like it always is with yells that bring you pleasure.
The electric hum of it all has a rhythm: the bright lights, the big board behind the announcer with all the numbers on it, the fat rotating ball, with a bunch of little ones inside it. It all seemed like the countdown for a giant spaceship and a lottery combined—as if the whole room was being launched into space when the board reached zero. And of course, the dobbers: tall and multicolored, with moist little sponges at their tops. All the size and thickness of European soda cans. Rob had three, all lined up like little soldiers at attention in front of two large sheets of paper. As a beginner, I immediately became impressed by his command. I may have won a game that night, if not for his little army.
Every game has a spectacle. In bingo, it’s the people that come to play. There was the Muumuu lady, with four little dobbers, two in each hand straddling her chubby fingers. Droopy-antler man sat on her right, as if in her shadow. He wore a felt hat perched atop his oversized ears. Upon the hat were two appendages, reminiscent of sad bunny ears but in the shape of antlers. He sucked distractedly on false teeth as he studied the small, hideously blue, white-capped figurines the woman across from him arranged between them. Smurfette was twice my height and three times my breast size. She ignored everyone except Rob, making sure she smiled whenever he looked up from the opposite end of the table. I sat down next to Droopy-antler, only because he looked as lost as I felt.
“So, this is your first time,” said Muumuu lady, as I made myself comfortable on the fold-up chair. She stared disapprovingly at the single sheet of cards before me. I smiled politely, trying not to react at the wall-paper effect the bingo cards in front of her had on the communal table.
“There are so few things we can say that about,” I said.
Rob snickered. Muumuu huffed.
“I can’t even remember my first time,” said Droopy-antler, as if coming to a great realization, and then blinked confused.
“Some may call that a great beginning …” I said, and blinked as well.
“Well, that’s a strange thing to say,” said Smurfette, and then glanced at Rob.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “For instance, saying: My cat has three legs and one eye… I’d call that strange.”
Rob snickered again. “Why is not remembering your first time a great beginning?”
My voice wavered. “Because then, it would always be the first time,” I explained.
He contemplated my reply and his stare was like a whisper of approval—or was it the smell of sandalwood in the air.
“Beginners never win,” said Muumuu lady.
“But they have a lot more fun playing,” I said then shifted in my seat. Rob’s brows came together, and I began to doubt my attempts at fitting in.
Muumuu looked at Rob, then at me… looking at Rob, while dobbing her cards like a mad typist. She really was an expert, and obviously not her first time. “BINGO!” she yelled.
Her scream lifted me off my chair as if I’d been poked. I tried to sit back quickly and only managed a corner before sliding to the floor.
“Gotta pay attention sweetie, or you’ll never win,” said Muumuu, loud enough for everyone to consider her advice.
“Oh, I’ll win,” I murmured, unable to recover my dignity while on all fours. Then the scent of sandalwood rose up behind me.
“Are you okay?” Rob asked as he approached.
“Yes,” I said. And before I could regain my feet, he’d hooked his hands under my arms and pulled. I stumbled and reached, grabbing onto what was without a doubt not a dobber. I recoiled, forcing Rob to finish righting me without assistance.
As if on cue, my mother’s solution to everything awkward rang clearly in my head. “Go wash your hands!” But for the first time in my life, I did not want to.
I heard a deep inhalation, and turned. Hoping it had not been my overworked imagination.
“I, I love the smell of sandalwood. Don’t you?” Rob stammered. He spoke in one of those tones that made what he said sound like an apology.
“Yes… I do,” I replied.
There is nothing like the moment when all but a few of the numbers remain. The moment you realize that no one has called out ending the game; and that you may be the one to do so next. In love and in bingo the anticipation of winning the prize is half the fun.