A Beginner's Guide to Invading Earth Read online

  “Happens.”

  “I'll get dressed in a minute. I just had to wash the shirt. I know I'm not supposed to be here.”

  Jeff walked into the kitchen area and poured himself a glass of water from the tap. “There's no hurry,” he said. Jeff plopped down on an old plush chair. “I can have a guest. Just can't have anyone wandering the property.”

  “Do you get much of that here?” Jordan asked. “Trespassers?”

  “None that I've seen.” Jeff considered, then said, “Some kids wandered in a week or two ago, but it was nothing. I didn't even see them, just found where they had drunk some beers, but they didn't take anything.”

  “You can't have any neo-hippies camping in the woods,” she said with a smirk. “Next thing you know, they'll start up a music festival.”

  “No,” he said. “That wouldn't do. But it's an illegal pot grow that I worry the most about. That's what the previous caretaker was up to, using a ton of pesticide and setting up more that a few booby traps to keep people and deer out.”

  “What a douche nozzle.”

  “Yup.”

  They both sipped their drinks. Jeff turned the water glass in his hands.

  “So, friends up north?” Jeff asked. “Eureka bound?”

  “Every journey needs a destination, doesn't it?” she said. She twisted the string of the tea tag. “And how long have you worked here?”

  “Not long. Jumping between a few caretaker jobs.”

  “Aren't those usually long-term?”

  “That's what I thought. But this place seems to be working out.”

  “Perfect life for a single guy,” she said. She eyed him. An eyebrow raised up. “Or is there a wife and family?”

  Jeff didn't meet her look.“Was married two years back,” he said.

  She waited. “And?”

  “She worked a lot. I worked a lot. Then she worked even more. She kept me posted online whenever she worked late. She'd give me automatic updates. I'd even see photos of her working lunches and working dinners. And working vacations in London. Paris. Rome. I think she even went to Kenya. Safari or something.”

  “Wow,” Jordan said. “So where is she now?”

  “I don't know. She's still online, somewhere. I just stopped checking. Especially after the divorce papers showed up. I signed off and decided to move on myself. All of our friends were more her friends. No kids. So I took my truck and left. Took a live-on-the-property handyman job that got me a change of scenery.”

  “That's so sad.” Jordan put her cup down, sat forward.

  Jeff shrugged. “It should be, but I'm not sad. In all of her pictures she's smiling and so are the people around her. And I'm happy for her.”

  “Don't you get lonely?”

  “Sorry,” Jeff said. “Didn't mean to spill out my life story like that. Never really told anyone.”

  “Who's to tell?” she asked with a laugh. “You know, you're out here all alone like a hermit. Do you see anyone during your day? This would be a great job for a serial killer.”

  Jeff put the water down and gave her the palms up. “Not guilty,” he said.

  “Just a dumb joke,” she said. “But are you alone all day? That doesn't sound healthy, at least not all the time.”

  “No, the owner of the school comes around. There's the occasional work crew. I do go into town, catch a movie. I sometimes venture further to hunt for the last few remaining book stores left in this part of the state.”

  And talk to the odd alien, he thought.

  “You know, it still sounds lonely to me,” Jordan said. She drained the tea cup.

  “Says the girl walking solo down a dangerous country road,” Jeff said, stabbing a finger in the air at her. “Hitchhiking, of all things.”

  “It's maybe not the smartest thing,” she said. “But I take care of myself.”

  “Family? Husband? Kids?”

  “Yes, no, and no. Mom in Sac. Dad in Mexico City. They split twenty years ago.”

  “And what put you on the road?”

  “A job offer,” she said. Jeff waited. “A really good one. So good I could see the rest of my life in front of me, making gobs of money and hating every minute of it. So I ran.”

  “But you gotta do something to put food on the table.”

  “I know. But not this week or next. The offer will still be on the table when I get back, so I hope at least. But I need to clear my head.”

  Jeff nodded. “So Eureka.”

  “Anyplace.”

  CHAPTER 11

  OLIOP STOOD HUNCHED OVER a work bench in the Committee building's basement repair shop, a stand with multiple lights shining bright on the task at hand. Several null-space tool boxes hung from a low support beam, the boxes crammed full of every type of tool that the many races of the Galactic Commons knew or admitted to knowing. The pocket dimension portable holes hung lightly on their hooks, giving no indication of the hundreds of pounds of weight that they actually held. Oliop got his from the null-space merchant near his favorite fruit vendor. More tools lay out on the bench before him, from simple pliers to molecular fusers.

  Yet Oliop examined the human's staple gun as if it were something wonderful. It was a simple device, a step up from a brute force hammer, with few moving parts. Its spring loaded trigger could fit against a human's palm, which suited Oliop's slightly smaller hand well enough. He tapped at the shiny chrome metal surface. Examined the clip that snapped into the bottom that held a strip of the staples. He squeezed the trigger.

  Click. Clatter. A staple bounced from the gun to the work bench and skipped to the floor.

  Oliop picked up his personal null-space tool kit, which currently held a dozen power tools, drone range finders, and all the implements he used during his rounds, including scrapers, a shovel, a door wedge, an antimatter coin purse, and a mallet. All the tools together weighed less than a few ounces when inside the kit. He picked up the stapler and dropped it in. It plopped onto the work bench. He picked it up again, put it in the kit. It fell through. It should have stuck inside the portable dimensional case with the rest of the tools. After a third attempt, Oliop was certain there was something wrong with the staple gun.

  From one of the shop's tool boxes, he took a black analysis device with several prongs and gave the staple gun a once over. The gadget blinked, beeped, and flashed data across a screen imbedded in its handle. The stapler's plastic parts were comprised of typical polymer chains. The metal parts were iron, chromium, and nickel, with traces of carbon and manganese and nothing else of note. The stapler also sowed typical levels of trace radiation from a post-atomic age civilization.

  He tapped the side of the staple gun on the bench. Spun it. Got down low and stared across the bench at it. And then tried to place it again in the tool kit as if it were being deliberately disobedient. It fell through.

  He pulled every other tool out of his pouch and tried again. It fell through. He replaced his tools. They stayed put as always. “Hmm,” he said as he flopped down on a tall chair. He fidgeted and stared at the stapler and scratched his hairy brow.

  The door to the repair shop opened. The Head Grey entered, followed by the looming Whistle. Whistle's glowing eyes locked onto the gangly technician. Oliop eeped. He picked up the analysis device and turned in his chair towards his visitors, his back to the work bench. With his tail, he grabbed the staple gun and tucked it under his butt.

  “Oliop, what are you doing?” the Grey said. The Grey approached the work bench with Whistle towering over them both like a dark cloud.

  “Uh, nothing,” Oliop said. “Working. Why?”

  “I need you to set up an elevator for me,” the Grey said. “Like you did when you used it. Off the grid, so no one knows.”

  “You told me not to use the elevator.”

  “You won't be using it. And now I'm telling you to set one up for me to use. No one else is to know about this.”

  “Uh, okay. But why don't you use one of your own transports instead of the Co
mmittee's?”

  “Because none of my brood mates must know about this, either,” the Grey said.

  “You won't tell anyone,” Whistle said, leaning over the Grey and close to the hairy technician.

  Oliop gulped. “Nope,” he said softly.

  Whistle looked Oliop over. “What are you hiding?” she asked. She spun him and his chair around. Oliop's tail maneuvered away from the big creature, but Whistle grabbed it, impossibly fast. The tail held nothing. Oliop looked at his tail, surprised. Whistle lifted him off the chair and checked him over.

  “Quit fooling about,” the Grey said.

  Whistle released Oliop. Oliop fell to the floor and checked under the chair and the workbench as he got up. The staple gun was gone.

  “Pay attention,” the Grey said.

  The Grey produced its own null-space container, no bigger than a stiff, folded napkin. It opened the container and presented it to Oliop.

  “And I want you to make a few modifications to the elevator for me. You'll do that, won't you?”

  CHAPTER 12

  JEFF SHOOK JORDAN'S SHOULDER, gently at first, and when she didn't stir, firmly. She was sleeping on the couch, curled up on her side. Jeff stood over her.

  “Hey,” Jeff said.

  “I'm awake,” Jordan said.

  “You were sleeping pretty deeply,” he said.

  “I do that when I'm tired, you know,” she said.

  “Just making sure you're okay. Any headache?” He went into the kitchen space and tidied up.

  “No.” Jordan sat up. Her hair did, too. “I'm fine, thanks. It felt good to sleep. Really good. Is it time for me to leave?”

  “Like I said, I can have a guest. You can crash on the couch for the night.”

  The clock on the stove read 4:00. Outside stood long shadows of a late afternoon.

  Jeff grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and pulled on a heavy denim jacket.

  “So where are you going?” she asked.

  “Out to get some supplies. With you here, it's embarrassing seeing what I have to eat.”

  She got up, slipped on her ratty sneakers, and followed him to the door. “Sounds fun,” she said as she shouldered her backpack. “Let's go.”

  ***

  As they drove, Jordan managed to tamp down the majority of her hair so it at least looked like a managed patch of wild shrub. Jeff switched off the fuzz on the radio, with only a pair of A.M. talk stations coming in clearly this far down the valley. The sun set behind them as they drove down the curving road to town.

  “Late enough to grab a bite to eat,” Jeff said. “Buy you dinner?”

  Jordan smiled at him. “I'm famished.”

  They drove through the small town and its three choices of a burger shack, a cafe with both pastries and burritos, and a bar. Jeff took them to the bar. A large sign with unlit neon read “Hare of the Dog.” Below the words, a cartoon rabbit and a cartoon bloodhound held guns on each other, the images just different enough from their Warner Brothers inspirations to not get the establishment's owner sued.

  A small plume of white wood smoke rose up from behind the place, smelling of burning applewood and cooking meat.

  They went in. A long, darkly lacquered wood bar ran the length of the place from the door to the back. Scores of colorful bottles lined the wall. An older woman with a long, white pony tail worked one of several beer taps, pulling out a slow pour of a syrupy, black beer into a pint glass. At the corner of the bar near the door, an older man with thin white chin whiskers sat with a straw fedora. He sipped a foamy blond beer from a tulip glass and gave Jeff a nod when they entered. Jeff nodded back. The handful of other patrons paid them no mind, which suited Jeff just fine. If the place had been packed, Jeff wouldn't have gone inside the narrow establishment. A television set mounted high in a corner showed a basketball game. The sound was muted.

  They sat down at one of the small tables along the wall. Jordan grabbed the table top menu that stood in its plastic holder.

  “Dog's brisket 'sandwitch'?” Jordan said, reading. “Sandwich shouldn't have a 't' in it. What kind of place is this?”

  “Don't judge a restaurant by its spelling,” Jeff said.

  “And the smoked bacon BLT has garden-grown 'tomoto'.” Jordan flipped the menu. “Ah. Here's the beer. You need the menu?”

  Jeff shook his head. A Latino man with a white apron who smelled of barbecue smoke came out from the back and took their order. He nodded approvingly with each selection, and the order came out quickly.

  Jeff ate the brisket sandwich topped with slaw and marveled as Jordan cleaned a plate of a half chicken, red beans, cooked kale, and cornbread. She washed it down with a black stout. Jeff drank iced tea with lemon but no sugar.

  “Don't drink?” Jordan asked. She was picking at any last scraps of chicken meat that she might have missed.

  “Not for a while,” Jeff said. “Thought not drinking would make a good rule until I get myself resettled.”

  She sipped her stout, considered it. “Too bad. This is good, you know. But if you're avoiding alcohol, seems like playing awfully close to the flame by going to a bar for the food.”

  “Never had a problem with it, just don't want it to become one. Besides, this is the best food in town.”

  After Jordan declined a second beer, their server dropped off the bill. Jeff looked it over, calculated twenty percent, rounded up to the nearest dollar, and put cash down on the table.

  He drove them over to the grocery store, leaving Jordan out front browsing the ad board and community notices while he went in to shop. It was a good time to resupply, with only a handful of people to steer clear of inside the store. Jeff moved down the aisles, filling his basket with bread, ham, cheese, a box of corn flakes, and milk. He browsed the produce aisle and picked up bananas, a tub of mixed greens, and some tomatoes. His pace quickened as an elevator music version of Skid Row's “I Remember You” started to play over the store's speakers.

  “The self-checkout is open,” a man said. He wore a green plaid vest with the grocery store logo on one breast pocket and a name tag that read “Jimmy” and “Assistant Manager” on the other.

  Jeff looked at the self-checkout with its four machines. Two shoppers were scanning their items and loading their bags. The blinking checking machines beeped for attention. The thought of using them made Jeff's hands tremble. His palms began to sweat.

  “No thanks,” Jeff said.

  “It's real easy,” Jimmy said, “I'll gladly walk you through it.” Jimmy then saw Jeff's eyes, stuttered, looked away.

  “If you just ring me up, that'll be just fine,” Jeff said.

  Jimmy rang him up at the register and never looked at Jeff again.

  Once outside, Jeff looked for Jordan but didn't see her. He walked back in and checked the store but she wasn't there, either. He went back out and put the bags of groceries in the truck behind the seat. There were a few other people in the lot walking into the store. A pair of older teens stood at one side of the building by some old newspaper dispensers. The group looked bored, each busy on their phones. A black Chevy Suburban was parked at the far end of the parking lot. From the cab, a light flickered like the tip of embers from a cigarette. And there, past the Suburban in the shadows across the street, was Jordan on the sidewalk. She crouched over her pack, and it looked like she was talking on her cell phone.

  She put the phone back into her pack, scooped it up, and returned to the truck.

  “Everything okay?” Jeff asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Just fine.” She didn't make eye contact as she got into the cab. Jeff turned the engine on, started to say something, didn't. He did notice an odd smell. He didn't see Jordan using any perfume but didn't know what else it could be. It smelled like lilacs, not unpleasant, but perhaps as if the cut flowers were a week past their use-by date. The smell faded just as Jeff came close to zeroing in on what it reminded him of. Maybe it was her shampoo. He began the drive back to the school. S
he could crash on the couch tonight, but he'd ask her to leave in the morning.

  The black Suburban followed.

  CHAPTER 13

  “DO YOU BELIEVE IN ALIENS?” Jordan asked.

  Outside of town and with no moon, Jeff drove with care. The road ahead curved into black beyond the pickup truck's headlights. Some of the turns had helpful signs with black arrows on reflective yellow, but most did not.

  “Like little green men with designs on our world?” Jeff said.

  “More like what's been going on in the news,” she said. “The actual sightings of extraterrestrials. That alien body in Nevada.”

  “I don't watch T.V. Heard some crazy stuff on the radio. But I don't listen to it much, either.”

  “You really are cut off, you know. Like a hermit.”

  Jeff smiled. Only a couple of cars passed them, both heading the opposite way. He thought of the gangly, hairy creature he had seen, working to fix his broken spaceship, panicking at the sight of a human, and somehow knowing Jeff's name without so much as an introduction. Had that actually happened?

  “It seems like pretty big news,” Jordan said. “If it's real, that is. So do you like keeping yourself so isolated?”

  “I like to think of myself as unplugged,” Jeff said. “Maybe more people should try it. As for the aliens, there's this old theory about hysteria. It's happened before. A commie in every closet. Fluoride in the drinking water lets the government control the population.”

  “Eggs are bad for you.”

  “Yeah, that one, too,” Jeff said and chuckled.

  “Well I saw a UFO once, you know,” Jordan said. “At a reservoir near Sacramento. My boyfriend Rob and I were parked in his Jeep. I was in the mood, and he was drunk and passed out, so I took a walk, and there it was.”

  “A flying saucer?” Jeff asked.

  “It was a sphere, actually. About the size of a small house. It flew down low, silent, not lit up like in the movies. It was darker than the night, and it sped up and slowed down as it pleased. It flew by once and then came back for another look at me and zipped off. And that was it.”