The Hidden Ship Read online

  The Gap in the middle spoke up, “Lobster Rolls for the three of us.”

  I saw Donny make a revolted face. The Gaps around here tended to speak in an adopted Texan-like twang that sounded disgusting. The phlegmy gravel sounds emanating out of the reptilian’s voice box had the unique ability to instantly sour just about any nearby Human’s stomach. I watched Wendy’s face as she turned her head toward the open window leading into the kitchen. Her eyes desperately conveyed her silent query: Do we even have anymore fucking lobsters? Gaps— the nickname given the alien invaders was coined after noting they all had a wide gap between both front teeth. Each Gap tooth was easily five times the size of the average Human tooth. Over the course of two years, nicknames for the green aliens were not limited to just a single derogatory term. There was Phlegmflams, relating to their gurgly-phlegmy voices; Sackdraggers, relating specifically to the Gaps’ reported enormous genitalia; Bug Suckers, relating to their preference to abruptly suck out the insides of a lobster; and Shitshots, pertaining to the first Gaps arrival on Earth and their inability to utilize Human toilets. They often gave up in frustration and simply shitted upon a closed lid. The assumption that an interstellar invader, such as the Earupitans, would be far more intelligent than the society they invaded, namely now Earth’s Humans, was debatable.

  I always thought it interesting that most people were under the assumption one’s brain size was the major contributing factor relating to intelligence. But elephants and whales have much bigger brains than Humans. Scientists long ago came up with something called the Encephalization Quotient to determine a species actual smarts. Something to do with the ratio of actual brain mass relative to the predicted brain mass for any given species’ size—all based on the assumption that larger animals required a bit less brain matter, relative to their overall size, in comparison to those of a tinier species. By this metric, Humans came out on top on Earth, with an EQ metric of 7.5, far surpassing the dolphin’s 5.3, and the mouse’s measly 0.5. Word was, although I certainly had no way to confirm the findings, the average Gaps Encephalization Quotient was somewhere in the neighborhood of 6.2, a little above that of a dolphin, and certainly higher than that of a common yard pig.

  The three Gaps seemed to be in a jovial mood today. The one on the left reached a claw-like hand across the counter and gave Wendy’s left breast a painful squeeze. Crying out, she pulled away, clutching her notepad to her chest. Tears welled in her eyes as she stared back at them perplexed.

  All three Gaps laughed uproariously. The one on the right began to slap his hand down repeatedly onto the marble counter top. Apparently, her reaction was just what they were hoping for.

  Matt, leaning closer to me, whispered, “There has to be a way to move up our timetable . . . ,” but then looked up.

  The Friends Fucking Friends contingent of five men, now obviously finished with breakfast, were striding past us. Bringing up their rear was Ronald Gant. Giving me, and the others around our table, a contrite smile and nod, he then—as though a second thought had occurred to him—turned back and stopped at the counter. He leaned in close to the middle EMS Gap who was perched high on a stool, and whispered something into his ear. As he departed, he gave the big alien a conspiratorial pat on the shoulder.

  chapter 2

  Huddled together, Matt, Donny, and I stood talking along the passenger side of my truck. Mort’s head still hung outside the truck window so Matt scratched the loose folds of skin around the dog’s neck. Directly across the street was what used to be the town’s government center and the DMV office. Now it was just one more Gap Oversight and Enforcement Center, more commonly referred to as an OEC.

  “Where you off to now?” Matt asked.

  “Elizabeth,” I answered, referring to another, even smaller town than Castle Rock. “I’m running low on crustaceans. Might have a new underground source there. We’ll see.”

  Neither Matt nor Donny said anything, but their silence spoke volumes—they disapproved of my food source and its intended purpose.

  I said, “Look, Matt . . . I need you to talk to your sister again—”

  Matt, already shaking his head, said, “I told you, no. She’s not the slightest bit interested in any of this, in what we’re doing. In fact, she’s tried to talk me out of it.”

  I was well aware Karen had lost her husband in Earth’s short-lived battle against the aliens. That she wasn’t about to sacrifice herself, or Gwen, her five-year-old daughter, by going against the strict dictums now in place under the alien occupation. But she, like myself, had once been a pilot, and a damn good one. Her bird of choice was an AH-64 Apache helicopter. We really could use Karen’s help now.

  Matt said, “Anyway . . . same time tonight?”

  “Um, best make it around ten. I have a few things to take care of. As always, make sure you’re not followed,” I said.

  Donny rolled his eyes. “Oh . . . thank you so much for reminding us of that. I would totally have forgotten to check my rearview mirror, or to check the skies for distortion wakes.”

  As if on cue, a Milonge Bi-Hull transport suddenly thundered above into Castle Rock’s airspace. The presence of the twin, side-by-side cabined spacecraft caused everything below it to vibrate. I felt the disturbing turbulence deep within my chest. Talking would be impossible until the craft moved on. It hovered, completely blocking out the sun from view, directly over the OEC. It slowly began to descend onto the four-story building’s rooftop. We watched its four landing struts lower. The big ship gently rocked back and forth as it touched down onto the makeshift landing pad above.

  Donny strode off, walking south down Wilcox, while Matt headed north. No sooner did I climb behind the wheel, giving Mort another pat on his head, than the town’s public address system crackled to life. I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock on the dot. With all their faults, the Gaps were nothing if not punctual.

  “Citizens . . . Good morning, and a fine morning this is . . .”

  Right then every television channel, every radio station, and all the newly installed PA systems recently installed around the world, were transmitting local versions of this same message. The voice belonged to one Sleept Vogthner, the Gap’s Chancellor of Communications. He ranked somewhere up there, amongst the higher echelons within the alien command structure. I watched the local Castle Rock pedestrians meander on, going this way and that, seeming not to listen to the all too familiar morning broadcast.

  “. . . today, I would like you to breathe in this wonderful Colorado air. Fill up your lungs and give proper acknowledgment and gratitude for the bounty provided to you by our kind eminence, Overlord Skith. ‘No worries is our motto. Strife is a thing of the past, citizens. Food, shelter, and healthcare are provided to each and every one of you. Also, a monetary supplement is offered to one and all, with no strings attached.” The voice droned on and on. I caught sight of Wendy through the B&B’s large, street-facing window standing behind the counter. She gestured comically, shoving two fingers down her throat and mimicking the act of throwing-up.

  I offered her back a courtesy smile. She needs to be more careful, I thought. I started up the engine and put the truck in reverse, then backed out onto Wilcox Ave. Checking the traffic behind me, I noticed the same three Gaps who’d been seated at the B&B’s counter now heading across the street. Grasped securely between two of the Gaps was a man I knew: Barry Larson. He owned Fishing Rods and Bait, two streets over. Struggling to free himself—his feet gyrated two-feet above the ground. A fourth marshal strode into view, approaching from the opposite side of the street, and I did a double-take. The sheer size of the alien bordered on the impossible. The average Gap tended to be in the seven-foot-tall range—sometimes a tad taller or shorter than that. I turned around in my seat and looked out the truck’s rear window. I wanted to make sure I was actually seeing things as they really were. Mirrors could sometimes distort reality. But this was no distortion.
The Gap marshal really was that big, easily eight feet tall. And built like some kind of steroid-infused wild creature. His biceps were the size of soccer balls; the breadth of his shoulders would demand he turn sideways before entering a standard thirty-inch doorway. And he’d have to duck down real low to avoid hitting his head on the door’s frame. His cowboy boots, beyond all doubt, had to have been custom-made. Had to be at least size twenty-four, compared to my own boot size of eleven and a half. The towering Gap marshal, intersecting with his fellow officers, took physical possession of poor Barry Larson. Using a clawed hand that almost spanned the size of a trashcan lid, the big alien plucked the struggling Human up by the top of his head and raised him to eye-level. The Gap marshal’s words, spoken in a deep baritone voice, resonated all the way into my truck’s cab: “If you don’t stop struggling, I’ll crush your cranium, Human.”

  Barry Larson did as told. His arms went limp by his sides. His legs stopped gyrating. I could see humiliation written on the man’s petrified face. And then the Gap marshal’s head, swiveling around, looked directly toward my truck—at me.

  I put the truck in drive and sped away. I doubted Barry would survive the night—fifty-fifty odds he’d never see his family again.

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the town of Elizabeth, which wasn’t really much of a town. About six hundred registered inhabitants lived there. Mort kept his head draped out the window as we drove, staring out at mostly open-range grasslands. I remembered back when hundreds of head of Angus cattle grazed these same pastures. Thing was, you’d need actual living ranchers still around to support such endeavors. Even from the street, I could tell that two out of three ranches were uninhabited. Falling into lonely decrepitude. I checked my rearview mirror often, since it was not uncommon to find myself tailed by the EMS, or even by one of Ronald Gant’s Friends For Friends jackass members.

  I slowed, approaching a cluster of curbside mailboxes. One mailbox, bowled over, lay broken apart on the ground—like a fallen soldier left for dead.

  Seeing the street number I was looking for on one of the still upright boxes, I turned down the dirt drive. A brown dust cloud billowed out behind the truck’s tailgate. My approach certainly wasn’t a secret.

  I pulled up at a ramshackle residence that looked like two separate single-wide mobile homes, butted-up to one another from end to end. One was white, with a tan horizontal stripe running across it; the other, a faded light-blue, had no stripe.

  “Stay, boy,” I said to Mort as I climbed out. I shut the door gently, rather than slamming it. It was so quiet around here, I felt compelled to make as little noise as possible.

  The front yard, composed mostly of dirt with a few patches of crabgrass here and there, accommodated a lone, rusted-out Maytag washing machine. Its bottom panel was torn off, exposing the appliance’s drive motor and wiring harness. I approached the front door, which opened before I could knock. I couldn’t see anyone standing inside, just a gloomy haze.

  “What do you want?” came an old woman’s voice.

  Lowering my gaze down a foot, I saw her standing by the threshold of the door. Scowling up at me, the small elderly woman’s silver hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the rear of her head. Her loose-fitting dress had a repeating floral pattern on it—an old schoolmarm’s dress. A lit cigarette drooped down from the corner of her two thin lips.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t need . . . don’t want. Now get the hell off my property!”

  The crude welcome took me somewhat by surprise. “I’m . . . here to see Randy . . . um, is he your son?”

  I didn’t think her expression could turn any more sour, but I was wrong. Ma Kettle came to mind, from the old Beverly Hillbillies TV Show.

  “Who are you . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I told you, I’m here—”

  “We don’t take kindly to strangers around here,” she cut in. “Not in these times.” Shit, say the wrong thing to someone and you end up in one of those crazy centers. You don’t come back from one of those places. Not alive, anyway. She continued to appraise me, giving me the once-over from head to toe. “Randy’s out back. But let me warn you right now, I have a double-barrel shotgun nearby, and it’s loaded . . . buckshot, not birdshot . . .”

  “Thanks, I’ll just head around the side—”

  “I don’t need to hear your life story . . . just git off my porch!” The door slammed shut in my face.

  Doing as told, I moved alongside the connected mobile homes, wading through a mélange of old washers and dryers in various stages of disrepair. I figured Randy probably had some sort of side-business going on, which clearly wasn’t doing that well. I pushed through a seven-foot-tall chain-link gate, covered by a lopsided sheet of corrugated steel. A heavy chain with an attached open padlock hung down, clanging as I pushed my way through. Entering the backyard, the odor stopped me in my tracks as my eyes took in the expansive space before me. In sight were no less than two hundred, brand new metal troughs—each about five feet long and two feet tall. Some sort of metal mesh covered their open tops. Small-motorized pumps were positioned between clusters of the troughs. Their low humming noise, the sound of churning water, created a calming effect.

  I saw a dark shadow appear on the ground beside my own. It was massive. I swallowed and tried to think of a fast excuse for being there. What could I say that a Gap would believe?

  “Quite the operation, eh?” a Human’s voice asked, instead.

  I turned my head and took in the mountain of a man standing next to me. Probably six-foot-eight in height, or close to that, he certainly was as tall as the average Gap, but not even close in size to the giant lizard I’d seen earlier on Wilcox Avenue. Wearing knee-high rubber boots, and filthy Farmer John overalls—his Rockies baseball cap was flipped backward atop his big head. A grisly black beard covered the entire lower portion of his face. But his brown eyes were kind and had a mischievous twinkle to them.

  “You Randy?” I asked.

  Randy smiled. “And you must be Brian . . . looking for a constant supply of bugs?”

  “Bugs?”

  Randy shrugged. “What most of us in the business call them . . . Lobsters are the cockroaches of the sea . . . scavengers. They eat just about anything put in front of them.”

  I gestured toward the numerous metal troughs. “Can I ask who exactly your customers are for all this?”

  Randy licked his lips and hesitated. “Well, you know this is the primary culinary staple for the Gaps. They love ’em.”

  “But they’re very particular from what I hear,” I said.

  “Yeah, they like their bugs real fresh. And only from the deep blue sea.”

  I nodded. “Probably only limited resources available for such an in-demand supply. What’s a restaurant or supermarket to do?”

  Randy smiled and took in a deep breath. “God, I love that smell.”

  “But they’re right out in the open,” I continued. “There must be alien ships crisscrossing overhead all day long. As impressive as this operation looks, you’ve done a miserable job concealing it.”

  “Why would I want to conceal it?”

  “Because this isn’t the deep blue sea. This bounty is contraband. You could be hauled into a center. You’d probably be executed.”

  Randy slowly nodded. “Who do you think paid for all this?”

  I considered the question. “You’re telling me the Gaps did?”

  “Humans aren’t the only species capable of larceny. Racketeering, I would add, seems to be an interstellar phenomenon. This three acre plot of land is off-limits. Ships’ geo-scans pass right over this property; no records kept in the aliens’ databases.”

  “Or so they say,” I said, wondering what turnip truck the big man had fallen off of.

  “I know. Why believe any of them? But I didn’t exactly have a choice. They had somethi
ng on me. But the Gaps who came up with this scheme gave me a way out. One that could keep me and my ma alive, while making a few extra bucks in the process.”

  I considered that. “So you sell a few of these lobsters . . . bugs . . . on the side then, to someone like me?”

  “Like you said, and to restaurants . . . supermarkets. I don’t know what you need them for . . . and I don’t want to know,” he said. “But I am Human, and my loyalties will always be with my own kind. Now, how about I give you the grand tour . . . let you pick out a few of your own bugs?”

  chapter 3

  Even Gauz Za Chiv, a Commander Level 2 of the Earupitan Landing Forces, had to admit the countryside landscape before him had a certain appeal. He watched as the first of the flat, open air, disk-shaped troop carriers dropped from the sky and sped toward the outcropping ridge lying just above the northern Italian town of Valle d’Aosta.

  He was forced to yell out his commands over the desperate pleas for help. He shook his head; no one would be coming to the aid of these Humans. Not today. Not ever. What a strange, overpopulated world this is, he thought. With all his experience, so many campaigns behind him now, he was somewhat taken aback by how docile this species seemed to be. Pathetic. And there were far too many of them to easily count. Yet this was supposed to be a smaller township than most. Not to worry, he thought, the droids will take care of the accounting. Yes, he was sure today had been a good day’s work—an excellent round up, all in all. His superiors would be pleased. If things continued to go well, he would be able to get the whole lot of them transferred over to the atomizer dome by nightfall. He turned his gaze upon the distant structure, just now being erected.

  Chiv stood erect within his little HovBB—a one-man hovercraft that required the pilot to stand upright at the controls. Chiv did not like the ridiculous scooters. As an officer of his importance, his stature, he should not be asked to preside over a roundup like this in a tiny fucking HovBB.