Ship Wrecked Page 3

  Chapter 5

  Cameron eased his truck back onto Horton, straining to see through the worsening, blizzard-like conditions outside. Their frosty breaths had caused the inside of the windshield to fog up. Using his sleeve, he wiped away a portion of the condensation. “The Bronco … back at the Drake … you took it?”

  The alien, Ramen, didn’t say anything at first then eventually nodded.

  “So, you’re staying there, at the Carsons’ place?”

  Another nod.

  “You didn’t hurt Bill and Mandy?” Cameron asked.

  “Already told you … not here to hurt anyone,” Ramen said.

  “Yeah … Okay … Just checking. Um … did you leave anything there, inside the house? Something that isn’t … you know … Earthlike?”

  There was a flicker of something in Ramen’s eyes. “Yes. Yes, there is something one would find improper there. Is that the correct word? Improper?”

  “What is it? What did you leave there?”

  “My trinious bundle.”

  “Okay. Is this … trinious bundle-thing important? Something you need?”

  Ramen made an exaggerated expression, as if Cameron should know that it was damn important. “It has items within it I will need. Technology, communications apparatus, numerous supplies … a weapon.”

  Cameron gave Ramen a sideways glance, which reiterated his previous query about hurting anyone. “We’re about twenty minutes away from the house. It’s pretty far up the side of Gant Mountain … a remote area, which is good. We’ll get your … whatever it is you called the thing.”

  Just then, Cameron’s smartphone began to ring. Snatching it off the center console, he saw it was Heather. An incoming FaceTime call. She was the only person he knew who liked to use the video-calling app. He angled the phone so that Ramen would be out of view before answering the call.

  “Hey,” he said. He could tell by the noise in the background she was still at work, still at the Drake, her long hair now pulled back in a ponytail. She had her winter coat on, a fluffy white scarf encircling her neck. Must be on her way out, he figured.

  “Hey back,” she said. “Listen … I watched you leave. Watched you drive onto Horton, heading south, but I didn’t see you drive back this way again. Ya’ know, head back toward the highway.”

  “Yeah … so?” he questioned, probably a bit more defensively than he intended.

  “My dad … he called me a few minutes ago. Said there was a criminal around here. That he’d probably been eating in the Drake. That he wanted me to be extra careful going home.”

  “Criminal? What kind of criminal?” Cameron asked glancing over to Ramen.

  “I don’t know. Something about him breaking into the Carsons’ place, up on Gant Mountain.”

  “Huh … that’s weird,” Cameron said, not sure how to respond back.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  Shit! Unconsciously, he’d let the angle of the screen on his iPhone wander a bit.”

  “Uh … what do you mean?”

  “Come on … I saw a shoulder, Cam. Someone’s sitting right next to you.” Her brow furrowed. He’d seen that same expression many times before, whenever he attempted to lie, or tell some partial truth. She was smart—had little patience for bullshit.

  “Oh … that’s just Todd, a friend of mine. I’m giving him a lift. That’s why you didn’t see me going back the other way. Just giving him a quick ride.”

  “Turn the phone so I can see him.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? I know all your friends. Who’s Todd?”

  “Heather … I have another call coming in. I’ll call you back.” He clicked off.

  Ramen was staring at him, concern in his eyes.

  “It won’t be safe to go to the Carsons’ place,” Cameron said.

  “Who was that?”

  “My girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend now, I guess.”

  “Who is father?”

  “The Larksburg Stand sheriff. Not someone you’d want to screw with.”

  “Must retrieve my trinious bundle.”

  “You heard her. They’re looking all over for you, probably already at the Carsons’ place. Maybe the waitress who waited on you at the Drake gave them a description. I think Ginger was working the counter.”

  “Items within the bundle … could allow access to my vessel. To the hold.”

  “What’s in the hold?” He tried to read the alien’s expression.

  “Unsafe cargo.”

  Cameron was already regretting pulling over and giving the alien a ride. Inwardly cursing himself, he said, “Just lay it all out for me. Tell me everything.”

  “All I will say, is I am a Keeper. That is my station. What you would call a job. I transport life forms … sometimes dangerous ones. Deliver them to a planet where they will remain for the entirety of their lives.”

  “So like a prison?”

  “More like a zoo,” the alien said.

  Surprised, Cameron noted Ramen’s English had somewhat improved in the short time they’d been conversing. He briefly wondered how Ramen would even know the difference between a zoo and a prison. Apparently those things weren’t specific to Earth. “You know a lot about things here,” Cameron said.

  “Of course I do. Where I from, Earth is of much interest. Has been studied for many of your centuries. We still have a number of human subjects at our research facilities.”

  “You mean … like humans from Earth?”

  “Certainly.”

  Cameron let that go for now. “So your cargo is what … another kind of alien on your ship?”

  The alien let out a long breath—but it seemed to be an acknowledgment.

  “It’s locked up, right? Can’t go anywhere?”

  The alien rubbed the stubble on his chin. “She escaped two times in transit. Killed the other two specimens. Killed … the crew, nineteen of my kind. Only I remain. That is the reason for the crash of my ship. Weaponry fire gone astray …”

  “And you brought this fucking creature down to Earth?”

  Ramen didn’t answer.

  “What exactly is this thing … What—”

  Ramen spoke up, “She is not a humanoid. A giant of a creature, called a Griar Loth, she stands thirty-to-forty feet tall when upright, but she can also crawl around on all six limbs … insect-like. She has a tremendous appetite … and a keen mind. She rarely sleeps, is always watching, calculating. Virtually all of her individual body parts can regenerate when separated from their core. Fortunately it is not the male version, the Minal Loth … far bigger and even more difficult to contain.”

  “Why didn’t you just kill the damn thing when you had the chance?”

  “We tried. But killing a Griar Loth is no simple task. A nearly impregnable hide, in your measurements grows to four inches thick. The creature can survive even in a no-atmosphere environment for periods of time. The only known way to kill one is to separate the head from the body. But even then, it is a good idea to destroy the head too … as soon as possible.”

  “How do you do that? Cut off the head?”

  “There are apparatus available for that one purpose. Several are on Winforge, the intended interment planet, and some are on Thidion, my home planet.”

  Cameron, who’d turned off Horton a mile back, slowly made his way up the winding mountain road. “Well, maybe the best thing to do is to come clean … with everything. Tell the police who you are, where you come from, and about the killer Loth. How dangerous she is.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is not my decision to make. Your planet is not authorized yet for intergalactic contact.”

  “Well, you told me,” Cameron said.

  “That may have been a mistake.” The alien touched his cap where his ear was still sufficiently covered. “I did not wish to kill you. But that option is still available to me.” He gave Cameron a cold stare. “I will return to my ship. I will leave this planet as soon a
s there is sufficient catalyst collected. Enough to repair the anti-matter drive units.”

  “What would that be? What’s the catalyst?”

  “I believe you call it Xenon gas.”

  Cameron’s mind flashed to the familiar glossy chart within Volume P of his World Book Encyclopedia. “Sure, that’s one of the periodic elements. Atomic number 54. A noble gas that’s colorless, odorless, and kind of dense, it’s found in our atmosphere, also in a number of other places. But you’re not going to find much of that stuff around here, other than trace amounts.”

  The alien looked at Cameron—obviously surprised by his knowledge

  of the sciences. “One of my two majors is System’s Biology … at my university,” Cameron added.

  “I can obtain the element from the atmosphere,” Ramen said. “My vessel is well equipped for such a task. It is doing so now. But it takes much time. It would be helpful to find the gas in a greater quantity.”

  “Let me think about that. Maybe get on the web … do a search.”

  They drove in silence for the next ten minutes. Cameron slowed as he approached the turn-off for the Carsons’ place. “Can you use Argon? It’s another noble gas, and it’s present in the atmosphere at about one percent so maybe it would be easier to collect.”

  “Not as efficient, but perhaps,” Ramen said, seeming to consider the question. Glancing up, he added, “The street to turn on is called Laskill Drive.”

  “Yeah, I know that. Been to the Carsons’ place a few times. Friends of my foster parents. Um … maybe you should scoot down in your seat. No sense bringing extra attention to yourself.”

  The alien did as told. Hunkering down, only the top of his cap poked above the dashboard.

  The Carsons’ house was large. A stilt house, built on the side of Gant Mountain, it had incredible views—not only of Larksburg Stand below, but of three distant towns as well. In the far distance was Whiteface Mountain, the site of the Lake Placid 1980 Olympic games. The Carsons’ house was coming up on the right.

  “What do you see, Cameron?” the alien asked.

  “I see the house … I’m going to drive past it. Make sure no one’s there. Keep your head down.”

  The snow was now coming down in sheets. The house appeared to be deserted, no cars parked on the short, albeit steep, driveway. “I’ll go up a ways then turn around. I think we may be okay. You’ll need to run in fast and get your—” Cameron didn’t finish the sentence, noticing a police cruiser coming fast around the bend up ahead. Lights flashing, he spotted Kirk at the wheel. The cop turned then stopped several hundred feet away—completely blocking the road ahead. Crap. Cameron jammed on the brakes and, putting the truck into reverse, began spinning the steering wheel. He intended to make a fast three-point-turn, using the Carsons’ driveway. Then another cruiser suddenly appeared, coming up fast behind him. It, too, came to a rapid stop and, parking at an angle, blocked their escape. He immediately recognized the man’s buzz-cut behind the wheel—fucking Deputy Elis Trap.

  Ramen rose up just enough to peer over the dashboard. Spinning around, he saw the other cruiser too. “This was a mistake.”

  “You think?”

  Through the falling snow, Cameron watched as another vehicle pulled up farther back—the sheriff’s Explorer.

  “I will run … Must escape.”

  But the two deputies were already rushing toward Cameron’s truck. Their guns were drawn, pointed straight at them.

  Chapter 6

  “Hands up!” Elis and Kirk simultaneously yelled from opposite sides of the pickup truck. The muzzles on their service weapons didn’t waver—their fingers poised on the triggers.

  Cameron and Ramen raised up their hands, as ordered.

  “I cannot be apprehended,” Ramen said, his voice sounding calm in spite of their dire situation.

  “Don’t do anything radical, man, just go along with it. And for God’s sake … keep your cap on!” Cameron ordered in hushed undertones.

  Kirk said, “Get out of the car one at a time! You first, Cameron, SLOWLY!”

  “Okay … I’m lowering my left arm to open the door so don’t shoot me. We haven’t done anything wrong,” Cameron said.

  As he opened the driver’s side door and was in the process of climbing out, he was forcibly grabbed and thrown hard to the pavement. Cameron’s cheek took the brunt of it. Kirk jammed his knee hard into the small of his back. First one arm and then the other were wrenched backward, his wrists handcuffed together. “For Christ’s sake, Kirk, what’s up with the riot act? I didn’t do anything!”

  “Shut up! Don’t say a fucking word.”

  “Now you … with the cap. Get out with your hands up!” Deputy Elis Trap yelled. Cameron, lying on the ground, could make out Trap’s wide-leg stance from beneath the truck. Within seconds, a repeat of what had happened to him was now happening to Ramen. Thrown to the pavement, his arms, too, were forcibly handcuffed behind his back.

  Cameron watched as another set of legs approached—Sheriff Christy. Kneeling down, he roughly took Ramen’s jaw in his large hand. His voice, deep and threatening, demanded, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  The alien maintained the same surprisingly calm demeanor. Not answering the sheriff, he didn’t attempt to make eye contact. The sheriff stood up and let out a frustrated breath. Then Trap knelt down next to Ramen. The blow came fast and hard—a jab to Ramen’s cheek, then another, followed by yet another. The deputy’s cabbage-sized fist was inflicting a lot of damage. Cameron felt sick as he watched Ramen’s head repeatedly knocked about.

  “Hold up, deputy,” the sheriff said. “I’ll ask you one more time, Mister. What’s your name? Where’s your identification? Show me a license. This rough stuff doesn’t have to go down like this. Best for everyone if you cooperate.”

  Blood oozed from Ramen’s right cheek, his right eye on its way to being swollen shut. Still, the alien, maintaining the same calm demeanor, said nothing. Watching from beneath the truck, Cameron could see the sheriff’s highly polished black shoes were now coated white from the falling snow. Taking a step backward, the Sheriff kicked out, planting the toe of his shoe hard into Ramen’s side. A blow that easily could cause severe internal injuries—at the very least—a number of broken ribs.

  “Stop! Sheriff, he’s not from around here. He’s from … Greece! He … doesn’t even understand what you’re saying!” Cameron’s mind raced. “I think he’s a relative.”

  “Get him up, deputy. Put him in your vehicle.”

  From his limited visual perspective, Cameron watched as Ramen was hefted roughly to his feet. He staggered to keep his balance as he and the deputy hurried off. The sheriff legs, anchored in place for several beats, slowly turned as he walked around the truck.

  “Get him up, Kirk,” the sheriff ordered sternly.

  “You didn’t have to kick him like that, Sheriff … Didn’t you hear what I said? That I think he’s related to—”

  The sheriff cut Cameron off: “Boy, you need to learn when to talk and when to shut your trap. Now tell me, what exactly is your association with this fellow?”

  “Association? I picked him up on the side of the road a half-hour ago. He was slogging along in the snow in tennis shoes … He looked cold.”

  “And he told you to bring him here? To the Carsons’ place?”

  Cameron was well aware of the trap he was walking into. He’d already told the sheriff the guy was Greek—that he didn’t understand English, so how then did he know he was a relative, and where he was living? “Um, he kept repeating the same names, Bill and Mandy Carson, and pointing up to this mountain. It was pretty easy to connect the dots …”

  “And what, you could tell he was Greek … how? That he was related to them? Carson doesn’t sound like a Greek name to me.”

  “No, but Manolis is … Mrs. Carson’s maiden name. Her family’s from Greece,” Cameron said. Actually, that was true. He had an aptitude for remembering inconsequential detail. Not so
much a photographic memory, because if he wasn’t interested in the subject matter, he’d forget it as soon as he heard it, read it, or saw it. Like faces. He wasn’t good with faces, or remembering the lyrics to songs. But ask him the diameter of Pluto and he’d be able to tell you instantly, without thinking, that it is 1,475 miles.

  The sheriff stared down at him, his eyes roving over Cameron’s face—deciding how much, if any, of what he’d spouted-off about was true. Cameron wanted to look away. Hide from those two angry, penetrating eyes. He wanted to leave, tell the sheriff he was sorry for breaking up with his little girl. Also sorry for picking up the odd stranger, who, by the way, just happened to be an alien. Jeez, how could that even be true? There had to be a far more rational explanation, right? Somehow, he’d let his imagination run wild. Then suddenly he remembered the dude’s ear. Able to see deep within the guy’s head, it was like looking into a frigging snow globe. No, human ears weren’t constructed of quasi-transparent membrane. Cameron continued returning the sheriff’s hard-eyed stare without blinking.

  A loud static hiss, followed by a frantic voice, emanated from the sheriff’s hip radio. “Sheriff! … Sheriff! 10-98 … I’m in fast pursuit. Damn it, he got away! Over.”

  “What’s your 20, Trap? Over,” the sheriff asked, looking back over his shoulder to where the deputy’s cruiser was last seen.

  “I’m halfway down the mountain. Guy must have gotten free of his cuffs. Walloped me something good on the side of the head. Must have blacked out, because I woke up staring at a tree. Front of my cruiser’s wrapped around it. Over.”

  “And the prisoner? Over.”

  “Uh … in the wind. I’m sorry … over.”

  “You okay? Need me to get a bus up here?”

  “No, sir, I’m okay. I’m following his tracks. Should be able to catch up to him. Guy’s wearing tennis shoes. Not dressed for this weather, he’ll be a block of ice in no time … over”

  “Negative, deputy, stand down. You’re injured. You know damn well procedure calls for backup in such situations. We’re on our way. Over.”