“How so?”
“Your choices, much like your father’s, seldom make logical or analytical sense.”
I couldn’t disagree. I guess a lot of what we Alien Hunters do is totally illogical. Going up against alien creeps and their minions when we’re hopelessly outnumbered. Turning into flies, cockroaches, or household appliances just so we can stay in the game. Giving up any shot at a normal life so we can protect the lives of others.
Okay, you could even call us crazy.
“Where is the nearest clustering of human creatures?” Mikaela asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Where is the closest earthling population center?”
I shrugged. “Stafford, I guess. It’s a small town about twelve miles southwest of here. Why?”
Mikaela didn’t answer. She just nodded knowingly.
That’s when the sky began to darken into a greenish-black swirl of angry thunderheads.
The low-hanging clouds started to rotate. Dust and debris whirled on the ground as a sudden torrent of rain pelted us. But just as quickly as it had started the rain stopped, leaving a dead calm.
And then I heard the roar and rumble of a jet-powered freight train tearing across the sky.
A monstrous funnel cloud appeared on the horizon, its tail dipping down to churn up the earth.
It was a twister; a tornado headed south-by-southwest.
Heading straight for Stafford, Kansas.
Chapter 34
THE TWISTER WAS roaring down the long-abandoned Union Pacific railroad tracks, its sights set on the 1,344 friendly people who called Stafford, Kansas, their home.
I remembered visiting Stafford, a nearby town, once when I was a toddler.
My mother and father took me to a restaurant called the Curtis Café, famous for its handwritten menu, homemade pies, and completed jigsaw puzzles lining all the wood-paneled walls.
If I didn’t stop this tornado, every one of those puzzles would be torn back into its thousands of pieces again. So would every building on Main Street.
Furious, I glanced over at Mikaela, who had clearly called up the life-threatening twister. She had a way-too-angelic expression on her face for someone who wasn’t exactly acting on the side of good so far.
In fact, she looked like she was studying me. Waiting for my reaction to the crisis. I guess I was her little white lab rat. Would I fight the tornado or would I flee the scene?
The basement of my old house doubled as a storm cellar, so that would’ve been the logical choice.
Hide down there. Ride out the storm.
But they had really, really good raisin cream pie at the Curtis Café down in Stafford.
“I’ll be back,” I promised my strange visitor, who was still bathed in her warm glow even though the sky above us looked like soggy balls of sooty cotton.
Fueled by the surging need to protect others, my powers felt like they had been ratcheted up to a mathematically impossible one-hundred-and-ten percent. Making like a champion figure skater, I went up on one toe, held up both arms, and applied force to generate torque on my axis of rotation. When my angular momentum had me spinning, I brought down my arms to reduce my moment of inertia and increase my angular velocity.
Twirling dizzily, faster than Natalia Kanounnikova when she set the Guinness ice spinning record of 308 revolutions per minute, I rearranged my molecular structure so I became a whirling dervish of a dust cloud. After centrifugal force had expanded me outward to the size of an Arabian dust storm, I tore across the flat plains and became the first tornado ever to chase a tornado.
Seconds later, I smacked my whirlwind self into the cyclone Mikaela had whipped up and became one with the twister heading for Stafford. Through the power of my imagination, our gale-force winds merged and we became a single gigantic funnel cloud full of dust, death, and destruction. The instant the first tornado’s molecular structure became grafted onto mine, I took over as cyclone pilot and set a new course: straight up into the sky.
In a flash, we weren’t in Kansas anymore.
We were about thirty thousand feet above it, and above all those angry clouds.
Chapter 35
I DIDN’T STOP spinning my funnel cloud until I reached the frozen edge of the mesosphere, about fifty-three miles above ground.
Weather balloons and jet aircraft can’t reach this layer of the atmosphere. Rockets pass through on their way up to their orbits but they don’t hang out. I was totally alone.
I became myself for a nanosecond as I released the kinetic energy of the whirlwind. The dust particles instantly turned to ice because the temperature at the ceiling of the mesosphere was a very brisk minus 130 degrees. Up here, the air is so thin that the atoms and molecules of gases hardly ever bump into each other.
To warm myself, I morphed into a flaming meteorite. The mesosphere is where meteorites turn into shooting stars. So, blazing a brilliant comet tail, I scorched across the sky and hoped somebody down on Earth was making a wish on me.
I know what I would’ve wished for: Number 1 turning into a big fat zero.
When I had plummeted to a safe altitude of thirty thousand feet (well, safe for me, but please don’t try this the next time the pilot says you’ve reached your final cruising altitude), I transformed out of a comet into just your average teenager in full HAHO (High Altitude High Opening) jump gear. HAHO parachute jumps are sometimes used for the covert insertion of Special Forces personnel, like my friend, the Navy SEAL, into enemy territory. You pop open your chute about four miles higher than a weekend jumper would.
When I hit twenty-seven thousand feet (I could see a Delta flight about one hundred miles north at the same altitude) I pulled the rip cord to deploy my parachute.
Only it didn’t open.
Nothing popped out of the High Altitude Precision Parachute System I had whipped up for my trip home. As my rate of descent increased, my cheeks and the high tech fabric in my jump suit were flapping like flags in a hurricane.
But I didn’t panic.
I had altitude, which meant I had time.
Maybe I could turn myself into a hawk or an eagle and swoop to safety.
It sounded like a plan.
Only it didn’t work.
I don’t know if it was the thin air and all those molecules and atoms not bumping into each other that was throwing off my molecular rearrangement capabilities. Or maybe I hadn’t given myself sufficient time to recover from the mental strain of turning myself into a tornado. Whatever the reason, I knew I couldn’t pull off the major metamorphosis I needed before I ended up like Wile E. Coyote at the bottom of a canyon.
Fortunately, I also knew I would soon reach my terminal velocity—the point where a free-falling body (me) stops picking up speed because the downward pull of gravity equals the upward force of drag, resulting in an acceleration factor of zero.
Unfortunately, the speed I would be falling when I hit my terminal velocity would also be “terminal” (as in deadly) when I smacked into the ground.
So I tugged at the ripcord again.
And again.
Nothing.
My incredible imagination had done an incredibly lousy job packing my main chute. I was spinning and twisting and spiraling out of control.
Heading straight for death at 200 miles per hour.
Chapter 36
AS THE GROUND rushed up to meet me and the blistering air gushed past my ears, my father’s words echoed in my head: Remember, son, you must always have a backup. It isn’t a weakness to be prepared. It is a strength.
Or, as they say in skydiving circles, “When in doubt, whip the second one out.”
When I passed through two thousand feet, I yanked on the reserve rip cord.
KABOOM!
My backup parachute exploded out of the nylon pack strapped across my chest.
The rainbow-colored fabric deployed in a perfectly ruffled arc over my head and was yanked up into the sky like a wild animal caught in a snare trap. Then I s
tarted drifting downward. Slowly.
I could see my old house.
I could see Mikaela waiting for me in the backyard.
And, best of all, I could see the town of Stafford safe in the distance.
When my feet finally touched ground, I used the forward momentum of my landing to trot right over to Mikaela, hoping I would slam into her accidentally, but no such luck.
“You did extremely well, Daniel,” she said serenely.
I chuffed an ugly laugh. “Not really. I would’ve ended up flatter than a Taco Bell tostada if I hadn’t had backup, no thanks to you.” She said nothing as I unhooked my parachute gear. “So, was that some kind of test?”
“Yes,” answered Mikaela.
“Well, not to tell you how to do your job,” I said, as I cut free my chute lines, “but the next time you whip up a little pop quiz, try not to endanger the lives of 1,344 innocent civilians.”
Sunset colors lit up the horizon. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, angry or otherwise, just a sparkling display of stars emerging. My time was running out.
“The people of Stafford were never in danger,” Mikaela said gently. “If you had chosen to flee to the storm cellar and hide, I would have terminated the tornado. But, Daniel? This test was nothing compared to what The Prayer will soon put you through.”
“Really? Well, thanks for the practice run. If Number 1 sends a tornado, cyclone, typhoon, or water funnel at me, I guess I’ll know how to handle it.”
“A meteorological catastrophe is nothing compared to the weapons The Prayer has at its disposal.”
“You mean the Opus 24/24?”
Mikaela shook her head. “Something worse.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “That thing, that force of darkness, IT killed my parents. Taking down Number 1 has been my sole purpose on Earth for over a decade.”
“Even though the smart choice would be to walk away, journey to a distant, untroubled planet and live another day?”
“Hey, what good is living if a monster is killing everybody and everything you ever loved?”
“I am impressed, Daniel. Not many would embrace the path you have chosen. In fact, your irrational, emotional choices seem to violate the very essence of what being an ‘intelligent’ life form means.”
“So call me stupid,” I said with a shrug. “It’s who I am. It’s who my mother and father raised me to be. Blame them. Hey, blame yourself. After all, you were my dad’s spiritual advisor. Maybe you planted some of this unintelligent behavior in his head and he just passed it on to me.”
“Perhaps,” Mikaela said with a smile. “And, for the record, we do not think you are stupid. In fact, we find you to be heroic.”
“Well, I guess there’s a fine line between heroism and stupidity, huh?”
“Be that as it may,” said Mikaela, “we are intrigued and impressed with your actions. We will be watching.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Enough, I hope. Continue to live dangerously, Daniel X. It may be your safest course of action.”
And then the angelic girl I knew as Mikaela dissolved into a throbbing ball of orange-red light and shot up into the sky. She soared far beyond the mesosphere, past the thermosphere, out into the infinite reaches of space. She took her place among the twinkling stars in the sprawling constellation of Hercules, just west of Lyra, 27.4 light years away from Earth.
Hercules.
It’s where we get the word “hero.”
Chapter 37
EXHAUSTED (WHY DON’T you trying being a tornado, a comet, and a freaked-out free faller all in the same day?), I materialized a small tent and sleeping bag in the backyard of my former home.
I did not want to sleep inside the building where both my parents had been brutally slain. Nightmares—in IMAX 3-D with THX surround sound—would be guaranteed.
It took me a long time to drift off, even though I knew I needed the rest, especially if I wanted my parachute (or anything else) to work the next time I materialized one.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about Mel.
Where had Number 1 taken her? Was she safe? Did she know that she shared her soul with Dana, my childhood friend?
That last question was so mind-numbingly metaphysical that I finally drifted off to sleep wrestling with it.
A sleep that didn’t last long.
The ground shook. My eyes popped open. Something enormous had just crash-landed in the backyard. Whatever it was, it had brought with it a darker kind of light than the golden aura of Mikaela and Xanthos. The walls of my tent were glowing under the influence of ultraviolet black-light radiation. My white socks and shoelaces looked like fluorescent ghosts.
I climbed out of my sleeping bag, yanked open the tent flaps, stumbled into the yard, and was face-to-face with my worst nightmare.
The six-and-a-half-foot-tall praying mantis monster stood in a hazy beam of black light. Make that a “preying” mantis, because the thing was rubbing its spiked forelegs together, eager for its next kill.
“Hello, Danny Boy,” it boomed in its deep voice. “The hero returns to his pathetic little hovel in Kansas. I appreciate the poetry of your choice. So many of your family members have died in this spot. It is right that you should die here, too.”
The foul beast sprang one giant leap forward on its massively muscled legs—covering fifteen feet in a single hop. Its grossly bulging, plum-colored body jiggled when it landed right in front of me.
“You silly little fool,” it hissed through its jagged, glass-shard teeth. Its breath reeked with the scent of maggot-riddled beef rotting in the sun. “Wasting precious time entertaining my boring, oversentimental cousin, Mikaela? Riding around with that ridiculous Pfeerdian freak, Xanthos?”
I couldn’t resist taunting the beast.
“You mean the Legions of the Light? The two golden oldies that terrify you?”
“I fear NOTHING!” The Prayer screeched, rearing back its tiny triangular head on its stalk of a neck. “I feed on fear. And you, Daniel, have much to be afraid of.”
“I am afraid.” I stepped back a foot or two, fanning the air in front of my face. “Of that rancid butcher shop you call your breath.”
“Foolish child. You should have spent this day seeking out a good hiding place on a distant planet, far removed from the gravitational pull of my ever-expanding black hole.”
“Are we talking about your mouth again?” I shot back. “Because you should really see an orthodontist about those broken-bottle teeth of yours. Maybe get yourself fitted for a retainer.”
The Prayer didn’t like me snapping on his crooked excuses for teeth.
I heard a gurgling, mucusy, wet sound. But instead of hocking a loogie at me, the thing shot a gelatinous glob of blue flame out of his wide-open pie hole.
I dodged the fireball and zipped to my right, making sure I had a tree between the fire-spewing wackaloon and me.
“You cannot hide!” The Prayer bellowed. “There is no planet, no dimension, no space or time where I cannot find you.”
The Prayer hopped forward and, grabbing a clump of branches with both its pincers, wrenched my tree—roots and all—right out of the ground.
Tossing the tree aside as if it were a twig, Number 1 glared down at me with its liquid-black bug eyes.
“Say good-bye to Terra Firma, Daniel. Your days as the Alien Hunter end here. They end now!”
Chapter 38
I PRAYED MIKAELA wasn’t watching from her heavenly perch.
Because, presented with my next fight-or-flight choice, I went with option B.
As in, run away.
And, in case you’re keeping score, I’ve gotten much better at teleporting near the clutches of an alien outlaw, even the top dog.
I caught a glimpse of The Prayer grasping at me with his pincers but, when the claws clamped shut, there was nothing for him to rip to shreds.
I was already in Florida. St. Pete Beach.
Why did I pick the gulf
coast of the Florida peninsula? I thought Disney World would be too crowded. Other than that, I just wanted to be someplace warm and sunny for a couple of minutes.
Unfortunately, my vacation in the Sunshine State was cut short when The Prayer emerged out of the foamy surf and hopped across the sand—scattering beachgoers, trampling sun umbrellas, stomping on sand castles.
So I let my mind go limp and dove below the surface of time.
I went back to my train ride from New York to D.C. I knew The Prayer hadn’t been there, probably because it was afraid of Mikaela. I figured he’d stay away if I went back.
“Would you like a Sprite, Daniel?” Mikaela asked me (again).
“Um, no.”
“I would. Excuse me. I’m going to the café car.” She stuffed her book back into her knapsack.
It was time to slightly alter the past and stick with Mikaela. I was hoping she could be my guardian angel and protect me from The Prayer just long enough for me to figure out how to make the beast yearn for its guardian devil.
“Hey, maybe I should go with you,” I said. “I hear Amtrak has the best hot dogs in the world, maybe the universe.”
“Fine,” said Mikaela.
Only it wasn’t her.
How could I tell? The last time we were together, Mikaela’s breath didn’t stink of rotting flesh or moldy cheese.
I was out of that train car before The Prayer had morphed out of his college-girl-with-glasses disguise—something I was extremely glad about because I did not want to see those gangly legs in a miniskirt.
I zoomed back to Kentucky.
The horse barn.
I remembered how The Prayer had reacted when Xanthos came charging across the field at him.
“NO!” it had shrieked. “Keep away! I have claimed this one for the darkness!” And then Number 1 had spewed its blue jelly fireballs, but Xanthos did not back down.
Because Xanthos’s light canceled out The Prayer’s darkness. They were polar opposites. Hot and cold, love and hate, yin and yang. The Prayer could not destroy Xanthos. Similarly, Xanthos could not destroy The Prayer.