What Looks Back

  Chapter 1

  When the police arrived, they found Patches Shane relaxed, sitting in the armchair a foot away from Dr.. Fischer's corpse, and calmly polishing off a glass of scotch. He turned as they kicked open the front door, and greeted them as they lunged and pinned him to the red carpet floor, blending with Dr.. Fischer's blood.

  They read him his rights and led him to the back of a cruiser. There were four units, each with their lights on and pulsating, and Pat felt himself disorienting again. He watched, nausea building, as the lights stood still and the world spun around him, trapping him in a maelstrom of blue and red.

  Shouldn't have eaten that microwavable meal–he knew better. They got him again–or something got him–he was sure, something in the food, he felt it, like neon and black oil in his veins, slimy coating of grease easing towards his mind, thoughts slipping to the floor–he knew this feeling well, and it terrified him.

  His head began to swim, and his mind began slipping. Or crystalizing. What was it? The food?

  He faced Fischer's house and squinted. Inside, for barely a moment, he saw a bright light flash–there was no mistaking it. It engulfed and then dimmed, lasting no more than a second.

  He turned to tell the officer holding him, but as he did the officer's face began melting and distorting. The other cops, staring at him with cocked heads and crooked smiles, remained normal, yes, the evidence pointed towards clarity.

  Pat turned to the officer with the melting face, leaned in close, tilting (or maybe that was the ground), and breathed heavily on the officer's ear.

  "I knew what he was, cop, and I know what you are too."

  The police officer locked eyes with Patches, frowning. He patted his belt for something, found it, and returned a menacing grin. He held in his hand a syringe, the same Dr.. Fischer had, and he glared at Pat as he shifted his radio.

  "Suspect is receding," the cop said. "Episode as doctor described seems imminent."

  The radio buzzed back. "Copy. You are authorized to use means necessary to subdue suspect safely."

  "10-4," the cop said, and holstered his radio. He flicked the top of the syringe, squirted some of the neon green liquid from the top, and injected.

  Pat didn't resist. He knew now wasn't the time. He didn't have to. And he wasn't crazy.

  "It doesn't matter," Pat said, losing consciousness, the world fading. "I know your face."

  ◊◊◊

  Special Agent Chris Summers of the Federal Bureau of Eugenics walked into the Jacksonville Police Station and was met with a few cheers. The appearance of the Federal Bureau of Eugenics at police stations never bode well for the criminals there, and officers seemed to feel a sense of satisfaction that their cases warranted an FBE investigation. If the FBE was called in, that meant they had subdued a truly heinous criminal.

  "Tell me you're here for Roberto Wallace," said an officer at the front desk. "The bastard murdered his wife and kids!"

  Agent Summers shook his head. "No, not today."

  "Who are you here for?"

  He glanced at his pager. "Shane, Patches. Where can I find Detective Jones?"

  The officer wiped mustard from his chin and pointed.

  "In the back, on the left wall. If you pass the water cooler you've gone too far."

  "Alright, thanks."

  Summers turned and walked down the hall of the station. He wore a black jacket, black pants, and a white button-down with a loose black tie. Despite being in his early thirties, he had a chiseled-by-time appearance–a past holier-than-thou confidence worn, stripped and everything but forgotten. A look that implied restlessness–tired mornings spent longing to fall back asleep, forcing himself out of bed–he was tired, he'd say when asked, just tired. And he was asked often.

  A criminal restrained in handcuffs glanced at Summers, and then double-took when he saw Summers’ badge. His eyes bulged, as if trying to eject from the body carrying them.

  "Oh fuck man, fuck! I didn't do nothin'! It wasn't me oh fuck why'd you call them I didn't do nothin' man I swear!"

  One of his police escorts shoved him from behind. "Shut up."

  The criminal burst into tears, an all too common reaction to an FBE presence. The officer grinned at Summers, who locked eyes with him and nodded, but didn't grin back. He rarely grinned since his promotion.

  He turned the corner and approached a thick, bald detective on the phone at his desk. As Summers pulled up a chair, the detective told the other end that he had to go, and hung up.

  "The FBE, huh… What can I do you for Agent?"

  "Detective Jones?

  "Yep."

  "I'm here about Patches Shane."

  "Can't say I'm surprised."

  "It's not what you think," Summers said. "Shane's been a tricky case. His IQ is off the charts, so the bureau isn't going to green light anything until we can confirm his mentality."

  "He slit the throat of his psychiatrist. Criminals have been… ugh–do I have to say it?–been castrated for far less." He shook his head. "God I hate saying that. Makes me feel ill."

  "We're not ready to pull the plug on his genes just yet, I'm afraid. I'm here to evaluate him. What can you tell me?"

  "Aside from the fact that he killed the doctor downstairs, then carried the body upstairs?"

  Summers raised an eyebrow. "In the case report, your officers wrote they found the corpse downstairs, next to Shane."

  "They were wrong. And that's not even the oddest part about this whole fiasco."

  "What is?"

  The detective rustled through his notes and pulled out a file. "He's been talking in his sleep,"

  After a four-hour Dr.ive, Agent Summers walked up to a salmon bungalow in a small neighborhood. The door was white, and beside it was a tall window, stretching from top of the door to the floor, where a white Maltese stood and stared out at him.

  Summers knocked twice. After a moment, a man came around, picked up the dog and opened the door.

  Summers appraised him. He was large, average height, dark tan, slightly balding, with hairless arms and slightly red cheeks that made him look jolly but was likely a result of his rosacea.

  The man looked Summers up and down quickly. Summers, being over six feet, had the man by a few inches.

  From what he'd heard, Patches Shane was even taller than he was–a height advantage that didn't bode well for anyone.

  "What can I do you for–uh…" the man glanced at Summers’ badge. "Oh no."

  "Mr.. Higgins, it's not what you think–"

  "Oh thank God."

  "Can I come in?"

  "So wait, is it the other…?"

  "No. If you'll just let me explain…"

  Sam Higgins he stepped aside and allowed the agent past. "Sorry. Yeah, come in."

  Summers entered the home. Christmas ornaments were scattered on every conceivable location, and it was well past the holiday. It had the dust and slight thick mold smell of a nursing facility. Sam led the agent to his kitchen table, and offered him orange juice, which he declined.

  "I'm here to talk about Pat Shane," Summers said.

  "Pat Shane? You mean, from…" Sam paused and scratched his head. "Um–"

  "–I know about your past, Mr.. Higgins."

  "O-okay."

  "You were a great win for the supporters of the Genetic Decontamination Centre."

  Sam paused and looked down at his lap. "Then you don't know that much about my past."

  Summers took out a notebook and didn't ask.

  "I'm here concerning Pat Shane, Mr.. Higgins, and that's all."

  Sam nodded. "Okay. W-what do you want to know?"

  "What's your relationship with Mr.. Shane?"

  "My relationship?"

  "Yes."

  "You mean what was my relationship?"

  "Sure," Summers said.

  "Well, I mean… well," Sam scratched his head. "I guess back at GenDec, long before he tried to escape and was killed, I would have considered him my friend. Th
at was before he stepped in, well… my urine." Sam blushed and refused to make eye contact.

  Summers coughed on a laugh. "Come again?"

  "I-I was young, and nervous, and prone to wetting myself. And one day during lunch, I–you know, and it got on the floor and on our feet. I was already shy and teased a lot, but Pat kept to himself, and because of that he was teased for stepping in it."

  Summers shook his head. It was a Saturday. His contemporaries were likely waking up, mowing their lawn, cooking breakfast for their kids, reading the paper. He was having a conversation about urine.

  He closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing. "Was that the extent of your relationship with Shane?"

  "For the most part."

  "Is there anything else? Anything that might help us understand his psyche?"

  "Well… that's trickier," Sam said, scratching his head. He made for his cheeks but stopped himself. "I've thought about this before actually. A few weeks after that incident–I would say we were around eleven at the time–he talked to Claire Waltz."

  Summers scribbled into his notepad. "Claire Waltz?"

  Sam nodded, looking down at his shoes. "By far the, y-you know, prettiest girl at GenDec. I mean, it's nothing to me."

  "Alright."

  "He approached her. I was nearby. I was watching, but I didn't really care, you know? I mean, I-I already had a girlfriend at the time."

  Summers glanced up. "Is any of this relevant?"

  Sam shuffled. "Sorry. Yeah. Sorry. S-so he introduced himself. But to the back of her head–she didn't even turn around. She was talking to her friends. So he tapped her on the shoulder. Her left shoulder, but then he went to sit down to her right. She turned to find nobody behind her. I remember hearing a few boys snicker, I think they were Bloodsuckers–"

  "Bloodsuckers?"

  "The gang of kids who only wore red jumpsuits."

  "Okay."

  "So Pat introduced himself again. She told him to go away, and I remember he asked her why. I mean, Pat wasn't a bad looking kid or anything–if it's not weird to say that. I–I don't know. She was just being mean, is what I'm getting at. She told him she thought he was weird. He offered her his chocolate cake, to let him sit and talk with her. And well, this is when things got ugly…" Sam paused Dr.amatically, hungering for the agent's attention. Summers tapped his pencil on his knee. After a moment, Sam continued. "She took his cake, and squished it into his mac and cheese–"

  "Squished it?"

  "Like, yeah. Got him to take a few bites of the mess too. By now, pretty much every table nearby was watching, and the other girls at Claire's table were screeching with laughter like h-harpies." Sam flushed with anger. Summers eyed him curiously. So far his GenDec graduate track record included only a killer and a socially repressed man-child. Not a great first impression.

  Then again, his opinion of GenDec had never been high.

  "Sorry," Sam said.

  "It's alright. So Shane took a few bites. Then what?"

  "Well, I mean, he didn't care, he seemed happy enough that she acknowledged him. She, on the other hand, was just getting started."

  Sam glanced from his hands to Summers, who locked eyes with him, personifying full-engagement. The longer they spoke, the more Summers could define Sam's strange behavior. It was the speed at which Sam spoke, how he paced and jumped, how he forced eye contact then shied from it. He wasn't repressed or socially anxious–he was simply neglected. He spoke and acted as if Summers might get bored and walk away at any moment.

  Summers took his mind off his own problems–off his terrible job, lack of a social life, and nostalgia for his long lost cool–and devoted his full attention to Sam, feeling as though just listening was more good than he'd done in a long time.

  Appreciating the attention, Sam continued–this time with a renewed vigor.

  "She took his orange juice and spilled it on the already messed up mac and cheese and chocolate cake, and convinced Pat to eat that. He took a few bites, and those who weren't laughing were re-um-rep–"

  "Repulsed?"

  "Yeah. I wanted to walk over, but Pat hadn't spoken a word to me since he stepped in my piss.

  "Was he mean to you?"

  "N-no! If anything, he was the opposite. He considered himself a good person, maybe the best person at GenDec. Like, the boys in gangs wore either blue, black, or red jumpsuits. Anyone not in gangs wore gray, or something bland, something to fit in and not be noticed.

  "And Pat?"

  "He wore bright yellow. He really wanted to be the best. Like, best grades in the classes, teachers’ favorite. He wasn't liked much by the gangs, but he was smart, and knew how to avoid trouble. Well I mean, that was before–well… I'll get there."

  Summers nodded, and Sam continued.

  "So Claire seemed to be getting a little frustrated by then. She wanted Pat not just to leave, but to leave defeated and embarrassed. So she spat in his food."

  "She spat?"

  "It was nasty. Like Dr.ipped from her lips. I was grossed out, and I'm telling you, I s-sincerely lost a lot of my attraction towards her."

  "I thought you had a girlfriend."

  Sam stopped. "Yeah, I mean, um–I don't know. Anyway, Pat–it was weird. He was committed. If he was grossed out he didn't let it show. So he picked up a fork full of the mess, and put it to his lips. Half the lunchroom was staring, shocked and disgusted. Claire looked guilty, and just before that stuff reached his mouth, she told him to stop. I'm telling you, groans and sighs erupted everywhere. Until then, I'm telling you, I hadn't realized that no one nearby had spoken a word.

  "So Claire glanced around, embarrassed, and in a fit of what you might call decency, she gave Pat her sandwich. Then she stood up and left the lunchroom. The whole thing was really something else."

  Summers scribbled in his notebook. "What happened after that?"

  "Well, Pat followed her around a lot. He sat with her during lunch, and rarely spoke to me. She got him to start making poor decisions, which eventually led to his death. There is no doubt in my mind that if he hadn't met her, he would've been released with me–clean and clear."

  Summers nodded and closed his notebook. "Thank you, Mr.. Higgins. You've been helpful."

  "C-call me Sam."

  Summers nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. Sam reddened.

  "Why are you asking me all this anyway, agent?" Sam asked.

  Summers looked absentmindedly at his watch. "We needed a clearer picture of who we're dealing with."

  "Dealing with?"

  Summers locked eyes with Sam. "Mr.. Higgins, Pat Shane is alive."

  Sam sat still, apparently wondering if the agent was joking. Summers held a stern face, but Sam laughed anyway. After a moment passed and the agent hadn't joined in Sam stopped abruptly.

  "Y-you're serious."

  "Yes."

  "O-okay… But I don't get it. Why'd you come talk to me, of all people? We weren't really that close–I mean, how did he even survive?"

  Summers stood and Sam followed, walking to the front door.

  "Mr.. Higgins, we have Pat Shane in custody right now, and he's going to plead guilty to murder in the first degree. You've been very helpful, but I should let you know, the reason I knew to come find you was that Pat Shane has been talking in his sleep, and from what we can decipher–you would have been his next target."

  ◊◊◊

  A few days later Sam Higgins opened the front door of his house, exhausted from a long day at Quality Heart Insurance. He was an Insurance Claim Rep, and he spent his days behind a desk in the office taking phone calls regarding claims.

  He'd started at the company about six months after he'd left GenDec, after a quick weeklong insurance adjuster course. The job attracted men and women of a similar passive demeanor–asocial, quiet, happy to live the easy, non-complicated life, with an inherent disinclination for excitement.

  His routine kept him happy and comfortable. Arrive at seven-thirty five times a we
ek, leave at six o'clock, pick up fast food on the way home, settle onto his couch and turn on the television. At first he relished weekends, but after six years, weekends just became an unwanted break in his routine–and if his manager ever decided to call him in, he wouldn't mind.

  Poochie scrambled up to him and rolled onto her back. Sam scooped her up and carried her over to the brown felt couch, sat down and turned on the television. Scanning the channels, he finally settled on an old rerun of The Twilight Zone.

  He chuckled to himself, as most did, wondering if Rod Sterling only knew how right he'd be. The episode, 'How to Serve Man' was particularly troubling in this day and age.

  He thought it odd that he had to change the channel to get to this station–that instead, the television had been set to the news. He never watched anything but fiction, intentionally avoiding the news, as it only troubled him when he watched.

  With a growl of his stomach, the thought was replaced, and he went through his kitchen, first to the back patio door to let Poochie wander the backyard before returning to the kitchen to grab some snacks, regretting that he finished his fast food on the car ride home.

  But as he shut his patio door the phone rang. Probably a telemarketer, he thought, so he let it go to voicemail and opened his fridge.

  Looking around for something to munch on, a wordless idea nagged at the back of his mind, and he soon noticed that his fridge's contents looked a little different. He had his diet coke, sure, leftover Chinese–likely rotten–eggs, bacon, pudding, milk–

  –Wait. His orange juice was missing. He checked the trash, and sure enough found the empty carton. He didn't remember finishing it, but he wiped the thought from his mind and returned disappointed to the fridge, grabbing milk instead.

  The thought bothered him. As he poured himself a glass he tried to remember when he'd finished the carton, but couldn't. It wasn't that odd though, he couldn't expect to recall every time he'd finished something. No, he'd probably just forgotten.

  His machine beeped, and someone began leaving him a message. It was Agent Summers, sounding anxious.

  "Mr.. Higgins, if you're at home–stay put and lock your doors. Pat Shane escaped, we don't know how long ago. A cruiser is on its way now. Lock your doors, a cruiser is on its way."

  Click. Sam lowered the glass from his lips. What was it Summers had said about Pat? He murdered someone? That he would've come for Sam next?

  His heart skipped a beat and the glass slipped from his sweating hands and shattered on the floor in an explosion of milk. He felt salt in his eyes, Dr.oplets on his cheeks, unsure whether he was sweating, crying, or both.

  How could this happen? He never did anything to anyone! Before the agent, the last conversation he'd had had been with his boss two weeks ago, and it was just a "good job, Higgins, keep it up." He never bothered anyone, never did anything, why on earth would somebody want him dead? He was nobody!

  He ran to the front door. It was locked. He sighed, somewhat relieved. But then, like an instant replay, he remembered: when he'd let Poochie out the back door hadn't been locked!

  His stomach fell with his breath, hunger forgotten. He tasted silver in his tonsils, his mouth arid and Dr.y. Pat was in his house, with a weapon to kill him, right now, and Sam was too slow and too late–where were the police? Pat escaped? They let him escape? Sam moaned with fear and frustration.

  Thinking fast, he dashed to the kitchen counter and grabbed the largest knife in the set. He spun around and slashed behind him, expecting Pat to pop out of nowhere.

  "Pat?"

  No response.

  "Pat! You here?"

  Nothing. Heat gathered in waves around him. The room seemed to pulse, or maybe that was an aneurism behind his eyes.

  He broke into a sloppy sprint, opening the patio door and lumbering into his backyard. He didn't know what to do, but wait–he had to find Poochie–where was she? He glanced around. It was too dark to see anything aside from the reflection of the kitchen light in his pool.

  "Poochie!" he whispered as loudly as possible. "Poochie, come!"

  Where was she? Sam softly closed the door and lurked deeper into his back patio, creeping past his only lawn chair towards the pool. He reasoned that Pat was inside, and if he came downstairs the shut door would give him a head start.

  Sam walked deeper, calling out.

  "Poochie! Come here now!"

  Deeper still into the darkness, he crouched low, calling out and glancing around. Leaves rustled–but it was just the wind.

  "Poochie!" he whispered again, to no discernible response.

  He wanted to laugh, stand, even yell, "come and get me." Desperation engulfed him, blinded him, smothered his thoughts in molasses. Fucking Poochie, he thought, should've gotten a German Shepherd. He checked back towards the house, almost expecting to see Pat by the door–but saw nothing beside the kitchen light. He watched the light shimmer in his pool.

  Pat had to be here. But where?

  Sam skulked through his yard. His brain floundered for any means of safety but found nothing. He wondered why he wasn't running around, screaming bloody murder.

  He crept alongside the pool and looked at the bright blue of the light dancing in its depths, wondering if Poochie had somehow sunk to its floor.

  Suddenly, a silent train crashed into him, sending him flying. He soared past the edge and plunged into the warm water, where hands grappled and held him down. He fought, floundering and crashing, twisting and splashing, but he had no leverage. He was on his back, and try as he might to get his feet down, someone held his legs up out of the water, and an opposite hand held him under by his neck. He needed air–he was choking.

  He thrashed and jolted, eyes blood red with tears from chlorine and panic. Water syphoned up his nose and burnt his tear ducts, and he saw the figure of a man standing above him. His mind turned to basic instinct, coherent thoughts left and were replaced by one: air. And he thrashed and kicked and clawed the arm restraining him, but to no avail, and felt his limbs burn and grow weak as he began to die, Dr.owned at the shallow end of his own pool. He couldn't fight, he couldn't breathe. He needed air.

  He felt his eyes roll back and his brain began shutting down. He twitched, his neck arched and mouth contorted to a soundless scream, and he cried out with his final breath, but as he did a hand snaked into his mouth, salty fingers crawled past his uvula, and nails scraped his tonsils, Dr.awing blood. The hand pressed on his tongue, and then squeezed it down towards his jaw. Water flushed past his throat and into his stomach like a vacuum. Pain erupted and lit his heart on fire, it felt like the water was acid, melting him apart from the inside. He puked, gagged, swallowed his puke, then began absorbing his pool like a funnel. Water filled his stomach, bile coated his lungs, his limbs faltered, and the world turned black. He twitched one last time and was still.

  He saw Claire Waltz kissing him, and decided that heaven wasn't too bad. She wore a white Dr.ess, her blonde hair Dr.aped over her shoulders, and a bright light engulfed her from behind. She blinked and smiled. He smiled back. She lowered her head down towards him and–

  He awoke in a fit–coughing, vomiting and coughing again. His ribs felt broken, everywhere hurt. His chest was on fire, and he coughed.

  "Cough. Breathe," she said with a man's voice.

  Regardless, he coughed, choked, and breathed. He vomited more water, and coughed again.

  "Breathe."

  He breathed. He tried opening his eyes, but saw only the blurry outline of a person.

  "Fucking breathe, Sam."

  His brain screamed, "I'm trying! It's not that easy!"

  His vision began to clear, the person over him began to take a shape. A shape he recognized immediately.

  "Pat?"

  "Yes."

  "But–w-what?" He coughed, and struggled weakly. Where'd Claire go?

  "Easy, easy. I'm not trying to kill you. Not anymore, anyway. Sorry about that."

  Sam coughed, eyes wide.

/>   "Easy Sam, easy. I made a mistake. But I need your help, and this is neither the time nor the place. We're all in terrible danger. We have to get out of here, now. Can you stand?"

  Sam coughed and blinked, he felt like death. "What?"

  Pat sighed. "They're coming for your balls, man!"

  Sam sat up. Those were the magic words. "M-my balls!? Why?"

  "I don't know, man. If they don't want to breed you, they sterilize you I guess."

  Sam scrambled, and with help from Pat he stood–his would-be murderer supporting his weight. He led Sam inside as the hum of distant sirens grew louder by the second.

  "Get your keys, I'll Dr.ive," Pat said, opening the back porch door.

  Slamming the gas, Pat sent the car careening in reverse, and Sam's head flew forward and his ribs screamed in pain. The tires smoldered and screeched as Pat shifted the Honda Civic to Dr.ive and smashed the gas once more, careening from the neighborhood. The sirens were wailing now and Sam was certain that they'd be caught at any moment. Suddenly, Pat turned into an empty Dr.iveway.

  "Duck!" he yelled, turning off lights and the car, then shoving Sam's head down. A cruiser screamed by. Peeking out the window, Pat waited until the cop turned the corner before sparking the engine and pulling out, this time Dr.iving much slower.

  They left the neighborhood and entered a busy street. Sam suddenly realized how uncomfortably cold he was. His chest felt crushed underneath an elephant, his lungs were on fire, his shirt and pants were Dr.enched with pool water and God knows what else, and he shivered from the freezing air conditioning. Then he remembered that a couple minutes ago, Pat tried to kill him. Pat turned and noticed the frightened expression on his face.

  "Don't worry, I'm not going to try to kill you again. I made a mistake, I'm really sorry."

  "W-what the h-heck, man!"

  "I thought you might've been an alien."

  Sam's voice cracked as he spoke. "What? Wait, what? Why?"

  "Remember when you pissed on me at GenDec?"

  Sam sighed. "Y-yeah, I guess."

  "Well, your piss was red then."

  Sam blinked. "That's not normal? I mean, for a kid?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "O-okay." Sam shrugged. "I still don't get it. Assuming you're, excuse my language, insane… n-no offense, why didn't you just finish k-killing me?"

  "You pissed on me again as I was Dr.owning you. It was yellow. I realized that aside from the red color, I had nothing else to go on. I'm grasping at straws, you have to understand, Sam. The safety of the world is at stake, and apparently I'm the only one who realizes that."

  Sam turned to see if Pat was joking, but judging by the stern decorum of his face, he wasn't.

  "What do you mean?"

  Pat sighed. "It's heavy. You ready?"

  "I guess."

  "Okay. Bear with me and throw away whatever logic you think you have for a moment. I'm certain that the aliens are already here and have been so for quite some time, spying on us."

  "What? Why?

  "Think about it, Sam. Why not?"

  "Um, well, evidence mostly."

  Pat didn't respond for a while, apparently deep in thought. Sam shifted uncomfortably in his pants. He smelled faintly of urine.

  "The concept of spying is ingrained in every predators brain, foreign to none," Pat said. "The lion lurks in the tall grass, spying on the antelope, who knows nothing of the lion. The sand shark buries itself, waiting to strike at an unsuspecting ocean dweller. As a species of higher intelligence, we constantly utilize spies and other resources to gather intel on foreign lands. What makes you think that these aliens are any different?"

  Sam stuttered, barely following. "Well, I mean, I-I don't know."

  Pat nodded. "Exactly. It's been almost forty years since we learned of their presence. Who knows for how long they've been on Europa? They are likely millennia more advanced than us, yet they haven't attempted any discernible means of contact. But they know of us, so why wouldn't they be spying on us? It's what I'd do. And it's what you'd do too."

  "By disguising themselves as humans?"

  "Millennia more technologically advanced, Sam. Maybe they've disguised themselves as trees, or dogs, but my gut suspects otherwise. It seems obvious to me that a spy would attempt to get as close to his target as possible, and mimicking a human seems like the best option."

  "But why hunt them down? Why kill the humans you think are aliens?"

  Stopping at a red light, Pat turned his heavy gaze to Sam. "Want to know why we don't eat lion? Because the first human to throw a spear at a lion had his head ripped off, and humans settled for easier prey. It might just take the death of one alien to make the rest of them back off."

  Sam was getting nervous. Pat seemed to be making a lot of sense for a lunatic.

  "But, I mean, I guess you have no idea what an alien hiding as a human would be like?"

  "That's true. But I think aliens have infiltrated a chief political office of our government, and have been Dr.ugging our food. That's a hunch, and I might be wrong and maybe I am just going through withDr.awal, but it's all I've got right now. I've been asking myself: how many innocent deaths are worth the safety of the planet and the survival of man?"

  Sam didn't want to know Pat's answer. He asked anyway. "S-so how many?"

  "I'd say all but a thousand."

  "'A thousand'?"

  "People. More or less. The minimum to assure our species survives. Obviously I don't want to kill seven billion people. I want to save as many as I can. But there's no doubt in my mind that if we let the aliens in, they will take everything."

  Sam didn't respond for a while. He was lost in thought, thinking about Pat's lecture. It made a lot of sense. He'd heard about a paranoid man, a co-worker's cousin, who thought he was dying. So one day he paid around a thousand dollars for an MR.I of his brain, despite his doctor's contradicting advice that it was unnecessary. And despite the apparent lack of objective evidence, a tumor was discovered, the cousin was operated on, and his life saved. That hunch, that monetary sacrifice saved his life. Human lives instead of money–but was it worth the sacrifice?

  Sam scratched his head, closed his eyes, and fell asleep for a few minutes. But something nagged at his subconscious, and as he rested he attempted to pinpoint it. Finally, concern erupted and Sam's eyes shot open. Pat had said something else earlier–something much more dire, and personal.

  "They're coming for my balls?!" Sam shouted, his voice cracking.

  "No. Well, maybe. I just said that to get you moving."

  ◊◊◊

  An excerpt from Jimmy Carter's "Crisis" Speech - 1979:

  "Good evening. This is a special night for me. Exactly three years ago, on July 15, 1976, I accepted the nomination of my party to run for president of the United States.

  "I promised you a president who is not isolated from the people, who feels your pain, and who shares your Dr.eams and who Dr.aws his strength and his wisdom from you.

  "During the past three years I've spoken to you on many occasions about national concerns, the energy crisis, reorganizing the government, our nation's economy, and issues of war and especially peace. But over those years the subjects of the speeches, the talks, and the press conferences have become increasingly narrow, focused more and more on what the isolated world of Washington thinks is important. Gradually, you've heard more and more about what the government thinks or what the government should be doing and less and less about our nation's hopes, our Dr.eams, and our vision of the future.

  "Ten days ago I had planned to speak to you again about a very important subject–energy. For the fifth time I would have described the urgency of the problem and laid out a series of legislative recommendations to the Congress. But as I prepared to speak, a far greater threat arose that not only threatens our nation, but the planet itself. From NASA and through various media outlets, it has been made clear than an imminent threat has arisen in our solar system, and life as we know it has
no choice but to change Dr.astically. No longer can we trifle with the concerns of the economy and standard of living. No longer can we delve on topics such as energy and political balance. We must unite, not as a nation, but as a planet, to ensure the survival of our species."