The Dangerous Days of Daniel X

ITS NAME WAS ORKNG JLLFGNA and it was Number 19 on The List of Alien Outlaws. I had caught up with it in Portland, Oregon, after a month-long search through Canada and the Pacific Northwest, with a near-miss capture attempt in Seattle.

  More to the point, it was at the moment blocking my escape out of a disgusting sewage pipe underneath the fair city of Portland, somewhere, I believe, between the Rose Garden Arena and PGE Park.

  Orkng was actually living in the sewer, and on this particular night, at around two o’clock, I had come on an extermination mission. I despised this kidnapper of the elderly and their pets (dog liver is a delicacy on its hideous home planet). I can best describe this alien freak as part man, part jellyfish, part chain saw.

  “You’re very impressive and scary, Orkng—may I call you Orkng?” I asked.

  “Is that your last wish?” The creature growled and then spun its immense buzz saw toward my eyes.

  “Oh, I hope not. Say, I’ve read you have Level 4 strength. True or false?”

  Orkng took out a quarter and bent it in half—with its eyelid!

  “And you’re a shape-shifter too?” I pretended to marvel, or grovel, I guess you could call it.

  Rather than a simple yes or no, Orkng changed itself into a kind of squid with a human face featuring a mouth with hundreds of teeth.

  The entire changing process took about five seconds.

  Interesting, I thought. Could be something to work with here.

  “That’s it? That’s all you can do?” I asked the squid thing. “I came down into this sewer for that?”

  “That’s nothing, you little chump.” Orkng snickered, frowned, and burped up something resembling a dozen oysters sans the half shells.

  Once again, it began to change—only this time, I leaped right inside the confluence of shifting molecules and atoms and photons. How brave, or dumb, was that?

  How creative?

  Then I used my Level 3 strength for all it was worth. I punched and I kicked gaping holes into the still-unformulated creature. I fought as if my life depended on it—which it obviously did. Then I began shredding the murderous monster into tiny pieces with my hands.

  It was terrible and gruesome and took hours to accomplish, and I hated every second of it, every shred.

  But when the deed was done, I was able to cross Number 19 off my List, and I was one step closer to Number 1—The Prayer, who had killed my mom and dad.

  All in a night’s work in the sewers of Portland.

  Chapter 3

  THE SUN WAS JUST COMING UP— well, the grayish-white smudge that passes for a sun in forever-overcast Portland—as I lumbered through my rental apartment’s front door and plopped down on the couch.

  I crossed my muddy boots on the coffee table and yawned as I opened the morning’s Oregonian.

  As exhausted as my body was, my mind was still wired about the night before. I jumped up and went to my computer. I pulled up The List of Alien Outlaws and checked to see who was naughty and had been recently exterminated. Yessiree, Number 19 was no longer on the boards!

  This was, in fact, the same List that The Prayer had been trying to find that fateful day twelve years ago. When I was thirteen, I finally revisited the burnt-down farmhouse where my poor parents had been incinerated. After several days of searching, I found The List—buried under mud and rocks in the rather picturesque brook that ran behind the house.

  The List was on a computer—the one now before me, which is thin as a notepad and probably five hundred years in advance of anything currently offered by Apple or IBM. When I first opened it, I discovered that it contained the names, full description, and approximate whereabouts of the known outlaw aliens currently roaming the earth. And trust me on this: they are out there, watching and studying us.

  There was also a disturbing message for me from my mom and dad. If I was reading it, the note said, I was to replace them. I was to be the Alien Hunter. I would have to learn how mostly by myself.

  As I was pondering this troubling episode from my past, the front doorbell rang.

  Not good. I wasn’t expecting anyone—I’m never expecting anyone. I don’t really like visitors, which is ironic, since I’m lonely most of the time and I adore people, actually.

  Oh, no! I thought, realizing who it was. And when I say I knew who it was, I’m not saying I had a really good hunch. I knew it as fact.

  We’ll get into that in greater detail after I get rid of my visitors.

  The police.

  Chapter 4

  PARANOIA ALERT! I told myself.

  Standing on my doorstep were two hulking, none-too-happy-looking Portland PD uniforms. Their radios were squawking loudly beside their holstered 9 millimeter handguns.

  “Hey, champ,” the older-looking of the two said. “Parents home?” Interesting question. And a real conversation stopper given my history.

  “Uh,” I said. “Yeah. I mean, of course . . . but they’re . . . pretty busy right now. Maybe I could help you? Or you could come back later?”

  “Later?” he said. “That’s not exactly going to work with our busy schedule. See, we’re from the Runaway Juvenile Unit. One of your neighbors called us. Said she sees you coming in and out at all times of the day and night, and no sign of your parents anywhere. So if they’re too busy to come out and talk to the police, you can come with us. We’ll straighten this out at the precinct house. That be okay? You following me so far?”

  I’d dealt with the runaway units of several police departments in my travels over the previous couple of years. They were usually pretty cool people who were, for the most part, trying to help troubled kids. For the most part, but not right now.

  I guess I could have told these two the truth. That I wasn’t a runaway but an Alien Hunter in town to take care of an important extermination. But I don’t know. They didn’t look ready to hear about the timely end of Orkng Jllfgna down in Portland’s sewers.

  “Okay, kid. Time’s up now. Let’s get moving,” the older guy said. “Charade’s over.”

  Charade, I thought, nodding. What a good idea.

  Chapter 5

  NOW PAY ATTENTION, because this is important, and also way out of the ordinary. I suspect you’ve never seen, or heard about, or read anything like this before.

  The older patrolman was fingering the cuffs hanging off his Sam Browne belt when a loud clatter of pots and pans came from the kitchen.

  The game was on! Here goes . . .

  “Daniel, who’s there?” a woman’s voice called. “I’ll be out in a minute, after I flip these pancakes. Daniel? I’m talking to you!”

  The look of surprise on the cops’ faces was priceless, actually, almost worth the stress of the moment.

  “Want to join us for a late breakfast, gentlemen? Pancakes?” I said, with a “you know how moms are” look.

  A door opened down the hall and a groggy-looking man in his forties stepped out wearing a ratty bathrobe, baggy pajama bottoms, flip-flops, and a Portland Trail Blazers T-shirt.

  “Hey, what’s all the noise about?” he said. “Hey, guys, what’s up? Awful early for visitors.”

  “Officer Wirtschafter, Portland PD,” the older cop said.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. “Sorry to wake you. The police think—I’m a runaway?”

  “A runaway?” My dad yawned and grabbed the edge of the door. “Well, I guess not. I’m Daniel’s dad. Harold Hopper.”

  “Okay, Mr. Hopper, but I’m afraid there’s another problem,” Officer Wirtschafter said sourly. “Portland has a truancy reduction ordinance. All kids between seven and eighteen are required to attend school. It’s nine-thirty now. Your son obviously isn’t in school.”

  “Maybe he has the German measles,” my dad said. “What kind of school does he have to attend?”

  The cops exchanged a “we got a live one” look. Actually, quite the opposite was true.

  “That would be, uh, high school,” the older gentleman answered.

  “High school, sure. Well, that
would be a real waste of time,” my dad said and began to laugh. I laughed along with him as he put his arm around my shoulder.

  My mom came in then, wiping her hands on her apron. My mom is blond and tall and, if I do say so myself, quite the looker. In a very dignified, mom sort of way.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, officers. My husband is a jokester sometimes. And slow to get to the point. Daniel doesn’t need to go to school anymore.”

  Chapter 6

  “MA’AM, EVERYBODY NEEDS to go to school,” the cop said.

  My mom continued. “Daniel went to high school—when he was ten. He has an IQ, oh, somewhere in the 190s. He graduated from MIT last year. Our Danny has a degree in molecular engineering. We’re very proud of him.”

  “Is that so?” the cop said, dubious. “In that case, if you would just go and get his diploma. College or high school would be fine.”

  “No problem,” my dad said, crossing his arms as he stood in front of me. “Right after we see yours. That sound fair to you?”

  “You’re a funny guy,” the cop said. “You should be on Comedy Central. But I’m not joking about the diploma.”

  “You’ll see his diploma when we see a warrant,” my dad said with a winky smile. “Now you and Silent Bob there can leave. Wouldn’t want you to catch the measles.”

  “It’ll actually be fun hauling you, your wife, and your ‘genius’ son in when we come back with that warrant,” the cop snarled.

  He and his partner turned around and left in a huffy hurry.

  “I don’t think he was kidding,” my dad said to me as we stood in the doorway and watched the Portland PD car squeal away from our building.

  “I know, Dad. I’ll be out of here before they get to the end of our street. I’m going after Number 6 next. Ergent Seth.”

  My mom winced. “Oh Daniel, are you sure about that? Number 6 might be way too much, way too soon.”

  I stared at her sadly. She looked real pretty in her apron. There was even a dab of pancake batter on her cheek. “Trust me, I’ve studied The List carefully, Mom. He’s the next one. Ergent Seth has to go. Now. He’s on a terrible rampage in California.”

  Then I closed my eyes. I took a breath and let it out slowly, and when I opened my eyes again, my mom and dad were gone.

  They were gone because I was the one who created them in the first place. I fashioned them into existence out of my memory—just to run interference with the cops. Like I said, a charade. And a pretty good one too.

  Now you know a little more about me.

  Freaky, huh?

  You have no idea.

  Chapter 7

  HERE’S THE THING that I have to share with you.

  I have these powers, and I don’t know exactly how I got them. I can create things, for example. Like my parents. Of course, technically they’re not my parents. My real parents are dead. My imagined parents are probably just mental projections that I make real.

  And when I say real, I mean it. When I manifest my mom and dad, they’re as real as you or me. Right down to their DNA.

  How do I do it? Good question.

  I don’t know the specifics, but what I do know is that at its most microscopic, most subatomic level, everything in the universe—matter, people, the air, all the elements, and even energy—is made up of the same basic materials. And I was born with a strange ability to rearrange the material at will.

  I know what you might be thinking. I can just snap my fingers and what I want is there, but it’s not really like that. Not at all.

  There’s only so much I can create, for a limited period. I have to be really calm, and concentrate like you wouldn’t believe. If I’m tired or cranky, forget it—it won’t work. Plus there seems to be a mass limit. Or sometimes I seem to run up against a mental block of some kind. One time I tried to create a really cool, flaming red Ferrari, but nothing happened.

  Some things are easy to create. My mom and dad, for one. I do them a lot. When I’m afraid or lonely. They’re like a recipe you’ve done over and over again until you can do it in your sleep.

  I’m pretty fast too. I’m talking about movement now. One time a New Jersey state trooper tried to arrest me for hitchhiking, and as he started to close the cuff on my wrist, I reached out, grabbed his hand, and pulled it forward so fast he actually cuffed himself.

  Oh, and I’ve caught birds. Not slowpokes like chickens either. I plucked a passing sparrow out of the air—gently—just to see if I could. I could.

  I’m strong, especially for someone who’s five ten, 140 pounds. Not strong enough to lift a car, but I could probably flip one in a pinch. I can influence people. Sort of an instant hypnosis type of thing. And I can sometimes tell what’s going to happen before it happens. Like knowing that there were cops at the door.

  But this is the most important part. Life-and-death stuff. Don’t let anybody tell you any different: there are aliens on this planet. They’ve been here millions, maybe hundreds of millions of years. They were on the earth before man, even. And most of these creepy-crawlers are seriously homicidal lunatics.

  Number 19 was a horror show and a half—but Number 6, my next target, was actually plotting to change everything about life on Earth. And I don’t mean he was going to bring in universal health care and solve global warming. I’m not talking homicidal, I’m talking genocidal. Number 6 wanted to take over Earth and destroy every life-form, then recolonize with freaks from his own planet. That’s why I had to go after Number 6 now, before he got on a roll . . .

  One more thing I need to cover. There might be some good aliens here. I’ve never met one, but hey, never say never, right? The one thing I know to be true, there are definitely bad ones. I don’t think I can stress that part enough.

  But wait a second.

  This is going to blow your mind. It did mine.

  Actually, I have met a good alien.

  In the mirror. In every mirror I look at.

  I’m pretty sure I’m an alien too.

  Chapter 8

  I LEFT PORTLAND, heading south on a Greyhound bus. Truthfully, I prefer the train, but Amtrak clerks usually ask questions if you look like you’re a minor, which I do, which I am.

  I tend to try to stay as paranoid as I can, and that’s because I’m always being followed. I don’t like the idea of my name, or even an alias, floating around in somebody’s database. In fact, right now I’m afraid I’m being followed. But I try not to think about it too much. Too depressing and disturbing.

  On the positive side, the bus was only half full—believe me, few things in life are worse than a lengthy ride on a crowded bus, except maybe confronting an alien with an appetite—but even so, I only took the Greyhound as far south as Grants Pass, a town thirty miles north of the California border.

  I could have gone all the way to LA, my next destination—Number 6’s home base—but fourteen hours riding the dog is my personal limit.

  I laid out my Rand McNally in the back of a McDonald’s across from the bus station. I wanted to see if there was a way to Southern California besides Interstate 5 so that I could be a little more off the beaten path. Right away I spotted another, skinnier road, 199, heading for the California coast. The fact that I’d never seen the Pacific before settled it for me.

  Oregon’s rain seemed to instantly turn to Northern California fog as I put the McDonald’s behind me and stuck out my thumb.

  I don’t recommend hitching, by the way. Do not. There are some pretty sick wack-a-doos out there. If I hadn’t had the means to protect myself and the urgent need to cover my tracks, I would have stayed on the bus.

  But you come across some good people on the road too. I actually caught my first lift from a couple of them, two nuns heading for a retreat house in Kerby. They were wearing habits, and I thought they would give me a sermon or something, but all we did was talk about the Mariners baseball team and its slim-to-none chances of making the AL wild card. Even better, they didn’t ask me where I was going, so I didn’t have to
lie to them.

  “God bless you,” they said as they let me off. How nice was that? Maybe they had a sixth sense that I was about to need some extra blessings.

  Chapter 9

  IT WAS GETTING DARK an hour later when I came across a card-carrying, charter member of the wack-a-doo species. To put it mildly.

  I didn’t mind so much that the pickup truck I stuck out my thumb at didn’t stop. It was the can of Busch beer that sailed out of his passenger window that I found quite unnecessary. It probably would have shattered the bone structure of my face if I didn’t have pretty good reflexes. I ducked at the last second and watched as the full can exploded with a foamy hiss against the trunk of a pine tree.

  I decided I needed to teach that idiot truck driver a lesson about highway safety and etiquette.

  I stared at the can and willed the spilled beer back into it. Then I sealed the crack and pop-top, and holding it in my hand like a runner’s baton, I started after the truck.

  It took me a full ten seconds to catch up. I could have done it in less, but Busch boy was doing a hundred or so, and the roads were windy that day.

  I gave the surprised driver a big wink as I drew alongside his pickup’s open window. “What the . . . how the?” he yelled over the howl of the wind.

  “Hey, I think you dropped something,” I said, and I tossed the beer can into his lap. “Don’t drink and drive, you useless dink.”

  I was acting pretty smug—until I realized that my ability to sense danger was not nearly as advanced as my super speed and strength.

  Because suddenly it wasn’t a beer-guzzling fool who was driving the truck—it was a plug-ugly alien with a series of wide eyes that went all the way around his head, at least a couple of noses, and dueling mouths equipped with nothing but sharp fangs, dozens of them.

  Chapter 10

  “SO WHO’S CHASING WHOM?” he asked with one of the mouths. “And which of my mouths gets to take a huge bite out of you first?” he asked with the other.