A ‘So You Had to Build a Time Machine’ story

By Jason Offutt

The old streetlamp glowed yellow, just another pinpoint of light in the distance. A Cass County Disposal truck rumbled down a hill lined with trees, the black dome of night over the rural highway dotted with stars, the silky streak of the Milky Way hung like Elvis’ ghost tossed that big fluffy sash from the stage of the universe.

The King is still out there, somewhere. That topic had come up more than once on Route YY.

Chuck scooted forward in the passenger’s seat, staring through the bug-splattered windshield, his right boot pressed hard onto the cab floor. A fast-food wrapper clung to the heel, but he wouldn’t know this for approximately 35 minutes.

“It’s too dark out here, man,” he said, his eyes on the sky. “I hate this stuff. Makes me all jittery.”

“You say that every Thursday,” Jesus said, his arm out the window, the chill of early Autumn raising goosebumps. “I am, too, but that’s your fault.”

“I’m just saying, it’s dark, we’re the only ones on the road—”

Jesus shifted down as the engine struggle. “Where’re you going with this? Bigfoot or space aliens?”

Chuck shrugged. “Space aliens, but I’m good either way.”

The next five miles were going to be rough. Chuck wished he’d brought his Kindle to keep his mind somewhere else, but—no. “Communion” by that Strieber guy was on the Kindle. That would make the night even worse.

“I don’t believe in space aliens.” Jesus pulled a smoke from the hard pack in his shirt pocket and depressed the old truck’s lighter. “As physicist Enrico Fermi put it, ‘Where are they?’ The universe should be teaming with life, but if it is, why haven’t we seen any?”

“You read too much,” Chuck said. 

The lighter popped, and Jesus dropped his pack of smokes onto the seat. He brought the orange, glowing element to his cigarette, and sucked until the fire caught. He exhaled and said, “My friend, there is no such thing as reading too much. You should try it.”

“You do not immerse yourself into the right kinds of media,” Chuck said. “Science is fine, but there’s also personal experience.”

Jesus laughed. “Are you talking about that crazy radio show you listen to? My momma slept with a reptilian and all that shit?”

Chuck looked out the window until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“It’s not crazy. Those people saw something. They experienced something. And, and—” he stuttered. “If it involved a reptilian alien’s reproductive organs, those things are like seven feet tall.”

“The reproductive organs?”

“No, damn it,” Chuck shouted then saw Jesus smile. That took all the piss out of his vinegar. “The reptilian guys. They’re tall. Basketball tall. With big feet, you know?”

Jesus’ right hand slapped Chuck on the shoulder.

“No worries,” he said, the corners of his mouth sagged, but didn’t sink all the way. “I saw something once.” His voice dropped, the volume barely audible over the roar of the diesel engine.

“Seriously?”

Jesus eyes remained on the highway; the smile now gone. “Yeah. It was a light in the sky, green. There are no green lights in the sky; not that bright.”

Chuck reached over the seat, took Jesus’ pack of cigarettes, and shook one into his palm. 

“It moved in a straight line, parallel to the ground. I thought it was an airplane, you know, a special airplane, like the president’s or something, then it shot up into the sky.”

The cigarette fell on the cracked vinyl seat. Chuck didn’t pick it up.

“It did?”

“Yeah, at like a 45-degree angle, and was gone, whoosh, just like that,” Jesus said. “Musta been a thing the military’s working on, or something.”

Chuck’s mouth hung open for a second, then two until he said, “That’s what they want you to think.”

“No way, man,” Jesus said, glancing at Chuck, nodding. “If aliens were here, we’d see one on every street corner beggin’ for change just to get the hell off this rock.”

When Jesus’s eyes slid back to the windshield, a small figure stood in road.

“Shit,” he shouted and swerved into the empty oncoming lane.

Chuck grabbed the dash and screamed, watching the headlights cut through the tall corn on the opposite side of the highway. Jesus laughed and eased back into the right lane.

“Take a breath,” he said, his own coming in hard bursts. “It was just a opossum.”

***

The truck turned onto a long gravel lane and ground to a halt before turning, its back-up beeper warning people who weren’t there the vehicle was about to run them over. The yellow oasis of the streetlamp surrounded a trash pickup at the back gate of Lemaître Labs, the farthest and best-paying customer on their route. Government pick-ups always were. The truck eased to a stop at the light’s edge. The brakes hissed and the men stepped out.

Jesus inhaled deeply and tossed the spent butt on the gravel before releasing a cloud of smoke. 

“What do you think they do in there?” he asked.

“Build time machines,” Chuck said, crushing the butt with the heel of his boot before lifting a trash can. “Or maybe wormholes.”

The long, low building behind the gate sat like a long concrete sandwich. Soviet-era construction had more personality. 

“In there? It looks like a warehouse, or a factory that makes boxes.”

Chuck upturned a cylindrical plastic trash can into the loading hopper, dumping in stuffed 30-gallon bags. “Jesus, Jesus. Think about it. It’s a government lab, way out in the country. That means they’re hiding something.”

Jesus laughed.

“Like a time machine? Sure. Whatever.” He held up a black trash bag. “What’s in here? A transporter from Star Trek?”

“No,” Chuck said. “Neanderthal heads or something.”

Jesus tossed the bag in the hopper. “Let’s get the big bin and get out of here. I don’t know if it’s this place that gives me the creeps or if it’s you.”

Chuck opened his mouth, but a noise slammed it shut; the slap of a body hitting metal.

“You hear that?”

The garbageman nodded and pointed to the big metal bin. “Yeah. It came from in there.”

A thick hand grabbed Jesus’ arm. He swatted it away.

“Stop it. You’re a grown man. Act like one”

“Yeah, but—”

Jesus took a step forward. “No buts.” More words wanted to come out, but they stuck in his throat. A shadow loomed in the top of the big metal bin. A wind picked up, and from somewhere far away a coyote howled. 

“Jesus—”

A pointed nose rose from the bin’s lip and sniffed. This time Jesus grabbed Chuck’s arm. A head popped up, gray and white and— 

“Oh, shit, man.” Chuck’s words came in a whisper.

 Jesus dropped his partner’s arm. “It’s just another opossum.”

The thin snout of the seven-pound animal stretched wide and a hiss streamed out. Chuck took a step back.

“These things are everywhere,” Chuck said, watching the creature drop to the ground and look at them, its black eyes gleamed in the streetlight. “This part of the county must have a opossum problem.”

“It’s called nature,” Jesus said. He got behind the full bin and pushed it toward the truck. The opossum waddled to the side, apparently in no hurry. “So many pizza joints deliver out of town now, the rednecks have stopped eating them. The population has exploded.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” Chuck said, hand on the joystick that operated the hydraulic side lift. “Where’d you read that?”

“Missouri Nature magazine. You should never stop learning, my friend. For example, I’m studying to become a conservation agent.” 

The bin clanked against the truck, and Jesus grinned.

“Conservation agent? Isn’t that a nature cop?”

Jesus shrugged. “You could say that. Jolly Green Giant, Private Eye.” A grin crawled across his face. “What did you think was in here, Chuck?” he asked. “Before our friend Mr. Opossum popped out? Aliens?”

The hydraulics moaned as a claw grabbed the bin and lifted it to the truck, dumping black garbage bags with questionable contents into the truck’s compression body. Chuck moved the joystick back, and the bin lowered to the pavement.

“That’s not funny,” he said, then paused, listening. So far out in the country, the fields that surrounded Lemaître Labs are always quiet, only the occasional low from a cow in a nearby pasture, the call of a night bird, and crickets break the silence, but as the two men stood there, the fat woodland creature waddling toward a road that might be the end of it, the only sound in the night was their own breathing.

“Something’s wrong here,” Jesus said, shoving the bin back into place. “I’m getting creeped out again. This time I’m pretty sure it’s not you.”

“Come on—” Chuck said, his voice drying to sandpaper in his throat. The opossum stopped at the edge of the road outside the halo of streetlight. Its body shimmered, the cat-sized marsupial’s form twisted, and thrashed before it grew, and straightened, its forelegs stretched into hands with long, spindly fingers. Its pelt grew into its body, underneath was a slick skin, gray in the night, the snout gone, leaving only—

“Holy shit,” Chuck wheezed.

The creature, now four feet tall, turned to face them, its bulbous almond-shaped eyes blacker than the inside of the truck hopper. A gray biped stood not ten feet away; what passed for lips curled into a grimace

“The aliens are disguised as opossums, Jesus,” Chuck screamed as the shock broke. He ran toward the cab of the disposal truck, beer belly wagging. “The aliens are disguised as opossums.”

***

Jesus Christ walked on water; Jesus Molina tripped over his own feet and fell on his chest, jagged bits of gravel skinned the palms of his hands.

“Yaaaahahhhhhh,” he howled. His feet churned, throwing up rocks and dust behind him. Not capable of much else at the moment, he screamed “Yaaaahahhhhhh” again.

“Get in,” Chuck shouted from somewhere above him. 

The splayed, four-toed feet of the space creature staggered closer, their movement chopped and jerky, like a 1970s cartoon. Jesus pushed up as his lungs fought for breath through the terror. A flash of an idea burst into his scrambled thoughts that maybe, just maybe, if he got away from this thing, he’d quit smoking.

“No. No, no, no, no. Come on, dude,” wheezed from him.

Jesus’ boots found purchase and he launched himself toward the truck, the space beast closer now, the smell that rolled off it metallic, tinged with oil. Sucking for breath, Jesus leapt onto the running board and threw open the door, the oval logo with the words “Cass County Disposal” in Brush Script caught the alien square in it’s ugly assed face.

“Merph,” leaked out, and the creature with a head like a frozen turkey dropped. Jesus jumped into the cab and slammed the door.

“Did you hear that?” he screamed at Chuck. “That thing said ‘Merph’. What does that mean?”

Chuck threw up a hand. “Take me to your leader.” He waved his hand like third grader who needed to use the bathroom. “No, no. We’ve come for your women. No, I’ve got it. I’ve got it. Merph. It means Merph. You hit him in the face with the door. That’s the sound I’d make.”

“Goorgrat,” growled into the open windows. 

“He’s standing, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, he’s standing.”

Jesus ground the truck into first gear, and it lurched into motion. The gray turkey-headed motherfucker leapt onto the running board and glared inside the cab with its black, almond-shaped eyes, each one the size of a beer can. Its breath brushed Jesus’ face.

“Yaaaahahhhhhh,” Jesus screamed, popping the clutch. “Gingivitis. It stinks, Chuck. It’s breath stinks like your mother’s.”

 The alien’s grip slipped as the truck lurched forward, and the creature dropped out of sight. By the time Jesus slammed the transmission into second gear, the monster was gone from the window, taking its bad breath with it.

The back driver-side wheel thu-bumped, and a slight vibration went through the garbage truck.

“Jesus,” came from Chuck. “Did you just run over a space alien?”

“I don’t know,” the man said, his eyes never leaving the lane that led to the rural highway, his voice as high and tight as a marine haircut.

“I don’t think it’s going to leave Earth a very good review on TripAdvisor,” Chuck said, fishing for another cigarette from Jesus’s pack. 

Jesus turned onto the highway. The faded, chipped asphalt surface of the road stretched back to the town of Peculiar, Missouri, a slight pinkish glow showing the universe where it was.

“I wouldn’t either,” Jesus said, shifting into third gear. “We’re fucking racist down here.”

***

The opossum on the road stood its ground while the garbage truck rumbled forward.

“Hit it,” Chuck shouted.

Jesus shook his head. “No. What if it’s a opossum?”

“What if it ain’t?”

The truck loomed over the marsupial and Chuck’s left hand shot out; he grabbed the big steering wheel and yanked it to the right.

“What the hell?” Jesus shouted.

Thu-bump.

The vehicle squealed when Jesus shoved both feet onto the brake pedal; the big truck jerked to a stop. 

Jesus’ head hadn’t budged, his eyes still focused on the road. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said. 

“What?” Chuck snapped. “Save the world?”

Jesus turned. “No. Touch my steering wheel. That’s like grabbing another man’s privates.” He jabbed a finger at Chuck. “Abide by the Guy Code.”

Chuck nodded. “Sorry, man.” He held an unlit cigarette, his hands too shaky to operate a lighter. “You wanna go out and check? It might be one of those turkey-headed things.”

“If it’s not, I might make a citizen’s nature arrest for marsupicide.”

Jesus’ door clicked open first. He shot a look at Chuck, who swallowed and opened his own. Jesus didn’t move until his partner did, and they stepped out onto their respective running boards together. Jesus’ boots hit the pavement before Chuck’s, but Chuck followed. Jesus reached inside the truck and pulled a baseball bat from behind the seat.

“This is one small step for a garbage man,” Chuck said. “One giant leap for—”

“Goddammit, this isn’t funny,” Jesus snapped. “I either killed an innocent woodland creature or helped stop an alien invasion.” He paused, the click of a cigarette lighter silencing him for a moment. He exhaled and thought he may quit tomorrow. “Either way, something is dead on this highway, and I am not cool with that.”

They met at the rear hopper, Chuck holding a shovel handle in both hands. The wet streak on the road reflecting the moonlight may have been red, or green, or black. It was too dark to tell. The thing the truck ran over lay in a heap, its frozen-turkey head intact, black beer-can eyes open wide. The rear tires bisected the space being’s body, a tire had turned the area between its chest and pelvis into lasagna. 

“Oh, God,” Chuck wheezed, turning away. “It doesn’t have a dick.”

Jesus wanted to turn his head from the mangled result of another planet’s evolution but couldn’t. “Maybe it’s a girl.”

“It doesn’t have a vagina,” Chuck said.

“Maybe space people don’t have junk.” Jesus pulled the Cass County Disposal cap back from his head and scratched his scalp even though it didn’t itch. “Lots of things reproduce asexually.”

“Asexually?” Chuck asked, swallowing hard. “You mean up the butt?”

“What? No. Asexually means not sexually. Like they might make little aliens through spores, or something.”

“Like mushrooms?”

Jesus’ shoulders rose and fell. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Whoa,” Chuck whispered. “Matango, attack of the mushroom people.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Classic Japanese cinema, dude. Expand your horizons.”

A light sparked in the alien’s eyes, dragging the garbage men’s attention back toward the ruined creature.

“Gallagalla,” croaked from its throat.

“Run, Jesus, run,” Chuck screamed, and disappeared on the passenger side of the truck, the blade of the shovel banging along the side. “It said Galaga. I suck at Galaga.”

 Jesus hesitated at the unmistakable glow of intelligence in those cold, black eyes.

“What do you want from us?” he asked.

A slight grin pulled across the thing’s sliver of a mouth. “Everything,” it hissed. “Go fuck yourself.”

A shriek tried to burst from Jesus, but panic locked it inside. He ran to the driver’s door and slammed it behind him, tossing the bat into the passenger floorboard, and shifting the truck into reverse. The heavy machine beeped its warning and bumped slightly, running over the alien monster a second time. The truck screeched to a stop and Jesus shifted into first. He nodded at Chuck before popping the clutch and running over the gray alien again.

“The opossums may all be aliens,” he said. “You wanna save the planet?”

“Hey, yeah,” Chuck said. “Can I pee first?”

Jesus soft brown eyes grew hard. “Hold it.”

***

The Cass County Disposal vehicle, a 1987 Loadmaster hopper fitted onto a Ford LN8000 truck, growled as it sat idling on the dead-of-night road. A 2002 champaign Toyota Camry blew past the truck out of fucking nowhere and screamed to a stop, blocking the road, its lights off.

A man in khaki Dockers and a polo jumped from the passenger seat, his arms waving over his head as if there’d been bees in the car. Jesus shifted the truck into neutral and revved the big diesel engine. Dockers Man stopped, now holding his hands palms up. Jesus’s left boot sank slowly onto the accelerator again, and the engine roared, black smoke rolled from the twin smoke stacks on either side of the cab. 

The driver door of the car opened, and a man stepped out; Jesus nearly shit. The man, dressed in a black helmet, black Kevlar vest, black uniform, and probably black underwear, moved forward, stopping beside Dockers Man. He pressed the butt of an M4A1 automatic rifle to his shoulder.

“You got something red on you,” Chuck said, swatting at Jesus’s forehead.

The red dot there came and went between the sweeps of Chuck’s hand. “It ain’t coming off.”

Docker’s Man took a step forward, his hands now at his sides. Military backup is a great confidence builder. He motioned for Jesus to kill the engine—he did.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Docker’s Man said, his voice firm, in control, but at the same time, not. The soldier stood solid as mortared brick.

At that moment, Jesus wanted nothing more than to drive to the sanitation department, get in his pickup, stop at the convenience store near his apartment for a twelve-pack and some roller dogs, then watch two hours of Shark Week while getting seriously fucked up. Some days are like that.

The laser sight flashed near Jesus’s eye and he raised a hand to block it, the red dot now on his palm. 

“Oh, shit,” he whispered.

“Mr. Molina, Mr. Gordon,” Dockers Man said, taking a few more steps toward the cab. The soldier didn’t flinch. “Would you please exit the vehicle.”

“Who are these guys, Jesus?” Chuck asked from the corner of his mouth; fear gripped him and told him he’d better not fucking move if he knew what’s good for him.

“Government, I guess,” Jesus said. Dockers man crossed his arms in full view of the truck headlights, a frown dominated his face. “Do what he says. There’s a red dot on me.” 

“Yeah,” Chuck said. “I tried to tell you.”

Jesus opened the driver door, then put his hands on top of his head like the cops always ask the bad guy to do on TV. He stepped out.

“I don’t think I can, man,” Chuck said after him.

“Why?” Jesus asked. “You still gotta pee?”

Chuck’s door clicked and slowly opened. “No. Not anymore. I’m good.”

It’s a long way down from a garbage truck, the distance stretched by the automatic weapon. Jesus and Chuck finally landed on either side of the cab. Dockers Man smiled in a way that looked like he had trouble remembering how, then waved them forward.

“Come on,” the man said in a voice he would use on a puppy, if a puppy would let this man get close to it, which it wouldn’t. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

“That’s what people say who’re going to hurt you,” Chuck said, as he shuffled toward the guy wearing Dockers.

Jesus moved until he met Chuck at the front of the truck, about ten feet from Dockers Man and the soldier. That sounded like an ’80s sitcom about mismatched buddies who solved crimes on an army base, Dockers Man and the Soldier.

Dockers Man, his hair combed so precisely he looked like he parted it with a razor, waved Jesus’ arms down. “We’re all friends here, Jesus, Chuck.”

“How come you know our names?” Chuck asked.

The smile disappeared. “If I told you ‘the government,’ would you shut up?”

Chuck’s head bobbed like a novelty toy.

“Good,” Dockers Man said. “My name is Dr. Karl Miller, I’m a physicist, and the director of Lemaître Labs.”

Chuck’s mouth dropped opened.

Dr. Miller squinted. “Do you know what we do there?”

“I, uh, I—” Jesus stuttered. “My friend here thinks you, you know, build time machines, and wormholes, and stuff.”

A laugh as devoid of humor as an Andy Dick standup leaked from the scientist. “We do lots of ‘and stuff’,” he said. “Which sometimes brings forth friends like these bug-eyed xenoterrestrials from HD 13808 b.”

“HD 13—” Jesus began.

A hand waved him off. “It’s a planet orbiting the star HD 13808, which is 93.27 light years from Earth,” Dr. Miller said. “We, uh, accidentally invited them for a visit. Unfortunately, we didn’t know the people from HD 13808 b were HD 13808 bastards until it was too late. They say they want to conquer our planet. We can’t let them do that.”

“Okay, okay.” Chuck’s shout cut off Dr. Miller. “What do you want from us?”

Dr. Miller glared at him before nodding, his razor-parted hair didn’t budge. 

“Extermination,” he said, motioning back down the highway. “I want you to take care of my problem. No. I want you to take care of the world’s problem.” He reached into his front pocket; Jesus and Chuck flinched. When Dr. Miller’s fist came out it held a thick business envelope. He dropped it onto the pavement. “There’s $5,000 in cash. There’s $5,000 more for you when you return to the lab. All you have to do is run over opossums. Hell, they practically run over themselves, am I right?”

The night suddenly ignited with sound. Owls, foxes, coyotes, and things none of them could identify.

“These xenoterrestrials are the scourge of the universe, gentlemen,” Dr. Miller said, approaching Jesus. He dropped a hand on the garbage man’s shoulder. “Come on Jesus, be the savior you were born to be.”

“Wha?” Jesus couldn’t even finish the word.

Dr. Miller waved a finger in the air and turned toward the Camry; the soldier moved with him.

Chuck leaned toward Jesus. “Should we tell him we were going to do it anyway?” he whispered.

Jesus stomped his boot. “Shut up and go get the money.”

“Jesus Christ,” Chuck wheezed.

“Oh,” Dr. Miller said, turning back toward the garbage men. “And I don’t want to worry about separating the glass from paper from aluminum anymore. That’s a bunch of horseshit. Take care of it yourselves.”

A rifle crack split the night. A second later, the soldier dropped to the gray, cracked rural highway, his blood dripping from the mouth of gray xenoterrestrial from HD 13808 b.

Fucker.

***

It all happened in slow motion, like in the movies. The turkey-head space alien crawled over the roof of the Camry, its long, thin limbs and deft fingers making no noise at all. Jesus and Chuck stood as still as Han Solo frozen in carbonite, their eyes bugged, unable to spit out a sound. The space monster reached the edge of the car roof and leapt, pulling the soldier’s head back as it ripped at his neck with whatever it had for teeth. The soldier’s finger involuntarily squeezed the trigger and a bullet shot harmlessly into the air. He dropped after a moment of frozen time, the alien grinning like someone had told it a dirty joke.

Dr. Karl Miller turned and screamed, running toward the garbage truck, obviously as used to physical exertion as he was to smiling.

“Get in the truck,” he shouted, waving his arms over his head. 

The sudden movement broke Jesus’ shock and he slapped Chuck’s arm before bolting for the driver’s door. Dr. Miller dashed past Chuck and climbed awkwardly into the cab, Chuck right behind him.

Jesus’ foot jammed the clutch to the floor, and he turned the key; the truck growled to life.

“Kill it,” Dr. Miller screamed, his finger pointed toward the alien from a shaking hand. 

The truck lurched forward in first gear, the engine moaning as Jesus shifted into second before the truck was ready.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?”

The xenoterrestrial hopped off the bloody body of the solider onto the roof the Camry, then into the air and out of sight before the Ford crashed into the Toyota, pushing the car to the side of the road as it continued down the highway.

“Faster? It’s a garbage truck, Mr. Miller,” Jesus shouted.

“Dr. Miller.”

“Are you sure this is the time for that, dude?” Chuck asked. “We’re into uncharted territory here with the space monster, you know. Maybe if we all just went by Chuck, and Jesus, and Mister, We’d all be a lot happier with life.”

The scientist folded his arms to hide his shaking hands. “It smells awful in here,” he said.

“As I told you,” Jesus said. “It’s a garbage truck.”

Dr. Miller tightened his arms over his chest, the only sound in the cab came from the truck engine.

“Where’s that Xena Warrior Princess testicle guy?” Chuck eventually asked.

“Xenoterrestrial, you buffoon,” Dr. Miller said.

Chuck stuck his arm out the window to do the airplane. “Gee, I liked you better that three seconds when you didn’t talk.”

A gray, four-fingered hand shot from above the passenger window and clamped onto Chuck’s arm, its clawed nails pierced his flesh.

“Oh, shit. Shitshitshit,” flew from Chuck. He yanked his arm backed into the cab along with half the monster, the creature’s face loomed inches from Chuck’s own. Its mouth parted, needlelike teeth sprang from its gums, its face still smeared with the soldier’s blood. The alien’s grip tightened.

“Yaaaaa,” Chuck screamed as his left fist clenched and shot toward the creature’s head. In the moonlight, Chuck marveled at the beauty of his dirty, scarred knuckles reflecting in the creature’s black, googly eyes. 

The fist cracked the monster in its big stupid forehead, and its fingers fell limp, releasing Chuck’s arm. The xenoterrestrial flew off the truck toward the side of the road, its forehead dented in the shape of Chuck’s sizable meat hook. Chuck brought his fist into the truck and turned on the cab light—it was covered in purple goo.

“Its head went,” he said. “My hand just sunk in. It was like papier-mâché. And, and what is this purple shit, Jesus?”

“You’re lucky,” Dr. Miller said. “You got the jelly kind. Some of these spacemen bleed aqueous formaldehyde.”

Chuck didn’t ask what that was.

***

The garbage truck rattled into town; Jesus drove over twelve more opossums on the way in. He flinched each time the truck hit one, but he didn’t stop to see if the waddling forest-dwellers were friendly little bundles of insect-eating, naturally disease-resistant fur balls, or foul-mouthed bastards from space. He didn’t want to know. To him, they had to all be Mr. HD 13808 b Go Fuck Yourself space aliens or he would regret this night more than he did not asking out Jennylee McGill in high school.

Cotton candy light bathed Peculiar, population 5,139, like it never had, because it never had. The garbage truck crawled into town on State Route YY to Peculiar Drive and toward the interstate. 

“Why’s everything so pink?” Chuck asked. He hung his head out the truck window, taking in the glowing dome over town, a beam of the brightest light shot from somewhere near the Sonic Drive-in. Maybe, he figured, those extra-testicles liked chili-covered coney dogs. “They summoning My Little Ponies, or something?”

“It’s a beacon,” Dr. Miller said. “They’re showing those on HD 13808 b where they can get free Cheetos, and a soldier sandwich.”

Jesus shook his head. “Too soon,” he said, downshifting. The truck rumbled louder. “What do we do now?”

Dr. Miller pointed at a spot next to the Casey’s General Store. 

“Park there,” he barked.

Goddamn, Jesus thought. This guy was used to getting his way.

The truck slowed, and Jesus pulled onto the street next to the convenience store that advertised two large one-topping pizzas for $8.99 each; Miller Lite was on sale, too. Jesus knew where he was going after work. He cracked the door, his eyes on the pink dome above that cast the night in a bubble gum haze. Chuck followed Jesus as the garbage men stepped onto the street.

Dr. Miller tossed the baseball bat onto the grass next to the curb, followed by the shovel. He sat in Chuck’s seat holding a tire iron. 

“Well,” he said. “Go get them.”

“Shit yes,” Chuck tried not to shout, but shouted. “Shit yes, shee-it yes.”

Jesus took the bat, Chuck the shovel, and Dr. Miller slammed the truck doors, the locks engaging loud in the silent night. 

“Hey,” Jesus mouthed.

Dr. Miller gave Jesus a thumbs up, then shooed them toward downtown while he rolled up the windows.

“What was that?” Chuck asked.

“Nothing changes, my friend. It’s up to us to clean up somebody else’s mess,” Jesus said, resting the bat on his shoulder. “Do you know you have a hamburger wrapper stuck to your shoe?”

***

Jesus had never seen a Peculiar Police cruiser like the one that sat at the intersection of Main and Center Streets, partly because the vehicle lay on its side, but mostly because it was on fire.

“Jesus,” Jesus said.

A thick hand landed on his shoulder. “Where are all those Xena thingies?”

“I don’t know, man.” Jesus slowed his step, and stopped, his eyes glanced skyward at the zenith of the pink dome, the beam of light in its center a signal, the Miller guy said. WTF? 

“These things are beings with intelligence,” Jesus said. “From ninety-something light years away, and without help from home, or Elliott, or Mr. Spock, and they’ve rigged up some kind of short-wave pink-ass Strawberry Shortcake radio thing to tell their buddies Earth is where the party’s at.”

Chuck nodded. “That sounds better than what that Mr. Dr. Dockers Science Guy said.”

The baseball bat rose in Jesus right hand and he grabbed the barrel in his left, bringing it to rest across his shoulders.

“So, if these guys are so smart, why is our first reaction to kill them?”

Chuck’s eyes bugged. “You saw that one dude go after the soldier. It was like a Romero movie.”

A long hiss escaped Jesus. “They traveled 92 light years,” he said. “I get the anger, but I don’t condone the action. We should try talking with them.”

“Talk to them?” Chuck swung the shovel handle and slapped it in his left hand. “It’s time to take out the trash.”

Jesus glanced at his friend. “You been sitting on that one?”

“You know.” Chuck shrugged. “I thought since we’re sanitation engineers—”

“I get it.”

“It would be—”

Jesus pulled the bat off his shoulders. “I get it.”

“—april pose.”

A figure, its slick, oily skin reflecting pink from the dome, dropped in the grass strip next to the sidewalk where the garbagemen stood. It shrieked.

“Now,” Chuck said. “That’s no way to act. If you’re going to be here, on our planet, you really need to work on your etiquette and social graces.”

The thing shrieked again, then grabbed its chest, a barking cough burst from its thin mouth. 

“Hey,” Jesus said. “It’s laughing.” Glaring at the alien, he pointed to Chuck and back to himself. “We discovered, just tonight, we had friends in the cosmos, and we’re not being rude, so, come on, man. Work with us here.”

The alien creature’s black eyes squinted; talons sprang from its fingertips. “I will eat human babies.”

The shovel swung in Chuck’s hands and collided with the frozen turkey skull of the alien creature. The sentient monster’s face disintegrated from the impact, and the beast dropped. It didn’t move again because it didn’t have a face.

Seconds of silence ticked by. “Now that, that was simply uncalled for,” Chuck said.

Jesus turned to him. “April pose? You meant apropos, didn’t you?” he asked as Chuck wiped alien goo from the shovel onto the grass. “Dude. I keep telling you to read more.” 

***

A hum grew in the night, the sky glowing under the dome like they walked in the light of an alien sun. A fuchsia one. The street was clear as Jesus and Chuck made their way toward the beam that invited more of these HD 13808 bastards to Earth.

“Hasta la vista, baby,” Chuck whispered. “Is that better?”

Jesus paused at the corner of a women’s clothing store and pressed his back against the wall. “It’s been used.”

Chuck saddled up next to him. “How about, ‘If it bleeds, we can kill it’.”

“Also used.”

“It’s not a tumor,” Chuck said, resting the blade of the shovel on the toe of his boot so it didn’t clank on the sidewalk.

“No.” Jesus squinted at his friend and shook his head. “Now you’re just quoting random Schwarzenegger movies.”

A grin grew beneath Chuck’s stubble. “Talk to the hand.”

“Shhhh,” Jesus hissed. “You don’t need a catch phrase. Please, stop.”

Then Jesus did something he would later consider a bad idea; he looked around the corner. The scene on Main Street something out of a horror movie. A horror movie with aliens. Or maybe a science-fiction movie about aliens. Or a dystopian nightmare, with aliens. Or— 

“Shit,” Jesus whispered as he leaned back against the wall.

“What’d you see?” Chuck asked, the shovel back in both hands. “Opossums?”

“Aliens, man.” The words came out less manly than Jesus wanted to admit. “And people, dead people. I’m pretty sure they’re cops. And there are opossums everywhere.”

“People? Yeah, where is everybody?”

Jesus’ fists clenched into balls; tears threatened his eyes. “Hiding, probably.” He sucked back snot.

Chuck’s hand patted Jesus’ shoulder. “It’s okay, buddy. Breathe, slow and steady. In through your nose, out through your mouth like you’re blowing out a candle. Now—”

“Damn it, Chuck. There’s dozens of those xenodudes out there. One of them may have seen me.”

The hand Chuck used to pat Jesus went to his friend’s chest and pinned him to the wall. 

“I don’t like this,” Chuck said. “I don’t like today. I don’t like smelling like garbage all the time. I don’t like baby-eating space aliens, I definitely don’t that Miller guy, and I’m sorry, man, but I fucking hate opossums.”

“What are you saying?” Jesus asked, struggling against Chuck’s hand didn’t enter his mind.

“I’m saying I never wanted to be a garbage man. I wanted to be a rock star and date Pamela Anderson, but here I am. Here we are. Garbage men clean up things other people don’t want. Nobody wants aliens to take over our planet, and we’re garbage men. This is our job, dude. Get your shit together.”

Pinned against the wall, Jesus’s eyes foggily glared into Chuck’s. The misty stare slowly cleared, and Jesus stood straight, pushing his friend backward with the barrel of the bat.

“The beam of light’s coming from this device they built in the street from a John Deere lawnmower, a car stereo, and a big meat smoker, probably from Padoolers’ Place,” he said, his voice steady. Jesus slapped a hand on Chuck’s shoulder. “We need the truck.”

***

Dr. Karl Miller didn’t know how to drive a standard transmission, although by the sound of gears grinding, he was sure trying hard to learn. By the time the garbage men rounded the corner to the convenience store, the hum had grown louder, the beam of light brighter, and shrieks of xenoterrestrials behind them angrier. The truck still sat next to the Casey’s General Store, Miller shouting words they couldn’t hear from behind the windows he’d rolled up, and the doors he’d locked.

Jesus leaped onto the running board, his smoker’s lungs begging for air.

“Hey,” he coughed; his right hand beat on the window. “Unlock the door, Miller.”

Dr. Karl Miller didn’t move his gaze from the steering wheel, sweat soaked his hair. He didn’t unlock the door; he revved the engine instead. 

Someone, or something screamed behind them; it was close. Chuck pounded the passenger window. “Open the door, man.”

“Chuck,” Jesus said.

Chuck dropped from view, and the shovel swung, shattering the passenger window; glass flew across the interior of the cab. Miller didn’t flinch, although glass stuck in his perfectly combed hair. 

Another screech, even closer.

Jesus leaned to the side and pulled a magnetic key holder from under the front wheel well. He slid the rusty lid open with his thumb, took out the spare key, and unlocked the driver’s door.

He pulled himself inside; Chuck held Miller in a headlock.

“I had a key,” Jesus said, rolling down the driver-side window. “And I am not filling out paperwork for what you did.”

The Cass County Disposal truck puffed and sputtered as Jesus steered it behind the convenience store.

“What are you doing?” Miller asked, his voice soft, shaky. Chuck held the scientist by the scruff of the neck with his left hand, the handle of the shovel that lay across his lap in his right.

“Taking out the trash,” Chuck said.

The night grew silent. A slight breeze blew a piece of paper through the cab. Jesus didn’t say a thing.

“I already used that one, didn’t I?”

Jesus shook his head. “You really have to stop.”

“It was derivative,” Miller said. “You’d never make it in improv.”

The truck groaned to a stop facing the convenience store’s dumpster. The front loader thunked against the metal trash bin, latched onto the hook lift bars and hoisted it off the pavement. When the garbage truck swung back toward the street, a gray figure stood in its way. Jesus shifted into neutral, the emergency brake clicked into place.

“What are you doing, dude?” Chuck’s voice shaking. “Ram it.”

“I’m following the lead of the Plastic Ono Band,” Jesus said, grabbing the baseball bat. “Giving peace a chance. Or, another chance.”

His heavy boots slapped the pavement, the xenoterrestrial from HD 13808 b not more than twenty feet away. The creature opened its slim mouth, its gums filled with teeth. 

“I’ve seen that trick,” Jesus said, his right hand gripped the bat handle hard. “Very nice. You could take it on the road, but, you know, I guess being here means you already have.”

The monster’s four-fingered hands rose, talons sprang out like the claws of a cat.

“Seen that one, too, buddy. You may need to work on your act. How are you with juggling?”

The space monster took a step forward; Jesus held up his left hand, palm first, and the xenoterrestrial stopped, the glow from the dome casting pink highlights on its cold, unfeeling eyes.

“What are you doing?” it asked, the voice a little too much like Christopher Walken for Jesus’s tastes.

“Not fighting,” Jesus responded, keeping the palm up. It seemed to be working. “I understand you were brought here against your will.”

The xenoterrestrial sneered. “Miller.”

“Would you go back to HD 13808 b if we gave you Miller?”

“Hey,” the scientist shouted from the truck.

“No,” it said. “It is not our way.”

The night shimmered and the space alien stood closer. It hadn’t moved, not in the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other way, the creature simply stood closer. 

“What is your way?” Jesus asked, his words stumbled through the hypnotic stare of the beast that came to Earth through 93.27 light years.

It’s fingers not so much waved as they wavered, moving as if through heat radiating from a summer road.

“We—” it started, then dropped to the street with a crushed skull. 

Chuck stood behind it holding a shovel covered in purple goo. “Too much yackin’ not enough whackin’,” he said, then shrugged. “Miller said it was psychically eating your brain.” Chuck waved Jesus on. “Let’s go. Sounds like shit’s going down on Main Street.”

“Hey,” Chuck continued as he helped Jesus back to the truck. “That’s needs to be the title of the story somebody’s going to write about tonight. ‘Shit’s Going Down on Main Street’.”

***

Small, thin figures milled around the device the creatures built in the street, the pink light that shot into space now diagonal to the horizon. 

“What’s going on?” Chuck asked.

“The Earth’s moving through space,” Miller said. “They had to change the trajectory of the signal to ensure enough of it reaches HD 13808 b the signal’s not considered simply a blip. They need a WOW signal.”

“A WOW signal?” Chuck scratched his head with the shovel.

Miller started to answer, but Jesus cut him off.

“It was a strong signal received by a radio telescope in 1977 that held the signs of being from an extraterrestrial source. The guy who saw it wrote ‘WOW’ on the printout.”

Miller slow clapped. “I guess I should say, wow.”

Jesus’ eyes didn’t move off the scene before them. He shifted into gear and pointed the garbage truck toward the device. “I’m well read.”

Unearthly screams—literal unearthly screams—sliced through the air; opossums launched their fat furry little bodies from business rooftops, their bodies churning in mid-flight. They hit the pavement on two four-toed feet. Jesus shifted to second, a mass of alien bodies rushed toward the garbage truck. 

The big diesel engine roared as Jesus pushed the accelerator deeper toward the floor and shifted to third.

The first xenoterrestrial exploded when the dumpster hit it. Jesus shifted gears again, and gunned the engine, the dumpster on the front loader plowed through HD 13808 b baby-eaters like, well, you know, a dumpster at 35 miles per hour.

“Whoooooooo,” Chuck howled from the shattered window, his middle finger high in the air.

Jesus downshifted and slammed the brakes of the old Ford LN8000; the squeal of brake pads that desperately needed changed sliced through the alien screams until the truck shuddered to a stop, the dumpster hovering over the pink beam. The steel garbage bin glowed red before Jesus hit the toggle, dropping the big trash bin atop the John Deere; the alien device shot sparks. He threw the truck into reverse; aliens dropped behind it, crushed under the wheels.

Then the truck stopped, and Jesus shoved the emergency brake to the floor. The alien signal died beneath the dumpster; the pink dome vaporized above them.

“Chuck,” Jesus said. 

Chuck’s eyes grew, a smile crossed his face. “Yeah.”

“You wanna take out the trash?”

The big man shot out the door before Jesus had a chance to grab the bat.

***

The rest of the night was boring. The few remaining xenoterrestrials transformed into opossums and tried to waddle into dark alleys, but that made them even easier to catch. After the dome disappeared, people flooded from their homes, apartments, and a few businesses armed with knives, 2x4s, garden implements, and a couple of deer rifles. 

Minutes later, the thoo-thoo-thoo of helicopter blades grew, and bright, white spotlights cut the night. Miller approached the garbage men and stopped between them.

“Those are my people,” he said. “They’re here to remove the evidence.”

“Evidence?” Chuck asked.

“The evidence our friends from HD 13808 b were ever here.”

Chuck and Jesus stood silently, watching a man in a waiter uniform chase down a opossum and beat it to death with a bus tub.

“Would you give me a lift back to the lab?” Miller asked. “My people are going to be a bit busy here for a while.”

“Why should we?” Chuck snapped.

Jesus lay the purple-goo-covered baseball bat over his right shoulder. “We will, on one condition,” he said, like Chuck hadn’t spoken. “Tell us what you’re doing out there in the lab, for real.”

Miller moved his arm like he was about ready to pat Jesus’ shoulder, but apparently thought better of it.

“Sure,” he said. “No one’s going to believe you anyway.”

***

The old Ford garbage truck pulled through the main gate this time, soldiers in black stood guard, cameras mounted along the top of the fence followed the truck. The body of the soldier and the Toyota on Route YY were gone. Neither Jesus nor Chuck wondered where they went.

“So, you’re telling us you have a supercollider that runs from here under the whole town?” Jesus asked? “And it opens what now?”

“Holes in time and space,” Miller said. “That’s where the our friends came from. You know how long it would take them to fly here from there? Voyager 1 moves at 38,200 miles per hour. For something cruising at that speed to cross 92 light years, it would take more than 1.5 million Earth years.”

Chuck whistled. “Whoa.” 

“You bet your butt, whoa,” Miller said. 

Jesus stopped the truck near what looked like the front door. “And you can remove that distance with the push of a button?”

“Not exactly, but close enough for government work, which this is,” Miller said. “So, you officially can’t talk about it, but like I said, no one’s going to believe you.”

He pulled an envelope from the deep front pocket of his Dockers and dropped it onto the dash.

“The rest of the money I’d promised,” he said as Chuck moved to let Miller from the truck. “You did your country, nay, your species a great service tonight, gentlemen. Those HD 13808 bers are jerks.”

Miller held onto the door as he lowered himself to the paved parking lot. “Oh, if you all see something big and hairy on your way home, please don’t run over it. It’s probably Oscar.”

“Oscar?” Jesus asked, but Miller had already disappeared between the sliding glass doors to Lemaître Labs.

The drive back to town was quiet, and a bit anticlimactic.

“We should wash the truck,” Chuck said. “It probably has alien goo all over it. Who knows what that purple stuff is doing to the paint?”

Jesus said nothing.

“Well, we at least should do something about that window,” Chuck said. “You think Mac can fix it up back at the shop?”

Silence.

Chuck sat and stared into the night.

“Holy shit,” he shouted, pointing to the side of the road. A dark, hairy two-legged creature tall enough to look inside the cab, stood on the shoulder. “I think that’s a Bigfoot, Jesus. A Bigfoot.”

Jesus jerked the wheel and clipped the beast. It spun off the hit and disappeared into the distance and the tall grass.

“Not anymore,” he said, not slowing down. “You wanna go grab a beer?”

“Sure,” Chuck said, his breath coming hard. “Anything but a Miller.”