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The Day The Other Humans Came: Chapter 2:
… Reports are flooding in regularly of repeated sightings from across the globe. All first hand accounts tell of identical events from numerous locations. Of how a portion of the sky appears to ‘tear like cloth,’ revealing dense blackness underneath. Each lesion proceeded to unload one or several people on to the ground. The information we are receiving is that each person deposited from those tears in reality, run the gamut of all races and both genders. When encountered, every individual seems to speak the language of the nation where they… arrived, fluently. Panic has ensued as many were apprehended by local security forces, though all managed to evade capture as onlookers say they ‘summoned defences from thin air.’ Invisible walls and objects uprooting from the ground before they evaded capture by vanishing. Governments have issued pleas for the populous to remain calm, but it seems that everyone is left shaken and unsure by the turns of events so far …
… The telly streaked by senses, I waved a chequered flag of bemusement as F1 cars of spiteful ill news raced through my head. I’ve got one of these things in my… kitchen? Bile of horror reminded. I turned, looking across the small oblong living room, through the window into the kitchenette. Bright lights cascaded ominously down upon the dark haired man rummaging around in, my bin? “Can I, er… help you?” I whispered, summoning the worst of my patter from the days of my job in a mobile phone shop. The tacky white theme of the kitchen, from the worktops, walls, lino and cabinets, absorbed the savagery of the man’s darkness, giving a food prep room the feeling of a lab. Have I even seen this room before? The man commandeering the kitchen was a beacon. Under those lights he domineered the very space grimacing away from him. He turned the dull throb in my head into a fishing lure, bobbing in time with his odd motion and action, baited, sinking the cruel hook in as he shook his head. “I was warned you would be savage, but… this?” His dark insistent eyes darted towards the worktop where several eggshells, pieces of chewing gum and a shoelace were arranged carefully. “This? Is rubbish,” I answered, walking to the counter to retrieve the junk, hand smashing into an invisible wall, sharp electric pain along my fingers stoking alive anger and embarrassment, “w-what?” I managed, vowels and consonants turning solid as an eggshell floated over to the man’s hand. “Any idea how vital these are?” His mechanical tone snapped, holding the broken shell, rotating it between his thumb and forefinger, a hypnotic twirl. The opposable thumb facing his index finger, supporting it, making my own hand feel arthritic, he was a drill sergeant, a terrifying school master invading my own home!
“Any idea how mental you are?” I replied, the lodged words at his dragging of the eggshell through thin air had disintegrated into dryness. He tossed the offending article into the air slightly, causing it to vanish, then materialise almost with jollity back on the worktop, I flinched as though it was a ghost! There were spirits in my little hutch of a flat now, spectres of unknown, wraiths of potential and fearful demonic play, siphoned through the Ouija Board of, “what’s your name?” I croaked. He paused, “is there a name you would think might particularly suit me?” He retorted, flat tone mocking my aching, hungover misery. “Look, answer my question or get the fuck out of my flat!” Words formed from the ice of irritation frosting across my chest. His thin dour lips and bold nose curved downwards towards my petulance, forcing one bushy eyebrow to lift, registering distaste. “I was told you might get, territorial,” he droned, turning and making his way to the living room, perching on the sofa, dramatic poise against the placid cream was a perfect hub for my unease. “Who are you?” I blurt out, too freaked to bother with niceties, I have some geezer that telepathically juggles my rubbish on my settee! “Call me Bob,” he answered, metallic retort making such an innocent name sound psychotic! ‘Bob’ was intent on the telly, “to answer your second question, I am Human, it’s you who’s the ape.” “How polite, make yourself feel at home in my hovel!” My sarcasm prompted another despairing eyebrow.
The telly’s volume increased of it’s own accord, I jumped, stung by wasps of bizarreness, stomach flipping on a special trampoline. “Are you sure that’s good for my telly?” The question was dispelled with his wolfish grin and head shake, “such little understanding of electricity and natural energies… no wonder you shocked yourself yesterday.” His lure had tugged me cruelly out of the water now and my mouth flapped uselessly like the fish on dry land that I was.
I watched him for a while, dislodged from my own rut without moving an inch. This is how matter collides… something uttered through the fog of puzzlement. “Apologies for barging in on your domicile in so uncouthly, I merely required time to regroup and have an opportunity to gather supplies… I am also sorry for deriding your lesser abilities.” ‘Bob’ said. “Supplies, you mean manky old chewing gum and eggshells?” “You wouldn’t understand,” ‘Bob’ mumbled, “try me,” I cried, feeling like an elastic band, all boundaries had been stretched in ways unimaginable. “The others, I wonder how much of a lead they have on me?” He whispered, engrossed in the TV… he gestured towards it, “if only I could enter that archaic frame of yours!”
I slumped on the sofa next to him, watched him summon a kind of bluish grid in mid air in front of him, which he tapped away at furiously. “Fancy a cuppa?” I asked. “When In Rome… that’s what your kind say, isn’t it?” ‘Bob’ replied. I smiled weakly, as pathetic as the flat dregs of cider languishing in the bottle next to the telly. I got up slowly, letting the tinny audio of the news spill over me as I walked to the kitchen…
… I honestly think today is the day the question of whether we are alone or not in the universe has been answered. It is a resounding no, and bears a familiar face.
© Brad James, 2014.