Agate & Breadbox

Chapter 2. Dead and Dying Aliens

I’ve been a sweet stuff singer

All my girlie years

Airy, frothy little ditties

Full of love and tears

(From Cotton Candy Lovin’ on“Inner-galactic Journey” album by Selena Gabrielle)

So, what do you do with three aliens who crash land in your back forty? Yeah, there were three. One alive, two dead, killed in the crash, their bodies bashed and smashed in their harnesses. The living one badly injured.

After Clay got there and saw what I had there in my poison oak patch, for the first five minutes all he could say was, “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit!” It wasn’t until he calmed down a bit and we went poking around in the rest of vessel, clambering over the strewn debris of equipment, that we found the two dead crew members.

The living one, whom later I called Breadbox, but right now was just the non-dead alien, we decided our top goal was to keep her alive. I figured out how to give her some water, by pouring it into a loose piece of material that was vaguely saucer shaped, and holding it up to her. (Why did I call her a “she” from the very beginning? It turned out I was right, but I had no way of knowing then.) She needed a doctor. An ambulance.  We should bring in Dr. Ellmon, and maybe the coroner, what’s his name.

Let me tell you what we didn’t do. We didn’t inform the authorities. Why not, you might ask? Aliens, biggest story in history. Advanced technology. Possible public health threat, world wide pandemic caused by germs from across the galaxy. A smart person, a good citizen, would have called the government so they could take charge and do the right thing.

Well, it’s like this. Among my friends in the city, I’m known as the hard-hearted conservative. I own a rifle. But up here, with my friends along the coast, I’m thought of as the bleeding heart liberal. They, and this includes our sheriff Jim, do not trust the government at all. They all have gun racks in the back windows of their pickup trucks. To them, the purpose of guns is to protect ourselves from our own government, or from invasions by the United Nations. So when we discussed what to do, the option of calling in the Feds never even came up. We knew what would happen. We’d all seen ET and the X-Files.

So we couldn’t bring in our local doctor, Old Man Ellmon (we call him “Old Man” even though he’s younger than me), because he’s a damn liberal, and a stickler for regulations. He’d turn us in. Instead we called in the vet, who doesn’t want me to use his name. (I’ll call him Doc.) He’s head of the local chapter of Sons of American Freedom, but he’s done great work on Clay’s horses and my old dog Buddy after he tangled with a coyote—rest his soul. (Buddy, not the coyote. I tracked that varmint down and shot him, for killing a member of my family.)

Two dead aliens, one still alive, barely. So what are we going to do with them?

Let’s back up a bit. After Clay got there and stopped hyperventilating, we sat in stunned silence and stared around us. It was all so . . . alien! Yet at the same time recognizable. We could look at things and kinda figure out what they were for--even though the crew of this vessel had been so much different. It’s as if there’s a law of convergent evolution for aircraft and space vessels wherever they come from. They all have to be able to handle the same functions. Although I must say, this cabin was so much less cluttered than photos of the space shuttle I’ve seen. Yet equally tight and claustrophobic.

Speaking of claustrophobia, Clay’s the one who hates caves. To explore this vessel, which was obviously lying upside down—and totally dark—we had to crawl through these passageways that were much like tight underground passages I’ve been in. Creep forward on hands and knees, holding the big flashlight in one hand, and peer around. Clay, the big brave manly man, couldn’t handle this at all. So I did it. Plus, I fit better in skinny passages than Clay’s 6’- 6 frame.