Fast Cars and Intergalactic Speed Dating

13: Do We Yell?

Richard did not know what he had expected. A flash of light, Star Trek sound effects, some kind of change in the atmosphere.

Whatever it was going to be, he expected it to be immediate. When you activated alien technology, something was supposed to happen right away.

But it didn't.

Staring down at the device in his palm, Richard waited for a dramatic sci fi salvation, but seconds passed and there were no space lasers and he was certainly not beamed up to safety. The only dramatic thing happening was that a crab man was ascending to the second storey of their outmoded Iowa home. Richard could not see through the vinyl blinds, but he could hear the tap as one crustaceous leg hit glass.

They say that when something terrifying happens, when a person is really scared, a chill races down their spine. That's the cliche, but it isn't quite true. Anyone who's been alone with an unfamiliar noise in a house knows it. Anyone who's turned to see an unexpected figure standing where it shouldn't be knows it. And anyone who's heard a monster creeping outside, seeking a way in, knows it, too.

Terror is a full-body experience. The spine is invited to the party, but it doesn't go alone. That chill starts at the scalp and works its way to the toes, raising every hair in its path. It feels like something cold has been poured into you, through you; your heart and your stomach clench, and whether you'll run or stand helplessly rooted to the spot is a roll of the dice.

"Richard," Garth whispered. His voice was a shiver. Richard looked at his friend, who jolted at the sound of another, more forceful tap. Then came another, accompanied by an awful, inquisitive clicking sound.

"It's going to get in the house," said Richard. "We should find something to hit it with."

Garth nodded. His eyes were wide in his white face. "Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea. Okay."

"Okay." Richard looked around his bedroom. As the creature clinging to the side of their house banged on the window again, harder, Richard rushed to his closet and pulled the door open, the communicator tucked between his thumb and his palm.

He wasn't a player of baseball, hockey, or golf. He didn't have a gun, and the knife block was, of course, in the kitchen. Options for weaponry were meager.

There was then a soft beep, and the lights on the communicator came on all at once. Richard stopped, holding it up on his open palm. A voice came from it, but whatever it was saying, Richard could not understand. It was a burbling language unlike any he had ever heard.

Garth had picked up the lamp from the nightstand with his good arm. It was a skinny, candlestick-shaped thing, about three feet long with a bell-shaped shade. With a powerful swing behind it—

Thunk. The glass shivered in its pane. The creature screeched.

—it might do. Garth stared at the communicator. "Did it just—?"

"Hello?" Richard called, holding the small device up to his face. "Hello, yeah, we need help!"

The burble came again.

"I don't understand but my God, I hope you understand me: help us! Aialo-El! That's who gave us this thing. Is she there? Aialo-El, I think that was her name!"

Thunk. Another screech came from outside, broken by staccato clicks. Maybe it was meant to be words, because there was a rhythm to it.

"Of course we'd get the alien operator service," Garth muttered. He held the lamp between his knees and fumbled to remove the shade with his one working arm. He was ghostly pale, beads of sweat standing out on his temples. "Is there an option to press two for English?"

Richard abandoned the closet. There was nothing in there but clothes, and he couldn't fight off an alien with a T-shirt. Nothing in the room but...

Richard grabbed the chair from next to the bed, giving it an experimental swing. Thank God it was a straight-backed wooden model, not a cushy sink-into-me armchair. Richard put his socks on like a true Englishman: one at a time, in mild discomfort.

A scrape and another thunk came from the window, and the thunk was different this time because it was not a thunk at all. It was a crack.

Like that of breaking glass.

The communicator made another sound, another stream of incomprehensible language, but Richard dropped it. The thread of hope it had offered had snapped.

"When it comes in, we attack," said Richard with calm he did not feel. "Maybe it'll get tangled in the blinds. And we have the element of surprise. Right?"

"Yeah. Okay. Do we—do we yell? Or should we not yell?"

The creature struck again. Glass shattered. Shards sprinkled onto the carpet below the blinds.

"Uh, yeah, we can yell." Richard nodded, latching onto the addition to the plan.

"Cool."

"The only rule, I think, is don't hit each other. Okay?"

"Okay. Makes sense. I'll try."

The blinds rattled. Richard made a sound that was not very manly, but it was okay, because Garth had made the exact same sound and neither of them would ever speak of it.

A ridged crab leg thrust between the slats, and the blinds swung outward. Richard raised his chair, and Garth gripped the lamp like a bat, one-handed, baring his teeth.

Almost as one, the two men charged, roaring. They struck, Richard bringing the chair down in an arc from above his head and Garth giving his best home run-hitting swing.

The creature wailed as their weapons made contact. The legs of Richard's chair got caught in the blinds; when he yanked it back, they lifted, and the creature was visible up close. Its features did not seem to be mobile, but it still managed to look furious.

One of its arm swung toward Richard. It was holding the gun.

There was a flash of light.