Derelict

Into the Hands of the Enemy

Chapter Nineteen

November 10, 2020

Gazing through the window at the passing landscape, Bryan realized the land was dying. Trees no longer bore leaves, their barren limbs splayed up to the sky as if in a silent prayer for mercy. What grasses and other plants remained stood withered and brittle. An occasional dog or a deer or other critter wandered along the road, their heads hung low and lacked the strength or caution to get off the road as the battered old school bus rambled along. Their bodies resembled bony skeletons draped with thin, scraggly hides. Rivers and lakes where fish and frogs once competed for dominance against jet skis and pontoon boats were dead, their surfaces cracked and scaled, lacking even the decency to remain muddy or even slightly damp.

With the sun high overhead, the bus arrived at the mine site and rolled to a stop, bringing to a halt the breeze flowing in through the windows. The driver pulled a cloth from his pocket and mopped at the sweat beading on his forehead. Bryan glanced out the window at the vacant guard shack, realizing it was now pointless. The guard shack had become an anachronism, for against what enemy was there to guard? The enemy was here, it had already conquered.

"Welcome to Sierra Blanca, Texas. This is site 9-B, in case it mattered. Which it doesn't." It was the bus driver, now transformed into the official tour guide of Minesite 9-B, and a cynical tour guide at that. He continued, "As promised, you're gonna get decent food, reasonable health care, and remain safe from the beasties roaming the countryside out there. That sounds like a pretty good deal in my book."

He gave a toothy grin but Bryan suspected even the driver himself wasn't buying half of what he was selling.

With no clear notion of what to do or expect, the occupants of the bus filed out and milled around on the blistering tarmac. The driver stared at the group with soulless eyes for a moment then closed the door, started the engine, and drove away leaving them befuddled in some cases and angry in others. Bryan held his hand over his eyes against the glare of the sun and watched the bus disappear over a rise.

Everything was ugly and baked into a uniform gray color. Just to the south, a few squat buildings were clustered close to the base of a lone mountain jutting from the desert floor. A door in one of the buildings rolled open and a pickup truck emerged into the sunlight. Bryan was not the least surprised to note the truck was also gray. It was driven by a man wearing a brimmed hat and aviator sunglasses and what looked to be a perpetual scowl painted across his grizzled face.

And perched in the bed of the truck rode one of them. An alien.

The truck pulled to a stop near Bryan's group and the driver hopped out, wiping sweat from his forehead. It seemed sweat-wiping had become a way life in this alien-altered climate. He sauntered forward and cleared his throat to hawk out a wad of phlegm. Grey, of course.

"Welcome home, caballeros. My name is Mr. Sanchez." It was only when he began to speak that most of the group were able to tear their gaze away from the alien. Many had never seen one and fewer still had seen one this close. "You'll being operating mining equipment deep inside that mountain. You'll be working in twelve hour shifts and the mine operates non-stop with one day a week off for equipment maintenance. You can call it Sunday, if you want but I doubt nobody can recall the date, let alone what day of the week it is."

One of the men in the group grumbled or coughed or made some noise that caught the attention of Mr. Sanchez. "What? Do you think something is funny? Am I being humorous pal? Or perhaps you think you know something I don't. Is that it? You know the date and think I'm just another ignorant Mexican. Is that what it is?"