7th July 1947
Yussel cupped his head in his hands, supporting the extra weight his eleven-year-old neck was struggling to cope with. He winced as his fingertips caressed the parallel lines of scar tissue running the length of his skull. Although anesthetised, the fizzing sound of the medical saw cutting through bone still invaded his dreams. He shuddered. The operation remained the last - or rather what he hoped to be the last - in a series of mutilating acts transforming him from a homeless street urchin, and into the disfigured monster of his captor's creation.
He groaned and massaged his forehead, desperate to relieve the pressure exacted by the bulbous, black eyeballs protruding from his face. At least it was better than the sound chamber. The chamber proved the breaking point for countless of his fellow inmates; many descending into madness, most of them never seen again. It was a fate he didn't want to share, and for a good reason. The doctors hadn't picked up on it, but the chamber trials appeared to be having a positive effect on him. He could do things - see things others couldn't. A week earlier a guard discovered a bar in his cell door bent out of shape. He'd been blamed and received a beating before being transported to his current location. He admitted to thinking of ripping the bars from his door but swore he'd never touched them. Whatever lay in wait for him now, they would never break his spirit. He'd been through too much already. He would survive this.
Yussel forced his head back into an upright position and reached into the darkness. His fingers closed about the skinny thighs of his two companions. Although impossible to identify, he could almost smell the fear permeating throughout the space. He opened his mouth and uttered a low-pitched guttural sound. Without a tongue, it was as comforting a noise as he could manage. The boy to his right responded with a soft whimper, reassuring Yussel at least one of them was still alive.
Unable to communicate further, he returned to the question of where they were. Why were the straps about his chest and waist so tight? Were they being transported somewhere? What might the white coats be testing for this time? He released the legs of his companions and touched the rounded metallic walls and ceiling of the cell. He frowned to the extent his disfigured face would allow. A metallic bubble? He thought back and remembered a momentary surge in the pit of his stomach, a feeling associated with a take-off. Were they inside some kind of prototype aircraft? A faint, yet constant thudding noise reverberated around the space. The sound of whirring propellers, perhaps? Such bloated aeroplanes existed at the base. Before the operations began, he'd spent hours staring at them through his cell window, fascinated how the huge metal elephants ever manged to leave the ground. He sniffed the stale air, but it offered no further clues.
Yussel grimaced and wriggled his toes. The effects of the pain killers injected into him were wearing off.
He drew both legs to his bare chest and enjoyed the silence. These were the moments he lived for back on the base. They equated to solitude and more importantly, meant they were leaving him alone. He blew the air from his lungs and swallowed hard, his heart skipping as he registered the enormity of what he was doing. Enjoying the silence... the whine of the engine had disappeared. He winced as the bubble shook around him, his chest restraint cutting into him as invisible winds buffeted the exterior. What was happening? Were they falling? Were they crashing? His knuckles whitened against his arm rests and he locked his jaw, bracing himself for impact.
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It was a clear, star-filled night, in the small American town of Roswell, New Mexico, and Solomon Garnett was a young College freshman determined to make the most of it. He may have consumed one too many beers and perhaps shouldn't have been cycling at this time of night, but what did it matter now? This was a matter of the heart and screw the consequences. Tonight was the night his childhood sweetheart, Lilly-Rose Adams, would forgive him and take him back. Even thinking her name gave him goosebumps. What did it matter he'd slept with her sister? A year had passed. Surely enough time to forgive; maybe even forget.
He glanced at the road sign above his head and belched. Grove Way. She lived on Oak Street, the next road down. Not far now. Dulled by alcohol, Solomon's initial nerves had long since shifted toward what his friends termed, misplaced confidence. But what did they know? He would sweep Lilly-Rose off her feet, embracing her whilst explaining away the misunderstanding with her twin; making it clear the experience meant nothing, the first or the second time. She would no doubt accept his version of events and forgive him. Reconciliatory sex would follow and the balance of the Universe restored. What could go wrong?
Solomon stopped to catch his breath. He carried a few more pounds than someone of his age should and didn't want his first impression to be that of a panting asthmatic. He leant his bike against a fire hydrant, and tapped his ear in irritation. An odd buzzing noise reverberated about his skull. Where was it coming from? He scanned the road for traffic but saw nothing. No pedestrians. No cars. He was alone; alone with his bike and a variety of amorous feelings. He banged the side of his head. The buzzing refused to shift. If anything the volume increased.
Then Solomon's world changed forever. A dark object filled his field of vision only for an instant, but long enough to imprint itself on his brain. It looked like a disc; a black, spinning disc, illuminated only by the light of the moon. It seemed out of control, whistling overhead before diving groundward, and disappearing behind a row of houses. Solomon shook his head in disbelief. Did that just happen? A trick of the light, perhaps?
An explosion ripped through the night, dispelling any doubt. He took a step backward, tripping over his bike as a fireball and a plume of smoke pinpointed the crash site. Adrenaline tore through his body, clearing his alcohol-fogged mind.
The crash site looked close and Solomon knew what he had to do. There might be survivors. His mind raced. Could it have been a plane? It hadn't looked like any kind of plane he'd ever seen. Russian perhaps? Shit - perhaps the Air Force just shot down an enemy aircraft.
Solomon grabbed the handlebars of his bike and threw a leg over its hefty frame. He kicked away from the kerb and pedalled towards the smoke as if his life depended on it.
