NOVEL COMPLETE - Publication summer 2024

OFFICE OF THE PRESS SECRETARY

_________________________________

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: 

September 2, 2030 – 02:00 (2:00 a.m. EST)

Statement from the President

The Director of National Intelligence (DNI) has classified the events over New York City tonight as Unidentified Arial Phenomenon (UAP). We have also verified two additional UAPs. The first, over Mount Zion, in Jerusalem. The second over the Lumbini, in the Provence of Nepal.

We are working with the FBI, state, and city officials in New York, and with the Prime Minister of Israel to determine whether or not any crafts have landed, crashed, or burned up on entry into our atmosphere. We have no additional information from Nepal at this time.

I also received a report from the Joint Chiefs of Staff tonight about an event at the U.S. Air Force base in Groom Lake, Nevada, known as Area 51. An explosion of unknown origin and type has occurred there. No casualties or damages were sustained. The investigation is ongoing.

At this time, we do not believe these events are connected to the unprovoked and heinous missile attack on our embassy in Jerusalem late yesterday evening. However, out of an abundance of caution and in response to fleet and troop movements by Russia, China, and an incursion by Iranian-backed terrorists into Israeli territory, I have placed our military on High Alert (DefCon 2).

We are ready to deploy and engage militarily in multiple theaters in less than six hours. Under all circumstances, we will protect the health and welfare of the American people at home and abroad.

May God Bless the United States.

R.J. Jacaruso

President

R.J.J/mm

CHAPTER 1 – SWALLOWED WHOLE

The night was all full up with an unseasonable fog, thick enough to muffle any screams and deep enough to dull down the light of the full moon by half or more. But as far as Thomas C. Breckinridge was concerned, it had been wasted. Not 'til just before dawn did the little blonde jogger finally come along, and by then, the mist had thinned. And Tommy's patience with it. Such was reflected in the ferocity of the blow he dealt. A fat, seasoned branch with its flaking bark whooshed like a whiffle ball bat that— "surprise, surprise"—came alive with the sweet sound of a Louisville slugger on contact: Crack! She went down with a thud, flat on her back, feet together, arms stretched out to the sides, like a lady Christ ready for the nails.

"Home run!" Ol' Tommy-boy held out the branch as if pointing to the fences. Rye, Tivo, and Sister Sioux scampered out from their hiding spots in the woods, their hands in the air waving triumph. Then they all pranced around her on tiptoes and circled her like her four points were bases, and Tommy had grand slammed in the bottom of the ninth, game seven.

"Wooo-whooo!" Tivo whooped. He took the branch from Tommy and laid it on his shoulder like he'd been the hitter. "We got us a hot one!"

"Sure do," said Sister Sioux, standing over her. "Sure enough do."

Rye gave her a poke in the ribs with his bum foot, the way he'd once done to a belly-shot doe in the west Tennessee woods. "Gotta watch 'em," he explained to the Sister with all due seriousness. "Sometimes they look done for, but they's just waiting 'til you let your guard down. Then they give you a good kick." He smirked in satisfaction, and his mouth showed a gleam of gold. Then, he nudged her again, pinned the back of his right sneaker with the toe of his left, peeled off the shoe, and commenced a little foot fondle, making a small circle on her breast as if he were testing its viscosity or something. 

But she was out cold. Didn't so much as twitch. Her eyes were tearing, and a little blood wandered out of that fast-swelling, freckled button nose of hers. 

Tommy bent for a closer look, and right then, he figured the better part of that blood flow was going down her throat. Maybe into her lungs because of her position. So, when a little voice inside his head said he should roll her over, he did. He shoved Rye back, grabbed her arm, and tugged her onto her side so she wouldn't suffocate.

Still unconscious, she retched and convulsed and coughed up crimson spatter, but then her breathing settled down to a nice, regular pace. That's when Tommy told himself he'd done a good deed by turning her.

Yup.

A good deed, indeed. 

And now he bent really close, and with the help of a soft spot in the fog that let through the last light of that full moon, he made a more thorough inspection. 

A good bit of blood had flowed out the back of her head from when she'd hit the pavement, and that fine yellow hair of hers looked dark at the roots now, like she was maybe a bottle blonde. This thought aroused his suspicion she might not be a natural. And if she was or she wasn't, Tommy grew more eager to find out.

Clear, fair skin. Shapely and toned. Strong. She probably would have been a fighter had I given her the chance. 

And yet she had a softness, a sweetness about her that made him a little sorry for having taken such a big swing. 

"Too pretty to be running around the park all alone before dawn, little one," he said, getting down on all fours and bending close to her ear to say it. He ran the back of two fingers up and down her bare arm and raised bumps. Her full lips parted just enough to show a little hint of her tongue poking out between them nice, white front teeth of hers. 

"Sugar, sugar," he said, wetting his own lips with a lick. “Sa-sa-sa-sweet Home Alabama!”

"Would have been a lot sa-sa-sweeter if you hadn't gone and crushed her goddamn face, Ta-Ta-Tom-Tom," Rye now dared to say, mocking his cousin's stutter. 

"Wha-what di-di-did you say? I'll cut your ta-tongue out!" Tommy leaped to his feet.

Ta-Tom-Tom had been a childhood nickname, a way to demean Tommy for that stutter. And, on hearing it again, the sting of all the lashings he took on account of that defect came rushing right back and cut him deep. The lashings were because the Breckenridge clan were people of the Book. And people of the Book believe if you spare the rod, you will spoil the child. And not sparing it had worked on Tommy, too. Drove the better part of the stammer demon right out of him. Any damn fool could see that. Even as big a damn fool as Rye.

Tommy drew out and flicked open his Rush knife in one quick move, and then he took a mean thrust at his cousin's face, forcing Rye to stumble and fall on his ass in his own retreat. "Take it back," Tommy shouted.

"Holy Christmas, Tommy-boy," Rye said from the ground. "Calm down!"

"Oh, I'm ca-ca-ca-calm all right," said Tommy as he lunged and sliced through the air, barely missing Rye's top lip.

Rye scrambled like a boy playing crab soccer, sliding away as fast as he could have had he been on the wax-polished floor of a gymnasium in stocking feet. But Tommy stepped on one of Rye's ankles, and that move halted the game. All Rye could do was hold up his hands and stretch his fingers wide to show he had no weapon, wanted no quarrel, and was not in no mood for a fight. 

But Tommy still seemed hell-bent on revenge, and he'd have killed Rye, too, for being a mockingbird had his cousin not spoken up. 

"I did wrong," Rye pleaded. "I crossed the line saying, Tom. I'm sorry. Truly, I am. Really, really sorry!"

Tommy gave it a moment's thought, then changed his grip to commence a stabbing. 

"I said I'm sorry!" 

"Ah, he's just as dumb as an ole stump fool," Sister said, shoving Tommy away. "He didn't mean nothing by it, little brother. Let him be."

Tommy glared at the Sister and sighed. "All right, then," he said. "I guess there's better things to do." 

And the better thing was as still as a steak and getting cold on the plate. And cold didn't work for Tommy, no way, no how. 

No, sir. 

Cold didn't work at all. 

So, he folded the blade, slid it into his jeans' back pocket, and moved on to a more pleasurable tussle. As he did, Tommy had to concede—only to himself, of course—Rye's disappointment did seem understandable, seeing as his cousin was the one among them who had a thing for pretty faces. Yeah, he liked to do the foot fondle and all, and he always started his rendezvous in the "ta-ta" terrain. However, the face of a woman stirred up and sustained ole Rye's passions the most. 

Some like some parts. Others, others. That's what Tommy's own Pa always said on nights such as these like he and the boys were just divvying up a fresh bucket of deep-fried chicken.

Rye bent down for one more look at the jogger's face. "Damn," he said. Tommy shot him a disapproving look. "I'm just saying!" 

But Rye had projected that displeased tone he'd learned from their Aunt Mollie-May. A pathetic and sorry tone it was, too. And it told Tommy that Rye must be deeply and genuinely disappointed. So now, feeling like he might have overdone things a bit, Tommy conceded the point. "Yeah," he said. "I guess that face is a bit of a mess."

Admitting it felt like the best way to make amends. True too. With the swelling setting in fast, her eyes and nose all turning colors, one eye closed up, and blood clotting in every crevice, the little gal's good looks were heading downhill. "But see here," said Tommy, feeling the need for a defense, "with the fog going thin like it has and the sun coming up, I couldn't take no chances on her letting go a yelp or putting up a fight. I had to hand it to her once, but good."

"You sure did that, oh boy, oh boy," said Rye, kicking at some loose leaves on the paved path. "You sure did that."

Sister Sioux made matters worse by going over to Rye and, laying a hand on his back, saying, "I'll take your share, son. No worries." Then, for emphasis, she roughed up ole Rye's hair like he was a pup. Next, the Sister proceeded to bend herself over the bride-to-be. That's what they'd call them when joking around beforehand. The bride-to-be. 

Got that from Tom's Pa, too. 

"Just gonna take a quick gander at that tight little bottom," the Sister said. 

But Tommy knew better. 

See, the Sister, if left to her own devices, would indulge herself for too long a time. And once she got started, well, nobody could stop her. And nobody dared try, except Tom, that is. And before he could say hold up, she had opened up a straight razor and sliced the little blonde's shirt wide open and commenced tugging on them pink running shorts of hers, too.

"Now. Now. Step aside, Sis," Tommy said. "I'm the one who swung for the fences, which means I get the first visit to the dugout." Then he picked up his prize and flung her over his shoulder like a fresh sack of steel-cut oats. 

She sure feels good up there, folded over me like that, he thought as he headed down the hill. And the ease of doing it gave him a sudden rush of pride at his manly strength. He strolled toward the lake without so much as breaking a sweat. 

I might not be as tall as some, but I'm twice as strong and multiples of fearless, he told himself. 

Yes, sir. Son of a man's man. 

And the shade of his eyes—though grayer than his favorite, deep blue—had enough specks of cobalt to charm even himself when he looked in the mirror. Framed by thick, black hair that fell long on each side and set deeply into dark eye sockets rimmed by long lashes, Tommy's gems were his biggest source of pride. So bright, they seemed to be lit from behind, he'd been told. 

Hell, my eyes are downright magical! 

Not many men could look at them without blinking, and all but a few women ever failed to be charmed by my gaze. 

All but a very few.

Tommy found that fact quite pleasing because the blonde had begun to stir, and soon, they'd be face-to-face. 

Yup. 

He eagerly awaited the moment he'd make her look right into his eyes. Eye-to-eye. Face-to-face. So, all in all, he felt sure he was right to be satisfied with the hand he'd been dealt in life. And except for the lashings, he wouldn't have changed a thing. 

He approached Bethesda Terrace with his prize flung and turned toward the willows by the shore of the lake. He had picked out a nice spot for just this kind of rendezvous earlier in the evening and reserved it in his mind for just such a purpose. It was the spot from where he'd seen a shooting star fall to earth at the very start of this now very successful close encounter of the most pleasurable kind. 

"Hey, you all! Look!" He had said, pointing to the heavens. "A hunk of fiery hell is coming this way."

Yes, it was. 

And it had come, too, with a tail of light shining through the fog that trailed it all the way down to earth somewhere across the lake.

Strangely, it has done so without so much as a whisper.

Of course, he didn't think mor­­­e about it as such, at least not at the time. He did not believe in omens and was more interested in finding a bride-to-be before heading home to Munford, Tennessee. The city they'd come from when they'd come to New York City about six months earlier. Not looking for trouble, but not afraid to go looking for it if things got boring.

Kick me, punch me, bite me, thought he. Just don't bore me.

Yeah. That was the Munford motto, at least among his kin. 

It's not really what you'd call a town, Munford. It's more like a collection of shacks and trailers a couple miles north of the Memphis city limits. Tommy and the crew had left there on account of some work they'd secured here through the friend of a friend. Kept them good and busy, too, that work had. But it was over a full month ago now. A month of spending and not earning. So, they'd decided they'd had enough of the Big Apple and were packing for a bus ride home. But before they hopped aboard, a thought had occurred to Tommy: With the Labor Day weekend upon them and all, why not do' er up good one last time before heading back? 

Why not party like you can only party when you ain't in a town where the folks all know you?

So, they did. 

They started slamming before they left Brooklyn. Under the tongue, a needle hardly left a mark. It didn't break any of their Pa's rules either. They never used while working, and never worked while using, and since they weren't working, they were using. And they were justified in it, too. 

"Hell," Tommy had said, "we've all earned us a little recreation."

High as kites without tethers, they got on the subway, took the F, and immediately started talking up how they would head to Central Park and end their 'adios New York, hasta la vista fiesta' with a big bang.

All they needed was a bride-to-be. 

That's all. 

Just one pretty filly 'cause they didn't mind sharing the ride.

About an hour after midnight, they had climbed the stairs at the Fifty-Seventh Street stop, walked into Central Park, and made their way down to the Loeb Boathouse. Having heard you could always find a whole herd of lonely city women down there is why they'd picked it. In Tommy's experience, wherever a man found a herd, he would always find a stray. And picking off a stray was easy. Usually. But once there, he saw straight away there were too many lights and too many cops to make it a 50/50 proposition of getting what they'd come for and getting away with it.

Yup. Too crowded. 

"Oh, well," Tommy had told the boys. "That's how it is on Friday nights. Friday nights, they stretch on into Saturday mornings before anybody notices, on account of the fact that folks ain't in no mood to go on home, at least not until they get what they come for." 

Tommy and the boys weren't any different. Since they had not yet gotten what they came for, they took a stroll and kept their eyes peeled for a stray. And they kept awake by passing a flask of Jack and climbing on the big rocks and howling at the moon.

After a while of walking the foggy footpaths of the park, though, they'd ended up pretty close to where they'd started, back by the bricks of Bethesda Terrace. A stone's throw from Loeb Boathouse, but still far enough away to be out of sight of the boys in blue, especially with the help of the fog. That's when the sky lit up, and he'd seen the shooting star. After he'd brushed it off and told the boys they might get lucky and come upon a pair of lovers in the tunnel over there, catch them in the middle of you-know-what in the shadows, and that didn't turn out, they'd hung out a while by the Angel of the Waters fountain, lighting a pipe, passing the rock, using up the last of their stash. Tommy, captivated by the sight of the birds that had been carved into the staircase railing walls come to life and fly away on wings of stone, didn't mind it a bit. 

Trip, trip, tripping, and still hoping for a bride-to-be. 

He'd already gone on a recon and picked out a soft spot by the lake in case one ever did come. And he found another spot off the beaten path in case they got a fighter and had to take things to the woods. But, after too long a wait and no bride-to-be, the booze had run out, and the rocks had all gone up in smoke. They were tired and cold and getting a little cranky. So up the path they went, resigned to give up the hunt and hop on the bus, Gus.

And when they were almost out of the park, well, hot damn, that's when the little blonde had come ambling along with a nice rhythm, prancing like a pretty little Shetland filly, looking like the type of a ride that was secretly eager to get back to the paddock and into the hands of the stable boys.

Yes, sir, a lit match fell on dry hay when Tommy saw her. Boom! He was as hot as a barn-burning flame. So, he took himself that big swing and: Crack! And now he was walking on the very same patch of soft lawn he'd picked earlier that night because the soft, thick sod would be easy on the knees. And the lake was right there, too. So they could weigh her down and roll her right in when they were done with her.

Only the weeping willows would be watching. 

Yeah, he thought. Plenty of cover. Shrubs and hanging willow branches all around. And the other side is nothing but a lake. The boats down there by the boathouse are all tied in their slips until 9:00 or 10:00 a.m., so for a little while, which is all this here is going to take, they were safe.

Tommy especially liked the weeping willows by this particular shore—though he couldn't say why they were called weeping. And while he wondered, the highest hanging branches of the middle tree, the one he stood under now, shed some leaves. They floated down on him and the bride-to-be like butterflies dying in midair. Dying and falling. Spinning down, dragged to the earth at the end of a good life. 

And now his feet sank into the soft and most excellent turf. And he pulled her down. And his heart sank, too, because the bride-to-be had gone cold.

Tommy set her down in the silky grass really carefully. Supported her like a new mama holding the head of a new baby. "There, there," he said, trying to ignore the obvious state of affairs, recalling that making believe something is something it ain't can sometimes get you through.

"You hang in," he told her, hoping the boys would notice she wasn't alive. "I won't be but a minute." And he directed them to form a little half-circle, a "man fence" between him and the terrace. Not because he didn't trust his judgment about the spot but because Bethesda Terrace is a popular place come mornings.

Sure, it wasn't quite morning, at least not the break of day. Not yet. But, he figured, it was better to have the boys stand between him and the paved path as a kind of insurance. To give a little extra cover in case some pre-dawn-loving jogger like his own ride here did come along. Seeing the three men standing on the lawn looking toward the lake, Tommy figured that anyone who did come would likely keep on going. Because runners like to run, and they hate to stop for red lights, cars in traffic, or even questionable liaisons that ain't none of their business. 

And the fog still hung pretty low and thick on the water now, too. And along the shore. And it was close to half-dark. So, yup. Pretty unlikely he'd be spotted. And even if somebody did spy all of them on the little patch of damp green, Tommy told himself that with the bride-to-be being so quiet and not giving off no fuss, any passer-by would likely figure it was just a good time being had by all. They'd keep on their merry way.

People do like to mind their own business, you know, he'd always told the boys. Nobody of no character likes to intrude uninvited on another man's good time. 

And as for the boys, well, they liked to watch. 

And Tommy didn't mind much having them do it. Nope. He didn't much mind if they stood by and looked on. However, he was in no mood for no stranger to have a look. That was a surefire way to spoil the whole thing as far as Tommy was concerned. And just as he got ready to get to it, a feeling came over him. A sneaky feeling that some strange somebody was indeed already watching him.

And then these two balls of light floated up to him, stopped, and hovered right before his eyes. Two. Each the size of a tennis ball. 

Yup. A pair of silver tennis balls, hovering.

Or am I tweaking?

He reached for one, and it moved back. But it didn't go far. It was like it was hanging around and doing some kind of recon on him or something.

Spying.

Yeah. That's it. Or so he felt.

Upset his mood, too, it did.

Then, poof! It was gone.

But, no, it wasn't. It had moved without moving, jumped through time and space, and was up high now. High above Tommy's head without ever having moved up there. Both of them were. 

They were just there without having had to get there.

Ah, man, Tommy thought. I am tweaking.

Now, both balls started orbiting one another, like the earth and the moon. Tommy took a breath and thought about asking the boys if they saw what he was seeing, but he thought better of it. Doing so might make him look less like a man in control. 

Less like a leader. 

Maybe even like he was afraid.

And he told himself if it was the drugs making him see this here silver ball tennis match without a net, and he was tripping, that just meant he'd gotten a two for one. 

Twice the fun off of just one hit. 

Yeah. So just let it be, Tommy-boy, he told himself. Just let it be and do what you came to do. And now he squinted into the fog on the lake because he couldn't get the gumption to finish it. Nope. He still had that feeling some stranger was watching. 

And as sure as crow shit falling from a cornfield sky and splattering a freshly washed pickup windshield on Sunday going to church, he knew dead certain somebody was there. 

Somebody who looked like nobody at first. But then definitely looked like somebody strange.

She came towards him, and her doing that made Tommy's heart pound. 

And when she got to Tommy, she sure was strange. 

Double sure. 

She was a woman who was not a regular flesh and blood woman but a woman made out of light. A light lady wearing some more light, like it was a garment. 

That's right. 

Her body and her clothes were made of light. 

A robe made of it. And a hood. And a veil of light, too. And a shapely, curvy body under it all. 

Yes, sir. There she was, as strange a light-wearing, all-a-glow stranger as Tommy had ever seen. And she came at him and only stopped when she got to the now-gone-cold little bride-to-be on the turf. It was like the body was lying in the middle of her migratory path or something. 

Like somebody had put up a roadblock.

Like... Like... 

"Ba-boys!" Tommy said. "Hey, boys! You see her, tight? So, take her down!"

But the boys didn't move, nor blink, nor make a bird's chirp. 

Nope. 

They were awestruck, dumbstruck, and stone still. 

Hypnotized! 

Like deer in the headlights! 

And that's when Tommy confirmed in his mind that this strange, glowing stranger was not just what you'd call any ordinary passer-by. 

No. No. No. 

This here stranger was as strange a stranger as Tommy had ever seen!

"Damn it," he barked. "Tivo! Sister! Hey, wake up!" But speechless they were, and speechless they remained. Stone still with mouths wide open. Their eyes fixed wide open, too.

Yeah, this... this... Whatever you wanna call it, had stunned the boys. 

Tommy marched over and gave Rye a wake-up shove to the chest. "Snap out of it, boy. We got us four against one!" 

Tivo dropped the big fat branch bat he had carried down from the top of the hill, and next, he and the others started backing up. Retreating. Slowly and carefully, they stepped away like they'd seen something they'd never seen before and didn't want any part of ever again.

Nope. Not ever again. 

And they were not going to hang out here anymore. Not now, nor at any other place nor time if it meant hanging out with this, this, this... thing!

They backed up and kept backing up to the paved footpath. Even then, they kept going until they stood on the red bricks of Bethesda Terrace by the Angel of the Waters fountain. And all the while, their eyes stayed glued on the glowing stranger.

"Boys," Tommy called out as they went, standing his ground. "Ah, hell. Boys! Where y'all going?"

Nothing.

He turned and marched back to face the strange lady, or whatever this here thing was, and she smiled at Tommy through her light veil. 

Smiled!

Then, that veil parted, and he saw her face, and yup, he knew it. She was a demon. Or an angel. Or maybe something else. 

But not human. 

For sure. No way. No how. Not human.

Tommy's heart raced like an engine with the gas pedal stuck. "Wa-wa-wa- what are ya-you?"

Just a smile, that's all she gave. A big, bright smile. Nothing more. 

And the bride-to-be lay still as a stone, stiff and cold on the lawn between them. 

And Tommy thought: What in the name of all things holy is this? I mean: What kind of New York Yankee bullshit is going on here, in the middle of my new favorite spot in Central Park, on about the perfect night for a hoedown?

"Ba-Boys!" He tried once more. "We didn't ha-haul our asses all the way over here on a subway train to see the trip end like this, did we? 

"Ba-Boys? 

"Aw, come on now!" 

Still nothing. 

"Shit!" 

Tommy glanced at the stranger, then shouted again, "Why, you boys ain't a-a-fraid of this one here, are ya? Why this one here is just another pa-piece of homeless tra—" Right then, Tommy's eyes found the stranger's eyes had come alive with fire. He instantly felt what it must be like to be drunk and shot through the throat with a broad-head arrow. 

Both. 

Drunk and shot. At the same time. 

Why? 

Well, hell. Because the stranger's eyes weren't eyes at all no more. They were holes filled with fire as bright as a gun barrel flash. But not gone in a flash. No. No. More like a blow torch fire fed by a full bottle of acetylene gas. They burned and burned and burned.

A gripping terror came over him, and with it a loss of breath. It was like the pain he'd felt when thinking he was gonna die if he had to take even one more lash, one more blow from his Pa's wide, leather strap. And yet that strap kept coming, and coming, and cutting into his flesh. Cutting him deep because of his da-da-da-damned stammer! 

"Attaboy! Yeah! One more, Son! To rid you of your weakness," he heard his Pa say out loud now. And he turned, and though he wasn't an oath-swearing man, he swore he saw his Pa right there on the lawn, too. Strap in hand! And now, Tommy felt like maybe he would die and slide right into the judgment seat if he had to bear any more of this. Die and slide right in because of looking into this strange stranger's fiery eyes. And he felt like he'd been charged, tried, convicted, and was now headed to the judgment. And he knew himself to be, no way, no how, nowhere near ready to meet his maker.

Sure as hell, no way ready for Hell.

Na-na-na-no way! 

But he couldn't break off the stare. And Tommy's skin drew back tight on his face, and his lips went thin, and his mouth went desert dry. His legs felt like cement bags. His gut burned with the urgent impulse to run like he was the fox and the stranger was a pack of angry dogs. But he couldn't lift a foot. 

He couldn't laugh or cry or even blink. 

And he felt baffled because no man had ever looked into Tommy's eyes without blinking. No man and certainly no stranger with fiery blowtorch eyes. No strange lady made only out of light! 

Maybe she's one of those apparitions!

Or a demon! 

Maybe she's an alien coming to drag me to some lab experiment in the sky! 

An alien abduction!

Yeah, that's what this here is!

And the longer he stared at the glowing stranger, the worse the fear got. And the more it took him over. It so completely filled his heart and his head that he felt like he might explode right then and there and fly off in a million itty-bitty pieces because he was starting to believe he was looking into the eyes of a god. 

A god?

Ah, hell no! That can't be right!

And then the stranger reached over the body of the bride-to-be. She reached across, and Tommy bent closer to meet her hand, even though he did not want to. And she touched his face, real soft, right on the cheek. Yup. She put her suddenly solid and black-as-the-bottom-of-the-barrel fingers on Tommy's face and smiled. And her hand lit up with light. 

And so did he! 

A pure bolt of lightning too close to the roof of the outhouse terror rose up inside of him, alongside a desperate longing to feel something he had never felt before, never in his entire life, and didn't even know he wanted.

Love.

It was love!

And as challenging as all this was for Tommy to comprehend, the more he gazed into the stranger's wide, fiery eyes, the more he knew himself to be cursed because of that dizzy, head's-a-spinning feeling like he was going to die and meet the maker. That feeling kept building and building inside him. It built up until he about burst open. 

But he had no choice about it. He had to look right into those eyes of hers. It was like his own were cold steel balls, and the stranger had magnets in her fiery sockets!

But he didn't want to look anymore. 

No, sir. He didn't!

So now he closed them—his own eyes, that is. And he mustered all the power he could, and he did so out of desperation and a strong desire to somehow get the upper hand. And he blurted out the only thing he could think of: "What the hell are you doing to me?"

And she broke off her stare.

And he sighed a sigh of great relief. 

And, well, hold on, he thought next, looking her over and over again. 

She ain't no threat. 

She ain't even armed. 

In fact, from the glimpses he'd caught of her body, he felt sure she was buck naked under her clothing of light, with nothing to hide and nowhere to hide it. 

And that meant Tommy had the upper hand! 

She had not said a word in protest nor made a single accusation and seemed without a care in the world for the bride-to-be and what he and the boys had done to her.

Maybe I can drive her off now, he thought.

Yeah.

Maybe I can.

So, Tommy decided to run a test. 

Let's see about this strange stranger's strange intentions, thought he. Find out if she is resolved to interfere or not. 

And he put on an angry voice, conjured up as much authority of tone as he could, and laid it on thick, too, mainly for the sake of the boys who were well within earshot. 

He would show them how a leader deals with the likes of such a one as this. So, he said, "All right, you," in a voice that was more of a shout. "You had your fun. Now, you get going!"

Well, wonder of wonders. When Tommy said it like that, and he stood aside and gestured the way out, the stranger gave him one last smile. Then she just stepped right over the stone-cold-dead bride-to-be, and Tommy thought he'd succeeded.

The thing is, something else happened, too. 

Suddenly, a flash of the brightest blue light Tommy had ever seen struck him blind. 

"Da-da-da-damn," he said, shutting his lids as tightly as he could. 

Even tighter.  

And when he opened his eyes, he saw that the bride-to-be had sat up like she had kicked death itself in the ass. Kicked it so hard the blow sent it to Hell and her back to the land of the living again! And she curled onto her side and hacked and coughed and spit blood. But she was alive. Yeah. Full of painful life.

Damn! His eyes burned, but he could see this.

"What the hell are you," he asked the strange stranger. But she didn't answer. 

And Tommy's clarity of vision returned fully. And he saw the sweet little filly on the lawn, and she looked good again. And he felt she could be his again. His nice and warm bride-to-be. And he thought, maybe this here night will be salvaged after all. 

So now, being a man of action, Tommy took action again. He pulled out and flicked open his Rush knife and waved it at the stranger, showing her he was prepared to do what he had to do to get her to move on. 

One way or another. Move on. 

Get your strange self out of here.

Be gone. 

But as soon as that Rush knife flicked open, the two little silver balls above his head said no. That is not going to happen.

Not in words, mind you. Because they did not speak. No. Not in words. In deeds. 

They came out of nowhere without ever actually coming. POP! Like that. They just appeared in front of his face again. And while one hovered and spun at the level of Tommy's eyes, the other moved down and now floated at arm's length, lined up with his blade. 

Then that one got bigger. And bigger.

What's worse, Tommy's knife hand started to rise up until it was pointing right at that expanding silver ball, though he fought against his arm doing that. He fought against it with all his might. And when his hand got to his own shoulder height, he felt his grip tightening, and then he felt himself lifting up off the ground. Floating. 

He turned to the stranger and shouted, "What the hell are you!" 

And she smiled. 

Damn that smile!

And one sphere got bigger and bigger, even as the other one hovered right in front of his face like it was keeping an eye on him. Then the big one turned black, and Tommy's knife hand went into that black like it was going into a black hole. 

He went in up to the elbow.

Then up to the shoulder.

Then Tommy's eyes went wide, and the rest of him went in, too. And the sphere collapsed. It just plain disappeared into thin air, and Ole Tommy with it.

***

"Please hold for the president."

At 2:10 a.m., New York City Mayor Jack Molinaro shot out of bed and began to pace. Heart racing, he pressed his cell phone against his ear and waited for what seemed an eternity.

"Jack," RJ finally said.

"Mr. President," Jack replied, stiffening to involuntary attention.

"You're aware that a Shahab-3 missile took out our embassy in Jerusalem?"

The Israelis had launched a preemptive strike against Iranian nuclear facilities. The president had denied foreknowledge. However, no one believed him. Not even Jack. "Yes," he said. "I understand it leveled ten square blocks."

"We're pretty sure the vice president was in the building," the president said. "Murdered, along with everybody else. We're at DefCon 2."

War, Jack thought, knowing that if the VP had been killed in the attack, this meant that the president would likely be planning to launch a full retaliatory strike. "I understand," Jack said. Then he realized his mind had, on its own, turned to purely selfish interest. Some shame for this arose in him, given the situation. However, a thought had intruded, and he couldn't ignore it. The number-two spot in the administration had just opened up. In the musical chairs of the political world, whenever someone got promoted or died, a dozen asses immediately scrambled to take the empty seat. This time, the seat came with the title Vice President of the United States of America. And with a global apocalypse on the horizon, it would have to be filled quickly.

Is this the real reason for the call? Jack wondered.

"Could have been you," RJ said.

"Yes," Jack replied.

He had been vetted and had made the short list of potential running mates when RJ won the nomination. But he'd been passed over as the VP nominee.

"Terrible tragedy, Mr. President."

"I'm afraid there's more, Jack. Some kind of craft, hypersonic, entered the atmosphere last night. Three of them, actually. I've just issued a press release. No sonic boom, despite the speed. Nothing on the radar. We think they may have burned up on entry. But that's unconfirmed, and frankly, it may be the least of your problems."

"How so?"

"We have reliable intel that Iranian-backed terrorists have smuggled a device into New York City."

"What kind of device?

"A nuke. Small. Suitcase-sized. Fifty kilotons. Maybe more. And probably dirty."

"Fifty," he asked. Hiroshima was fifteen.

"Homeland Security, FBI, and the rest are on their way to brief you," the president said.

Jack stared at the white-sheet emptiness of his king bed. Its vastness reminded him that his wife had left him and Abbey, their five-year-old daughter, who loved to squeeze between them in the middle of the night for a family snuggle. He and his wife were separated now. But they still lived here. In the city. A city that could be vaporized any minute in the blink of an eye.

"Thank you for the call, Mr. President." He hung up and set the phone on the nightstand.

A personal call, he thought. That did mean something.

The empty seat could still be mine.

It should be mine.

He was so disappointed when he wasn't chosen for the VP spot. Now, he thought, I'm alive because I was passed over. That would have been me in Jerusalem.

Talk about irony.

I'm alive because I cheated on my wife and got caught.

It still hurts politically. And definitely, personally. 

Despite two decades in politics where lying is a given, he had enough integrity to admit the truth to himself.

Yeah. Jack had earned the pain.

He went to the window and drew back the curtain. The sun, still below the horizon but coming up bright, infused the low, lingering fog on the river with light.

Jack clicked the remote. CNN. Breaking News. Footage from Jerusalem.

He muted the sound, sat on the bed, grabbed his cell, and called Becka Ramirez.

Officially, Becka served as his press secretary, but she had been much more than that. In fact, the scandal that had precipitated all of his political troubles was as much about her as him. Though the fact that she was the one with whom he'd had an affair had remained an "unconfirmed rumor."

Her phone rang.

No answer.

Why?

She always took his calls, anytime, day or night.

Now CNN cut to some guy's cellphone footage of a "UFO" streaking through the sky over Manhattan.

Onscreen, the chyron scrolled:

UAP over New York...

Two additional sightings were reported. 

White House Braces For Possible Alien Invasion...

Of course, he had just spoken with the president. So, he knew better.

Fake news.

He clicked off the TV and went downstairs to brew a double espresso.

***

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