Micky covered his ears with the balls of his hands, to no avail. The roar of the engines tore at his head, threatening to rip apart what little was left, it seemed, of his mind. He was standing at the end of a runway, wearing only his Hanes underwear. Rough marsh grass slapped in the wind, slashing at the back of his shins as he slowly inched backwards, off the shaking tarmac.

"Mister Sorenson," the pilot screamed from the small window, "for God's sake help us." Micky pressed his hands harder, but the pleading voice and the roar of the planes engines were both loud and deathly clear.

In front of him hung United flight 1362 arriving from Dulles International. The 747's four turbine engines picked up speed, pulling harder. A heavy chord of rope projected from the top of the fuselage, just behind what appeared to be an antenna. The rope was stretched taught, vibrating like a piano chord through the thin clouds. Micky tried to see where it ended, but it just kept going. Maybe God was holding the other end, he mused. Maybe, but Micky knew that any minute God would let go. The jet pulled against its restraint, a mere 20 yards from the man backing away deeper into the harsh grass.

The captain's hat blew off his head as he leaned further out of the window.

"Mister Sorenson, " he pleaded, a desperate man grappling for a life line one last time, "I'm not asking for me... we have children aboard, look for yourself!"

The plane twisted sideways on its improbable line. A myriad of faces pressed against the small Chicklet­sized windows. Some eyes were already dead, pressed from life by others clawing for a view. There were children, women, men, young, old, all with the same look of impending death, all staring at him as if he were the only one between their small square view of life and oblivion.

"I'm not the one to save you," he whispered, knowing they could hear him. The faces began shouting silent pleas through the glass. "I m sorry."

He saw one face near the back. A man in a sharp suit and tie slept peacefully through the malay around him. Micky concentrated on him, this man who slept happily, who wanted nothing at all from this trembling near­naked man at the end of the runway.

The 747 swung violently. The turbines roared to a deafening pitch. The nose veered to the left, the captain came into view, hanging pathetically out his hole, arms extended, begging for help, for mercy. The screams of the passengers came at the dreaming man in a wave, growing louder than the engines until all he could hear was the human drone. Every person's unique cry was clear in his head. He could say out loud the name of every man and woman, every child he heard pounding on his brain. He also knew what day it was. Tuesday, October third. The time 2:47 in the afternoon.

The rope, somewhere out of vision in the heavens, snapped. A thousand tons of steel and human flesh crashed upon him like the Hammer of the Gods.

It was then, as usual, that he woke screaming.

"Christ, what a mess. I think I'll drive to Maryland next month."

Micky saved the program he was working on but continued staring at his terminal. When he replied, he did so over his shoulder.

"What's a mess?" He tried to sound nonchalant, but he had already checked the time on the clock on his monitor when Tony returned, and knew what the man was talking about.

Tony swiveled in his the chair, contemplated his own keyboard, the spun to address the quiet man sitting opposite him. "Maura just heard it on the radio. Big plane crash at Logan. Doesn't look too good. Hit the runway almost head­on, exploded.. hit the water I think. Jesus, I'm hungry. You want to hit the cafe for something before they close?"

Micky mumbled 'sure' and reflexively threw on his jacket. As they walked down towards the cafeteria, Mickey watched the square tiles of the floor pass by, imagining himself on the plane, the ground racing up to smash him too. There would be no survivors, he knew.

His stomach turned, and that uncomfortable feeling began eating him up. He fought it away. It was getting easier to do these days. He had no reason to feel guilty, after all. He never asked to see these things. He could have called someone, warned them. Maybe (only maybe) they would have believed him, checked the hydraulic whatchamacallit with the burned out thing. What good would that do? The people on the plane wouldn't die, at least not on the plane, but everyone would want to talk to him, try to bring him on tv.

Micky couldn't have that. He liked his life the way it was. He had Tony, and a few other friends. His job was easy, nobody really pressured him. He didn't ask for these... visions, and he didn't have to do anything about them if he didn't want to.

They rounded the corner into the cafeteria. Micky thought hard about the kind of Otis Spunkmeyer cookie he would purchase. He thought about it at length, looking over every individual cookie, until at last he stopped thinking about the bloody carnage taking place fifty­three miles away.

Micky slouched in front of his PC, adeptly maneuvering the mouse around the screen with his right hand and stuffing the cookie into his mouth with his left. He always turned to the Internet for the most current news. Only twenty minutes since the crash and there was already an electronic bulletin board set up with the name alt.crash.logan. Micky stared fixedly at the screen as the firsthand accounts from eye witnesses flashed by. It seems that several travelers waiting at the United and the nearby TWA gates had brought their laptop computers along. DavidM@aol.com and 2435,2555@compuserv.com both scrambled to the pay phones to dial into their America On-Line and CompuServe accounts. No, this wasn't the official news wire, but both conveyed a similar portrayal of the devastation.

Not that Micky needed verification. He already knew that the 747 took a head-first dive into runway 7L. As he read, the explosion hammered his ears and the heat of the fiery wreckage scorched his face. He shut his eyes tightly but still, in his mind's eye, watched as the massive jet and its 317 passengers plunged off the end of the runway into Boston Harbor.

The two witnesses strove to answer the questions firing at them from other on-line Internet surfers. DavidM clearly wasn't a skilled typist. Micky could feel the frustration from the questioners wanting to know- did they see any survivors? Any dead bodies? Was anyone crushed on the ground?

The thread of discussion veered to someone connecting in under the name Cornflake@prodigy.com who claimed that he caused the crash, insisting that the government cease and desist from all biomedical research. The on-line chatter deteriorated quickly from there.

With a prolonged sigh, Micky lay back and draped his arm over his eyes, shielding them from the visions that raced towards him. He knew this episode was going to stick with him a while. As desperately as he might try to think of other things, he invariably drifted back to when it all began.

Remembering drove stabs into Micky's gut as sharp as the needles that supposedly saved him from dying of rabies. Those three months in the hospital almost killed him, more so it seemed than the attack that put him there in the first place. The first ten days were a blur of shots, both for the rabies treatment as well as for sedating him from his outrageous outbursts. He screamed of the monster, yet wouldn't give enough detail to explain to the doctors what caused the bites and scratches scattered across his back, arms and chest.

Even as Micky settled down and they cut back on the sedatives, he could do little to shed light on what attacked the trio of boys in the woods. There was talk of finding the animal so they could kill it and cut its head off. That seemed like a harsh final touch to this assailant, thought Micky, not knowing that this would tell them if it was actually rabid.

Yet Micky was the lucky one, they all said. Micky didn't feel inclined to agree about it. The doctors, nurses, even his parents averted their eyes when he asked about Kevin and Matty. He thought they were home and wondered why they hadn't visited yet, seeing as how he'd been there over two weeks already. The doctors' frustration at not knowing the cause of his injuries was matched only by Mickey's at the way he was being treated with kid gloves and receiving half answers to his questions.

It was at this low point that the images came back in one immense rush. Nothing was obvious that triggered his memory suddenly. He was channel surfing in the hospital room, not really seeing what selections presented themselves. Then the tv screen enlarged to fill his entire scope of vision, blocking out everything else and pulling Micky in to the action.

They were running, the three of them, at full speed. Branches cut at his face. Tears blurred his vision. His screams and choking sobs forced him gasp for air. He looked back only once as he neared the road that led back to Mrs. Donegan's farmhouse. But what did he see?

Micky snapped back. He was shaking the remote control at the television, pressing madly on the channel selector to make the vision stop.

Did Kevin make it? Did Matty? Matty wasn't a very good runner. Oh, I bet it got him, Mickey despaired. What was it that chased them through Donegan's woods?

By Thursday, Micky's mind was felling a bit more at ease. Avoiding the television and newspapers was making Tuesday's disaster a distant (but painful) memory. People at work were back to talking about O.J., last night's TV shows and how much they loved work.

"So, the folks are in for the weekend, eh?"

Micky rubbed his eyes, glad for a chance to step away from his never-gonna-work-no-matter-what-the-hell-I-do-to-it program.

"Sure are. Should be a load of laughs, let me tell ya. Gotta finish steam-cleaning the walls, sand-blasting the floors and dry cleaning the cat."

His mother was a stickler for cleanliness. Micky's father could care less, as long as there was beer in the fridge and a game (any game) on the tube. He loved them both very much but knew that the weekend had potential to be a long one.

Tony grinned and rocked back in his chair. "Let me know if your mother brings those brownies. Actually, give me their number. I'll make sure she does."

Smiling, Micky plunged back into his program. "It really WILL be nice to see Mom and Dad again."

Connie and Henry Sorenson left from Albany under a bright blue sky. The old Dodge (or "Old Reliable" as Dad liked to call her) ventured forth on yet another long excursion. Micky sat in back, eyes affixed to his parents, remembering all the trips as a child.

"Slow down, Henry. There are a lot of sharp curves on this road."

Micky's mother's look of concern paled compared to the growing panic seen on his father's face. The car wasn't slowing. In fact, it seemed to pick up speed as it headed for the turn up ahead. Both Mother and Father were screaming now while Micky sat paralyzed in back, mouth agape.

"Why won't the emergency brake work! Oh, my God, Micky help us!! Micky, PLEASE......!"

Micky awoke with a jolt. Sweat streamed out from every pore in his body. "Thank God it was just a dream. Thank God." His heart was beating fast as he went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face.

"It was SO real," he said to himself half-aloud and then froze. Fear once again started to build up inside.

"Oh, God, no."

Micky checked the clock, which read 7:15. "I still have time to stop them!" Frantically, he grabbed for the phone and started punching in the numbers. The trepidation he once felt about having his abilities discovered were gone. He didn't care who knew, as long as his parents were safe.

"<ring>.....<ring>.......<ring>.....<ring>......." Micky trembled uncontrollably.

"Come on, dammit, pick up! Don't leave yet!!! Pick up the damn......."

"Hello?"

"Mom!! Thank God you picked up! Mom, I know you're going to think I'm crazy but don't get in your car! I had a dream your brakes went out...and when I have a dream it always comes true... so just....Hello?.....mom?......MOM!!!! NO!! NO!! NO!!"

On the other end was silence. Micky shouted into the phone again to no avail. The line had been cut off. His heart was pounding louder than ever. Under the sounds of his screams, he never heard the door crash open and the men come inside.

Micky awoke with a pounding not in his heart, but in his head. Staring up at a white tiled ceiling, he tried to make sense of his current surroundings. Was it all a dream? Was he in another dream?

"Mom! Dad!" He sat up quickly as memories started rushing back.

"Good morning, Mister Sorenson. It is so good to finally speak to you. You slept well, I assume."

Micky's eyes darted to the man in the chair. The stranger, dressed in a suit and tie, smiled back at him. Something was oddly familiar about him, Micky thought to himself. He wasn't sure if it was his appearance or the eerie calm that seemed to come from him.

"Who the hell are you?! What am I doing here?!"

"Patience, Mister Sorenson. All your questions will be answered in due time. All in due time."

Questions ?? Micky squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a long breath hoping to extinguish the nauseous surge that firmly gripped his entire body. His head throbbed with a sickening blast each time his heart pounded. His mind raced in a thousand different directions, but his body was quickly deserting him.

His last thought before he passed out again was that of the sleeping passenger on board the doomed jet.

Micky's climb back to consciousness did not come easily. He was faintly aware of the smell of outdoors as his head rested on the plump pillow. For an instant he imagined himself in his parents house, safe in his own bed. He would always rub his cheeks against the freshly laundered, line­dried sheets and revel for a few moments in their sweet fragrance before giving in to the incessant alarm clock. Though still not quite with it , he was sure he wasn't at his parents home, yet the scent of his surroundings told him he was not in a sterile, hospital setting.

Micky opened his eyes, blinking rapidly , searching for the white tiles he knew would be above his head. "Oh my God, I've gone blind," his parched voice gasped to an empty room. Slowly Micky realized that he in fact could see, it was his surroundings that were pitch black. As he sat up, ears straining for a sound or voice that may give him a hint, he felt the slightest breeze touching his skin.

Instinctively, Micky knew he could not stay were he was . His fear meter was telling him that whatever lay beyond this room would be preferable to what was waiting for him if he remained.

Micky swung both legs over the bedside but remained seated, cautious of whom or whatever lurked on the floor beneath. His knees knocked and his right foot shook as he reached for the floor with his bare toe. Funny, he didn't remember taking off his socks and sneakers. He slid his foot onto the solid surface....dirt...it was dirt. Vaulting boldly off the bed now, he nearly lost his pants. He wore no shirt and his old jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped. "Christ, at least they left me my underwear, " he said to no one as he deftly zipped and snapped . Sliding one foot in front of the other, much like a timid skater, Micky made his way away from the bed. His outstretched hands soon came in contact with a wall, which not surprisingly was also dirt. The cold oozy goo on his fingers told him it was a fairly wet wall.

As he made his way along the slimy mass, he secretly prayed for an opening, a door, anything which would carry him away from this creepy place.

He felt it again, ever so gently streaming from just beyond his right shoulder; he turned and headed where the breeze led him. Three quick steps and... Wham ... full face into aging clapboard. The wide wood splintered into hundreds of pieces as Micky crashed through and tumbled in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Thousands of sharp jabs assaulted him as he fell into the massive hay bin... he knew exactly where he was.

His father's barn, even in the dark of night, was unmistakable with its lingering smells of oil and exhaust from the tractor and chain saws. Dust choked him, as it had done throughout as far back as he could remember. Micky's mind clung to this new environment, as if to the edge of a life raft amid circling sharks. For the moment the confusion and fear of the last few...hours?... were forgotten. A distant laughter from outside kick started Micky's adrenaline. Micky took a quick step back and fell to the floor. More dust. He rose and moved quickly to the door, not needing the thin slats of light the crescent moon could work through cracks in the wall.

How the hell had he gotten here? Where had he fallen from? It had to have been the tool shed behind the barn. He opened the outside door slowly. The cold October night wrapped around him. He had no coat, and instinctively rubbed his arms as he walked around the edge of the barn. The ground rose up behind the building, until leveling halfway up the wall's height to the back pastures. Mickey ran up the short hill until he was outside the tool room. The lock was hanging open. Another laughed reached him from across the yard. It sounded like his Uncle Pete. Micky reached for the door knob.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He was forgetting something. The door knob was warm in his hand. Uncle Pete's voice was joined by another. He could not identify it. The knob became warmer.

"Think, damn it," he said aloud, "What the hell were you doing before they grabbed you?" He had been on the phone.

Micky turned and ran for the house before his mind had completed the thought.

"Mom," he yelled. "Dad!" The house was lighted from almost every room. Dozens of cars filled the driveway. A crash behind him stopped his run. He turned to see something had broken through the tool room door. It was big, with arms and legs too long for the short muscular body. It growled through multiple rows of teeth then lunged at him.

Micky blinked. The vision stopped. The door was intact, closed. The creature was gone. Micky knew what it was, if it had even been there at all. Years had passed since the day in the hospital room, and never again had he been able to remember the attack. Only the vision of Kevin's shredded body strewn out behind him, and Matty's pleading screams off in the distance.

Something rose from his memory. They had taken, or broken something, out beyond the shed, in the woods. His friends were killed because of it. Was it a punishment? The memory clawed at his mind for escape. He stared at the doorknob. It turned. The door fell into the blackness of the tool room, and the creature's snarling head emerged. It moved slowly, working its large bulk into the night air.

Micky screamed and ran from what he already knew was another vision. In his mind, Kevin ran up to him and Matty as they poked sticks into the mud along the creek. "A UFO! I found a UFO in the woods!".

Micky stepped onto the porch. He stopped at the screen door and stared into the living room, seeing three twelve-year-old boys crouching in the bushes next to Crow's Clearing. In the middle of the field, an immense silver dome sat humming. It looked like a drop of mercury, bigger than his house.

"Micky?" Pete Sorenson stared at his nephew, who walked slowly into the house. The young man wore a pair of filthy jeans and dress shirt, and no coat. He seemed to almost be sleepwalking. "Oh my God, Micky. What the hell..."

"..is that thing?"

Matty began inching away from the bushes. "We should get outta here right now."

Pete led him to the couch. "He's taking it worse than we feared. Maureen, get a glass of water or something. Make yourself useful for chrissakes."

The woods slowly evaporated, leaving in their place the yellowed wallpaper of his living room. The whole family was here. Aunt Mo was trying to hand him a glass. He turned his head, scanning the room. Was it Thanksgiving already? His eyes stopped on the picture of his parents, the framed photo surrounded by flowers. Large bouquets, simple vases, entire plants covered the top of the piano, pushing aside the dozen or so other photographs. Micky stood up, his eyes darting from face to face. Eyes stared back, some consoling, others wet with grief. His guts turned over. They were dead. They got in the car after all. Uncle Pete grabbed his shoulders.

"We've been trying to reach you, Micky. When you called Saturday and the phone went dead they got right in the car and headed for the Massachusetts. You know your Dad. Always racing off to the rescue. We should remember them that way...."

The implications of what his uncle was telling him began to turn Micky's legs liquid. He mouthed the word "No" over and over. A pained sigh escaped his throat. Uncle Pete grabbed him by the shoulders. It was then that the house exploded.

The walls seemed to pull within themselves, as if taking one first and final breath, then burst outward with a roar that filled Micky's head. Fire and smoke were the only visible surroundings. Something hit him in the chest. He landed on the grass outside, surrounded by burning wood. Uncle Pete lay atop him, his clothes burning though he made no effort to fight the flames. Micky kicked the dead body off him. A fireball swirled where the house once stood, the flames extending outward, engulfing cars and people in its wake. Micky scrambled to his feet and ran. From the corner of his vision he could see others doing the same. The immense heat roared behind him.

'My God,' he thought, 'its like the explosion is chasing us.' He didn't question this thought, but took it to heart and ran toward the open door of the tool shed.

The monster extended its stubby arms invitingly out from the doorway of the shed with a grizzly grin. Micky stopped on a dime. Hands on hips, he stared down this beast.

"Fuck off!" Micky roared in disgust, spitting the words into the demon's face.

Recoiling with wide yellow eyes, its welcoming embrace summarily rebuffed, the creature dissolved, leaving an unobstructed entrance into the darkness of the shed.

"Aargh!" Micky growled and fell to his knees. He reached to the ground and grabbed fistfuls of the gasoline contaminated soil. He hurled the dirt wildly at the deserted opening, first from his right hand, then from his left. Pebbles clinked off the weathered frame of the doorway. A cloud of dust floated in front of Micky's head. He could taste the gasoline. Micky bowed to the ground and, with arms extended, buried his face.

For five minutes, sobbing racked his body. It slowly subsided.

With his face still to the ground, Micky listened as the sirens told of the fire engines coming to save the main house, their shrill cry drowning out the cries of the survivors of the explosion. Rolling his head to the side, he looked back over the hundred yards separating him from what remained of his first home.

Smoldering boards and shreds of furniture intermingled among the dead and injured on the battlefield. Aunt Mo wailed over Uncle Pete's corpse, unaware of her own wounds. Blood covered her face and arms. A firefighter rushed over with a blanket and covered them both.

People ran frantically in all directions, a pack of children scrambling to find a hiding spot. Who were they, Micky wondered? They all looked like strangers.

Micky then recognized his cousin Jack who waved his arms like a traffic cop, directing the rescuers to those in need of rescuing, firefighters towards the house, injured and confused away from it. Jack was always a take-charge kind of guy, Micky thought. He had done quite well as an investment broker. It probably wasn't going to set him back too much to replace the tattered, charred, Gucci suit he now wore. The family often turned to him for advice or to bounce an idea off, not just about investments, but anything really. If Jack didn't react well, the idea was as good as dead.

Jack's wife Elaine was another story. Micky couldn't find her among the disorderly swarm. Micky did not look for very long. Some people you just know wouldn't make it through a thing like this.

Five fire hoses gushed arches of water onto the blaze, causing billows of black smoke to rise from the wreckage. At each hose were two firefighters in heavy coats and helmets. One sat on the ground and wrestled the line with both arms in order to direct the water stream. The second man leaned over the him, shouting and pointing to the most effective target.

A number of neighbors had by this time collected around the perimeter of the property along the street. Micky watched as each new spectator ran up to join the crowd. You would never know Mrs. Kostich from the next street over had hip replacement surgery last summer by the way she now scooted up to Ernie Ragsdale, the neighborhood "old timer". She practically fell into Ernie, pulling on the sleeve of his jacket with a look that said, "What the hell is happening?". Ernie grabbed back to prevent being knocked down to the ground. Once balanced, he answered with a shrug and said something that made Judith Kostich cover her mouth with her hand. "Why," Micky wondered, "do people cover their mouths when they're surprised?" He didn't know.

Mrs. Kostich glanced up to her "lucky stars," thanking them for her decision not to go to the Sorenson's double funeral after all. She had changed her mind back and forth a hundred times over it.

Two police cruisers just arriving added their noise to the cacophony. As they skidded to a stop they were beset by those in the crowd most willing to give their account of the situation. One officer stepped out of the passenger side of his vehicle, put on his hat, and slowly walked among the rest of those gathered. He seemed not to be listening to either Ernie or Mrs. Kostich who were both talking at him. He just looked towards the house with a slight sideways tilt to his head, as if he didn't quite understand what he was seeing.

A young man Micky didn't recognize was talking to another police officer who wrote hurriedly into his notepad. The young man pointed towards Micky. This caused the policeman to look up in the signaled direction. He shielded his eyes in a casual salute, stood in a silent stare for quite some time, and then turned back towards the fire.

Micky let out a breath. He sat back and crossed his legs in front of him. He too returned his attention to the fire. The flickering flames mesmerized. Micky followed the smoke as it gently climbed above the pyre and rode eastward on the waves of the breeze.

Micky dropped his head into both hands. "Good-bye, Mom and Dad," he spoke the silent words. "I'm sorry."

The cop with the notepad finished what he was writing. He flipped the cover of the pad, clipped his pen in his shirt pocket and walked slowly towards where Micky sat.

The young police officer shortened his stride as he neared where Micky sat, almost unwilling to break the grief­stricken reverie this surviving Sorenson was obviously enduring. A flicker of recognition crossed Micky's face as his eyes ran slowly skyward, the entire 6'3'' length of the man in tan.

"Timmy... Timmy Cosgrove?" the computer wizard wondered.

"Yeah, Mic, its me, " responded the handsome blond haired, blue eyed defender of justice. "Mind some company ?" he continued. Almost without thought, Micky slid slightly to his right, making enough room for the powerful man to take a seat on the ground beside him. Tim's eyes riveted on Micky as the dirty, exhausted young man spoke.

"The blast was meant for me Tim, they were after me." His soulful eyes searched the disaster scene as the words spilled out, hoping that somehow a verbalization of fact would lead to understanding. It did not. The boyhood friends sat in silence for many minutes before Tim stirred.

"Come on Micky, I want to show you something," he said as he fluidly moved to his feet. He extended a muscular arm to his beaten friend and easily pulled the smaller man to his feet.

As they drifted toward the car with the red­flashing lights, Tim removed his coat and placed it around the shivering shoulders beside him. No one took notice as the two men slipped into the County owned 4x4 and slowly drove off .

Beads of perspiration freely formed on Tim's forehead and upper lip as he searched for a way to tell his old playmate what tore at his guts. Tim began slowly, "What I am about to tell you has never gone beyond my own family. Partly because they didn't believe me; but mostly because they did. I was planning to call you anyway before this whole nightmare happened . After the plane crash, I knew we had to talk."

Micky felt like he had been sucker­punched. What little color he did have quickly left his soot streaked cheeks. Micky's eyes narrowed in disbelief as his mouth formed the question, "What do you mean 'after the plane crash' ?"

Tim eased the car onto the shoulder of the road and killed the engine before he continued.

"I was there with you on the tarmac Micky. I'm always there. I can see you but you never are able to see me. The visions are meant for you Mic, they never speak to me, but I know they acknowledge my presence."

Micky groped for the door handle and flung himself outside just as the frothy bile found it's way up his esophagus and out his screaming mouth. Feeling much like the dog he resembled, down on all fours coughing and heaving ; Micky struggled for composure. The chill night air filled his lungs as he began to regulate his slow deep breaths. He slid back into the front seat through the open door and adjusted himself . His right hand pulled the heavy door shut and he rested his weary body against it as he spoke,

"I want you to start at the beginning and tell me every last detail. Don't you dare leave out a thing."

In a single motion, Tim propped himself on one knee as he turned and reached into the back seat. His right hand lifted the lid on the Coleman while his left plunged into the ice and came out with two frosty Becks. Using the dashboard as an opener, he popped the caps and handed the beer to his grateful friend. After a long tug at the green neck, Tim began his tale. Both men became trance­like, drifting back some 16 odd years to the day that Tim lost his twin and Micky lost two friends:

"I knew something was wrong with me as soon as we woke up that Saturday. Kevin jumped from the top bunk , poking me with a playful toe as he flew by. I wanted to die. My head felt like Boston was resting on it and my throat could have used a fire­hose. I wanted to be healthy; our plans to explore the creek­bed on Donegan's farm offered such excitement. When Kevin left, the thermometer clocked me at 103 degrees .

Four hours later, I woke up to what I thought was a sweat soaked bed. I was shaking all over, my mind had concocted this horrific nightmare ­ or so I thought. It seemed so innocent at first; me, Matty and you had taken off our sneakers and socks, wading a few feet into the creek just to feel the mud in our toes as we poked deeper with sticks. Then Kevin began yelling from the woods that he found a 'UFO'. As he excitedly clamored into the water to get us, time seemed to stand still. The object of his attention flew behind him and unbelievably shifted shape. The gleaming silver transformed into a hulking, gargoyle faced entity. My feet mired deep into the mud;

I couldn't move.

The rest of you literally were clawing each other, frantically seeking the 'safety' of the shore. You made it first, stumbling and crying as you ran into the woods. Matty and Kevin were close behind; it didn't matter. The monster's movements were effortless. It was like he floated were he needed to go. Matt was the first to die. It wasn't bloody or messy to watch, the thing just engulfed him like a cloud and spit out the torn mangled mass of flesh that they found. Kevin was next. I could feel the exact instant it happened, it wasn't exactly how I had imagined death. Part of his soul is eternally bonded to mine, I know he will never be completely gone until I die too. The next thing I knew, I was lying in my bed , the deep gashes on my back soaking the sheets with a river of blood.

When my Dad came to tell me that Kevin and Matty were dead, I already knew."

Tim and Micky met each others gaze; anger, fear and sadness each represented with equal measure in both men's eyes. Tim slowly returned to the drivers position and revved the engine.

"I'll tell you the rest when we get there, " he said. Micky finished his first beer as Tim clicked the left directional and stepped on the gas. His second was almost done when Tim turned the Blazer onto the dirt drive that led toward Donegan's farm.

Donegan's farm had been deserted for almost twenty years now. Mr Donegan, his wife, and their 5 children were all dead. They were killed during a hurricane which had hit the region with little to no warning. The main house had collapsed under winds which people claim hit 160 m.p.h. Mrs. Donegan and two of the children were smothered under the heavy timbers. Mr. Donegan and his two eldest sons were reported to be electrocuted. It was believed that they came in contact with the downed power lines while trying to free their trapped family. As far as the youngest Donegan was concerned, little Jeffrey, he was never found. Only 5 years old at the time he would never have been a match for the viscous blasts of wind and was presumed dead when his body could not be found. Legal issues with the estate had left the farm in a state of limbo ever since, not allowing the property to be bought or sold. Rather, it remained as it did twenty years ago; a somber memorial to a family brushed from the earth by nature's blind anger.

It was about 2 AM when Mickey and Tim pulled up to the dirt road which lead down to the forgotten farm house. There were no street lights but the brightness from the full moon gave everything a silvery glow. The two man sat there, the car roughly idling, when finally Tim turned Mickey. His face attempting to hide something that was obviously painful he slowly began.

"Why don't you....", the officer stopped as he searched for the correct words. "Mic......", he started again but this time in a quieter somber voice, "why don't you try and do something?"

Mickey didn't look at Tim. He stared straight out into the dark quiet night. Tim's question didn't surprise him. His conscience had been echoing this same question ever since his first vision. He had told himself that he didn't want to be labeled a freak for the rest of his life and be chased by every tabloid writer in the country, but deep down he knew that was crap.

"What can I do Tim?!", Mickey said as he whipped his head back at Tim managing to spill some of his beer into his lap in the process. His words were defensive, "I don't control these fucken' dreams Tim, they control me. I don't ask for them, I don't want them, and I don't want a lecture on what I should do about them!"

Tim was taken aback by this, he leaned back against the drivers door while maintaining eye contact with Mickey. "Hey, easy pal. I'm not saying what you should or should not have done. I just want to understand things better." Then Tim seemed to fall into the same blank stare Mic had been in only moments before. "The visions are more than dreams to me", the huge man's voice was monotone as he spoke. "I don't just see things....I feel them too. It's, it's like I'm really there or something. I feel the pain that these people are going to feel and there isn't a thing I can do about it."

Mickey felt like shit now for snapping on Tim now. He could see that Tim's conscience ate away at him just like his own. "What do you mean, you can feel their pain?"

"I mean just that," Tim said. "I don't know who these people are, where they are, what they had for breakfast, but when it happens.........", Tim's words trailed off into a mumble as he thought back to the countless times he had experienced the horrific feelings. Why don't you do something, Tim? Tim's head snapped back to the present. "At first I didn't even understand why you were always in the visions. I just thought you were some kind of psychological dribble from my past haunting me from when Kevin was killed." Tim now leaned slightly towards Mickey. "But the last one, out on the tarmac, things were different. I saw those people beg you for their lives! I saw them plead with you to do something, but you just sat there."

Micky's jaw and shoulders dropped as he listened to Tim's words. He thought back to the dream. He remembered the pilot leaning out of cockpit while the passengers pressed their faces against the windows. He remembered how they pleaded with him to help him.

"The man sleeping in the back", Micky struggled now to concentrate and remember him. "He just sat there......sleeping". Micky's hands started to tremble as he could barely get enough air in his lungs to get the words out, "Oh my God Tim, you were on that plane."

Grey walls.

Ceiling, floor: all grey. Dust would rise for an instant, as if a pixie silently sneezed beneath the dust, giving itself away. The grey was somber today. Brooding? That was a new word. Boy thought it meant to be sad, but not enough to strike out at him. Boy shifted his gaze across the cavern. The grey did not change across the large distance. There was no shadow. The light was uniform throughout, yet there was no distinct source. It surrounded him, in every crack and corner of the square mile of cave. The grey silent cavernous solitude filled his mind, since there was nothing else to fill it.

These thoughts did not come to Boy. Perhaps in the far back, when it all began, but not now. It was all the same, no sound but his own breathing, and muted voice. He could be screaming when he muttered the nonsensical words that made up his vocabulary, yet it would not seem to be so to him. There was absolute silence in his world, with nothing to compare the sound of his voice to. In the far back, he had thought the deafness was real, that the monster had stolen his ears and tossed it into the wind like it tossed the Others. A long time after, he would unconsciously touch the side of his head, feel the curved comfort of the lobes and canal, and most of all hear the soft scratching of his dusty hands against the skin. Boy was not deaf. His world was mute.

Brooding. He liked that word. He did not remember many things about his Places, whenever he went to them. Sometimes a thing, a Pencil he remembered distinctly, even what it was called (the old man whispered it to him just before the fire came). Most of the time, it was a word. He would see Others like from the far back, and hear, actually hear, the words they said. They usually yelled them, and to Boy's ears accustomed to no sounds, these loud expressions hurt him. Sounds would slam into his head like hot fingers. Yet, when he opened his eyes and the Place would disappear, so would the pain. And most of the memories. Just a word or two left over for him to think about in the grey light.

Boy thought about his Collection (that was one of them) of words: Fire, Couch, Cake, Pencil, Pool, Gun, Rain, Collection, Wind, Scream, Fingernail (his favorite), Plane, Rope. The latter two were his newest. He thinks Plane was only part of a word, but it sounded nice. It used to be a long time between his visits of each Place. Fire Couch had been near the far back. Cake Pencil Pool was near the time his feet got big. Gun Rain came after his thing grew hair like on top. Always a long time. But no more. He had gone to three Places in close time. These Places he couldn't remember, except for his words.

Slowly rising from the dust, Boy stretched his arms. The grey, rocky ceiling hovered 40 feet above him, bathed completely in the grey light. "Rope!" Boy's shout, if it could be heard by any living thing, would have sounded like "Ah!", since Boy's tongue was reduced to a small, narrow strip of flesh used for manipulating food. The human body had a way of shutting down unnecessary functions over time.

The greyness shimmered before him. Boy felt the Bad Wind inside his belly. He turned quickly, and fell to the dust. The monster face shimmered brightly in the center of the cavern. All around it, the grey faded to black. As he had done every visit, the young man screamed. His body twisted in terror. What he saw did not belong in his universe, even with the thousands of repetitions of the same event. The thing's mouth gaped open and a light emerged. It was small, bright and perfectly symmetrical. It's complete roundness was never apparent because of the intensity of the light. As he had done the two thousand four hundred and seventy times before, Boy buried his face in his hands before this light emerged. He never saw the rainbow of colors dance across the cavern's dusty walls.

It was over again. As always, the terror left as quickly as it had arrived. In its place was food. 'Food' was not one of the words in Boy's collections, though he had his own concept of it. As did his body, for at the sight of the full Pineapple, the two apples, half loaf of steaming bread, and carafe of cool water, his mouth filled with saliva. His thin strip of tongue ran across his lips. He rose from the dust, ran to the center and inspected the pineapple. The terror was gone, and as quickly forgotten. The food scraps from the previous visit disappeared with the monster, as did his feces. Everything was left as it was, except for the new food. Each time, Boy would wish to keep these gifts as complete as when they arrived, to treat them like the long-awaited visitors he knew them to be. But each time hunger defeated his plans. Boy did not understand, not care that he was given his food once every three days. It came when the terror came, and left the following visit.

Boy ate. He was used to the routine. It had not changed since the far back. Everything, like the grey around him, was unchanged since his arrival, and would remain so for the rest of his life. The only exception would arrive during the last half hour of his life.

Boy could not know this. The continuity and sameness were expected. He could not know, nor probably care, that this would all be over and he would be dead in less than four hours.

The Chevy Blazer ambled down the grassy path, toward the farm where Jeffrey Donegan had begun his silent new life as Boy twenty years earlier. The lights atop the reinforced cab were dark, reflecting only the pale grey moon blinking through the smoke in the distance.

"I swear it, Micky, I never saw that."

Micky twisted in the seat, his gut turning with the memory of the dream and the actuality of his parent's death. "You had to. I was in the back seat, and they were driving along the road with the cliff - "

"No." Tim's voice echoed only slight impatience. "The last time I saw you in my... our dream, was with the friggen' plane. We never had any car crash dream. Maybe it was just that you were tuned in, or something, and had an actual premonition about it."

Micky was visibly taken aback. "'Actual premonition'? What the hell does that mean? What would you call the plane crash? Or that women in New York, or - "

"I know it seems like this whole thing is ESP or something... and, well, maybe it is. But I swear if that kind of thing is natural, what we got is completely un-natural. It all came from that god-damned thing out there. That thing, by that way, which is trying to do you in."

"What are you talking about?"

Tim let out a deep sigh as he rolled to a stop beside the shattered remnants of the Donegan's foundation. He extinguished the lights, turned off the ignition and had the door open in a fluid single motion second nature to most patrolmen. "I think they're going to have to recharge a bit after that last try, so we've got a little time. Otherwise, I'd recommend you put a hundred miles or so between you and ground zero, " he nodded into the blackness of the woods, "out there. Not that it matters, I suppose."

He added that last remark almost nonchalantly. Micky didn't take it the same way, as he reached back into the open window to grab the large flashlight hanging behind his seat.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Tim pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, the flame lighting his face and temporarily blinding him. "It means, my friend, that whoever 'they' are, they're suddenly very mobile. Used to be I think, they couldn't get to you 'cause you moved east." He took a long drag, the embers glowing in the dark. "From what you've told me, they grabbed you and brought you here. Actually, I think 'they' might have contracted out on that one."

"Come again?" The duo had begun moving toward the edge of the woods, a long halogen flashlight beam cutting the darkness before them.

"Nothing, forget it. The thing is, why now?"

Micky didn't reply right away. Things had changed recently. The dreams came more frequently. He thought it was the stress of work bringing out these 'spells' as he called them. But now, walking toward the unknown in Donegan's woods with a man he hadn't spoken to since his childhood, Micky had a strong sense of something... big.

"Something Bigedness.... " he mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing. Let's just get this over with and get the fuck out of here."

Tim and Micky stepped down the path silently, each trying to clarify his own thoughts.

"Shit," Tim said with a smack to his head, "I almost forgot the box."

He turned around abruptly and headed in a jog back to the truck.

"I can't believe he brought up that woman in New York," Tim thought to himself as he came around to the driver's side door. Tim was all but convinced that the horrible dream was just that-- a dream and not one of these shared premonitions. It was too dreadful to believe otherwise.

Tim felt things spinning. "My turn to be sick."

It was agony for Tim to watch that woman be so brutally murdered. He had struggled to help this time, unlike the plane crash. It didn't do any good. He was powerless to prevent...

Judy Williams slammed through the backstage exit, into the alleyway behind The Hart Street Theater Company . Her heart dropped as it always did that no crowd of fans was waiting to get an autograph. Why she continued to hope it'll happen, she didn't know.

She really was good tonight, though. Her portrayal of Lady Macduff in Shakespeare's Macbeth was flawless. Perhaps she might get some mention in the reviews.

Judy stood for a moment on the stairway down to the alley. She raised both hands to examine her fake fingernails. They were six inches long with sharp, tapered ends. The black paint with gold and silver glitter sparkled like the stars in the sky. She would wear these through the day tomorrow so as not to have to reapply them before the evening's performance. The other waitresses at the diner tomorrow would surely give her hell for having them on, as they always did when Judy insisted on staying 'in costume' in some form or other. True, she wouldn't be much help to the girls with these claws on.

With a wave she bid farewell to her invisible fans and hurried off. She wanted to get home in time to spend a few minutes with Bob this evening. He was leaving early for Laguardia. Was he going to Boston? She thought so. They hadn't spent much time together lately with Judy in the play and working the diner. Bob had been off and about a bit more than usual as well, though doing what, Judy didn't know and didn't really care to know.

As Judy turned left onto 48th street, she looked up at the black sky. Only the moon shone brightly. Where are all the stars, she wondered? Back in Ottumwa Junction there'd be a blanket covering her. Odd, she didn't usually think back to Iowa fondly. If she were there right now, she'd probably be screaming "Get me out of here!"

The thoughts of home made Judy wonder when it would finally be her time. Judy was destined for greatness, she was certain. Her aunts told her that from the time she was a child. "Something big, Judith," they would say. The people of Ottumwa thought Judy's aunts were witches. She was inclined to agree, which is why she believed in their predictions with all her heart.

Judy grew up in a constant battle with her playmates over who was the 'Queen.' Of course it was important to Judy that she practice for when she really became Queen. Judy didn't skip a beat when she found out the bad news that her country doesn't actually have a Royal Family. "Well, Queen or President or whatever. It doesn't matter, as long as I'm in charge."

When she was 18 she announced her engagement to Henry Ross. Her aunts were not at all pleased and made quite and effort to discourage her away from the marriage. "He won't give you your destiny," they told her.

They were right about that, Judy thought. It's been 20 years since she left with Bob Williams. She occasionally thought about Henry and though she tried to make herself feel guilty about leaving him so abruptly, she couldn't. Henry wasn't going to give her what she wanted. He was so tame, so unambitious, really. Judy should have never married him. Henry was a loser from the get go.

Henry had since remarried. He called her a few years back about the divorce. Forget the guilt, then. She and Bob married after that, though neither felt too compelled to do it.

Just the other day, though, Francine Lennox from back home called on some pretense. What she actually wanted to do was tell Judy that Henry's new wife, Barbara, had cancer. She wasn't going to last another year. Henry's business was bad and they didn't have insurance. He'd go bankrupt for sure over this illness. Judy had been doing a lot of thinking about Henry since then.

Henry was Judy's high school sweetheart. But it Bob who had always provided the passion in her life. All through the years with Henry, Judy would escape with Bob for an overnight adventure to Des Moines a couple of times a year. They'd go out for dinner, dance and drink until the early hours and then spend the hours until dawn trying to have six months' worth of sex. This started when she and Henry were engaged, and continued right up to the time that they ran off for New York. Henry was clueless. To this day, he didn't know about the long affair she and Bob were having.

It was a fourth of July weekend when she and Bob arranged for another overnight getaway. Bob was very excited at this particular rendezvous. He said he was onto something big. "Dump that loser, Henry. He'll never give you what I can give you. Together, we'll do it all. I'm onto something, sweetie. Something really big." He talked on for hours. Flashes of her destiny appeared in Judy's mind's eye, though the images were vague.

So they left within the week. She packed her bags and on a hot Saturday morning, marched out to her husband in the yard and said "Good-bye, Henry. Bob Williams and I are going east." Henry couldn't comprehend.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Where are you going?"

"Bob's got something to do in New York City. He's asked me to go with him and I said yes."

Rather than speaking, Henry cocked his head to one side, like a dog would do when it was confused.

"It's hard to explain, Henry, so I'm not going to try. I just know that I'm not going to get what I need here in the middle of nowhere. I need a place with more action. It's not going to happen here."

"What's not going to happen? When will you be back?"

"I won't be back." She knew she meant it.

Things were good at first in NY. They were partying it up. Dancing and drinking at Sal's, just off Central Park. Bob was working at produce packing plant. Judy took a job at Joe and Marion's Diner on 39th street. It was just temporary until she figured out something more appropriate to her.

Passing by The Shakespeare Players company one day, she noticed a sign announcing auditions for The Taming of the Shrew. She knew nothing of Shakespeare, but felt confident that playing a shrew was something she could pull off. Judy captured a part in the Ensemble.

This first experience in acting affected her very much. She really enjoyed herself and found role playing to be a great release. It had been a long time since she played the "queen" with her schoolmates. And anyway, she should stay warmed up for when her time of greatness came.

Now, many years later, as she entered her big brick apartment building, a towering fortress much too large for this neighborhood of three-deckers, she was still thinking about her decision to come to New York. She devastated Henry over it and now she was doubting Bob's ability to make good on his promise of 20 years ago-- to give her everything she needed and wanted. She needed greatness, in what form she didn't know. She required wealth and fame but in what form she couldn't describe. Judy thought that she might have to take matters into her own hands. Stupid, weak men. Why must her power come through a man?

She walked up the three flights. The stairway appeared clean enough. Everything was coated with a fresh coat of green paint, perhaps a dozen coats thick by now. Still, it failed to cover the lingering smell of cat urine that permeated the stairway as it had for as long as she and Bob had lived here.

Judy considered Bob's behavior of late. He seemed so excited, maybe even nervous, about his trip to Boston. It reminded Judy of the excitement that built up that night when they made their plans to come east. She'd give him this last chance, she figured. Whatever cards he had up his sleeves, she'd let him play out in Boston. Then they'd either ride the success together or she'd be forced to cast him off and continue to her destiny without him.

Judy reached the third floor landing and started down the hallway. Their apartment was the last one on the right. As she walked by each door she listened for any sign of how each neighbor was doing. She and Bob didn't socialize, but they still took a distant interest in their hall mates.

Head down and fishing through her purse delicately with her long talons, Judy came upon the door to her apartment at number 306. As she fit the key in the deadbolt and released the lock, she felt the sharp blade press under her jaw. She dropped her hands from the door, leaving the key ring dangling from the lock.

"Quiet now, Mrs. Williams," said a man behind her right ear. Stale smoke breath tickled her nose.

"Easy does it, lady," said another voice further back.

Judy's heart pounded. "What should I do?" she questioned. "Here, take my purse and go. Leave me." She offered her purse behind her without turning.

"Let her go! And let me go!" argued yet another. He was obviously being restrained. How many people were behind her and where did they come from?

"Let's all go inside," said the man with the knife to her throat. "We'd like a word with you and your husband. Duncan, take Mrs. Williams' purse and go in first. See if our buddy Bob is home." He grabbed her hair and pulled her back to make room for Duncan.

"Sure, Dominic. I just might have to introduce myself to good 'ol Bob all over again. He probably doesn't remember me from last time." Duncan held a gun up by his head as he gently turned the doorknob.

Judy tried to choke back a cry. She wanted to scream to Bob to get out of there. He will certainly be home.

"Quiet." Dominic pulled her hair and pressed the knife harder into her neck.

Duncan disappeared into the apartment. Judy and Dominic followed in soon after. Without moving her head, Judy scanned the apartment as they entered. The reading lamp by the recliner was on, giving minimal lighting to the living room. The window behind was open. The curtain blew gently in with the evening breeze. He didn't go out that way, Judy knew. It was three floors down to the alleyway. The fire escape was out the bedroom window, not this one.

Duncan came out of the kitchen and moved to the bathroom. Not finding anyone there he stepped towards the bedroom. Judy held her breath.

Duncan reappeared. "Nobody home."

"Damn," Dominic swore. "We saw him come in. Look again."

Judy let out her breath. "Son of a bitch, he actually took off," Judy was surprised. She scanned the apartment again for any sign of him. As they walked further in she could see through to the bedroom. That window was open too! He did get out! They never leave that window open, not with the fire escape making it so accessible to burglars.

She and Dominic had moved over to the recliner by this time. As she turned she was surprised to see how many people had come in with them. Two nondescript men held a third man by each arm. He appeared to be in a uniform of some sort. Brown pants and a light brown shirt. Was he a cop? Judy's alarm was enormous.

And what was that other guy doing? He was silent and looked on vaguely. It was as if he wasn't part of this scene, just an extra who wandered onto the set.

Dominic had released Judy and now walked into the middle of the group. He was clearly angry.

"Well, we're going to have to leave Mr. Bob a calling card," said Dominic to the others. "He needs to know how serious this shit is. Let's see. Perhaps we could carve a message somewhere with this knife." He looked Judy up and down slowly, lingering on her breasts for an extra few seconds.

Judy's panic rose. Stay calm, she told herself. They're just trying to scare me into telling them where Bob is.

Dominic walked deliberately towards Judy, wiggling the ivory handle of his knife between his thumb and forefinger, the blade flashing back and forth. He drew to within two feet of her.

Judy summoned her bravery. What would Lady Macbeth do in this situation? Spit in his face, was her apparent answer, since that is exactly what she did.

"You bitch!" Dominic swiped the blade across Judy's face in a backhand motion, but scarcely made contact. Just a flicker of blood appeared on her cheek.

The glimmer in Judy's eyes told Dominic that she thought he was an idiot. Enraged, Dominic tried a swipe in the other direction. Judy lifted her hands instinctively to protect her face. Her palms took the force of the cut.

Judy turned her hands face up and watched as they filled with pools of her crimson fluid. She looked up horrified at the group staring at her.

"Get her again," chimed in Duncan.

The cop was struggling violently. The two restraining him barely kept him contained. "Don't!" he yelled.

Judy screamed. She was so filled with terror and confusion. Yet her anger boiled to the top.

"You will not!" She lunged at Dominic desperately, grabbing him by the shirt. He was instantly covered in blood. She swiped at his face with her claws. A few of the fake fingernails popped off as a result. Parallel stripes of blood appeared on both of Dominic's cheeks. One fingernail stuck out of his face, hanging by the tip.

With him momentarily stunned she attacked again. She punched him in the face and slammed a knee to his groin, toppling him onto a heap on the floor.

Desperately, Judy dashed for the door, but Duncan moved quickly to block her. He threw her back a few feet and drew his gun.

"My turn to show this bitch who's boss." He took aim. A smirk crossed his face.

Judy backed up. "Get away! Don't come near me!"

Dominic was behind her again. "Time to die." She saw the knife out the corner of her right eye. 'He's going to slit my throat,' she knows.

Judy faked to the left, then rolled to her right, around the surprised Dominic. She headed full steam towards the open window.

Dominic, Duncan, the cop and the silent man froze as they listened to her final scream and thud to the street below.

Chapter 4.

Tim finished the "New York" revelry at about the same time he reached the 4x4. He swung open the rear driver­side door and scooped the small package off the back seat. He turned and hastened his trot back up the steep wooded path, suddenly fearful of leaving his friend alone for too long.

Looking ahead to the top of the rise, Tim could see Micky, his dark silhouette almost magically back­lighted by the full moon. He knew at that moment that this was the beginning of the end.

Micky stood motionless, hands in the pockets of the borrowed jacket, his eyes following Tim's jogging form down the serpentine path. He couldn't help but think how quickly his life had changed within a week. Surely this rush of events was leading up to some profound culmination. His instincts told him that somehow Tim held the key which would unlock this mysterious and deadly adventure which had begun so long ago.

The subjects of his visions, although they did not experience the events exactly as he perceived them, always perished. The vague feeling of familiarity with someone or something in each one haunted him. Micky's mind flashed through the 8 or 9 encrypted scenarios of the past years.

Every single one ended in disaster and death; even his own flesh and blood could not escape the deadly dreams. This last time was different from the others though, even Tim said he was not 'there'.

The sudden realization of fact was so powerful that it literally knocked Micky off his feet. Of course... 'they' had orchestrated it solely for his benefit. The death of his immediate family was the force that brought him back to this town, this place.

"Oh my God," he whispered, "They've got me right where they want me."

Tim walked the few remaining paces up the steep path. The brisk climate condensed the air flowing from his mouth; every breath betraying the fact that he sprinted up the last knoll. As he approached the smaller man now seated on a tree stump, it was difficult for him to tell if the ashen appearance on Micky's face was an external reflection of the silvery moon or some sickening internal force. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

"Timmy.... they set us up. Every recent message they transmitted has been with one purpose only...to get us here," Micky's voice quivered as he spoke.

The stalwart cop arched his back and drew in a deep breath. "It doesn't matter what they do now Mic., you and I are combining forces and there isn't a damn thing, short of killing us, that they can do about it," Tim stated matter of factually. "Now is the time for our action; I refuse to let those bastards, who or whatever they are, ruin our lives without a fight," the soft words belied the power behind them.

Micky knew that he was right. He seemed to gain a faction of energy from his friend as he stood and pointed to the wrapped box. "Open it!" he demanded.

"There are many more where this came from," Tim explained as he unwrapped the newspaper. The box inside was rectangular in shape, fitting perfectly in the palm of the larger man's hand.

At first, Micky thought the sun had come up ­ the object inside the box shone with such unearthly brilliance once Tim lifted the cover . Micky's eyes found Tim's as he nodded approval for Micky to inspect the item. He was amazed at the weight of the slender cylinder as he gently lifted it between his thumb and index finger. Dropping it into the palm of his left hand, he inspected it closely. The six sided glittery spindle resembled a freshly sharpened number two pencil.

"I hate to ask the obvious, but what the hell is this thing?" A slight grin remained on Mic's face as he waited for the response.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Tim responded. "Remember, I told you it wouldn't make much sense until I could show you the rest? Come on, follow me," Tim said as he turned and continued into the woods on the moonlight path.

As they hastily made their way the last mile or so along the path, Micky could not mistake the eerie silence. He hinted to Tim, "Have you noticed that the only sound around here is our footfalls on the loose twigs? This place should be buzzing with crickets, mosquitoes, and at least an animal or two."

Tim agreed, "Yeah! Where the hell is everything...?"

The clearing was actually a cow pasture, now overgrown with disuse. Micky remembered the battle the Donegans had with the Williams' over who actually owned the property. The small war ended abruptly when Sy Williams' wife died and he moved to Iowa with his young son Robert.

Micky and Tim stood side by side, eyes riveted downward as Tim's heavy police boot scraped away at the debris which covered the object of their investigation. A square aluminum top, resembling the pull tab from a pet food container was soon visible. Tim hunkered down close and began blowing the remaining dirt away from the tab. He gently peeled it back while Micky moved in for a closer look.

`At first Micky thought he was looking at the top of a nine volt battery; the four edges of the square slightly rounded with what appeared to be positive and negative attachment points. Tim slid the brilliant object into a small hole diagonally left of the 'negative ' post.

"This is where the kids found it," he began. "A group of fifth and sixth graders were up here fooling around with firecrackers when one of their explosions uncovered this." Unfastening the large flashlight from his belt, Tim drew an arc of light a quarter of the way around the clearing.

"This place is full of them, I found at least a dozen; I'm sure there are even more, " he told Micky. Eyes following the luminous swath, Micky involuntarily trembled as scenes from childhood dreams flooded his brain. Yes, he thought, this is the place...

Bob Williams pulled the rented Taurus away from the toll booth and headed North on Rt. 87. He figured he could reach Albany by nightfall if the goddamn cops let him drive the way he liked too. As his right foot pushed the accelerator down hard, his eyes glanced to the headlines printed on the newspaper beside him.

BLAST KILLS FIVE it began, the reporter went on to tell of the horrible tragedy which had befallen this already distraught family.

Sweat poured from his brow as he sped along; his face showing a combination of resolve and fear. He had to go back; Judy's murder was the first indicator, and now this....

This was definitely the place. But the Whys. There were so many Whys. Why was he having visions of the future? Why did Tim share these dreams? Why didn't he remember the vision of his parents' death? Why did they have to die?! Why did his whole family have to die?!!!

Micky put most of his grieving thoughts aside as he posed the following to Tim.

"One thing I don't understand is that, if THEY are powerful enough to get inside my head and manipulate my dreams, why not kill me with a brain hemorrhage or something? Why bring me back to this place?"

Tim shrugged while continuing to uncover the remaining battery-like casings. He agreed that was a pretty good question. He also knew that the answer was somehow tied into this collection of plates on the ground. All of the plates had a slot for one of those "pencils". Were these radiant cylinders power cells to some sort of alien technology? At this point, Tim was ready to believe anything.

Micky walked tentatively toward the middle of the clearing. Fear and apprehension made his head feel heavy and his legs weak. Or was it the increasing pounding in his ears he was now receiving? The rhythmic beat grew louder and louder, bringing Micky to his knees.

Tim rushed to his side but could nothing as a wincing Micky was oblivious to his presence. Now writhing on the ground, Micky's eyes began to glass over as he fell, mercifully, into a state of trance-like unconsciousness.

"Tim, what the hell happened?"

Micky spoke to his friend but got no response. Tim just kept walking toward the middle of the clearing. "Wait a minute. Wasn't I just there?", the computer whiz thought to himself. "What the hell is going on??!"

Tim bent down to examine one of the plates when a strange whirring sound filled the once-quiet air. The policeman spun quickly to see the familiar gleaming silver shape come up from behind the wrecked farmhouse. Terror etched across his face, Tim tried to run as the now gargoyle-like creature descended upon him. In mid-stride, his leg was ensnared by one of the powerful glowing tentacles and dragged slowly into the waiting jaws of the beast. Muffled screams of agony were quickly replaced with a bloodied carcass laid strewn across the field.

Micky screamed himself back into consciousness and now stared wide-eyed at his apparently undead friend.

"HOLY SHIT!!" Micky was still sweating as he tried to sort out the latest vision.

"You better get the hell outta here!!!!", he screamed. "I just saw what'll happen to you if you stay here!!.....Quick, before its too late!!!!!!!.......GO ON!!!!!.......GOOOOOOO!!!!!!!"

Micky shoved his friend away from the clearing.

Very confused, but unwilling to take any chances, Tim headed back toward the Blazer. He was not foolish enough to take Micky's visions lightly and, from his friend's terrified expressions, was not looking forward to playing this vision out.

But the whirring sound had begun. The silvery light could now be seen behind the barn. Tim was halfway down the path by the time the creature made its pursuit. "I'll never make it to Blazer in time." Tim calculated as his panic grew. "I have to find a place to hide!" Cutting left off the path, he sped toward the nearby woods. He could sense the creature behind him now, an all-to-real specter from his past that would soon do to him what it did to his brother long ago. Out of the corners of his straining eyes, Tim could see the tentacles begin to surround him and knew his gruesome death was at hand. Soon he could not feel the ground beneath him and his world faded into darkness.

Micky remained frozen in the clearing. His friend was dead and all that remained was to wait for the creature to return for him.

"Why didn't they just kill me before?", he kept muttering to himself. "Why bring me back here?"

The creature emerged from the woods and floated effortlessly toward Micky. By now, the man's fear had turned to an almost maniacal rage as he lashed out at his enemy.

"COME ON!!! GET IT OVER WITH!!!!! YOU WANT ME, YOU SON OF A BITCH, THAN COME AND GET ME!!!!!!!!"

Micky trembled with this rage and terror so hard he thought he would pass out again. The menacing creature closed in, its tentacles flexing in anticipation. Micky closed his eyes and prayed what he knew would be his last prayer. It's at times like these when a man wishes he spent more time at church and less time in front of the television.

"God, be merciful."

Within a few yards from the clearing, the monster opened its immense jaws and a magnificent beam of light shone forth. The brilliantly intense ray struck, not Micky, but one of the plates on the ground beside him. Micky opened his eyes to see a glorious prism of light surround him. His skin began to tingle, as if all parts of his body were falling asleep at once. As the light grew brighter, the farm in front of him seem to fade away. What replaced it was the inside of a .... Micky tried to grasp for word, any word to describe what he was seeing. He had watched a lot of science fiction over the years, but nothing prepared him for this. Grey walls, lit with brilliantly colored panels, seemed to stretch toward the heavens. The ground under his feet was neither hard nor soft and... he took a few steps...seemed to undulate, no, almost breathe, as he moved. Nowhere around him could he see a door, window or entrance of any kind.

"WELCOME, MICKY SORENSON."

The voice, booming yet gentle, seemed to come from all directions.

"WE HAVE BEEN EXPECTING YOU."

"Damn my leg's sore." The policeman slowly rose and dusted himself off. "Am I dead?", he asked half aloud. His uniform, as well as the pain in his leg, made him think otherwise. Tim squinted to evaluate his surroundings. The cavern he was in was bathed in an eerie grey light. Looking up, Tim could barely make out the night sky.

"Must have fallen about 25 feet", he estimated.

The officer's flashlight had fallen nearby so he picked it up and scanned the walls about him. Off to his right was a tunnel, about 8 feet high and 10 feet wide. Left with no other options, Tim headed, gingerly on his right leg (no break, thank God) toward its entrance. "I wonder how long these tunnels have been down here?"

While walking for what seemed hours, Tim contemplated the most recent events, grieved over the loss of his certainly-dead friend and tried to keep hope alive for a way out. Hope was beginning to fade, however, as every turn seemed to lead to a dead end. His was starting to think that his previous fate may, in fact, be the more preferable. Finally, Tim decided to stop. He was hungry and fatigued and his leg still throbbed like hell. He leaned against the cold, grey wall and prayed himself to sleep.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh..... Ahhhhhhhhhh....rrrrrrggghhh......aaa......."

Tim thought he was dreaming. The sound was faint and yet seemed to be right beside him. He got up quickly and walked a few steps in the direction he came from but the noise seemed now further away. Coming back to the dead end, Tim pressed his ear to the wall.

"The noise is coming from the other side of this wall!!!!" Tim's excitement grew as he took out his nightstick and hammered away at the stone (at least he thought it was stone). After several minutes, a small piece of the wall gave way. Tim shone the light through the opening, which evoked a scream from the other side.

"Ahhhhhhh.....!!!", said Boy.

"Easy!!!.....That's it.......watch your angle for Christ's sake!", the head of the excavation crew, Mr. Henessey, was screaming at his 20 man crew as they carefully repositioned the giant crane. They had been working in the harsh conditions of the arctic ice flows for 9 days and only now were within minutes of completing their contract. He did not want any screw­ups to ruin his chances of getting back home as soon as possible.

"How are things looking Mr. Henessey?", a meek voice called out. The foreman turned around to see the short round ball of heavy winter survival gear that was distracting him from his job. "It is critical that you follow the schedule I've outlined to the letter or the data retrieved may be compromised."

The foreman could barely make out the little scientist's words as the increasing icy polar winds grabbed them and whisked them away. The foreman took a step towards the clothes pile. He stood over a foot higher than the little man and was getting tired of constantly giving status reports to him.

"We're making progress, Professor Ogozaly, but I can't guarantee any times. That thing weighs about 16 tons and I don't think you want me to drop it, do you?"

"Well uh, no", replied Prof. Ogozaly as he almost fell over trying to look up into the foggy mask of Mr. Henessey. "I will notify the organization of our current progress. I'm sure I don't have to remind you of the importance of this retrieval, sir. This could be the biggest discovery since sailors first discovered the world was not flat!" Again the words were for swept away by the winds. "Do you understand Mr. .......", his words were cut short by the deafening sound of cracking ice. Both men turned to see the large cables of the crane straining as it pulled the object from it's frozen resting place. Mr. Henessey looked on as for a moment it appeared the crane would lose the tug­o­war and he would be forced to start all over again with new tactics. But today machine would win out over nature and the crane broke away the surrounding ice with a sudden crack.

The little scientist waddled his way close to the excavation hole and smiled as he saw the top of the meteor emerge.

The small colored panels on the walls changed colors in unison; Blue, white, green, red, orange......stop on gray....repeat. Micky tried to spin around and find the source of the voice or voices. He could not move. Not paralyzed, Micky could tell that all his senses were active, but he was unable to act on them. He also knew he should be scared to death but, for whatever reason, it felt like something was stopping him from panicking.

"Yes", began Micky in a calm steady voice. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to say. His thoughts were his own but he was not able to control them. They came to him freely and he simply acted on them, as if he were an actor reading the teleprompter. "Why have you summoned me back? This is not the correct time." Time, what the hell am I saying said Micky deep in his consciousness.

"All is not correct", the hidden voice from the walls started. "The synergetic bond is beginning to deteriorate. Micky Sorenson, do you understand?"For the first time Micky started to panic! He did not understand completely but fuzzy images were beginning to return, although still mostly gray. Yet what he did know was the thoughts passing by him, the ones he believed to be his own, were to some degree foreign from his own. "No", Micky tried to say. He was not able to say the words. His thoughts seemed to be detached from his physical body functions. It felt like being in a dream where you want to run from the evil monster chasing you but you can't get your legs to move.

"It is controllable", the foreign thoughts were again speaking for him. "It does not understand but instead is merely sensing. This is not an issue and did not require it to be brought back." The thoughts seemed to be looking deep inside him as they passed through his synoptic pathways. It was as if someone were walking close outside his home looking in the windows trying to see if he was home.

"It was not recalled", the voice(s) answered, "but rather returned on its own. This one is different from the others." The voice seemed louder this time as if trying to yell, but Micky could not sense any anger in the words he heard. "Micky Sorenson", the voice repeated, "do you understand?"

Micky felt like he was beginning to wake from a deep sleep. The panels on the wall began to flicker faster and faster. Micky could not focus on them. But one area in his vision was calm, there were no colors flashing there, just soft gray light. Micky tried to make himself move his feet and get closer. Even though he could feel them and sense them, they would not follow orders.

"Micky Sorenson, do you understand?", the voice repeated identically as it had before.

Micky stared into the soft light as best he could trying to focus. In the gray light Micky began to detect shapes. "Something.....something....tall...lot's of them." He kept his sight locked on the objects as he was starting to discern them from there surroundings. They looked like telephone booths, all connected up together with phone wire. Why the hell are there telephone booths here Micky thought. He concentrated as hard as he could now on the telephone booths. He had seen these before. Each moment brought them clearer and clearer. "No, not telephone booths", Micky said to himself in a vacant voice as he began to make out shapes inside each of the containers. Micky could feel heat burning through his temples as forgotten memories began to bore their way back into his mind. Every sense that was his own was filling with horror as he stared at the hundreds of thousands of containers.... each with a beast, bird, fish,.... or human stored in it. They all floated motionless and appeared devoid of life........

Micky now looked blankly ahead. His face emotionless and eyes fogged over as if in some kind of shock. "Yes", he said as his own words were somberly flowed through his mouth, "I understand."

"Aaaaagghhhhhh...", continued boy. This was not correct. He was not used to the light appearing this way and cowered into a corner covering his head as if he was being whipped. Tim jumped back away from the hole!

"What the fuck was that!!!" he shouted. He had back­peddled quickly away from the hole but kept his flashlight locked on it. "I must have stabbed an animal or something on the other side", Tim thought. After a couple of minutes, he began slowly heading back towards the opening moving cautiously, light fixed on the hole. Finally, he put his face to the side of the cold damp rock window and tried to stretch his line of vision inside without giving what was on the other side a chance to strike at him. There, about 8 feet from the hole, he could see what looked like....a person.

"Hey!", Tim barked in his best cop voice, "What are you doing there?"

Boy immediately froze. He did not understand them all. There were too many, too fast, much too loud. But he they were not his. He had heard his first words in over 20 years. He wanted to turn but could not, the light hurt him. His pupils could not compensate for the years and years spent in the dark with the light only coming when the creature came.

"Aggggghhhhhhhh", cried Boy turning his head towards Tim but putting his hand over his eyes.

"Good Lord", thought Tim. He stared at Boy's pasty white skin, his long straggly hair, tattered rags which he assumed were supposed to be clothes dangling on a frame, though not skinny, lacking any definition of muscular structure. "Who the hell are you?!", Tim again commanded.

"Bahhhhhhhlllllraaaa", Boy yelled back swinging his free arm wildly in the direction of the pain­maker.

The initial shock was wearing off and Tim was realizing that this....thing...was no real threat to him. At the same time he noticed how it kept it's eyes completely covered. "The light, it's messing him up", Tim said. He tried to shine it in other spots in Boy's little cavern but it was no use, the opening was still too small. Instead, Tim turned the light away from the hole and shown it in his cavern. This cut down on the light almost totally from Boy, but there was still just enough breaking through to keep him in sight.

Boy's pain was almost gone. He could look at pain­maker now. This was not the beast he had always seen. This was something different. Something...familiar...from a long....long time ago. Boy moved slowly forward, keeping one arm reaching back behind in case he needed to make a quick retreat.

"Rope!", Boy yelled using one of his newer words. This is what they did. He would word at the pain­maker. What Tim heard was, "Rahhhhhleee". Now the pain­maker would make words back to Boy.

Tim did not panic as Boy approached. Who or whatever this was, it was apparent that it was much more scared than he was. He noticed the awkward way it walked and how it kept its fingers in its mouth like a young child walking to the bus for the first time.

"Who are you?", Tim said quietly trying not to alarm it again. "Do you have a name? How long have you been here? How can I get out of this place?" The questions were useless. Boys eyes grew larger and more excited with each syllable. He hopped up and down chattering some eager incomprehensible babble. Then Tim spotted something on Boy's rags being used as a sort of shirt/cape. There was something written on it. There wasn't enough light to make it out though and the way Boy was prancing around, he could not focus. Maybe it was some kind of uniform or emblem that would give him a clue as to the thing's origin. He had to know. Slowly he moved the light down off the far wall and along the floor of his cavern until the beam reached the wall he was looking through. He then covered it with his hand and gently moved it to the opening where Boy was yelling and jumping up and down. He moved his hand away. "AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!", screamed Boy as he dove backwards smashing himself against the far cavern wall. He rolled back and forth on the ground slapping at his eyes in obvious agony. Tim watched in horror finding it hard to believe the pain he had just caused the thing. But he did see what he needed to see. There on the Boys stripped rags was a small stained Teddy Bear with the letters JD below it.

"Pajamas", Tim thought aloud, "that looked like ripped up pajamas!" What in the world would this thing being doing with something like that down here? Tim started to wonder where the thing could have picked them up. Maybe it found them on the surface and had brought them back down. They could have been left over from when the Donegans......Tim stopped. His jaw dropped as he sprung back to the opening to look at the whimpering creature sucking its thumb curled up in a fetal ball on the cold cavern floor. "It can't be. That was over 20 years ago!", he said with disbelief to himself .

"Jeffrey?", Tim called out.

Jeffrey was still in pain. His eyes were burning from the blasts of artificial light. His hyper­sensitive ears were pounding from Tim's words while blood trickled down from the gash in his forehead where he had slammed it against the hard gray walls. But it all stopped. He no longer felt the pain. He had heard the word. The word he had not heard since the day he was first brought to this place almost 20 years ago by the beast. His hole body shook with emotion as he replayed Tim's words over again and again. "Jeffrey", he said to himself. And as he took one of his final breathes, for a fleeting moment, he remembered his mother and family and that he was Jeffrey Donegan.

The beast came without a sound. It appeared at the far end of the cave giving off an orange glow. Tim leaped away from the opening. He wanted to run back up the cavern but was immobilized by the shock of seeing the creature he had believed killed him only a short while earlier.

Jeffrey could not see the beast as it moved towards him. He was still blinded from Tim's light. But his enhanced senses told him the creature was there. He tried to push himself back but was soon against the farthest corner of the small cavern. Maybe it would make food for him again, Jeffrey thought as the beast lashed out a tentacle cutting him in half at the torso. The large jaws of the best then begin to move like one would see in an electric razor; short rapid movements. It quickly carved up the last Donegan and absorbed him. When it was over, there was no trace of Jeffrey anywhere.

Tim could not see what happened but from the sounds coming from the cavern, he realized it would be useless to try and offer aid. He had to get out of there.

The beam of light came through the hole in the cavern wall just as Tim was about to run. He could not move. His ears began to pound with what sounded like rushing water as the light surrounded him. Then as quickly as it came, the beast and the light were gone. Moments later, Tim regained his senses only to discover that he was in the cave where Jeffrey had been. The hole in the wall had been closed up and the only light seemed to emanate from the strange gray walls. In the corner of the cavern, Tim saw a pile of food.

Professor Ogozaly peered into his microscope for one final calculation. There was no doubt about it. The microbe pinned between the glass sample plates was definitely not from this world.

"This concludes it!", the chubby little scientist said with a big grin turning to speak with his colleague, Dr. Elias. Dr. Elias was a tall thin man who strongly resembled the muppet character, "Beaker". He was running the permutations one last time thought the Cray Super­Computer.

"I can't believe this", he said in a deep monotone voice. "This is all too easy. Six months ago we are doing research on pond scum, and tomorrow we will announce to the world we have discovered life beyond the earth! It seems difficult to fathom. Where is Professor Williams? I can't believe he hasn't been here for all this."

Professor Ogozaly was removing his rubber clubs and returning the meteor sample back to its germ free containers. "Robert left a message that he had to finish another project that was nearing completion and that he would be back as soon as possible."

"What could be more important!", barked the animated man. "I still don't have a good feeling about him. For a full professor he seemed more like a guy who sold watches on the street corners of New York. If it wasn't for the comprehensive data he had accumulated, I never would have listened to him to begin with." Dr. Elias was pacing back and forth as he thought back to the first few encounters with Bob Williams.

"Relax Doctor. Everything he said had proven to be 100% accurate. On top of that, he wasn't even paid for his information. He is obviously only concerned with the scientific achievement and possibly the recognition it will bring." Professor Ogozaly smiled and rubbed his hands together as he said the last few words. He would be famous! This was more than he could have ever dreamed of. The organization will be very pleased he thought.

"Well, I can't argue with that", Dr. Elias said as he too let out as much of a grin as his long thin head would allow. "I'm going to get a late night bite to eat. Are you interested in joining me?" Professor Ogozaly held his stomach. "No Thank You Dr. I haven't felt that great today. I believe it is all the excitement and the big announcement tomorrow. Perhaps then would be better."

"Understandable, try and get some rest so you look well for the cameras," said the Dr. as he began to head out of the lab. "I will see you bright and early tomorrow morning." He began to close the door behind him when he paused, putting his hand on his own stomach. "You know something, I don't feel like myself either. Perhaps I'll wait as well."

The boot stepped in slowly, nudging into the crook of Doctor Elias' right arm. Carefully, as one traversing a mine field, the soldier stepped past the prone body, into the center of the room. A canister in his hand occasionally sucked air in short bursts. The unit's digital readout reflected in the respirator's eyepiece. As if in slow motion, the man rotated 360 degrees, a wand attached to the cylinder extended as far as the man could reach. Eventually, he moved to another corner of the room, stepping less gingerly over the body of Professor Ogozaly.

Forty-five minutes later, the soldier removed the mask. At once, six others rushed in, weapons readied, and moved into the adjoining room. One of them removed an encoded card and slid it into the reader. He typed quickly into the hand-held computer connected to the card. Twenty-six seconds later the sealed door hissed open. Two soldiers remained just outside the outer door, one in the airlock. The rest poured into the chamber.

"Sir, the target is contained." The first words to be uttered since the scientists' final gasps spit from the walkie talkie held in the tall man's hand. He strode casually around the laboratory, having entered prior to the containment message. He held up the walkie talkie and smiled.

"That's fine, Sergeant. Thank you."

"If you don't mind," a large black man said as he grabbed the handset. "Good job, Sergeant. The evacs are setting up transport. They'll be here in three minutes to begin loading. I expect evac to go smoother than any drill your men have gone through. Don't forget, fuck up now and we may not be the only dead ones. Murphy out." He released the button and handed the set back to the other with a gentleness that belied his last statement. The man replaced the walkie talkie in its holster.

"Hell of a bedside manner, General."

"I don't give two shits what you think. They're the best we have in there. They'll do whatever it takes." He looked at the two bodies on the floor, and suppressed an additional comment.

The man in the suit removed some papers from a desk chair and sat, crossing his legs and adjusting his tie in such a fluid motion the General almost wondered if the man fully understood what was happening here.

"Things are progressing well, General. I commend your people. Where is Williams currently?"

"Last report at fourteen-hundred on I-87 heading for ground zero. It seems our distraction paid off."

"It appears that way." The man wondered how Williams would react once he learned what happened up here. They've gotten this far without face to face confrontation with these things yet, and he'd be quite content if they didn't start today. Especially not today.

The evac crew arrived in the usual Marine trot, bringing an elaborate collection of ropes and pulleys with them. They disappeared into the inner room. The General picked up a piece of paper from a folder. "Microbes. They were so damned excited, too." He looked at the dead man's body, which had been pushed away from the door by the evac crew. "I don't think Williams ever told them the truth. They had no idea what's inside that thing."

The man in the suit got up from the chair, and brushed imaginary dust from his thighs. "General, we should continue this meeting outside."

Murphy tossed the paper onto the desk. "Agreed."

Smoke still rose from the remains of the foundation. The mayhem of earlier that night was replaced by the more methodical movements of the arson team. Bob Williams walked from the Taurus to the nearest investigator.

"Excuse me," he said, hesitantly tapping the woman on the shoulder. She rose from her stooped position slowly, working the stiffness from her legs. She offered the man a weak smile.

"Yes, sir? May I help you?"

"I... I used to live down the road, " Bob said with an uncertain voice. "This is the Sorenson's house isn't it?"

The woman nodded. "Do you know them?"

"Just Micky. He's around my age. Is he . . . ? I mean, the news said people were killed, but not who . . . I'm sorry." He looked down, making a motion to leave. The investigator laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

"I believe Michael Sorenson was here, but he's all right. I'm not at liberty to disclose the victims, but I can tell you that your friend is ok."

Bob smiled, almost beamed. "Oh, thank God. Thank God. Where is he, do you know?"

"I'm afraid not. Maybe you could try the hospital . . . ?"

They exchanged a few more seconds of small talk, then Bob excused himself, smiling and thanking her one more time. His smile disappeared when he turned for the car.

"Shit," he whispered.

Fifteen minutes later, the Taurus was sitting idle beside the Blazer. Bob walked casually down the pathway, past the broken foundation of the Donegan's house and into the woods. The air was crisp, the dull grey of the predawn light slowly filling the forest. Once in the clearing, he did a quick survey of the area and produced a glowing cube. He uncovered a panel and dropped the cube in place.

The Guardian was upon him within seconds. The glowing face hovered inches from his own. Bob slowly opened his own mouth as wide as it could go, then kept going. It stretched down, while the face expanded. Feet and arms pulled in, the entire body twisting and writhing, until two glowing faces hovered monstrously over the grass. Tentacles reached out from each maw, intertwining. The report was relayed about the two men. Once completed, both creatures disappeared from the early morning light.

The frigid arctic wind buffeted the walls of the shelter. The two men, completely unrecognizable in their parkas, snow suits and goggles watched the meteor being loaded onto the transport. The General had to shout to be heard.

"Seems our distraction had a little welcoming committee waiting for him?"

The main in the no-longer-visible suit shouted, "Yes, I know about the funeral, General."

Of course you do, the General thought to himself. You ordered the executions yourself. "I don't mean that," he continued. He explained about the explosion. The other man faced the General, and was thoughtful for a moment.

"I'm sure it will be a gas leak or something similar."

"He was uninjured, though," said the General, as if the other man hadn't spoken. "Your man got him away from there as soon as he could without being obvious. Brought him straight to ground zero. You people don't waste much time."

The man stared at the General, waiting for the rest. "And . . . ?"

"We lost visual just after oh-three hundred hours. They were too deep in the woods. " He didn't hesitate and continued, "We lost infrared forty-two minutes later."

The man thought for a moment. He shouted, "Gradual or immediate?"

"Immediate, " the General answered. The implication was obvious. If they were killed, their body heat would dissipate slowly. Their signals blipped out instantaneously. They were taken . . . somewhere. "If I may ask," the general continued, "what are your man's chances?"

He did not answer the question, but rather watched passively at the progressing evac. Tim was their best psych. He'd been exposed. Exposed but not 'taken' as Sorenson had been. Fortunate for us, the man thought. Through him, they'd been able to observe these . . . premonitions perhaps, of Sorenson's for some time now. They originated from the enemy. But why? If Micky Sorenson had any balls, he could have stopped them. If they wanted these events to happen, why let anyone know? Did they know he wouldn't have the guts to stop them? Did they need to have this yin to their horrific yangs? The 'accidents' have been getting worse each time. What would be next. The man could imagine a number of scenarios, each worse than the one before.

The only exception to all this was the murder of the Williams woman in New York. That was no accident. She had to be removed to throw their target off base, make him sloppy. The odd thing of it all was that, even though this particular event wasn't initiated by the enemy, both Tim and Micky Sorenson dreamed of the event. Some kind of early warning system on the enemy's part perhaps. If he hadn't pushed up the date after hearing Tim's report, his men would have had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting Mister Williams face to face. In retrospect, the man was glad he kept Tim in the dark about the event. Hell, Tim wanted to save the bitch himself. Now that they have him, they won't learn any more about the woman's death than they probably already know.

He and Sorenson were probably dead by now. Damn, he didn't want to lose Tim. They'd been getting closer. Someone on the other side was causing them, if Tim's theory was true. On the plane, he'd sensed another presence like Sorenson's, but different. Malignant, angry . . . oblivious? That word in Tim's report kept grabbing him and would not let go. It meant something. But now his key was gone. If Micky Sorenson is released, which the operation said was a 44 percent chance, there was a chance the Agency could use him somehow. Probably not. These creatures seem to keep in close touch with their damned 'Links.' But so do we, the man thought. So do we.

The General broke the man's reverie. "Damn stupid thing letting Sorenson see you during transport. If they can get into his head . . . they'll have your face, your voice. You acted like a cocky son-of-a-bitch if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you General, but yes I am a cocky son-of-a-bitch. Beside, he caught me off guard. I had to stall until they got him back under. It doesn't matter anyway. Once they realize we have their precious cargo, they'll know we're out here."

"Then what?"

He watched them complete the loading of the transport. The plane rolled across the ice and rose out of sight into the frigid mist. He turned back to his companion.

"Then, General, the true war begins."

A tidal wave of terror washed over Tim as he realized his predicament. Its wake left him unsteady on his feet. He reached out a hand to the cold, dank wall of the cave and lowered himself to the floor. Tim sat back against the wall and let out a long sigh.

"I'm trapped here like Jeffrey Donegan, doomed to spend the next twenty years alone in this lifeless cave," Tim thought to himself. It occurred to him that at least Jeffrey was young enough not to fully realize the horror. To think otherwise was too terrible. All those years, only to be dissected and devoured. What a waste.

Thank God it wasn't Kevin he found in this cave. Tim shuddered.

Angry tears escaped his eyes though he pressed them tightly together. With a groan he opened them and looked around the underground chamber. Through tear-blurred vision he saw only gray- gray walls, gray ceiling, gray floor.

After several minutes, Tim got up and slowly walked around the cave that held him prisoner. Although he didn't understand what had just happened to him, he did know from the beginning that he would end up dead or worse if he let himself get pulled back into this nightmarish situation. As he scanned the walls and ceiling far above for an opening that he was sure did not exist, he thought of the man known only to him as Richard, and cursed that sly son-of-a-bitch under his breath.

Richard had approached him a few months before, casually walking up to him at the bar in Casey's Pub on a Friday afternoon. Casey's was the local off-duty cop hangout, though it was clear from this man's expensive suits that he was no cop. No honest one, anyway. He introduced himself as Richard and was soon telling Tim things about his past that no one should have known- particularly things about the tragedy of losing his twin. He knew of the visions and telekinetic injuries Tim sustained the day Kevin was killed. He told of the torment Tim felt ever since and empathized with Tim's concern over the more recent occurrences.

Tim's head had spun, filled with the soft, mesmerizing voice of this man. Six or seven beers later, and Tim was hooked. He would get the chance to put the missing pieces together of how he lost Kevin so many years ago. This impassive, yet somehow threatening, gentleman would provide the way.

"I'll kill him if I ever get out of this," Tim swore to himself. He walked over to the food, a bowl of apples with a half a loaf of bread, and kicked it like a football at the start of a game. One apple sailed clear across the cave and smashed against the far wall.

Jeffrey Donegan is lucky to be dead. I'm the doomed one now.

"I'm not going to eat any food," Tim decided. He'd rather starve. "But that'd be too slow. I'd rather end it quickly. I'd hang myself with my belt if there was anything to hook it on to"- which there wasn't. Then with a gasp he remembered his gun and instinctively reached for it. The .45 Colt sat tucked in his sidearm holster. Taking the gun from its soft leather harness, he flipped open the chamber and found what he was looking for. A sole bullet remained. "I only need one to do myself in," Tim thought to himself. He was thankful for it.

Suddenly the cavern took on an eerie shimmer. Tim spun around, kicking up dust that sparkled from the light growing stronger in the middle of his dungeon. The light transformed into the enemy, a monster with a gaping mouth. Rows of teeth formed concentric circles, each a smile of victor over victim. Yellow eyes twinkled with seeming delight at the man aiming the gun with a trembling hand. Tim could not pull the trigger because it would have meant spending the one bullet he had.

"What are you?" screamed Tim. A bright light abruptly beamed forth from the demon's mouth causing Tim to raise his arms in a protective shield covering his eyes. He dropped his gun into the dust but instantly pounced upon his only chance of escape- escape by suicide, that is. As he desperately grappled for the weapon, he could only look away from the blinding light. Tim's right hand felt the cold metal of his gun and he drew it close to his chest as if to hug it. All the while a kaleidoscope of colors reflected off the previously ashen walls.

Then it was gone, disappearing in an instant as it always did, though Tim had yet to grow accustomed to the routine. The scattered food was gone and in its place a fresh bowl of apples and a container of water.

The airplane sailed through the night sky as if on a sea of clouds. The engines roared as the vessel moved effortlessly above the mist, an hour from its destination. The cloud cover had been thick since they left the arctic.

Unaware of the precious cargo on board, Marine pilot Jeremy Watts and navigator Nick Capolli talked as they often did about their future plans. To pass the time, they played the "what I'd do if I won a million dollars in the lottery" game.

Nick Capolli varied his each time, but Jeremy Watts always told the same story. The only similarity was that they would both quit the military right off. Neither had that single-minded loyalty to Marine oaths that was typical in their unit. Maybe that's why they got along so well.

Tonight, Capolli told his pilot how he'd move to L.A. if he won that much money. He'd have one of those houses on stilts on the side of a mountain and all his buddies would move to California with him. He'd throw huge parties with lots of celebrities- rockers and models. He'd be drunk all the time and sleep with a different girl each night. Claudia Schiffer would be a regular visitor to his satin sheets.

"Very nice, Nick," Watts sarcastically applauded his partner's goals. But as Watts started to tell his own story for the hundredth time about breeding Basset Hounds in his own kennel, Nick unfailingly interrupted after the first few words left Jeremy's lips.

"Jesus Christ, Watts," Capolli yelled over the engine. "Ain't you ever going to say something besides those stupid dogs?"

"But that's what I would do if I won the lottery." He thought of the loyal and affectionate puppies he would breed and sell. What was the point in trying to explain how much he loved the gentle hounds. How he had since he was a boy with his two short-legged companions, Nelson and Calhoun.

"Fucking humor me. At least you could breed pit bulls or something decent. What's a Basset Hound good for anyway? Big fat things with their loose skin hanging off." Capolli yelled, but underneath his harsh words, he hoped his friend would get his dogs.

"What does it matter anyway? We're never going to win no lottery, that's for sure," Jeremy Watts concluded as he usually did.

"Well, who knows. Hell, maybe someday we'll strike it rich. This cargo we're carrying sure seemed awfully precious to that jerk in the parka. He seemed fit to be tied."

"He sure did seem concerned. They all did back there, like they were walking on eggshells. Any idea what we've got back there?"

"Bet they'd pay a hefty ransom."

Both me were silent for the next few minutes. The sky ahead had finally cleared and the stars glittered brightly. Watts thought about the floppy eared dogs. Boy, there's nothing he wouldn't give to get that.

Just then a light of another plane appeared in the distance, approaching fast.

The monster was gone. Tim once again leaned against a gray wall. He could hear sounds from the other side, but they were so foreign. Nothing to give him hope. He knew that insanity was his only future.

A tear ran down his cheek as he raised the .45 to his right temple.

Do you understand ...do you understand...do you understand ...even his response did nothing to end the taunt. Louder and louder "Do you understand?...Do you understand?" ... The words became a blur and continued to grow louder.

Micky raised both hands and cupped them over his ears in a vain attempt to ease the deafening hum. He continued to squeeze his hands against his ears, tighter and tighter as he lowered himself to his knees.

All at once his head was filled with the screams of the hundreds of passengers on the plane, of Judy Williams as her head ricocheted off the bricks as she sped toward her death, of the countless other innocent victims of what ... fate? No, he realized for the first time, these things did not just 'happen' with him as the psychic. This horrible entity was behind the slaughter of these people. Why? But why?

His uncontrollable rage and indignation ignited a flame which still flickered in the darkest corner of his cerebellum; he could almost feel the surge. The panels around him began their cacophony of color, faster and faster...almost sensing his growing energy.

Micky slowly stood , brushing himself off as if he had been contaminated by some kind of dust or dirt, he felt ..well... clean for the first time since this thing captured him.

Vision and coherence once again restored to the eyes of Micky Sorenson, the man took a small step as he peered into the cylindrical canister directly to his right. Straining to see through the foggy mist which surrounded its contents, his movements brought him closer and closer. Soon proximity was such that his nose pressed against the cool glass.

Still the elusive canister twisted and turned on the hose or cable which stretched skyward, farther than Micky could see. Necessity forced him to reach out and actually take hold of the sides of the canister , his body swaying slightly as he tamed the unruly tube.

Recognition, shock and astonishment sent him flailing backward as he found himself staring into the fixed open eyes of ... a nine year old Kevin Cosgrove.

Neither pilot nor navigator dared speak. The thoughts which raced through both their minds were too dangerous... words might lend credence to conviction.

Nick shifted slightly in his seat as he routinely scanned the sky around them. "Holy shit Jer, aircraft at three­o­clock ...Jesus he's close," was all he managed to spit out .

The F­14 fighter buzzed the cumbersome cargo plane, almost mocking its clumsy maneuverability.

Wilt Mancuso radioed his superior, "Ahh ­ Roger General, I have 'Golden Goose' on visual what now sir?"

The crackling reply was curt. "Back off Bad Wolf, but maintain visual. If anything comes near our prize, shoot the bastards down, do you read me ?"

"Roger , sir, out," Wilt acknowledged.

General Dickerson paced frantically in front of the huge radar screen. At least they were still on course; he had almost lost it when he realized that his precious cargo was not registering on the screen from the moment it took off.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered under his breath, "This thing is much more powerful than we ever thought possible." He could not control the trembling in his hands so he slid them deep into his pockets before any of his men could see.

Nick stared dumb­founded at the screen in front of him. "Jeremy, I think we have trouble," a slight panic in his voice as he spoke. "Look, everything is dead! Not one panel is operational. We're up shit's creek pal," he continued.

Squinting his left eye shut, Jeremy worked on his lower lip as thoughts raced like squirrels between his head set. He finally spoke, "This could be the opening we have been looking for Nick. If we cut out of our flight pattern and things don't work out, we can just say we lost instruments and visual was bad." Actually visual was bad, they seemed to enter a snow shower as they flew above the Canadian Rockies and began to follow their course south eastward.

Nick's mind was suddenly filled with visions of him and his friends tossing down ice cold beers and frolicking in the ocean at his million dollar beach house. Finally, maybe he would get the blond girls with the big tits.

"Go," was all he said.

Tim could not believe the total serenity which enveloped him at the moment. No fear, no regrets, no real longing to remain in this mortal gray world to which he now belonged.

He closed his eyes and thought of seeing Kevin again. Funny, but since his death, the thought of leaving this world was no longer something to be feared ...Kevin was waiting for him.

Lost deep in thought , his hand began to sweat from the intense heat the 45 was radiating.

"Damn," he exclaimed as he dropped the now glowing red revolver. His eyes widened as he slowly exhaled in astonishment. His would­be ticket to freedom turned into a molten mass of metal at his feet.

Micky approached the neighboring tube. Instinctively knowing what he would find, he rubbed the moisture from the container's facade. Once again, a childhood friend peered back at him. It was Matty. Micky looked back at the first cylinder.

"Kevin." Again, the words seemed to emanate from his subconscious. Becoming accustomed to these alien surroundings and this new-found method of communication, Micky focused his thoughts on his old friend. "Kevin, can you hear me?"

But wait, dammit, he thought. Kevin is dead. Micky struggled with this discovery. Micky's father saw the boy's bloodied remains. So had the police.

"What the hell is going on?"

Kevin remained motionless and, contrary to Micky's memories, completely unscathed. Not a scratch on him; just a perfect replica of... Kevin... back when they were...

A few neurons seemed to fire off from beyond his own mind. A growing memory of... what? Of a plan. No. What was he remembering?

"An agenda." The memory had returned. Matty floated in the container next to him, also without a scratch.

"Replication." The thought echoed in his mind.

"Now you understand," came a placid voice from behind the walls.

Tim sat crouched against one of the cold gray walls, wrapping his arms around his bent legs. He bowed his head and rested his brow against his arms while slowly rocking himself back and forth as he fought to hold back his emotions. He was going insane. He trembled like he just came in out of a cold rain and muttered to himself.

"Bastards.....bastards.....cowards........bastards", he repeated the mantra. They had taken his only way out; his only chance of escape, ".....bastards....cowards."

As he said the words over and over and rocked himself for comfort, he kept hearing the voices in the back of his head. Incomprehensible, just random words barely understandable overlapping each other. He knew he was losing his mind.

Tim had always remembered having his psychic gift. For as long as he could remember, he seemed in tune with others thoughts. It was just part of his consciousness. He had his own thoughts, feelings, dreams, and at the same time part of his mind would feed him the same information but from others around him. He never thought it scary or weird, it just "was". Now, that part of him was deaf. There was nothing around him for his psychic thoughts to perceive. In perhaps a defensive reaction to stay functional his psychic thoughts turned on his own personal thoughts. This was creating a loopback effect in Tim's head and was pushing him towards lunacy.

Tim knew what was happening but was powerless to stop it. He pulled himself up and frantically looked around the dark cell. His breathing was rapid. In a futile effort to stop this mental chaos, he sprinted across the cave and threw himself against a wall! Wham! Like a bag of wet cement he was sent hurling back down to the ground landing on the bowl of apples. "SHIIIIITTTTT!!!", Tim screamed as he rolled over and threw the bowl across the cave, again.

The orange shimmer began just like clockwork. Tim looked at the far end of the cave as the creature began to appear. It stayed only a moment. Tim just lay there on the cave floor watching. When it was gone, leaving behind the new bowl of food and water, Tim realized something. From the moment the shimmering began in the cave, his thoughts were calm. His psychic thoughts turned back out towards the spot where the creature came from. Now that the creature was gone, they were again deaf. But it was enough.

Tim stood up and dizzily walked over to the spot where the food sat, and the creature had stood moments before. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He replayed the kinetic feelings which he perceived when the creature appeared, over and over in his mind; separating, distinguishing. He stood motionless for at least an hour. "Now!", he said to himself as he kicked over the food.

The shimmering began but Tim did not move. He stood, eyes closed, concentrating and waiting. Then he felt it again. The feeling that occurred just before the creature came. The creature ignored him as it appeared, replaced the food and left like a disciplined chambermaid. But this time would be different than the thousands of times before.

As the shimmering began to fade, Tim reached out with his mind. He sent out the kinetic signal which he had stored. He only had a few moments before he was again sealed off and his mind would began failing. Sweat was pouring from his face as he fought to get it just right. When he opened his eyes, he was looking directly into the glowering portal. "I did it", he allowed himself a quick congratulations but even as he did, his kinetic signal altered and the portal began to close. Without hesitating, Tim stepped through and left his gray prison behind.

"Tim!", Micky yelled with astonishment as his friend suddenly appeared from nowhere. Tim looked around wearily and let out a half smile before collapsing on the floor.

The bulky C­30 cargo plane banked heavily to the right and down. Mancuso was a quarter mile back struggling to keep a visual on the cargo plane.

"Wow!", he exclaimed, "where'd she go". He spun his head around in the canopy checking in all directions. His radar was useless since the meteor on board seemed to provide the large craft with a stealth signature.

"Bad Wolf to base, Bad Wolf to base", Mancuso flipped on his intercom. "I've lost visual on Golden Goose." With that he banked the F­14 up and began to climb hoping to get better visual conditions.

"What!", Dickerson barked back in the intercom. He turned towards the controllers. "What do you have?"

"We read the F­14 at 32,000 and beginning a crossing pattern. Nothing else sir." The controller turned swiveled his chair back towards his scope and attempted to establish radio contact. "Base to Golden Goose, come in, over." He repeated this 4 more times and each time the reply was static. With each call the general took a step closer and became more angry.

"Scramble the entire squadron and get them the hell up there! I want an AWAC in that area now and I want a full battalion to begin a ground search." The control room was anything but controlled as military personal scrambled in all directions reacting to the general's orders. The general himself stood in the middle of the room staring at the radar screen. "God help us", he whispered to himself.

"We're level at 2,000 feet", Nick said nervously. "The escort is moving away and doesn't appear to see us."

"Yes!", Jeremy said. "Piece of cake. Keep an eye on that radar though, they'll be sending everything including the kitchen sink up here to find us. If they can't get a visual on us they'll most likely think we've crashed." Jeremy looked over and smiled at Nick.

Nick smiled back, "Yup, that means they'll send in a ground team and begin a high risk search. "Both men knew that as long as the search crew did not realize what they had done, they would have no reason to suspect that they had stolen the cargo and were heading directly away from the intended target. A high risk search could take days due to all the precautions that need to be taken.

"So where to?", Nick asked as he allowed himself a moment to sit back in his chair and relax.

"We have enough fuel to get us about 6,000 miles. We can pretty much go anywhere we want. How about the middle­east? They'll give us Ft. Knox if they think we might turn this baby over to someone like Iraq! Looks like you may be able to have those damn dogs after all." The two men began to laugh as the plane suddenly shook violently.

"What the fuck was that!", Jeremy shouted. The plane continued to rattle and shimmy as the two men struggled with the controls. "We must be hitting some air pockets, bring us up another 1,000 ft."

"I can't", Nick yelled back as he strained against the wheel, "she's not responding". The two men both tried pulling on the controls with all their might but it did not respond. "Holy shit! Look out the starboard window!"

Jeremy could see the horrified look in his copilots eyes and unbuckled himself to see what was going on. When he looked out the starboard window his eyes shown the same horror. The wing was being sliced off. A thin beam of light was coming out of the clouds and slowly cutting through it. After a few moments the beam hat cut all the way though and the wing dropped.

The two men braced for the expected tailspin but nothing happened. The plane continued on level and on course. The beam reappeared on the other wing and the two men raced to the opposite side of the cabin and again watched with terror as that wing too was cut from the fuselage.

"Jeremy, what is going on". Nick was grabbing Jeremy by the collar. Jeremy did not respond, he was listening to the cutting sound coming from the storage bay. Quickly the two men opened the cabin door and looked into the cargo hatch. A hole had been cut in the top of the plan exposing the gray clouds above.

"The cargo.....where is it!", Jeremy shouted. The platform which the meteor container was placed on was now sitting alone in the middle of the cargo bay. He ran over to the platform and looked up through the hole, "What's happening to the plane!"

Jeremy felt something hit his face. Blood! He spun back around towards Nick only to see him being ripped in half by the creature. Each half of his friend was now being held aloft by a long waving tentacle. Nick's lifeless eyes looked towards him.

Jeremy didn't even bother moving as another razor sharp appendage raced towards him.

General Murphy sat at the head of the long table with his chief heads of staff gathered around. Murphy was silent and looked straight ahead as one of the intelligence agents began reading the latest report.

"At 0500 hours this morning the main fuselage of the C­30 plane carrying our package crashed in area 51 sector P. The wings were found 8 miles away in sector M. The ground crew reported no seismic activity anywhere within a 50 by 50 mile radius of the crash site."

"8 miles away? It must have been shot down", commented a lieutenant.

"Possibly ma'am", continued the agent. "Reports indicate that the wings appeared to be severed from the plane, uncharacteristic to a manner expected in an aircraft shot from high altitude."

"What about the package", General Murphy asked pulling himself towards the table and focusing on the agent. "You say there was no seismic readings detected. Do I understand that to mean you have no idea where it is!"

"That is correct sir. The package was not found in the wreckage nor were either of the two pilots. We assume that they bailed out but have not picked up a rescue beacon as of yet. One more note. The center cargo bay hull appeared to be compromised before the crash. From the configuration of the hole, it would appear as though something cut into the plane while it was still in flight."

The room burst into the sounds of men and women shouting at each other as theories and questions were fired around the table. Murphy said nothing. Instead, he watched as a well dressed man entered the room and walked over to him.

"Well Richard. It seems your plan has backfired. You and I know both know there can be only one explanation for the meteor being taken." The General's voice made it very clear that he was totally pissed as he stood up and stared directly into the man's eyes. "You've had all the answers up to this point...now what?"

Richard stepped around the General and dusted off his coat as if Murphy's words had soiled them. "General, I understand your concern. From your limited viewpoint you see the enemy capturing what we have worked so hard to protect. I too would have preferred that this did not happen so soon. However, rest assured, its seizure was inevitable."

"What are you saying?", the General bellowed. His words brought quiet to the rest of the room. "Are you saying that you expected these men to be blown from the sky, and you are just informing me now! Listen to me mister and listen good." The General got right back in Richard's face. "We are 24 hours from implementation and you are not leaving this room until I know EVERYTHING you know. Now start talking!"

Richard laughed. "Isn't it amazing how rank and dramatic outbursts are so closely tied." Murphy moved towards him but was stilled by a gesture from Richard. "I apologize, General. I suppose it is time for an explanation." He allowed the general to sit, then looked at each person in the room in turn, as he spoke. "It is a shame that we had to lose those two fine men. The odd thing is, they never found the cause of the fire that destroyed the apartment building."

A silence followed, as each man and woman tried to register what was said. Murphy sighed and leaned in Richard's direction. He said, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Why, the fire that killed those two boys twenty-three years ago, of course. You see, General, their parents were next door neighbors, apartments 601 and 603 respectively. Young Jeremy was only two. Baby Nicholas, alas, was a mere eighteen months old."

The room once again exploded in noise. Murphy got to his feet and stood inches from the man's face. "Listen, you wise-assed buffoon. I think we've all had enough of your -"

"Oh, I'm not denying they were on the plane." Richard acted as though the large black man was not breathing his cigar-laden breath onto him, and casually moved around him and stopped at the far wall, below two decorative swords cross-crossed on the paneling. "They were fine officers, just ask their parents. Both families still leave near each other. The boys usually travel home together when they're on leave. Did I mention both families in their entirety dies in that fire?"

"I think that's quite enough," Admiral Kayanski said. He was the oldest of the group in the room, yet despite his failing health was still able to carry his voice with the strength that belied his small appearance. "Is there a point to these riddles? If so, get to it right now." The command silenced the room. General Murphy smiled openly.

Richard nodded slightly to the admiral and turned to the swords. He unsheathed one and gingerly held the razor sharp blade across his chest with both hands. "Look at this blade, ladies and gentleman. Polished, smooth." He moved back to his position next to Murphy. "When you look at it, as you would a small mirror."

Admiral Kayanski cleared his throat.

"Yes, admiral, I'm getting to the point." Richard's tone was now cold, totally professional. "Those two men, indeed, died twice. Once at a very young age. And once again tonight. Or should I say, Jeremy and Nicholas died at a very young age. The gentlemen who stole our cargo were their doubles." He raised the blade slightly, gripping the hilt tightly now with his left. "Their reflections, as it were."

Murphy kept his gaze on the sword, an uneasiness creeping through him for some unknown reason. "What are you saying? They were cloned?"

"Tim?" Micky held the man's head in his lap. Slowly, Tim opened his eyes.

"Holy Shit, Micky! It worked."

Micky slowly helped his friend to his feet, and said quietly. "I wouldn't exactly say that." He looked over Tim's shoulder. Tim turned, and instinctively took two steps back.

Two yards from the, the head of the creature floated, it's many appendages shooting from the mouth and back in, dragging over the many teeth. It slowly stretched upward, taking on a new shape. As if they were seeing evolution of fish to human sped up a million times over, the creature changed to a man. He was fully dressed in a tweed coat and denim pants. If the situation hadn't been very different, Micky would think he was a college professor.

Bob Williams, for effect, adjusted the sleeves to his jacket, then looked at Micky.

"Well, Mister Sorenson. Do you understand?"

"Micky, what's he talking about?"

Micky stared at Williams. The man did not look the least but familiar, but his voice was the voice he had heard in his head. "I'm starting to. I died in these woods with my friends all those years ago, didn't I?"

Williams laughed. "'Died' is such an ugly word. We simply traded you in for a better model."

Micky looked at the tube where Kevin floated lifelessly. "Why aren't I in there, like them?"

"Quite simply because you had the most potential. Your mental promise was much higher for our dreaming standards."

Micky and Tim both appeared taken aback. "Dreams?" Micky said. "You put those dreams in my head? Why? Why would you want me to see those... things?"

"Why? My dear man, you had to see them." He laughed again.

"I could have stopped them! I could have!" He shouted the words. The admission sent a tremor of pain through his gut. He could have, but he didn't.

Bob Williams shook his head. "Then you don't understand, at least not fully. Why would you have wanted to stop those events, Mister Sorenson? After all, it was you who caused them."

"Are you saying that these creatures are cloning humans?" The admiral asked.

"It's not quite cloning, but yes that's true for the most part."

General Murphy looked thoughtful. "Then they were spies."

"Not really, general. I'm sure they didn't even know their true origins. They were likely replicated for the precise reason they were manipulated. As backup in case we obtained the package."

"But the odds of them being the actual flight crew are unthinkable."

Richard smiled at the general. "Not, so. It just depended on who was the one assigning them. Get them on the crew. When the time is right, make them, well, wig out and take the package to a pre-determined rendezvous point."

Murphy slowly rose to his feet. The anger visible burning under his dark skin. "Just what exactly are you saying? We all know that I'm the one who assigned them."

Richard smiled. "As I said, the alien's replicates do not know their true origins, unless the creatures decide it must be so. Do you remember the plane crash at Logan recently?"

Murphy was taken aback by this. "What are you talking about. I wasn't on that plane. I was held up here." He pointed to the group gathered uneasily around the table.

Richard smiled and put his right hand on the man's shoulder. "I understand, General. But my people followed you. You got on that plane, and never left it. They needed Oswald Murphy out of the way. Nothing personal, it was just time."

Murphy's senses screamed their warning. But he was confused, because some of the man's words were clicking in places they shouldn't have been. "Your mad," was all he said.

Richard, beneath his suit coat, flexed the muscles of his left arm. "I certainly hope not, General." He thrust the sword through Murphy's chest, cleanly between two ribs into his heart. Mayhem broke loose. Richard immediately raised his arms as the MPs guarding the door had their guns out and raised at his head. "Please do not shoot me until you look over there." He nodded to Murphy.

The general backed up three steps, hands instinctively gripping the hilt. He stared at Richard wide eyed. His eyes continued to expand, as his legs pulled in on themselves and his mouth opened into a gaping maw. The creature hovered above the floor for a moment, tentacles limply falling from the mouth. Then it crashed to the floor, its many colors fading to a gray, and died.

Tim turned his gaze from Micky to Bob Williams. Tim had summed up this man of mild appearance as obviously a monster who must be destroyed. But how and would Micky help him were his two foremost questions.

"Micky who?", Tim thought to himself. If Micky had died all those years ago then this Micky in front of him was not his closest ally, but the enemy. As Tim looked intently at the face he thought he knew so well, he could see that Micky was obviously struggling with the conglomeration of facts that were slowly unraveling to him. His eyes widened, perhaps as each new detail fell into place. Then his mouth twitched as yet another distasteful realization pained him. Observing this mental transformation was more perverse to Tim than witnessing the ghastly physical metamorphosis of Bob Williams.

Bob Williams watched Micky as well. Patiently, yet intently focused on the unsettled man, he awaited the proper moment for shedding more light on the situation. He needed Micky to act as planned, and to ensure this, he must be sensitive to the critical timing required. Micky must obey fully from here on out. For this to happen, Micky must understand his new reality and the mission that accompanies it. But reveal the entirety of the sordid details to this unwitting pawn and he'll overdose in shock and be of no use in their campaign of aggression.

"And what about me?" Tim demanded of Bob Williams harshly, distracting him from his focus on Micky. "Are you telling me that I am a clone too?"

Bob Williams turned his attention to Tim rather deliberately."You?" Bob raised an eyebrow. "No, you're not one of us. Not yet anyway."

The chiefs of staff stood frozen around the long table facing the front of the room. Richard stepped over the lifeless creature that was once General Murphy.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. I know what you just witnessed must appear as total madness." He looked down at the still carcass and shook his head."But let me assure you," returning his attention to them with a serious face, "that you are in the midst of a grave contest with an enemy most perverse. You each play an important role now in this struggle."

With a final glance at the dead thing, he moved on slowly down the length of the room, the sword his walking stick.

"This vile creature is just one of thousands that threaten our very existence. They have been infiltrating our society for decades and their purpose is to destroy us." His voice raised in intensity and his eyes narrowed, no longer hiding his anger. "Have no doubt about their malevolence towards us. I have hunted these mother fuckers for twenty years. I have seen their victims' bodies, sliced into pieces. Brutally dismembered. Some of these victims were your compatriots and I ask you now to help me avenge their horrible deaths.

"The time has come for us to fight a critical battle, one that will mean ultimate victory for one side and annihilation for the other." He continued walking and reached the far end of the table. Admiral Kayanski stood facing him from the opposite end.

"We have the key to success. It is this package we've just been discussing. With it, we will defeat the alien assailants. And defeat them we must, for the alternative is unthinkable."

The chiefs of staff looked at one another with wide eyes. No one moved. Their gazes sought out Admiral Kayanski, but Kayanski's eyes were locked on Richard. Richard seemed the only one in the room capable of motion. He tucked the bloody sword under his arm and removed a cellular phone from the inside pocket of his soiled suit jacket. He flipped it open.

"We can destroy them with this package we've all sought to transport." He started to dial a number on the phone. Six varied tones played a bad melody.

"With this one phone call, we win. Without the call, we are lost."

Richard stood with his finger on the last button. Silence ensued for several seconds. Suddenly, the inertia was broken as the agent to Kayanski's left reached for his gun while another beside him leapt onto the table and lunged towards Richard.

Admiral Kayanski was only an instant behind in his reaction as he ran for the second sword mounted on the wall. In a single broad sweep he pulled the blade from its sheath and slashed it across the back of the agent who now aimed his gun at Richard. The man arched in pain, shooting an errant bullet into the ceiling and collapsing over onto the table, face down. The others around the table ducked at the gunshot, while the admiral plunged the sword into the back of the would­be assassin. At the same time, the agent scrambling along the mahogany table vaulted at Richard with a yell that sounded more like a growl.

Richard was too quick, though. He drew the sword up and skewered the attacking man, who then crashed in a head first heap on the floor. Both assailants writhed for a few moments while the transformations began. In a matter of seconds, there were three corpses of these ghastly aliens scattered around the room.

Richard looked at Admiral Kayanski, who was breathing hard using the sword as a cane. Their gazes met.

"Thank you, Admiral." Richard walked quickly across the room towards the white haired man. "I wasn't sure if you knew that I was drawing the clones into exposing themselves."

"Well, I figured if Murphy was one there were likely others among us." With Richard's assistance, he took a seat, still leaning on the hilt of the sword. "Now, what about that phone call, Richard? Or was that just part of the bluff?"

Tim brought one foot unsteadily behind the other as he backed away from the two entities. He damn well didn't want to wind up like Kevin, Matty and the others but the sickening realization was setting in that Micky's fate was far worse than the peaceful repose of the encased children.

Bob Williams' sudden stirrings gave little time for pondering his immediate future. The bogus professor breezed gracefully past Tim until he stood toe-to-toe with Micky.

"This will be your first test comrade, for now your friend must either become one of us or die." The complicitous look on Micky's face scared the hell out of Tim.

Almost as if part of a ghostly waltz, Williams' large hands reached the short distance to Micky's face, cupping both sides of his jaw with what appeared to be enormous tenderness. For an instant Tim thought he was watching a mother with its young child, lovingly guiding him toward the next step.

The power of the psychic shock waves between the monsters was almost unbearable; Tim had to step back and place a hand against the wall to steady himself. He could sense that if he didn't or couldn't get to Micky immediately, he was surely a dead man.

Mimicking the pose he had assumed less than half an hour ago to free himself from the cavern zoo, Tim squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating with all his might; losing himself in an emotional wave of a life he and Micky once shared.

As if privy to Tim's thoughts, Bob slowly turned his head. He shot the tall man such a sharp piercing glare that Tim, even through closed eyelids, physically flinched and shuddered in disgust. Releasing his grasp on Micky... the sordid and evil soul commenced the assault on the only benign creature in the cave.

Tim sensed the nearness of the two; terrified still of opening even one eye, knowing for certain that the sight would cause him to lose control of his bowels...to say nothing of his resolve. The thing called Bob began its macabre metamorphose. His human torso and appendages imploded, blossoming into an enormous floating head. Razor sharp tentacles flailed about with apparent wanton abandon, causing the air around him to hum with activity.

The cop winced with pain as the first cut ripped across his left forearm.

Concentrate damn it...

Micky Sorenson ceased to exist. The evil monster which lurked within now manifested itself as a writhing mass of head and tentacles; floating effortlessly beside its unholy master. Tim took the second wound from Micky across his right cheek, a crimson eruption flowing down his collar.

'Now or never' was all he could think.

The ebb and flow of dense emotions coursing through his body began their crescendo as Tim sensed his thoughts penetrating this thing called Micky. At the moment of truth, the shock of the psychic link with the beast was so sudden and fierce; Tim's eyes flew open and continued an upward roll as he entered a state of semi­consciousness.

He never saw what happened next.

With Tim's mind melting into that small portion of decency left in Micky, the novice beast turned on his master. Anyone watching the ensuing battle would conjure images of a chess game on fast forward. Calculated frontal attacks hell-bent on total annihilation, the ungodly beings went tit for tat, slash for slash, severed tentacle for severed tentacle.

The eerie dual gained intensity; there was never an attempt from either alien at defensive maneuvers. Tentacles flying at a furious pace, Williams ripped away at his mirror image, huge pieces of unearthly tissue dropping away and turning gray.

Sorenson's razor sharp tentacles likewise tore at the master's ugly head seemingly from a hundred directions, shredding it to ribbons. The brilliant colors once coating both creatures began to lose their luster.

With one final assault from his gaping glowing mouth, Micky shot a last healthy tentacle clear through Williams, causing the gray shapeless form to slide in a heap to the cavern floor. Hovering unsteadily for a moment, the Mickyesque creature turned his scalpel-like claw to his own graying mouth and sliced himself completely in half. His lifeless gray form joined the already dissolving mass on the dirt floor.

Silence. At times like this it can be deafening.

Tim regained consciousness slowly. Floating for many moments in that murky place between awareness and contentment. Sitting up, he raised his hands to his throbbing head; punishment for the intense cerebral effort needed to quell this first assault.

Rising to his feet, he felt a bit tipsy and light headed. As he began to focus in on the carnage around him, Tim was not shocked or surprised to find the dissolving remains of his would-be assassins.

He felt no remorse or guilt; only an empty pain for a dear friend lost. Inhaling deeply, the cop turned his attention toward the vast stretch of hanging tubes. The danger to humanity was not reduced with the elimination of these two alien soldiers.

The unmistakable stench of evil permeated the air. Teary-eyed, Tim took one last look at the youthful form of his twin, dangling in front of him; dull unseeing eyes waiting....

Tim knew now that nothing in this god-awful place must be allowed to remain. He looked around the cave for a weapon. His eyes found a pile of small pipes stacked against the wall on his right. He didn't pause to ponder their intended use, striding instead straight to the pyre, choosing the largest and heaviest for his next task.

He could not help the sick feeling in his stomach as he began his onslaught. He wielded the pipe like a baseball bat, swinging it over his head first to the right then to the left... systematically exploding the cylinders as he walked the eerie corridor.

Each blow served in his mind as retribution. The first for his brother and friends, the second for the plane full of unsuspecting souls: pawns all of them.

As each tube burst from the force of his blows, the small figures inside plummeted to the dirt floor; human form immediately giving way to ash.

Covered in the glassine substance, Tim finished his grim job with a flourish. As the last body crumbled, his thoughts turned to Richard. He had to get to him.

"The phone call, Admiral, was indeed a bluff. However," Richard continued, "a call is in order."

The man in the nice suit flipped open his cellular and, once again, punched in a number. This time the seventh tone echoed throughout the room. Admiral Kayanski winced a bit, not knowing whether to expect a distant explosion or a calamity closer to home. "Expect the unexpected" had become the new motto associated with this strange man's actions.

"Mr. Cosgrove, I am delighted my call has made it through. We thought you, perhaps, to be dead when we lost contact with your heat signature. I am sure, at the moment, that you are thinking yourself quite mad. I assure you, that is not the case." Richard continued, not trying to hide his grin from the officer staring dumb-founded at him.

"We have simply tapped into that psychic ability of yours and, through the miracle of science, made rather clever use of it."

Tim remained frozen, pipe still in hand, listening incredulously to the cacophony of sound within his head. Sweat gleamed from his pores as his eyes darted about the cave. The voice must be coming from somewhere else.

"WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME???!!!"

Tim's cries echoed amongst the alien decay. The events of the past few days were definitely taking a mental toll on him. No matter what this voice was saying, insanity must be the only explanation. He pictured himself restrained upon a hospital bed, dreaming these psychotic thoughts. Micky, Richard, the aliens.......his whole life!......all a twisted illusion. There were no aliens. No glowing creatures of death. No clones. No hidden agenda.

The ragged policeman clamped his eyes shut and tried to think himself awake. This nightmare must come to an end!!

"Mr. Cosgrove, try and get a hold of yourself. You are NOT dreaming any of this."

Tim shuddered at this statement - was Richard actually hearing his thoughts, as well as his words??

"We have linked the frequency of your enhanced telekinetic energy to my cellular to provide us with a method of communication. Rather simple procedure, really." Richards grin grew even wider. "Please tell me where you are and is Mr. Sorenson with you?"

Tim opened his eyes hesitantly and gradually came back to his senses. Unfortunately, no comfortable, padded room surrounded him. At least not yet.

"I don't know where the fuck I am? Some underground cave below the Donegan's farm, I think. Micky is dead and so is Bob Williams. As you probably already know, they both ended up being those creatures. As far as I know, I could be one them, too!! Would you mind telling me why the hell you didn't inform me of any of this before??!!!"

"It was necessary to conceal certain information from you in order for you to interact comfortably with Mr. Sorenson. I don't imagine you at much ease knowing your companion's true origin. And as for your bloodline, I can assure you it is quite human."

Richard's voice, always certain, almost like that of a psychiatrist, echoed in his mind. Tim did have to admit that this method of communication was impressive (and not just a little bit disarming).

Tim tried to hold back most of his anger. He did, after all, have no idea where he was and how to get out of there. Richard may have the answer (he seemed to have enough of them so far).

He told the man in the suit the whole story from beginning to end, including his run-in with the lost Donegan boy and the alien clones that lay crumbled around him.

Richard listened intently with only an occasional "Uh huh" and "Hmm" in response. Sitting impatiently to his right, the Admiral waited to be clued in the whole situation. Being of such high rank, he was very uncomfortable with being left in the dark. Decisions were being made without his knowledge and situations were developing that were out of his control. Question upon question ran through his mind.

How much more did Richard know about these aliens?

How much more was Richard holding back from him?

As Tim finished his narrative, the ground beneath him began to shake. As if in harmony with the strong vibrations, the walls began a glorious display of flashing and glowing lights. Off in the far corner of the chamber, a dull light appeared. Tim, adrenaline kicking in once again, sprinted toward it.

"Something is happening!!! The whole cave is shaking!!!"

Tim made his way to the source of light and found himself staring down a long corridor. The light was still faint but he could make out the windows that aligned the walls. Tim approached one and looked outside.

Outside??!!

The vibrations that had shook so violently before had now passed. This did not surprise Tim, his mouth agape as he watched the top of the Donegan barn grow further and further away.

"Richard, I think I know where I am now." The policeman's voice was now eerily calm as he spoke to the man on the other end of his thoughts.

Richard slowly lowered the phone and addressed the officer beside him.

"Admiral, it's time."

The long black tractor trailer was parked in front of the building idling quietly. It was huge; 50 yards not including the enormous cab. Black and silver chrome were the only two colors it showed. Even the windows in the cab were tinted a dark black. As for the trailer, there were no windows. Only the outline of a door on the side of the trailer could be seen.

Richard and the Admiral headed towards the truck. When they were within a few feet of the door it opened with a hiss as the vacuum tight seal was broken. An Air Force commander appeared and lowered stairs to the men.

The Admiral paused as he reached the top of the stairs, then entered. It was incredible. It looked like NORAD. Huge computers and Displays lined the walls. The were dozens of men and women busily working at various stations through the command trailer. The Admiral took a curious, cautious step forward as the door sealed in behind him.

"Admiral on the Bridge!" shouted the Sergeant. The men and women snapped to their feet and stood at attention. Richard seemed annoyed at all this.

"Admiral, would you be so kind as to inspect the officers, if it wouldn't be too much trouble." His voice had an obvious sarcasm to it. "Otherwise, they'll stand like this all day and we can pretty much kiss our plans goodbye."

The Admiral ignored Richard and was already walking down the narrow corridor that threaded its way towards the back of the command trailer. He saluted each officer as he went past. "Army, Air Force, Reserves, Marines, Navy", the Admiral was muttering the branches that each officer's uniform represented. "Richard, what the hell is this? You have officers from every damn branch of the military here."

"They are not all military, Admiral." He gestured to the very back of command where several people in white lab coats were scurrying around. Richard removed his coat and put it on a hanger which an aid was holding aside of him. "The officers here represent the best people the military has to offer. They have been recruited and trained for years. Only in the last few weeks have I managed to have them actually pulled from their respective units for our task here. Our scientists are likewise the leaders in their respective fields. Follow me, I'd like you to meet someone."

Richard lead the general to the busy scientists who seemed to scatter as they approached. All except one. "Admiral Kayanski, I would like you to meet Dr. Christopher Goodhue."

Dr. Goodhue was a huge man. Standing close to seven feet tall, his head barely cleared most of the equipment hanging from the ceiling. His long straight black hair came down almost covering his eyes. The Admiral instinctively took a step backwards.

"Dr. Goodhue is the worlds foremost authority on quantum physics," Richard continued, "and was the first to discover the existence of the creatures."

Tim moved back from the window. The thickness of the glass gave the world outside a surreal twist, as the trees and towns blurred by. They were heading someplace quickly. An overwhelming sense of urgency wash over him.

"Richard." Tim looked around the ruined chamber. The dust of what were once the bodies of so many people and animals lay still and silent, oblivious to the speed at which they were crossing the country.

"Richard, where the hell are you?" Tim didn't know where to look as he spoke. He'd never been trained to speak to his own mind before. He stared above him, at the cave-like ceiling. Thick roots twisted among themselves. At least they looked like roots, though he couldn't imagine what sort of plants they might have belonged to. His gaze came to rest on a ladder leading up through the ceiling. The opening was uneven. Organic. The word had strength in this place. He hadn't though of it before, but then he'd assumed they were all in some kind of old mine.

"Richard," Tim repeated, walking for the ladder, which seemed to grow from the wall like a perfectly symmetrical scar. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going up to the next level of this... place. Please say something; anything." He reached for the highest rung, stepped up, and began to climb. The odor reached him long before his head cleared the top of the opening. He winced, half in, half out of the hole he had just climbed through. The smell was musty, like old food from the back of a refrigerator suddenly unwrapped from its tin foil.

"My God, what's that smell? Richard where are you?" The light in the room was bright enough to see his surroundings, casting a permeating orange glow. The chamber was immense. No less than 20 feet above him the ceiling arched. Its composition was much like the room below, yet the 'roots' he had seen almost completely covered the ceiling's surface. Tim watched as the tendril-like ropes shifted among themselves, and at times even appeared to breath. He looked left, and nearly fell back down the hole. Left was left for a very long way. The other direction stretched off just as long. Two hundred yards? Three hundred?

Ever so softly, hardly noticeable, something shuffled behind him. It was enough to send adrenaline back into Tim's veins. He jumped the rest of the way from the hole and spun on his knees. Behind him was something his mind would never have anticipated.

Tim's face glowed with wonder for two seconds, then as his eyes scanned the entire scene, the face seemed to pull itself inward, trying to escape, force his eyes to shut it all out.

"Oh, man," he whispered, "where the fuck are you? Richard where the hell are you?" Then a scream tore up through his body. Dry air hissed through his mouth, but nothing else. He was in a nightmare where the monster was approaching and you couldn't run, couldn't scream. But this monster wasn't charging at him. It just hung there on the wall like a scene from a Geiger painting.

Ottumwa's air was damp that evening. Ruth sat slowly on the wood bench, moonlight dappling through the elm leaves above her. She gently brushed the girl's dress, smiling as the little one squirmed.

"Auntie," the girl would say, "stop that."

Ruth would cackle softly (she would never call it cackling, but everyone else in Ottumwa did, probably figuring it fit with the witch-thing). "Now, now, Judith. You mustn't mind your Aunties fussing over you."

"No, Dear," said Elizabeth as she bent down and also brushed the unseen lint from her niece's dress, "you mustn't mind us. You must be all together when we have our little chats." Elizabeth did not sit next to her sister on the bench. Not that she didn't want to. Seventy-three years of standing was enough, but not enough to put up with five minutes more of those damned hemorrhoids. No, she would stand until those accursed boils healed, or she was dead. Even with her insight, she did not know that death would soon win that contest.

The girl took a step toward the sitting aunt. "Are we going to talk about the future again?" Her smile cast across the small distance in the moonlight and caught in Ruth's face. She returned a smile back, the toothless mouth opening like a cave.

"Yes, dear. About your future. Something big in your future."

"Yes, Judith," Elizabeth added from above and behind. "You'll be a Queen someday."

Judy's eyes went wide. "Really? A Queen?" She squinted at the standing old woman. "Hey, there aren't any Queens anymore."

"There are in England," said Ruth, almost defiantly.

"Am I going to England?"

"We don't know that," Elizabeth said, laying a hand lightly on her shoulder. "God hasn't given us perfect vision. But your Auntie has seen you, with a great crown. And your throne room!" She gave a melodramatic gasp, for effect. "Well, it was the most magnificent room anywhere."

Ruth simply nodded, never taking her eyes from the girl.

"Am I going to have a king? Will I be married to a king?"

Ruth stopped smiling. She did not know how to feel, exactly, about the vision of Judith. It was foggy, unclear. She was a Queen, and her King sat on his throne beside her, and her niece was joyously happy. Maybe too much so. Was she mad in the dream? Insane? No. There would be a fairy tail ending for her little Judith. But the king.... Her smile was, indeed, gone.

"Your King will be right beside you," she said quietly in the damp night, under the elm tree. "And you will lead his people." She began shaking and quickly released the girl's hands. "It's late, little one."

Too late.

The New York Night slapped Judy in the face as she leapt through the window. It was so windy. Her stomach twisted as on a roller coaster. 'I'm floating,' she thought, but only for a second. The street ripped towards her, roaring like a lion as it pounced. She could see the individual grains of gravel, outlined in the yellow street light. It slammed into her. Her face, her body, cracked apart.

Judy twisted from the image. The wall allowed only a millimeter, maybe two, of movement. Where the wall ended and her body began was so gradual that even on close inspection one could not tell where the dusty brown began to fade to the pale whiteness of her back and buttocks. Her eyes were open. Through the thick glaze covering them she saw a figure. Something moving in the chamber. It was a vision she hadn't seen since -

The dark blue ground slammed her to hell.

Hell? She would have laughed, but the pulsating thing had replaced her mouth. It twisted and writhed, a snake-like appendage which blended into the skin of her nose and mouth as the wall did to her back. It slithered over her belly, between her legs, twisting with a similar pulsating tube joined to her crotch. Was this hell, after all? She felt fear from the figure below her wash across her skin like a warm tide.

'Henry? Is that you, my old friend?' In her mind she could see Henry standing before her, his overalls stained with dirt. He reached for her, pleading for her to come back to him. He was crying. She thought, 'Henry, please, I'm sorry.'

Quiet, my love. It was Bob Williams' voice. Her lover's voice. Everything is as it should be. This is your destiny.

His voice filled her mind. Every pore in her lost body shuddered with delight. She could see herself as she truly was, a Queen on her throne. Overwhelming joy spread through her. Her people needed her. They loved her. The slightest twitch of her skin and they raced to obey. And she was leading them. Towards everything. Towards the Goal.

Yes, my beautiful Queen. You are leading us all into paradise. Soon our kingdom will be limitless You and I will care for them, always.

If she could cry, she would. Her happiness was complete. She reached into her kingdom with every nerve and thought. She was Judith, mother of none, but leading her universe to a place where she would breath life into her kingdom. She was the mother, the Queen. She changed her focus from the blurry figure below her to the landscape outside, leading the ship to its rendezvous point above Washington DC.

"What we are dealing with here is a totally different life form from what we conventionally know of." The giant doctor's voice sounded more like a person a quarter of his size. It was almost comical. However, the manner in which he presented the words revealed a man of very deep intellect.

"They do not exist as you and I know it. We exist right here, right now. These beings exist in a quantum state. Let me show you what I mean." The doctor reached into his pocket, took out a quarter, and flipped it into the air. Once caught he flipped it onto this wrist but kept it covered with his hand. "Heads or tails, Admiral?"

"Tails."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"No, you can't be. It may be heads. The quarter in a sense is in a quantum state. At this moment it is theoretically heads and tails at the same time. Only when I lift my hand and we see the quarter will it go to a specific state of being. Not a moment before. That is the essence of quantum physics and is also the essence of these beings. They do not exist in what we know as our reality. "

"What the fuck are you talking about?" barked the Admiral. "I've seen those creatures myself and they seem pretty real to me."

The scientist winced at the word 'creature.'

"Admiral," the doctor spoke softly, as if trying to teach a young child, "what you have seen are host life forms. You have not seen the beings themselves."

The Admiral stood, puzzled.

"The life forms are used as hosts which the beings need in order to exist in our state. The true aliens lost or left their physical containers at some point in their evolution."

"What are you saying: that those creatures are just robots or something which these beings built?"

Richard managed a slight chuckle at the older officer's question.

"No, they are real creatures from somewhere else in this vast galaxy outside our little world. The creatures are similar to our shark here on earth. They are perfect machines. They do not eat other life forms and digest them as you and I would do. They break down matter to its basic building blocks. Down to its DNA strands. This DNA can then be restructured to become part of the creatures' own genetic makeup. This allows the creature to clone anything it has absorbed, no matter how small. Or it can store this DNA.

"The creatures also have the gift of incredible psychic and telekinetic powers. This is how and why the alien beings bound with them."

"Listen, I've been around long enough to have heard plenty of bullshit from closet case beaker heads before. Do you mind telling me how the hell you could possible know this?"

Richard swiveled his chair towards the Admiral. "We operated on a live specimen while it replicated in the form of a human."

"Who?"

"Sorenson," said Richard. "He was one of the creatures although I am sure he didn't even know it. We managed to drug him one night. The night his parents were killed if I recall correctly."

Richard stood up and began to pace up and down the narrow isle. "We performed an exploratory surgery that night during which we found that Sorenson had two distinct DNA encodings. One was that of the human Mickey Sorenson. The other was a chain like we had never seen before."

The huge doctor interrupted. "But it was much more than that, Admiral. Our DNA make­up is controlled by a combination of chemicals and electrical impulses. Mr. Sorenson's DNA followed this axiom. But not the foreign DNA. It seemed to be controlled by an external force. We tested this by exposing the structures to kinetic energy and observing the reactions. This is where our knowledge began. Something had cloned Mr. Sorenson about itself. But, that 'something' was being controlled from someplace else."

Admiral Kayanski took a deep breath trying to absorb everything. He pulled his jacket straight and looked square into Richard's eye and asked in a gravely voice, "So, why are they here?"

Tim stood for a long time, staring at the bodies on the wall. He had thought up to this moment he had most of this mess figured out, then this. Ten feet above him, Judy Williams, the woman he had watched die in that accursed dream, lay twisting and writhing on a wall, obscene appendages snaking from the walls and entering her, no, becoming her at every orifice but her eyes. Her pale skin moved behind her new extremities, and was no doubt the source the stale odor that filled the room.

Tim's watery eyes moved across three other figures along the wall He assumed they were men. They were naked like the woman, with similar appendages doting over them, including one in place of their genitals. It took him a while before he recognized the first man, who occupied a place on the wall beside Judy. When recognition did come, so did a light within his swirling thoughts. It was Bob Williams, or some bastardization of the 'man.' His skin was paler than the woman's, and suddenly Tim knew that the man on the wall, that Bob Williams, was 100 percent human.

His heart raced. Tim rounded the hole he had come up and stood below the third figure. This one was twisted, body bent into a near-fetal position. Small fatty deposits remained under his skin in places, like baby fat never burned off.

"Oh, God." Tim's voice returned, though it shook with wet emotion. "Oh, my God, Micky, that's you. That's you up there."

"Give that man a cupie doll." Tim turned slowly around, and was not surprised to see yet another Bob Williams standing before him in a stained white lab coat. The man continued, "We took him the day he discovered us, along with your brother and their little buddy Matty." He laughed.

"We certainly hit the jackpot with at least two of them. Matty didn't have the hutzpa, if you will. But no matter; we needed only one. Micky was the best candidate so, well," he gestured to the bent thing on the wall, "he inherited the golden ring."

"Kevin?"

Bob raised an eyebrow. "You're brother? Well, we had him and his buddy pretty well preserved until you did your baseball bat thing downstairs." He laughed and brushed unseen dust from his lab coat.

Tim looked at the fourth figure, crumpled beside Micky. He was completely inanimate, and most likely dead. It was Jeffrey Donegan, the young man who was in the cave... the one Tim saw killed. That must have been a clone of some type in the cave. Tim felt a heat in his gut. That boy had been plugged into this contraption for twenty years. "My God," he whispered.

Bob Williams looked at his counterpart on the wall for a moment, then sighed.

"We lived on a planet far from here. Our hosts were strong, beautiful. For thousands of years we enjoyed a plentiful life. The planet must have been, oh, three times the circumference of your Earth, and there were only twenty million of us. We could breath, stretch our legs, so to speak." He absently scratched the tip of his nose. "After we got rid of the rest of the population, that is. There were an awful lot of them."

He paused, never taking his eyes from the 'real' Bob Williams on the wall. "Thousands of years," he repeated. "Then something happened. A virus maybe. We could never identify it, but that wasn't surprising. We'd gotten lazy. It began destroying our hosts, and soon all life on the planet. Within a year our own population was cut in half. There were no longer enough life forms to merge our structures with. We decided it was either preserve our identities until a new world could be found, or be lost forever.

"We built two vessels. One for the structures of those who survived, and one for me. I and my host became merged into the ship itself, much as my lovely bride is now. Quite a long time ago I came across this planet and crashed into the woodland we just left, immediately burying the ship miles below the surface as a defensive maneuver. I spent the long years, buried miles below the surface, developing a new technology. Once that would free my people, who were buried as I was, somewhere on this tiny planet. I came to the surface only when my host began to fail, and I could not manipulate his physical being any longer. There was never a shortage of creatures to take. My latest host was, of course, the young Williams boy twenty some-odd years ago." He laughed quietly, almost sadly. "The funny thing is, after all these years, it wasn't until fairly recently that I learned of a theory of a large meteorite under the Arctic. Then everything I had worked for, planned, is now at long last coming to fruition."

Tim could be quiet no longer. This wasn't making sense. "What are you saying?" His voice was louder, more scolding than he would have wanted it to be. "You're it? You're the only one running this show?" A sudden glimmer of hope grew in him. It was quickly diminished.

Bob waved casually at the Bob Williams on the wall. "I suppose he's running the show. The rest of us are simply clones."

"You're all clones of the same man?" Tim asked.

Bob laughed. "You wonder why you haven't seen hundred of Bob Williams' running around? Well, let's just say that's our little mystery. We all share the same structure, however, a multiple cloning technique we had not had on the previous world. I knew if I were to save my race, I needed to duplicate myself as much as possible." He sighed lightly. "If it makes you feel any better, I think we have reached our limit.."

"And the others? Micky? Your wife?"

Bob nodded. "They're quite human. They were the best, and most convenient candidates for my new technology. Your race has a highly developed mind. Once I discovered your potential, my work accelerated at a rapid pace."

"What work? What are you planning?"

Williams put an arm on Tim's shoulder. "That's for me to know and you to, well, die." He tossed Tim backwards.

Tim crashed onto the dusty floor. Pain shot through his back but he forced himself to his feet. Williams took two steps toward him, then stopped and simply stared at the man. After a few moments, Tim realized that Bob's mind was temporarily elsewhere. Just as quickly, the man's face became animated again.

"I'm truly sorry, Mister Cosgrove. I had a very nice talk with you. Unfortunately, I will be unable to rip your useless body to shreds at this moment. It seems our cargo has arrived."

Richard quickly sat back down and swiveled his chair towards a computer terminal. He began to pull up surveillance reports for the last 6 months. "We had the advantage of knowing about them, without them realizing it. So we began a surveillance operation. Slowly we started discovering more and more of them." As he spoke, names and faces darted by on the screen. "All these bodies were occupied at one time."

Dr. Goodhue was not sitting at his own workstation as he too began to bring up data. "It wasn't until the discovery of the meteor that we finally knew why they were here."

"And that would be for what?" the Admiral asked.

"They want their own DNA back," said Richard in a matter of fact voice. "That meteor crashed on earth millions of years ago. In it was trapped organic matter from the true aliens home world. This is what they want. They want their true forms back."

"Wait a minute," said Kayanski, "if that is all they want, why not give it to them? This doesn't make sense."

"You don't understand, Admiral," said Goodhue. "As I explained before, these creatures cannot live in our world independently. Their life in any world must be provided by the host creatures. The aliens themselves are without substance. We have tested their true DNA and it will not survive on its own here."

"Correct doctor," Richard said. "If aliens attempted to replicate, or 'clone' their original DNA strands here on Earth in their current state, the new creatures would die. And, since the strands have degraded in Earth's environment, they cannot be removed and brought somewhere else."

The room became very quiet as the men's conversation caught the attention of all the personal. They now watched Richard and the Admiral as if hearing this all for the first time.

"The aliens will take their DNA strand and from that will once again have a physical existence. But, now they have a problem. If they stay they die. If they leave they die. They must employ the use of host beings here on earth."

The Admiral finished for him, "Human hosts."

"Yes," said Dr. Goodhue, "and possible many other species. There is no reason to believe that human beings would be the most desirable, or the only choices. The aliens will have their true genetic make­up but it will be wrapped in the DNA strands of ...us"

With that an alarm sounded. Red lights filled the huge vehicle. "Sir, we are picking up a target at 35 x 274 x 18 minutes. Very large and moving very quickly."

Richard began yelling orders to all the officers as they snapped to their stations. The Admiral just stood confused. These were not his people and he wasn't sure what he should be doing.

Richard finally turned back to him. "I'm sorry I have to cut this short, Admiral, but we have run out of time. They are on the move and we don't have much opportunity."

The engines of the dark black truck roared as the vehicle began to move. A deep voice shot through the overhead speaker. "We're heading north, sir, at seventy-five miles per hour. If we don't hit traffic snarls, we'll be out of range in thirty-five minutes."

Admiral Kayanski took three slow steps toward Richard. "What does he mean, 'out of range.' Aren't you racing to intercept this thing?"

Richard smiled. "Oh, hell no... sir. We've done all we can do. It's time to leave the DC area immediately."

Kayanski moved to a phone mounted on the trailer's wall. Richard moved quickly to intercept him. "I'm sorry, Admiral. Who are you going to call?"

The Admiral's face was burning with rage. "I've had enough of your cloak and dagger, young man. You may think that this is all a game, some absurd battle of wits, but there are millions of lives at stake. I hear the announcements in here, see the scopes. There is a large unidentified craft moving towards Washington DC and I intend to stop it."

He reached for the phone. Richard grabbed his wrist, tightly. "You cannot do that, Admiral. Please, you have to believe me. We have this under control."

The admiral slowly replaced the phone. His eyes never left the other man's face. "You have fifteen seconds to tell me what your plan is, or I will pull full rank, stop this truck, and order and all-out attack on whatever the hell that thing is out there."

Richard stared intently at him. He had played many a poker match in his life. Hell, he was playing one now, and this man was calling him. So close, he thought, so long with no one but a very few knowing. And now this geezer wanted to know all about it. What irritated Richard more than anything was that he would have to tell him, or risk him ruining everything in his ignorance.

He ushered the admiral into a small alcove. He quickly closed the door and pressed a button. A loud hiss filled the air. He turned back to the old man.

"Very well, admiral, but I have to make this quick and leave out a lot of details. I don't expect you to accept what I'm going to tell you. However, please understand that it is too late to do anything about it."

The old man stood nose to nose with Richard. "About what, mister?"

Richard swallowed. "We've already ordered the President aboard Air Force One. At our signal, or in forty minutes whichever comes first, the small but effective device we planted within the meteorite will detonate, hopefully vaporizing the ship and all of its contents."

The admiral took a step back as if struck. "My God, man, it will be over a populated area."

Richard straightened and turned for the door. "If we allow this to go on any further, sir, the population is as good as dead anyway."

The craft sailed over the park. People two hundred feet below scurried across the grass like ants. The ship was black, like iron, and stretched the distance of four football fields. It was half as wide as long. A smaller ship slowly entered the opening in its belly, which stretched to accommodate the smaller ship's size.

In the orange haze of the main chamber, a dripping tentacle dis-attached itself from the human Bob Williams' side and reached for Judy. It touched her arm. She reacted with a minor tremor. Deep in the ship's bowels, the reaction was stronger. A loud wail, sounding half- machine and half-human filled the hanger. The appendages which had been unloading the meteorite from the smaller ship stopped then reversed direction. The rock was placed back into its harness and the bottom of the mother ship stretched open once again. The small ship burst into the afternoon sun. It hovered for a moment then rose quickly. It was a pinpoint in the vast blue sky, then was gone.

As it broke through the atmosphere and stopped in high orbit, the small craft came to life inside. Sensors bathed the meteorite in a sharp red light. The scanners searched the stone for its precious cargo buried deep in its heart. When it detected only a dense steel device encase in lead, the half-human scream returned. The sensor's red light faded, leaving the interior in blackness. The ship moved further into space. Then a single green light flashed on the main console. The small ship was enveloped in silent fire, sending shards of itself and its cargo in all directions.

The sight of Bob Williams silent, trembling figure made Tim's hair stand on end. He knew he had a reprieve, for the moment. What could he do? He looked around the room, then at Micky. 'Of course,' he thought. 'I have an in.'

Tim closed his eyes, and sent his thoughts toward his old friend. 'Micky, can you hear me? Micky, it's me: Tim.' He sensed Micky there with him, but the man was reluctant. 'Micky, what's happened? Don't you know me?'

'You're Tim,' Micky's voice said in Tim's mind. 'You're Kevin's brother.'

'That's right,' Tim thought. 'What else do you remember?'

Micky Sorenson thought about the dreams, about living all these years through the eyes of someone else, someone who never knew he wasn't the real Micky Sorenson. Micky tried to sigh into the tube that was grafted with his face. Every day, both he and the clone would go to work, or a movie, and neither would realize they were two people. It wasn't until the clone would sleep, that this nightmare world would come into focus, that Micky would remember as if coming out of a wonderful dream, that he was actually living in Hell. And he would begin to pray, that the man in his bed would sleep peacefully. That 'they' would not force Micky to send any ideas into the man's head. Make him dream. Make them work together to destroy people's lives.

Now that man, if that's what he was, is dead. Micky had felt the bond completely sever as if his body were twisted inside out. After all these years, he was completely alone. He knew with silent resignation that without his 'twin,' he could not sustain his own life.

'You're not alone,.' Tim thought. 'You never were. Everything we've been through. It wasn't just me and some clone. You were there, too. This isn't your reality. Your life is out there, with the rest of us. If these bastards are telling you anything else they're lying.'

Micky twisted within his prison on the wall. Tim had heard everything. Jesus, he couldn't even die in peace.

'You can't die, Micky. I need you. You've got to tell me how to get out of this place before Lab Coat Bob wakes up.'

Richard emerged from the alcove with Admiral Kayanski close behind. Richard dialed the phone number on his cellular phone, finishing the final digits with flair. When the expected tone arrived, he said, "Mister Cosgrove. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. It was unavoidable. What's your status?'

The admiral had stopped following Richard when the tall man began talking. He looked around the room. Slowly, as his eyes met theirs, everyone stopped working at their consoles and stood to face the old man. No one uttered a word.

"Tim," Richard continued, "Are you all right?"

The bond between Tim and Micky was broken. Tim fell to his knees as his head filled with Richard's voice. "Shit, Richard. Don't you ever knock?"

"Sorry," said Richard's voice from all around him. Tim shuddered. It was like talking to God, he thought. Richard's voice was pressing. "Listen Tim, you'd better get out of there as fast as possible."

Tim laughed. "Wow! Did you come up with that all by yourself? You ARE a genius."

Richard rubbed his forehead with three fingers. He used this action to look quickly to one side. The sudden silence in the trailer had not escaped him. His eyes caught the gaze of Goodhue, who looked back at him in panic. Next to him, one on each side, stood two Bob Williams.

Richard slowly lowered his hand. Denton, the computer hacker seated at the center workstation, changed to yet another Bob Williams. Everyone in the trailer with the exception of Goodhue and the admiral was changing into their own rendition of the man, including the women.

Richard laughed, out of the shear despair that was filling him. "No way. Please no." He looked at the admiral. The old man was almost snarling.

"You bloody stinking bastard," the admiral said to Richard. "What the hell have you done with my people?" He changed slowly into a small wiry Bob Williams, seemed to have trouble holding the new appearance, then changed back to the old man. Richard took a step back and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Excuse me for the delay, Tim. It seems an unexpected turn of events may prevent this mission from progressing. If you have any really clever ideas on your side, I recommend you implement them now."

The admiral stepped forward. Richard smiled at the man and waved him off, as if gesturing to someone waiting to use a pay phone. He continued, "I would be most appreciative of any suggestions - " The phone was knocked from his hand. It collided with the corner of a desk top and broke into pieces.

Tim clutched his head when the phone collided with something and disconnected.

"Richard," he whispered. "are you there?" No reply. This wasn't good, he knew. Richard was most likely dead. He looked at the Bob Williams standing before him. The man retained that far off look in his eye.

'He can't control them all,' Tim thought. His gaze traveled to the actual Williams hanging next to Micky. 'He's controlling the whole thing, but he can't do it all at once.' Tim wondered what Richard was dealing with, and how many of them there were. No matter. His time was short.

'Micky...' he reached forward again with his mind. Micky shifted slightly. 'Micky, how do I get out of here? If there's no way out, how can I stop them?'

'They can't be stopped. The Goal is all that matters. You are not one of us. He will kill you.'

Tim began pacing nervously. 'Yes, I realize that. But I'm not the only one. They're going to kill us all. Everyone on this planet is going to either die or become like them.' Micky shifted some more. He understood, Tim knew. 'How can we stop them? My God, Micky, you're not dead yet. There must be something you can do.' He regretted the comment, but it was too late to take it back.

An image appeared in his mind. Tim saw a doorway at the far side of the cavern, then a hall heading to a small alcove. 'Put your hand on the green stone in the wall,' Micky told him. 'It will bring you to the surface.'

'What about you,' Tim thought.

There was a long silence, then 'There's nothing I can do.' The figure on the wall seemed to slump in his macabre prison. The eyes opened and the head turned toward him. Tim wondered if he could see through the thick white film covering his pupils.

Bob Williams became alert before Tim could react, and struck him hard in the chest. Once again Tim sailed backward. His head collided with the hard floor. The room spun above him.

They're gone, she thought. Judy's mind traveled throughout space with each piece of the destroyed craft. She felt herself being pulled thinner and thinner. The room she presided over came into focus now and then, to be replaced by the spinning debris in the dark vacuum.

Steady, my love, came Bob Williams thoughts. All is not lost yet. She mentally clung to his voice, which was always there to bring her back from the abyss she seemed to constantly be dangling over. But she could feel herself slipping further. In a moment of clarity, she realized her mistake. She should have disassociated herself from the small craft's controls before causing the self destruct. Now her mind was forever linked with the millions of entities scattering themselves about. She concentrated on the Mother Ship. Both it and her dear husband were her only remaining lifelines.

Where are my people, she pleaded. But there was no response.

"Where are my people?" The admiral stood nose to nose with Richard. "What have you done with my race's existence?" His voice became a shout with the last words.

Richard took a quiet breath in. He could feel the man trying to break through into his mind, through the mental blockage Richard had built up over the years in the event he were to ever face one of these creatures.

"They are dead, of course." He tried to use a casual tone. "I had the true meteorite destroyed well before I allowed the news of the discovery to be leaked to the general population."

The admiral stared hard at the man for a long time, his rage causing the small body to shake violently. He scanned the man's impenetrable mind, to no avail. The motion of the trailer slowly subsided. They were stopping. The admiral swung an arm at Richard's face. Instead of a hand, a razored tentacle connected with Richard's cheek.

The pain shot through Richard's entire body as the claw tore open his cheek. Blood gushed out, but still Richard held the mental block. "I'm sorry about your people," she said. "But I did what I had to, to protect mine."

The admiral shrieked and grabbed Richard's coat. "I will make you pay for what you have done - " He stopped abruptly, his gaze seeming to focus on a distant point. The others were staring off as well. What the hell what going on, Richard thought.

Micky focused on one of the appendages attached to his side. Slowly, he raised it into the air, and flexed it. It was under his control. He looked through the white haze of his vision, and sadly marveled that he never tried to control his surroundings before. Tim was right. Of course he was. He felt his control on the appendage weakening. He was dying, there was no doubt. He commanded his new 'arm' to reach beside him, to the silent form of Bob Williams. He found the appendage which connected with the man's head. He didn't know what effect his next action would do, but there was no time to wonder. He tightened the grip, and began to pull the thing free.

Tim's attention moved from the man in the lab coat approaching him to the wall beyond. Micky was reaching to the human Williams with a tentacle-like arm. Micky grabbed something coming out of the man's head. Tim had a sudden sense of deja vu. He'd convinced Micky to once more to battle this creature.

The Bob Williams in the lab coat stopped his approach and spun to face the ensuing struggle. The human Williams was now trying to break free of Micky's grip with his own extremities.

"No!" The man in the lab coat ran towards the scene. As he did, his own head changed into a smaller version of the alien creature which had so terrified Tim earlier. The rest of him appeared human, as he reached the wall and began to scale towards Micky. Tim ran and grabbed him from behind. The two fell in a heap onto the floor. Williams rolled until he was on top. He raised a tentacled arm above his head, hundreds of razors along its skin bared and ready to slice.

Bob Williams' entire body writhed and contorted as it sat on Tim's chest. A deafening scream issued from his enlarged mouth. A moment later, Tim lay under a cold wet clump of ashes.

He looked above him to the wall. The human Bob Williams hung lifeless, his skin a pale gray like Jeffrey Donegan further on. The tube had been yanked from his skull. It hung, dripping blood and other fluids, from Micky's weakening grip.

Richard slowly kicked the mess which lay intermingled with the admiral's uniform. He looked around the trailer. Every seat was covered in the wet slime. Doctor Goodhue leaned against a console, a dark stain spreading across the font of his pants. He looked back at Richard.

"What... happened to them?"

Richard looked around the room. "Someone must have had a very clever idea. Let's get out of here." He walked to the doctor and led him to the door at the front of the trailer.

Sunlight attacked them as the walked to the sidewalk. The first thing Richard noticed was the hordes of people staring across the street towards the park. But they were looking skyward. He rounded the front of the trailer and followed their gaze.

The ship hovered unsteadily two hundred feet above the center of the esplanade. At the far end of the park, the Washington Monument stood majestically overlooking the long reflecting pond.

"Goodhue," he said, almost to himself. "Remind me to fire the driver when this is all over."

The Doctor offered a nervous laugh. "I think he already got his severance package."

The universe seemed to spin through her fading mind. Where are you, my love? Oh, I need you so much. Please help me. She saw the blazing sun cross her vision, then the park above which she struggled to maintain the ship's position.

The window raced by as she leaped into the night air. She saw the sidewalk race up to meet her.

She shook off the image and reached to touch her husband. She needed the physical interaction more than ever. When her appendage caressed the cold skin, she felt nothing. No reaction. No life. She reached with all of her senses towards Bob Williams' mind. It was no longer there.

She screamed into the tube extending from her mouth and throat. The sound echoed throughout the ship.

Tim fell sideways as the ship lurched to the left. He scrambled to his feet and continued to try and free Micky from his prison. He knew it was of no use. He saw what happened to Williams when he was 'disconnected.'

Micky's faint words reached him. 'Run, my old friend. There's nothing you can do for me anymore.' The ship lurched to the right. It dropped suddenly, then Tim felt the room rising back up. The woman was losing control of the ship.

'Run,' Micky said.

Tim laid a hand on the man's leg. "Thank you," he said out loud. "I'm sorry." He sprinted across the floor towards the waiting doorway. It was an unsteady run, as the ship continued to lean to one side then the other. In the hall, he turned right and headed for the portal.

The sidewalk impacted with Judy's head. She felt the bones of her skull crack, as her twin died on the dirty asphalt, and in her own mind. The earth hovered before her, then the sun blazed into her eyes. She moaned inwardly. Far off in the blackness of space, a gray dot appeared. The sidewalk grew in size as it approached her.

Tim slammed his hand onto the green stone within the chamber. He felt lightheaded, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. He was standing on a grassy field. Around him green trees and metal street lamps swayed in a gusty wind. I'm out, he thought. People were standing along the boulevard further down, screaming and pointing skyward. They were in sunlight, but the area all around him was covered in shade. He looked up.

The ship careened violently above him, and dropped rapidly.

Tim looked ahead, towards a large black trailer parked in the middle of the boulevard, and ran. The shadow seemed to shrink around him. The ship was falling on top of him. He mentally pictured the distance to the end of the ship, if he 'beamed' down directly below where he pressed the stone. One hundred yards, maybe a hundred fifty. He ran as he had never before. Maybe it was for naught, but that couldn't slow him. One chance at this, he told himself. The air around him compressed and swirled, displaced by the mammoth object pressing down.

Seventy-five yards to go, maybe.

The empty cavern within the ship roared with an inhuman scream. The woman spasmed upon the wall, tentacles waving from behind her. Her eyes were open wide, covered in a sweating white gel.

The sidewalk hurtled at Judy's mind with the force of a locomotive. She screamed into the silence of the ether, as the world crashed into her.

Tim felt the earth below him shake violently. He stumbled forward into a roll, bringing himself upright and back into a sprint as fluidly as a ballerina. Run, he thought, just run. But in his mind the split second image of what he saw behind him as he rolled stayed with him. The back of the ship had collided to Earth, and was now settling down atop him. Three seconds, maybe four. It was over his head, then behind. The ground unfolded around his feet. The shock wave of impact just yards behind him tossed the man into the air. He landed on the cold grass far across the park.

Tim breathed hard, staring back at the dead ship. Slowly, bystanders crept closer, curiosity finally winning over common sense.

"Welcome back, Mister Cosgrove." Tim looked behind him to see Richard, smiling and offering his hand. Tim stood, and thanked God he was left-handed. He shook Richard's hand with his right, then leveled him with a punch to the jaw with his left. The agent fell to the ground, more shocked than injured. Tim was still breathing hard.

"I really don't like you," he said. Tim brushed off a clump of dirt from his leg, then walked to the street. All he wanted now was to go home.

Richard touched the skin of Micky's right cheek.

"He's dead, sir," Corporal Anderson said. Richard thought of giving him a snide comment, then refrained.

"Thank you, Corporal," he said. "Have the crews been evacuated from the ship?"

"Yes, sir. Per your orders. We're the only two left. We've cordoned off four square blocks around the site, though I've been told to inform you that your friends in Washington will no longer be your friends if you don't open up the roads pretty damn quickly. Excuse me, sir, but I was asked to relay the message with those words."

"That's quite all right, son. Get yourself out of here now if you would."

"Yes, sir." He hesitated. "When should I sent the medics in for her?"

"I'll notify you. Dismissed."

Anderson was continually irritated that this man addressed him as a superior officer would, but he had his orders. He turned and left the large room, deliberately not saluting.

Richard moved to his left, until he stood before Judy's body. All appendages and connections to the ship were still in place. Her breathing was slow and shallow. He knelt down before her. For the next twenty minutes he simply stared at every feature, marveling at the alien technology. It was a shame to lose it all, but there was nothing else to do.

His job was finished.

Judy's eyes opened at the sound of the chamber being loaded into Richard's pistol. He stared into the gel covering her eyes. He felt the now-familiar tug of her mind, trying to reach into his. In the last moments, he lowered the mental wall he had become so accustomed to maintaining.

He felt her enter his thoughts immediately, like water past a collapsed dam. And, as he had anticipated, she pulled to his consciousness the image of the meteorite, encase in a twelve foot lead casing. It sat at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. Richard gave her a quick tour of his mind, the surfacing of the rock, the studies done to it over a span of two years, then the eventual encasing and permanently entombing at the bottom of the deepest part of the most desolate ocean in the world. Judy gave no reaction.

Richard shot her between the eyes.

The explosion of the ship a half-second later vaporized everything within a quarter-mile radius of the landing site. There would be nothing left of the ship, or its occupants. And it would be a number of years before the country would finish rebuilding Washington.